Fez is fantastically full of fortuitous findings. Stupified by
tannery stenches and thrown into dizzied head-spins on the aroma of
45-spiced Fassi pigeon pie. Fez puts your senses in overdrive. Fez
is a tingle down the spine as the call to prayer starts its patchwork
of rounds echoing throughout the medina. Fez is a perfectly illogical
tangle of streets and blind alleys, dromedary sausage kebabs and
getting ridiculously lost. Fez is "welcome, Morocco opens its heart
to you". Fez finds you walking, takes your hand, and pulls you into
the unknown. Fez runs circles around you, and spits you out covered
in dried figs and almonds. Fez is coffee with carpet sellers and mint
tea with silk weavers. Fez is calls of 'Ali Baba' (must be the new
beard) and cumin scents sent on warbled strings. Fez is driving its
own bus. Fez stops for you should you need it, if only you ask. Fez
is a breath of air sucked from the ninth century, heavily laden with
ancient flavours. Fez is walking through a daydream and waking in a
maze. Fez tapdances its rhythm to the hammer of copper and bronze
workers. Fez is time immortal, and always, Fez is a donkey in your
face, just around that corner....
hugs and love from Fès
joe
