marrakesh: where the walls talk and my feet definitely don't.

okay, so i’m in marrakesh and everything is… loud. not just sound loud, but colour loud, smell loud, my brain is full of *tuk-tuk engines and someone’s radio playing rai music from 2003. i got here thinking i’d be the quiet observer with my sketchbook, but nah. the city just grabs your hand and drags you through the souk before you can say ‘where’s the mint tea?’.

i just checked the weather and it’s...that perfect weird warmth, 17 degrees but humidity’s playing games so you feel like you’re wrapped in a damp silk scarf. the air’s doing that thing where it feels like a damp blanket but also like a hug? pressure is 1011, whatever that means for my sketchpaper warping.

someone told me that the best tagine isn’t in the fancy patio riads but down an alley where the light’s so bad you can’t see the menu, just point at the pot bubbling over a single gas flame. i followed a whisper about a place called ‘chez jean’ near the bab doukkala gate and yeah. the lamb was falling apart and the guy poured me a tiny glass of something pink that tasted like crushed apricots and regret. [ Tripadvisor link hidden in the sauce, basically. ]

if the medina chaos gets too much, jump in a grand taxi to essaouira-salt air and fish markets in under three hours. you’ll come back with sea in your hair and your sketchbook full of blue doors instead of desert ochre. heard a drummer from spain in the jemaa el-fna square last night swearing the gnawa music at the cafe du francis makes the jinn dance. i believed him, even though i was just sitting there trying to draw a cat that kept moving.

overheard at the hammam: ‘don’t use the black soap on your face, cherie, it’s for the corps, not the visage’. also ‘the man with the monkey near the koutoubia? he charges 20 dirham for a photo but will offer you tea first, so be ready to decline politely or be late for everything.’ [ Yelp says the hammam i tried smells like eucalyptus and betrayal. ]

my feet are killing me. these cobblestones are medieval torture devices designed to humble foreigners. i’ve seen three different styles of door knocker today-a hand, a fish, a crescent-each one a tiny secret to a life behind the wall. the light here doesn’t just fall, it lingers, catches the dust and makes everything look like an old film grain.

here’s where i’m lost right now. some kid just tried to sell me a ‘real berber carpet’ that was definitely made in a warehouse. i said no, but bought a spice mix instead that smells like a warm hug from a ghost. [ i found a decent list of non-touristy eats on a local blog, bookmarked. ] the humidity at 54% means my charcoal won’t stay dry, so i’m doing quick ink washes, smudging everything. it’s messy, but so is the city.

someone told me that if you wake up before the call to prayer, the medina is a different city-all shadows and sweeping brooms and bread delivery guys on scooters. i might try it tomorrow. or i might just sleep in. this place doesn’t care about your plans. the heat* will come later, for now it’s just a heavy blanket. i’m going to go find that alley with the bad light and the good tagine. wish me luck, my feet are already staging a protest.

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