Retreat!

The sometimes overwhelming dissonance of the of the Medina streets belies the great expanses of urban fabric, the living spaces, served by the spiderweb of paths. The contrast could not be greater. Step through any of the non-descript portals replete with intricately carved heavy wood doors and you leave madness for sanity, tension for a more lithe ease, profane for sacred. The Moroccan house is an inverse of the American: we appoint our homes to be an outward expression of our vanity, our status, our wealth; I am sure such pretense is shared by Moroccans, but their homes display this inwardly, out of the public eye, save for the fine wood doors. The typical medina home is a courtyard house, often comprising many open spaces: some covered, some garden spaces, some with water features. The roof is often a terrace space for particularly warm summer evenings.

Apparently not too many years ago, a westerner staying in Fes meant hotelling it in the nearby Ville Nouvelle, built by the French in the early twentieth century when Morocco was a Protectorate (read: subjugated colony) of France. But a few years ago, enterprising foreigners and Moroccans themselves began buying old houses in the old city and converting them to riads or small pensions. So now if you want to really experience these medinas you must stay in a riad.

I definitely did well to choose the Riad Fes as my base in the medina. The leap from the street bustle to the courtyard of the hotel could not be more welcome. I feel safely cloistered in a calm environment. Because there are no cars in the medina, there are no bus or truck vibrations or horns. The thick pisé walls muffle the outside voices, save for the calls to prayer throughout the day. You are left with the trickle of courtyard fountains, the birds in the garden, the murmur of foreign voices of my fellow travelers. The hotel is finely decorated in a grand Fassi style, with great expanses of intricate zellij (mosaic) tile, geometrically patterned plaster and carved woods. Typically low banquettes of seats with silk pillows invite lounging and I spent more than my fair share. In the evenings a grey-bearded gentleman plays the oud and occasionally sings some no-doubt romantic Fassi songs.

To top it off, there are no TVs or radios in the rooms. If I really wanted that kind of noise and stimulating entertainment, I simply need to walk back outside those doors and into the street.

My room

The Hotel Lobby

Courtyard