Meknes

Ah, Meknes. It brings back many memories to be here, some of them good and others a bit more tragic, but all bittersweet in their own way. This is the first city to which I traveled on my first trip to Morocco, after having arrived in Casablanca.



I have come here with Evan and Melanie, my friends from Chefchaouen, having decided the other night to travel with them to this city, rather than head on to Fez alone. I have been to both of these cities, and while Fez is certainly somewhat more magical, more internationally reknowned, and larger, Meknes has a certain "je ne sais quoi" that makes it unique.



Forgive the above "je ne sais quoi" -- it was tongue in cheek, or at least "tongue slightly off from center and nearing the cheek" -- and I have been speaking a lot of French, so it just seems right. Really, though, Meknes is a great town, an Imperial city like Fez and Marrakech, and it certainly is worth a visit. Besides, the somewhat less famous name translates to less tourists and more "real Morocco".

Things are certainly different from Chefchaouen, where anyonymity was an impossibility, and where tourism and the drug trade compete for the title of Most Important Industry. Here, I am once again in the land that I remember from my last visit to Morocco.



Wandering through the souqs (marketplaces), I watch welders at work, listen to the loud chanting sounds of the sellers, gaze at the seemingly infinite array of dried fruits and nuts. I had forgotten how crowded these places could get, the jostling of shoppers, the veiled heads of women bobbing as they dig through clothing for sale, the agnry words that pass between pedestrians when bumped in the crowd.

I had also forgotten the smell of a Moroccan city--something unnameable and unplaceable--a mix between terrible and glorious. The air is sweet, as the odors of baked goods, hashish, and the exhaust of small engines compete for prominence.

Recycled Spanish buses run down the streets, pulling into the center of the road to avoid horse drawn carriages and stopped cars. The cafes bulge, filled with men, and spill onto the sidewalk's chairs and tables. The men slap cards and juggle dice, yelling loudly on occasion, heartily laughing and questioning the luck of their companions. Other men sit quietly, mind befuddled and fogged with the smoke of their hashish and tobacco cigarettes, gently sipping tea and gazing at the passersby.



This is, however, an Imperial City, as I have said, and so the town rises above and around these characters. Imposing walls, palaces, fortresses and dungeons divide the city into pieces, each sliver with a different feeling.

Tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, I will head out to Volubulis, the Roman ruins that lie approximately twenty kilometers outside of the city. Until I have news from there, I bid you all adieu, and hope that you are all well.