The saffron is good for the jiggy-jiggy, my friend.

Chefchaouen in the rain, probably my favorite picture of the trip.

The first thing I notice about Fez are the silent cats brushing by underfoot, a whole clowder of kittens tearing away at entrails from the butcher.

Touts are whispering "貧乏!" at me, probably the most articulate of the Asian greetings I got in the two weeks (binbou - 'poverty' in Japanese, presumably a shorthand for cheap).

I have about two weeks to make it to eight cities according to my plan, so the minor deities of bus and train better come through for me.

Landing in  my hostel

I stick to Talaa Kabira until the blue gate, thinking that the Fez medina is adorable for having two main streets: Big Climb and Little Climb. Overtaking two mules that look like movie props, I have a tagine in front of me a lot quicker than ideal, the ceramic is ice cold. 

One of the cuter cats and I tear at the stewed beef together, but then Mama Cat tries to jump in my lap.

The windows of the riad are so thin, you can hear everything on the street as you all lie under a jeweled panel ceiling. But then fjar, the first call of prayer, announces dawn is breaking, and birds start chattering and pooping by the window.

Ceiling above my bed

Breakfast view from the roof of the riad

The medina has a magic that ensures no one ever has to slow their walking to avoid collision. I watch a woman roll transparent dough over a massive dragon's egg; she's making fresh phyllo for briouat filled with honey syrup.

It's not hard to hand over a few cents for a few sticky triangles that go perfectly with a Moroccan espresso. Coffee machines are stashed in little nooks all over the medina, and one of them even makes avocado milkshakes.

One coffee guy hands me a knuckle of m'hanncha, an almond paste pastry curled into a snake. My fingers smell like orange flower and cinnamon for most of the day.

Two massive Swiss dudes and I have a baghrir eating contest (crumpet/pancake love child) on the roof before ignoring guides all the way until we're overlooking the tanneries.

Men are vigorously jumping into vats of colored water with armloads of animals skins, and it's all very purposeful, but I can't tell what's getting done. When the wind blows our way, it's the flat chemical smell of the skins, but nothing too bad. 

The Jewish mellah is somehow darker and narrower than even the medina, and the two synagogues are closed or just a museum now. I hear the first recounting of how the Jews just left for Israel and are simply no longer here. Nothing to do with the expelling, the burning, or the synagogue-destroying.

Peeking into the Jewish cemetery costs money, and when we decline, a woman asks, "No Jews?" We debated whether she was saying our decision was anti-Semitic, whether she was anti-Semitic and wanted compatriots, or whether she was just acknowledging our leaving. 

Moroccans speak at least three languages with various levels of skill, so we stop overanalyzing. In English, men end their sentences with "...., my friend." 

We walk by the Qarawiyyin Mosque, the oldest university in the world since its opening in year 859. Non-Muslims aren't allowed in, but I do get to gawk from the gateway at the shining marble.

جامعة القرويين‎

Everyone has a cousin who will prevent you from making the worst travel decision, someone who has a camel tour that if you're lucky, they might be able to sneak you into. I often feel like the frantic Ryanair sales team managed to set the tone in Morocco as well. 

A Canadian boy and I loop Hotel California while lying on pillow mounds in the courtyard, and then the Moroccans insist on 80s love ballads until I fall into bed again.

Bab Mansour el-Aleuj (Gate of the Victorious Renegade)

Meknes is a blur of gates, the ritual losing of all sense of direction in the medina, and then sticky hands from the honey-drizzled msemmen (paratha-crepes). The Aissaoua brotherhood was expelled from Meknes in the 16th century, but the cobra worshippers are still going into writhing trances for the tourists.

The monkeys wearing fez hats don't show up until five days later in Marrakesh. I learned today that they're wearing diapers not because the performers care about poop in the streets, but to hide the monkeys' constant erections.

A man on the sleepy return train wants to list for me things that Moroccans love; the list begins with fountains and ends with hashish and a belly laugh.

Even in Fez, I do start noticing the glazed paranoid look of hashish smokers, many of them tourists who have had it for the first time, packing nuggets of Ketama gold from the Rif Mountains.

I pick up my first of many kilos of tangerines, just so much fresher and juicier than any British citrus.

 And they make good gifts for bus and hostel friending.

Dar Jamaï Museum

At 10 pm, I'm knocking on an unmarked doorway in an alley, and a bearded man in a jellaba opens the door a crack, letting out swirls of steam. Five minutes later inside the hamam, I'm in my underwear, hauling two buckets, a bar of black soap, and an exfoliating glove into a tiled chamber covered in two inches of steaming water.

We all work together dumping endless buckets of water until vision is nil from the white steam, and then everyone is scrubbing everyone else's back. I'm given an acrobatic massage, and then I just lie down on the tiles for an hour watching clouds of steam float by.

I have to be out of the riad by 6 am to catch a bus to Chefchaouen in the mountains, but we're kept up until 2 am listening to what sounds like a woman being beaten. She's yelling hysterically, someone braver peeks out the door to investigate, and the noise cuts out. We convince ourselves it's just a movie as the gas can sputters heat into the room, and I fall into dreams about some giant made up of cages. 

Before I know it, I'm pushing onto a bus past the guys claiming to be guardians of the street, human obstacles on my way to Bab Boujeloud. 

The buses might be full of vomit (Moroccans seem to get carsick easily), but they're cheap, comfortable, and leave almost on time. 

The mountain roads are largely empty, goats scurrying off the road as the bus pumps out sugary pop tunes in Arabic. I'm reading a novel a day, switching out the books from hostel swap libraries. This is probably one of my favorite things about these places, how ratty paperbacks cycle from one traveler to the next.

Chefchaouen was part of Spain until 1956, so the locals speak more Spanish than French. The Irish woman who runs the hostel I'm at for the night growls directions at me that involve walking towards a pine tree and crossing the first bridge I see. While on this quest, I somehow run into the Swiss brothers I met in Fez, Manu and Fabi, as they take macros of cherry blossoms. 

We walk the rest of the way to the ruins of the Spanish mosque overlooking the mountain town, blue houses radiating across the white of the cloud banks. 

A Dutch girl named Lara and I wander the blue streets, and the scattered sunlight makes us feel like we're underwater. When it rains a bit, the homes seem to melt. 

I spend dinner wondering why people are insisting on eating fish in the mountains. Young bucks try to talk me into joining them on a hike into the mountains behind the domesticated waterfall to check out the marijuana fields and an actual cascade, but I've heard about locals getting antsy and stones being thrown.

Besides, the townsmen shadowing your steps and muttering about getting you some good stuff is enough to gross me out about drug tourism. Boys and girls alike are in tears as they sit on the wet steps from being violently stoned, and I just keep taking pictures of the blue stuff.

Maybe the place isn't blue because the Jews used to paint to keep away mosquitoes, but it's awfully calming.

Just one day in Chefchaouen was a good call, and I already have tickets for the bus bound for Rabat at 7 am the next day.