OH. BOY. I don’t even know where to start with Fez. What a place. This is the city that ultimately, gave me exactly what I was looking for when we set out to wander the globe: a mind-boggling, totally different, intense, uncomfortable, and ultimately freaking great experience. It also gave us our biggest Trip Crisis to date (I’m keeping track of these, by the way. Our Trip Crisis count is now at 15). Yet with healing power of a several days, I’m now looking back at Fez with nothing but awe and gratitude: gratitude for the experience, gratitude for the memories, but also just a little bit of gratitude that I get to live most of my days in a place that isn’t the biggest labyrinth on earth. What a ride.
Let’s start from the beginning. I did not like Fez at all at first. Well, that’s not true. I liked it before I started exploring it. We arrived at the very nice and modern airport, and our hotel transport driver was lovely. I immediately liked the dar, or small guesthouse, we had booked, the mint tea was everything I’d been dreaming about in Morocco, and everyone who worked at our guesthouse was so kind. After settling in a bit, we took a deep breath and decided to make the plunge: we were going to walk 15 minutes to dinner, to a restaurant recommended to us tucked right inside the entrance to the medina. This is when I started to dislike the place.
This seems like a very simple task, yet there was a reason we were girding our mental loins. We were about to put a little toe into the Fez medina, the largest car-free urban area on earth, a maze that had been befuddling people since the 800s. And, it was dark. Everything is worse in the dark. The route to the Blue Gate (the famous entrance to the Fez medina, and right next to our dining destination) from our dar is…serpentine, to put it kindly. Mildly threatening if you don’t know what you are doing, which we definitely didn’t at the time. Armed with Google Maps and a paper map the staff had given us, we started off.
Streetlights aren’t really a thing in Fez, but hanging out outside and ogling the idiotic tourists wandering around definitely is. Even though I knew it would happen, I was immediately put off by all of the people (mostly young men and boys) staring, shouting commentary, hassling us, or straight up laughing at us. I know I can’t be angry about it, I know I’m a guest in their culture (and a funny looking one at that), I know I can’t superimpose the rules of behavior of my own society onto another. You can know all that, and still feel super awkward walking through the gauntlet. Our dar was in a more residential area, so we didn’t even have our fellow brothers and sisters in tourism to help soften the ordeal. After several wrong turns and lots of unwanted offers of “help”, we finally bumbled our way around several corners, under an archway, onto a main thoroughfare, through a crowded square of petit taxis who got riled up at our presence thinking that a fare was possible, and finally, the Blue Gate loomed above us. WE DID IT.
We ignored all of the other restaurant lackeys thrusting menus at us and settled in at Jawharat Bab Boujloud for some delicious chicken lemon tagine. Victory never tasted so good! On the way home, we also got lost several times and felt slightly nervous wandering the dark little alleys and lanes, but we made it back and boy, were we relieved.
The thing about Fez is that moving anonymously through the streets is next to impossible. Someone is always calling out to you, staring at you, pointing and laughing outright (this mostly came from little kids after we had retraced our steps several times in front of them, and I can’t say I blame them), asking you to come to their restaurant, peppering you with questions about whether or not you are lost (if you are, they will happily lead you in a merry dance to get you unlost and expect some payment in return: more on this later), asking where you are from, offering to drive you to the desert, and, most annoyingly to me, telling you a street is “closed”. This last one is the one that really got my goat and eventually, got me to laugh every time. Without exception, every time we went somewhere in Fez, some youth aged 8-18 would pop up to tell us a street was “closed”. Let me tell you, that street was never closed, and the best thing to do is just walk on by and ignore them. A few brave individuals would follow us insisting that the street was closed (this is all in perfect English, by the way, that makes it even more impressive), telling us it was the other way to the Blue Gate, but eventually they would lose interest and lo and behold, the street wasn’t closed. We had a few teenage boys that hung out right on the corner by our guesthouse, who told us the street was closed every time we headed back, even though the door to our place was visible from where they were standing and they knew full well where we were heading. Good grief.
DAY 1
After triumphing the first night, we woke up (late) the next morning excited to explore the medina and, later on, get some street food and a fancy cocktail (I love paying more for my drink than my dinner). But first, breakfast! One of the best parts of a visit to Morocco is waking up in a traditional dar or riad and knowing that a gigantic breakfast awaits in some gorgeous tiled courtyard. We were totally spoiled by breakfast in Fez, and tucked into a huge breakfast every morning we were there. A big carafe of coffee (after months in Europe downing cappuccinos, this is pure heaven), fresh squeezed orange juice (best OJ I’ve ever had is in Morocco), eggs, traditional bread, about eight different little bowls with different jams and honey, and the ever present pot of mint tea. On our first full day in Fez, we really lounged with the breakfast before taking a deep breath (again) and making our way to the medina to explore.
The route was a lot less intimidating during the light of day (although still full of mouthy boys: aren’t these kids supposed to be in school? I’m going to be an awesome old crank someday), and we started identifying some landmarks: turn left at the lane with the beautiful overgrowth of vines and leaves arching above it, make the first right after the gold door, head slightly to the right after emerging from the arch, up the narrow sidewalk after the mosque.
Shining like a beacon in the night. 
Our favorite landmark. When we saw the gold door, we knew we were almost home!
We were getting the hang of it, and soon saw the Blue Gate once again. We entered into the vortex and started making our way down the Rue Talaa Sghira, one of two main “streets”, although to call these pathways “streets” would indicate there were things like sidewalks for pedestrians and pavement for vehicles and agreed upon routes and clearly marked signage, when in reality even this main thoroughfare was a narrow, dark obstacle course where we had to shove through vendors shouting, dart around slow moving tour groups and grandmas doing their shopping, and squeezing into the wall to make way for the ever-present donkeys. Yes, donkeys. These cuties are the only way to get goods around the gigantic medina, and we saw them hauling everything from hides about to be turned into leather to brick to oranges to crates of coca-cola.
We lasted about an hour and actually didn’t get lost because we didn’t stray off the main street. After a while, everything sort of looked the same, honestly: stalls selling slippers, carpets, and most frequently, knock offs of Adidas and Nikes. We were getting exhausted by the constant stream of being badgered and sometimes followed by touts, so we decided to quit while we were ahead.
After some rest back at the dar, we decided to get a taxi into the Villa Nouvelle (new town) for some street food we read about in the New York Times “36 Hours In Fez” and a fancy rooftop cocktail from the same article. We got lucky and found a petit cab driver who actually used the meter, and our lunch was delicious halal meat and french fries, eaten outside on plastic benches with a ton of street cats hoping we would drop some food. It was also nice being outside of the touristy part of Fez, where we got far fewer stares and far more people seemed to just be going about their lives and could care less about us. We then walked over to a schmancy hotel (it was an interesting walk: I have to admit, Fez isn’t the most beautiful place for strolling), but we made it and I spent an appaling amount of dirham on a cucumber-tini. My drink was delicious, and the sunset over the city to die for, but after that experience Ben and I decided we are going to try to limit the experiences that we could easily get back in America.
As much as I love a fancy cocktail with a view, I don’t need to do that in Fez. We want to save our money for the things we can only experience outside of our own culture. Always learning lessons, he and I. After a somewhat harrowing journey back to our dar that involved this text message exchange between Ben in the front seat and me in the back, our driver eventually dropped us back at our gate and ended up charging us a fair price of 15dh.
I find the cabs in Morocco exhausting and annoying, where the rules of using a meter are nonexistent for tourists and you never know what is going to happen when you get dropped off in terms of payment.
DAY 2
This turned out to be our last day in Fez, although we didn’t know it at the time…dun dun dun. I’m glad, then, that this day was full of highs and lows. In the same twelve hours, I was more pissed off than I’ve been in a while and feeling flush with triumph and overwhelmed with awe.
After tucking into that delicious breakfast, we decided to explore the medina again. We had a restaurant we wanted to try, Cafe Clock, and we also wanted to get just a little lost and explore. After all, this is why people come to Fez. There actually isn’t a whole lot to do there besides the medina.
It started off great. We went down the other “main” street (again, the word “street” is a stretch but, you know, when in Fez), and were pleasantly surprised to find stalls selling stuff other than knock-off Nikes: all types of pastries and fried things on sticks and every type of protein hanging from every nook and cranny. If you aren’t careful, you may turn your head to look at some other curiosity and then run into a gigantic slab of raw meat. The donkeys were ambling around charmingly, and it felt like we weren’t being hassled quite as much. I even stopped a few times to take some pictures, whereas the day before I felt like if I paused for a second I would get swarmed with touts. We continued on this way for a while, and got turned around somewhere near the tanneries. We could tell we were near the tanneries, because we could smell them and because every dude hanging out in every doorway begged, pleaded, poked and prodded with us trying to get the opportunity to show (or, more accurately, $how) us the tanneries. We ignored it all, though, because we were planning to take a tour the next day with Rachel, Ben’s awesome cousin who was supposed to come meet us… (again, the foreshadowing!).
We did follow a tour group back to a main road (I thought that was a nifty trick!), and we were so close to getting back to the main gate when our luck ran out. We found ourselves in a small square that was, inexplicably, full of men. It was so crowded that we got shunted off onto some side lane, and from there proceeded to get horribly lost. We were going the right way when an eleven-year old boy literally flung his arms out and refused to let us pass, saying he was “security” for his father’s restaurant. We gave in to him and turned around, which we shouldn’t have, and gamely tried to find another way out on Google Maps. We were very close to succeeding, before succumbing to some punk. When he asked us where we were going, we mistakenly said “Blue Gate”, and he was off leading us in circles. I was watching our progress on my phone (thanks, blue dot!), and I could see he was indeed sort-of leading us to the Blue Gate in the most roundabout way possible: a common tactic to take longer, demand more payment, and get us tourists thoroughly lost.
Once I could see we were back near a main road, we stopped him, paid him 25dh (he did not like this, claiming he needed to feed his family and whatnot, but at this point I was super irritated at the whole situation, mad at myself for allowing us to get into this mess when I had read so many horror stories about the exact same situation, sweaty, and hungry, so we handed him the money and walked off). We then FINALLY made our way out of the maze. I was exhausted and ornery to boot. We ate lunch at Cafe Clock and retreated back to the hotel to recover.
That night, we wanted to go to a restaurant called The Ruined Garden, which was supposed to have great food and a fabulous courtyard garden to enjoy the meal in. We set off with the route marked on our phones, ignored every single kid who told us the way was closed/forbidden/wrong, and got to the restaurant without a hitch! Whew! I felt so triumphant that we managed to outsmart the human and architectural obstacles in the medina and find our way somewhere without royally messing up. And the reward was great, with orange and jasmine milk and mouthwatering tagine in a truly gorgeous garden, warmed by a fire.
TRIP CRISIS #15
As a fun project, I’m keeping a spreadsheet of some “trip numbers”, a lighthearted way to quantify this whole crazy experience. Things like “Number of Museums Visited”, “Pizzas Eaten”, “Steps Taken”, etc. One of our categories is “Trip Crises”: those situations where we just look at each other with wide eyes, a few expletives, and a drop-everything-and-jump-into-action mode. So far, these have been things like food poisoning in Dubrovnik, accidentally leaving my boots in Mostar and realizing it 100km later, and not being able to turn off the stove at our Air BnB in Zagreb. The situations that give every experience a little spice.
Our trip crisis in Fez started off as a case of mistaken identity. After our first night, I woke up with some itchy bumps (I think we all know where this is heading). Although I had a sinking suspicion that we might be dealing with a bed bug situation, I thought at first they might be mosquito bites. We had left the windows open, and I had been the victim of night-time mosquito bites in Florence and a few other places. Honestly, it was just denial. I had a line of four bites in a perfect row down my arm, and a bunch on other parts of my body. Ben wasn’t getting them, though, so I hoped for the best.
After our night at the Ruined Garden, I woke up with a start around 1:45AM with a new bite on my cheek (yes, this is disgusting. Stop now if you are squeamish). I just had a feeling so I grabbed my phone, switched on that exceedingly handy flashlight feature, and I found a bed bug. I actually found one crawling on the pillow.
AAAAAAGGGHHH. I trapped the nasty little thing under a glass, woke up Ben, and we both flung ourselves out of bed and examined everything. We found a few telltale blood streaks but no more bugs. We then huddled on the corner on the cold tiled floor, as far away as possible from the bed, and tried to figure out what to do. We were, of course, thoroughly freaked out, grossed out, and also cursing the timing of this. You see, Rachel was at that moment flying to meet us in Fez from Los Angeles. We had no surefire way of dealing with the bugs in Fez: we hadn’t seen any laundromats where we could put everything we owned in a dryer for 30 minutes, and a cursory google search of laundry facilities in Fez turned up one less-than-inspiring result. Our own hotel air-dried everything on the roof: great for the environment, but not great for murdering bed bugs. It wasn’t hot enough in December to put everything in trash bags and let it bake on the roof for a day (which is how many fellow travelers deal with this problem in Morocco, apparently). We also found a startlingly large amount of internet anecdotes about bed bugs in Chefchaouen, our next destination after Fez. It was one thing to deal with bed bugs ourselves, but the thought of somehow transferring the problem to Rachel–a doctor who was going through her first year of residency–horrified us. We tried going downstairs to talk to the staff about the issue, but of course, at 2AM, no one was to be found.
So sleep-deprived, freaked out, and over a hurried phone call with Rachel while she was rushing to catch her plane at JFK, we decided to last-minute ditch our Morocco plans and meet Rachel in Lisbon, where her layover to Fez was. We just didn’t have any surefire way to deal with the bedbugs in Fez, and we didn’t want to risk passing this problem on to Rachel. We hurriedly booked cheap plane tickets to Lisbon, an Air Bnb, and then Ben curled up on a towel on the floor and tried to sleep for an hour or so while I worriedly made last minute plans. Suffice to say, those hours completely sucked.
Once the dar started to wake up, we went downstairs for the next unpleasant part of this whole ordeal: telling the staff. They were absolutely horrified and could not do enough to help us: the owner personally drove us in his own car to a cleaner near the Blue Gate. There, we dumped out all of our worldly possessions onto a counter and separated them into piles of wash/dry, dry only, etc. EVERYTHING. I’ll never forget the sight of the contents of our giant backpacks, everything we need for a trip around the world spread across a counter in Fez. It was such an absurd sight I had to laugh.
Then, shivering (we left all of our jackets there to be dried), we went back to the dar and sat in a side room and watched Netflix while our stuff was taken care of. The staff kept checking on us, all of them so apologetic I ended up consoling them, some with tears in their eyes. I truly do not believe the bed bugs were their fault: this place has amazing reviews, was impeccably clean, and we loved our time there. I think we just got unlucky. The staff could not have been kinder to us, to a point where dealing with their emotions and good-heartedness just added to the exhaustion and emotional turmoil of the last 12 hours. We had no sleep, all of our stuff was in some facility somewhere, and we were comforting weeping Moroccans. What a day.
After haphhazardly repacking all of our freshly laundered items, we found ourselves at the airport in Fez. I have to admit, as I walked across the tarmac to get on the plane to Lisbon, land of dryers where we could confidently deal with any surviving bed bugs, I was relieved. Fez had kicked my butt.
It’s been about a week and a half since the night of the bed bugs. We are now back in Morocco (we had prepaid for our desert camp, so we decided to come back and resume our itinerary) after an amazing and bug-free week in Portugal with Rachel.
In reflection, I’m realizing this: Fez challenged me in all the right ways and taught me a lot of lessons about myself as a traveler. I’m a person who loves being independent and successful, yet in Fez even I couldn’t conquer the medina. It’s good for me to get knocked down once in a while, just so I can stand up and triumph, like I did getting to the Ruined Garden. The kindness and hospitality of most Moroccans we met, in juxtaposition with the constant hassle/harassment from the boyish touts gave Ben and I so much to talk about and debate. Fez was the first truly different culture we have experienced, and isn’t that what I signed on for? The bed bug crisis was just another challenge that Ben and I got through together, and my gratitude for his cool head in any bad situation continues to grow. The kindness shown to us by the staff at the dar touched my heart: the owner even gave us a handwoven rug, so on this “no souvenir” trip, we have a unique souvenir that will always remind us of our crazy time in Fez. Finally, Fez was a thrown-in-the-deep-end introduction to Morocco. I’m not sure what my final takeaway from this country will be: right now, writing this in Marrakech, I have a love/hate relationship with this place, but I do know that more than any other place, Fez fired me up, got me waaaay outside of my comfort zone, and made me itch both physically and metaphorically.
And that is what this whole trip is supposed to be about. So, mission accomplished.