The crenellated castle walls stood crumbing for centuries. The staccato slap of bare feet against stone and the occasional whack of a soccer ball against the once formidable meter thick walls are the only echo of a by gone era of ramparts and rockets.
Jutting out to sea at the very northwest edge of the African continent, the old city— al medina— of Tangier keeps a watchful gaze on the Atlantic Ocean, Mediterranean Sea and its rocky reflection, the Rock of Gibraltar, a mere ten miles to the north.
The byzantine streets, predating the adjective itself, wind deep into the city center without a thought of an escape. Vendor’s stalls, motorbikes, and pedestrians vie for the precious free space offered in the back alleyways. The city swirls with the scents, spices and sophistication of two colliding continents. The population erupts in a cacophony of Arabic, Berber, French and Spanish. As a crossroads of civilizations, commerce and culture compete to be the champion of conversation.
Mint tea, hot and copious, serves as the elixir of life; keeping those who imbibe upright and active. The call to prayer cuts the commotion to silence with a single Allahu Akbar, reminding the faithful of the celestial traverse of the sun and the presence of a higher authority.
