Exploring & Escapades

bits & pieces of my travels

Riad Laaroussa Hammam

An evening at the hammam; tranquil, quiet, concealed. A contrast to the outside world, the medina from which we escaped as the sunset.

The hammam, a bathing ritual, was our treat, a certain indulgence, but also an experience that we had been told we must have. Traditionally, a hammam is performed in the public bathhouses with some hours set aside for men and others for women; in contrast, we chose a private spa in a luxury hotel. While I can’t vouch for the common authenticity, I can vouch for the magic of it all.

First, there is a dark steaming sauna. Then, buckets of warm and cold water. A black soap, scrubbing. Rose cream and a mask, more steam, watching beads of water in the crevices of the domed ceiling with no sense of time. Frozen time. A shower. A non-traditional, additional massage. Jasmine argan oil, the sweetest smell. 

And to end it all, mint tea, here, in this courtyard. The entire place was empty. We had it all to ourselves, as long as we wanted to stay. 


Chouara Tannery

The Chouara Tannery in Fez has existed for nearly one thousand years. Every day, every year, every moment ever since, it has operated exactly as it has since the beginning.

Vats of cow urine, pigeon excrement, quicklime, salt, and water under the Moroccan sun.  Fresh animal carcasses submerged. The smell is vile; inhaling is made possible with sprigs of mint under the nose. Since it was winter when we visited, it was a bit more bearable. 

We paid a man 10 dh (about $1) to take us, in spite of the instructions of nearly every guidebook. We knew he was unofficial and hoping to trick us out of more money, but his guidance was convenient. Later, we watched the tourism police take him away – but not until after we had paid him, a blurred but fair enforcement. We had accepted his services, after all.

I’m not sure if the leather shop that he delivered us to even had a name. We entered through a small door in a stone wall, ascended stairwell after stairwell until I lost count. Our reward; a glimpse at an ancient practice, of mundane and common, timeless, life. 

I left with a pair of shoes that I love. The thousand-year smell of the tannery has, still, not left them. 

Fez Riad

Inside Riad Les Oudaya, our palace home during our stay in Fez. Quiet in the off-season, every bit as intricate.

The courttard was stunning, the terrace view unparalleled. Bits of bread and crepes for breakfast. Jam, butter, olives, mint tea, silver teapot and all.

We loved the riad, though it quiet literally wasn’t what we expected. We had booked our stay at the Riad Louna and weren’t informed we would be staying elsewhere until the host met us at our taxi from the airport and walked us somewhere different. It was sleazy and obviously calculated, but I will give him credit – this new riad was splendid too (although it had no hot water, which allegedly, was the reason we were transferred from Louna in the first place). 

Unlike our planned home, our new home was a bit removed from the chaos of the medina (though still within it’s walls), and this ended up being something that we preferred. It was nice to enter and exit into an empty street, to have the ability to meander easily to the outskirts. To be able to start and finish our day here, in this peace. 



Magical Morocco, a land of extremes. An exterior of chaos and crowds, concealong an interior of quiet, exslusive courtyards. The riads, palaces, literally hidden behind bland stone walls; you could never suspet their presence. The smells are strong. Repugnant – trash, carasses, leather. Then, sweet – fresh orange, oils, mint, jasmine. The people are so friendly and so intent on cheating you. 

Details, details, details. The faucet in the shower is more intricate than anything in my entire home, but no water emerges from it. Old meets very, very old and very, very new. A whirlwind. Colorful, bland. Sensual, conservative. Full of flavor. 


Cambridge Snow

Living in Cambridge for nearly two and a half years; this is the first time I have ever seen snow. And so much snow! Blanketing the world, bringing everything to a silent stop – even if only a few hours. Then, it was all gone. Every trace. But it was there for a fleeting moment, and it is something that I’ll never forget. 


Travelling from Belgium home to Cambridge via a French ferry. That was how we ended up in Dunkirk on this smooth and icy surface of sand. Industrial, open. T

here wasn’t much time or much to see. We we were here for a moment, only imagining what it would have been like to escape the beach. 

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