Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Rite of Non-Passage
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
My day began at the Nejjarine Museum of Wood Arts and Crafts, a restored 14th-century fondouk in the heart of Fez. Morocco. From the rooftop tearoom there’s a panoramic view of the medina, the minarets, meandering valleys, palm trees moving with the breezes. The medieval walled city is a time warp back to the days before urban planners.
Fez is an educational and religious labyrinth—unplanned, untouched since the 9th century. Al-Karaouine University pre-dates the Sorbonne, Oxford and the University of Bologna.
Fez houses 60,000 people and an untold number of wood and metal workshops, spice sellers, leather tanneries, fruit stands, henna artists, ceramic potters, carpet merchants, embroiderers, jewelry makers, aphrodisiac sellers. The clink-clink-clink of hammering copper workers, calls to prayer and cooking aromas engulf me.
By day, the honeycombed maze of streets is knotted with shoppers, donkeys, laborers, children playing. In a ten-foot-narrow street, looking upward to the skyline for points of reference is useless. I can only see directly ahead and behind me—and endless blue sky.
Sun-bleached, pastel buildings with weathered doorways all look pretty much the same. There’s no street grid. Just winding, twisty, tangled pathways without end points. Neighborhoods that a few hours ago were welcoming, enticing, embracing are now smothering, claustrophobic, confining.
I have been walking for hours, aimlessly. Fez has nearly one thousand dead-end alleys. No one seems to know the precise number.
In the scorching temperature, time has slowed. As if I’m in a convection oven, waves of scorching heat shimmer off the hot pavers.
My skin is wet with the traveler’s version of flop sweat. I am lost.
The setting sun is starting to cast shadows. Without sunlight, the souk will turn chilly, foreboding. In my soaked, short sleeve shirt, I will be shivering.
Cars, motorcycles and bicycles are banned from the medina. Hailing a taxi is impossible.
In a kitschy souvenir store, the shopkeeper repeats “I make you good price” for maps he doesn’t sell. Hoping to pry verbal directions from him, I buy a leather belt with the word FEZ emblazoned on the buckle. My purchase does not bridge our language barrier.
Traveling lost is a rite of passage. A traveler’s adventure. A humblebrag.
This is what I wanted. To unshackle myself from the daily routine, the mundane, the known. To lose myself.
The possibility of losing control, of sleeping until dawn on a doorstep in a strange city, was not covered in my guidebook. My fists clench.
Rounding a corner, the welcoming wooden door of Riyad Mabrouka materializes like an oasis in the Sahara. I knock. The door creaks open. I stumble across the threshold. I collapse into a wicker chair stuffed with artisan pillows made from Berber carpet scraps.
Mint tea appears. The tea is brewed by pouring boiling water into a tall glass crammed with fresh mint leaves. Mint tea is a gesture of caring hospitality. It’s impolite to refuse it.
A mosaic-tiled courtyard fountain gurgles. I sip my tea. The bluntness of the day fades. My fists unclench.
Tomorrow, I’ll get an early start. There’s more of Fez waiting to disorient me.
