Many of you may have seen this article that was just published by the Guardian, but it evokes such a sense of doom and loss of tradition, that I can’t help posting on it. Meet Carole Cadwalladr and her sister Sian, passengers on the first RyanAir flight from Luton to Fez:
Fez, the symbolic heart of Morocco, the oldest of its imperial cities, the most highly cultured and cultivated, whose craftsmen are agreed to be the finest in the country, whose architecture is the most dazzling, whose intricate tiled zellij designs are second to none, and whose medieval medina is one of the largest in the world, is not Paris or Rome or Barcelona. And although I knew this before I booked the flights, and rejoiced in it when I came to looking for a hotel – a tantalising choice of exquisitely converted riads with courtyard fountains and rooftop terraces – I somehow forgot it too. Although it comes more forcefully to mind when, later that night, we decide to go out for a drink.
But where exactly? I read out the relevant section in the guidebook to Sian: ‘While the ville nouvelle has a fair share of dives, they are not the most pleasant places for a drink. The clientele tends to be exclusively men and prostitutes, while the surroundings tend to be grimy.’
My sister is a talkative sort of person. It takes quite a lot to actually silence her. But for several moments she says nothing at all and then sort of sputters. ‘What? There’s nowhere?’ And then: ‘Are you quite, quite sure?’ ‘We are in an Islamic country,’ I say defensively, but it is beginning to dawn on me that perhaps Fez isn’t quite the place for a swinging weekend of birthday celebrations. Read the rest of this entry »