What does the world say about us?
There is a place capable of transporting you to another time, where the rush is not there and is not expected because they say that it kills, and that it disrupts your rhythm and your heartbeat, whether you want it or not. It is a kingdom of blue and white streets, especially blue, that chase you with their narrow streets and play with you to lose you in its labyrinth of seven doors. When evening falls and the carpenters finish their last jobs, a smell coming from fine wooden pipes leaves the half-open doors and sneaks through the alleys to perfume the walls that hide the blue of the sky until the next morning. The sound of drums from the plaza becomes hollow when it collides with the tanned skins that hang from the rooftops. The battlements of the kasbah emerge reinforced from this harmony of colors and recall the strengths and weaknesses of a town like no other. Perhaps when you abandon this slow walk through slopes and nooks and crannies you will realize that you should never have left the perlet house.
Thanks to the regular influx of hash tourists, there is a plethora of hostels and other budget accommodations in town, but I preferred Casa Perleta, run by a lively and supremely helpful Spanish woman named Begoña. Like other hotels, it was built around a leafy central courtyard and decorated with traditional Moroccan furniture, patterns, and lanterns. Our room was cool and effortlessly welcoming, with a low couch in the front sitting area.
Breakfast was served on the shaded roof terrace, a hillside of cyan and Prussian blue houses stretching out before a spread of olives and olive oil, fresh feta cheese, jam, and Moroccan doughy treats, including sfenj. Chefchaouen is not known for adventurous dining; most of the dozen or so restaurants serve the same medley of tagines, lamb meatballs, and harira soup.