The narrow cobbled streets are alive with the colors, smells, and essential rawness of market life. Vendors hawk breakfast breads, olives and live chickens. But we are late for our cooking class at Clock Café, and cannot linger. Donkeys and mules laden with pails of milk are led slowly through the streets. In the gentle lilt of Moroccan Arabic, the donkey minders shoo us out the way. Men and women in plain djebella are buying their breakfasts. It’s a rhythm of the everyday here in Fez. Food is bought fresh. The customers know the vendors by name.
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