It was a chilly night in the mountain town of Chefchaouen and both Christi and I grabbed extra blankets for our beds. Heavy rain during the night refuses to quit and we are in no rush to leave our chic, albeit bijou slice of heaven at the hotel Guernika. The views from our roof-top room (even in the rain) are sublime: we look out across the medina to the ruins of a hilltop mosque and looming over everything is Jebal el-Klaa. I hope to climb this bad boy over the next few days and suggest that Christi accompanies me. She laughs and stares ever more intently at the novel she’s reading (The Shelters of Stone by Jean Auel).
Wearing boots, fleece, and rain coat (more reminiscent of Patagonia than Morocco) we finally venture out into the sodden day in search of lunch. Even on the 5-minute walk along the cobbled alleyways to plaza Uta el-Hamman we fall victim to a sudden downpour. In fact it’s a little disconcerting to sit at an outdoor restaurant and see the overhead awning sagging and straining because of the accumulated rain. We seek more permanent refuge in a nearby internet cafe. We seem to spend a lot of time in these places, so even though we took a year off from the real world to live a fantasy life I suppose we are news junkies at heart. And the news is not good (is it ever?). A volcanic eruption in Iceland is spewing ash over Western Europe. Much of West and North European airspace has been closed, canceling thousands of flights and stranding tens of thousands of passengers. We are due to fly to Tunisia via Rome in 6 days. Let’s hope the situation is resolved by then. The good news is that Rome airport is still open at the moment.
When we emerge back into daylight, the weather has brightened considerably and we poke around the many alleys of the medina. And boy does this place have some steep paths. The most visually striking aspect of the old town, however, are the blue and white houses, steps, and alleys. Traditionally Muslims painted their doors and windows green, the color of Islam, but the Jewish refugees arriving in the 1930’s painted their buildings blue as a reminder of God in heaven. And the tradition continues to this day. In fact, Christi finds one old lady repainting the exterior of her house and decides to help out. That is bound to earn her a few brownie points with the man upstairs. Incidentally I can think of at least two alternative explanations for the blue color of Chefchaouen. First, blue reflects the color of my skin as it’s damn chilly in this town. Or it might allude to the fact that it rains a lot around here. Neither of which is quite as spiritually uplifting or as financially rewarding as the God connection, though.
Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut-wrenching tale of love and test tubes.
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