REORIENT:

I don’t remember feeling a warm embrace, beholding the outline of the Atlas Mountains in the distance, or sauntering down a ruddy-hued alleyway, my mother’s slender hand in mine, smelling sweet smoke curling around my tender locks; only a raucous clamour, the sound of clashing cymbals and waspish flutes, and every colour under the hot Moroccan sun. I first opened my eyes here, in this, the square of squares, the beating, bloody heart of Marrakech dripping with magic and mystery: the Djemaa El Fnaa. You can live your whole life here and still not have explored all its confounding labyrinths and secret passages, or seen every face, hardened and smooth. Be not fooled: the Djemaa is no ordinary square, and Marrakech no ordinary place. The Djemaa is alive, is knowing; its passages twist and writhe about beneath one’s feet, and its walls tell stories of sorrow, anger, and frenzied passion – but only to those who pay heed, and lend an ear.

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