Not long ago, I was wandering through Europe with some friends when on a whim we decided to head south to Fez for a few days. We landed in the heat and chaos of Morocco, and two things became immediately clear. First, we’d arrived in the middle of Ramadan, meaning the city’s Muslim residents were fasting, no food, water, or cigarettes from sunrise to sunset. Second, snapping photos without permission was a quick way to stir up trouble. In Fez, many people dislike being photographed, something that seemed even more personal during Ramadan, when hunger, thirst, and exhaustion run high.

Fez is the kind of place where you half expect to see Indiana Jones stumble out of a smoky back room, minus a pinky finger after a poker game gone sideways. It’s old, ancient really. The Medina feels like a living relic, a city within a city, where narrow alleyways twist and turn like veins in some sprawling organism. Shops overflow with goods, rugs, spices, leather, and hustlers line the streets, eager to guide you to “the best” whatever-you’re-looking-for.

The place smells like history: dust, cumin, and a faint whiff of decay. They say Fez dates back to the 8th century, and it shows. Crumbling walls and faded mosaics speak of centuries of wear, yet the city still stands.