There’s an hour each morning when the Medina belongs to its true inhabitants. Bakers pull glowing rounds of khobz from communal ovens as cats stretch on warm tiles. The call to prayer hasn’t yet sounded, but the water sellers are already making their rounds, brass cups clinking at their waists. In these blue moments before the shops raise their shutters, you might catch a glimpse of Tangier’s soul – the fishmonger whispering prayers over his ice, the tailor humming Andalusian melodies as he threads his needle. Soon the streets will fill with commerce and camera clicks, but right now, the city breathes.
