Far from the chaos of Marrakech, with busy routes that lead to Fès and Rabat, the northern area of the country maintains ancient traditions and quiet rhythms. Journey from Tangier to Tétouan, where the gaze is always stretched towards Europe, a concrete presence beyond the Strait of Gibraltar
The dishes are forgettable and the drinks arrive in chipped glasses, wearing a few too many wrinkles. TheCafé HafaHe is more than a hundred years old and he brings them badly, but nobody notices it. Here you come to indulge old nostalgia, to write inside the same type of memories. From its terraces on several levels, from the tables of majolica with the seaside beaches chairs, the spinning dance of the waves distracts for a moment from the real show: the shape of the other continent that stands out on the background in the background.
TOTangerextreme tip of northern Morocco, where Africa is ironed to touch Europe, itStrait of GibraltarIt continues to demonstrate how two worlds manage to look at each other and interact. TOcontam,overlapAndcoexist. Spain is there on the other side, on the streets you listen to Catalan accents and notes of flamenco played dirty with a radio, while for the echoes of France the address isVilla MabroukaArab word that means “luck”.
Is akiss of good luckThis oasis of lush gardens in the heart of the center, able to bewitched anyone, including the designerYves Saint Laurentwho wanted her as her private house. Today is aHotel of a few intimate roomssplendid pools, restaurants and bars for a stop, a break with a tiring ups and dicalr. The only recommendation is to go there to perceive the enchantment, which is not luxury, butThe elegance of naturein a firmly rétro atmosphere. Simply, as the writer observedWilliam Burroughs“Tangier is the pulse of the world”. The proof of his throbbing multiformity.
TheGrand Rescuethe square that opens at the end of a maze of streets, remains aPalm and life lungBetween a fountain and an old cinema, desperate fruit carts and beggars; hotels like theFairmont Tazi Palacewhich a century ago was the sumptuous home of a delegate of the sultan, allow to grasp the completeness of the place from a privileged, more secluded and quiet perspective. To take refuge in the pomp, for a bath in the panoramic swimming pool that propitiates a night of undisturbed and peaceful dreams.
This portion of Morocco is aengineering plan on the contrarythe obsessive project ofDisassemble the stereotypesdismantle the preconceptions on the identity and geography of a country. By moving away from the port, among the busiest in the world, with its rainbow of containers and the truck in spatient wait, you head towards green hills veiled by the fog, withhints of the Apennines. The asphalt gets up, earns altitude, then descends to bend to the east, always aiming for the sea.
The goal isTétouanwhose old part isUNESCO Heritage. Like Marrakech, but by doing less than the Selva di Riad with exorbitant prices, the bars on the commonly rowdy roofs that imitate Ibiza, the bazaars with local products, however made in China. Theremedinehere, is oneproof of virginityamanifesto of authenticity: tourists are very rare, move in small groups escorted by local guides because getting lost is easy and, after sunset, dangerous.
We pass throughThe respect for death and a kick to lifebetween huge cemeteries and balls of ball crowds of children; You arrive in a shop on two floors, where the owner suddenly stops and finds a photo of him as a young man on the phone, somewhere in Italy. He tells how much you love our country, he does not expect purchases, thanks for having honored him for a visit.
TheSuqis anchored toNinetiesbetween cumbersome televisions with the tube, VCRs, razors with the wire, broken prehistoric cell phones. Nobody worthy of a look, they seemThe clues of a revenge against thisaattempt to resist the voracity of the time. People wretched towards the desserts, immobilize to pray, fill the briefs that remember Rabat or transits for the concerts of skins identical to those of Fes, on a reduced scale, with the identical stink of intense rotten.
In these parts landed with flightsVuelingpassing throughBarcelonabringing the same desire for beach and sun, emptied of the Catalan nightlife. The destination from Tangeri airport is the PlacidaTamuda Baysequence of holiday homes and resorts where the families of Morocco are tanned. Is atriumph of Mediterraneanwith touches of exoticism. The last great attractor is theRoyal Mansourpart of a hotel group owned by the royal family.
It actually comestreated by sovereignsin villas and suite furnished with warmth, taste and sobriety (the twin structure of Marrakech instead prefers an opulent superbundance). The strength is thegastronomic proposalin particular that of the restaurantLadybugTrattoria Chic edited by the Alaimo brothers, with homemade pasta and delicious tiramisu, together with the immense spa with the regenerating treatments, a swimming pool with the sculpture of a moon that descends from the ceiling, another with the bulbs suspended on the water, like a tribe of petrified fireflies.
In the first stretch of road leading to Tamuda Bay you meet onewell -supervised concrete barrier. Bargain access to the shore, discourages the swimming unfortunately to the neighborCuteterritory of Spain in the last strip of Africa. The locals dodge the topic, hides a shared truth for modesty: many, every year, try to enter Europe in Europe in a clandestine way. Sometimes it ends in tragedy.
TheOld ContinentSo close and evident, so solidly sculpted in the identity of the place, is the most elusive and dangerous illusion.The sad promise of prohibited freedom.
