The town is a pigment. Walk it before the buses, and again after they leave.
Chefchaouen is easy to photograph and hard to see. The blue is a decision repeated on every wall until it becomes climate. I arrived at dusk, left the bags, and walked until the alleys emptied.
Before the tripods
Dawn is the town’s true hour. A man painted a step the same blue as yesterday. Cats ran the municipality. I climbed toward the Spanish Mosque and watched the basin fill with ordinary morning — laundry, smoke, a single tourist already composing.
Lunch was goat cheese and honey. I bought nothing from the shops that faced the square and everything from the one that did not.