A House With No Windows

           

 It’s a bit strange, living in a house with no windows. It’s our own little world, very cut off from whatever is going on out in the street. (Although we do hear kids playing, and the occasional donkey honking or horse trotting.) And that, I think, is the intention, to be cut off and secure inside, safe from the outside world.

In this riad (traditional home) in the ancient Medina of Fez, we have a 12 by 12 foot hole in the roof – 20 feet above our heads – to provide light and air. Aside from that, this place is a fortress, with thick stone walls and only a heavy, tiny door leading to the street. We’re told it is 400 years old, which means it was built at a time when the world was a dangerous place, and no one ventured out after dark. Safety was paramount. And anyway, all the adjacent buildings press close upon one another, so there is little outside wall space left for windows.

And what happens when it rains, with that big hole in the roof? Well, it doesn’t, much (rain, that is). This is a house designed for and built in a hot, dry climate. Four hundred years ago, when the house was new, rain would have fallen into the interior courtyard and drained off, as designed. But riads today have covers on the roof; ours, made of transparent plastic, keeps out the rain yet slides back for ventilation. We haven’t had any really hot days yet this year, since it’s only March, but on a very warm day last week we noted that the upstairs getting warmer while the ground level was still very cool. In mid-summer temps in Fez can hit 40-45°C (105-115°F). Thick stone walls and narrow, shaded alleyways make sense then.

Paula reads on the terrace; no rain, so we're open to the air and sky.

We do have a lovely roof-top terrace, though, above the noise and dust. It has great views of the city, which drops away from us; and the hills, which rise above. In the near distance we see hides from the tanneries laid out to dry: white, blue, red, the patterns changing as workers bring them every morning and collect them in the evening. A lovely place to spend the afternoon, or watch the full moon rise.

Panoramic view from the roof - remains of the ancient wall on the left, newer suburbs on the right

Hides from the tanneries spread out to dry: red and blue (left mid), and yellow (hard to see on the right). The original Medina walls are just above the hides.

We have a modern kitchen, new fridge, gas range, double sink. And another skylight. Passageways (what we would call a hallway in another kind of house) are narrow and dark; the stairs are likewise narrow and dark, with every step a different height (nice touch, that!).

Nice kitchen! Skylight above sink lets in plenty of light in this very sunny country.

Narrow stairs give access to the upper floors and the roof terrace

We'd love to eat on the terrace, but those 29 irregular steps mean we mostly have our meals here.

I sit in the living room, looking at the opening 6.6 meters (22 feet) above me, contemplating the custom-made iron screens that protect the openings in the surrounding rooms; the hand-painted ceiling beams; the intricately carved beam ends; the massive wood doors to close off adjoining rooms – a hallmark of the riad; and the fountain, tiny hand-cut tiles forming traditional patterns in blue and green and white. What to make of this, living in another culture, in another time?

View from upstairs. Solid 11-foot doors close off the side room.

Looking out from the office.

The entryway, and the magnificent 16th-Century fountain

I don’t know what to make of it all. Maybe it will become clear when we get home. (Really!) I do know that we both feel particularly good when we walk down the narrow side street, past the ancient buildings – some ruined, most still useful – and to our front door. Unlocking it is a procedure, with three locks that each require four turns. But we feel satisfies – smug, perhaps – that we live here, in this traditional house, an integral part of an ancient city.

Thr fountain, seen through the screen in the bedroom.

Sounds from the Roof

We sit on the roof-top terrace, reading, contemplating, studying the view. I close my eyes and listen: birds chirping. A donkey brays. A snatch of conversation drifts by. Sporadic jazz piano from a nearby riad. A motorcycle on the distant road. Cocks crowing. Kids shouting in the street as they kick a ball. Then it starts: the call to prayer.

It starts quietly, as one muezzin begins. Soon the air is filled with their various songs, from the minarets of the hundred mosques in Fez the call sounds, calling the faithful to prayer and reminding them that God is great. It soon reaches a cacophony, some voices clear, then fading out as others strengthen. In a few minutes the sacred moment is over, the last voice fades. Birds fly over chirping. A donkey brays. The world returns to normal, until the next call...