Ramadan in the House

The harira starts at four. By five, the whole derb smells of it — tomato and celery and something spiced underneath that I still can't name after eleven years. The neighbour downstairs makes the best harira in the street. She knows it. She's never offered to share the recipe.

The medina is strange during Ramadan. By midday it has gone somewhere else entirely — not quiet exactly, but interior. The usual commerce of the streets pulls back. The men in the café near Bab Laksour sit without their coffee. The whole city is waiting for something.

The courtyard changes too. The walls seem thicker. The fountain sounds louder when there's less noise to compete with. Guests who arrive during Ramadan often remark on it — not the fasting, which they expected, but the particular quality of the silence inside the house.

The cannon fires from the Kasbah at exactly the right moment. It always surprises me, even after eleven Ramadans. Then the whole medina exhales at once.

Zahra breaks her fast with us when guests are here. She brings the dates and the harira up to the rooftop and we eat together with the Atlas going pink in the distance. It is one of the better things about running a guesthouse — these accidental communal tables that nobody planned.

After iftar, the medina does something remarkable. It reverses. Everything that was absent floods back in. The street food stalls appear from nowhere. Children run. Music comes from somewhere above the rooftops. The city that went interior for fourteen hours suddenly has nowhere to put all its energy.

If you're visiting during Ramadan, the only thing you need to know is this: the second half of the night is the good half. Stay up for it. The city will find you.