When people call Marrakech The Red City, they mean the color of the adobe, which flares a brilliant red when the sun hits it, especially at sunrise and sunset. I think from the distance, Marrakech glows fiery red at the beginning and end of each day. But, once I was inside the walls of the city, the color that struck me was blue.
Essaouira was blue too. Blue doors, blue trim, blue peeling paint. Most of Morocco is both shabby and elegantly ornamented in shades of blue.
When I travel, I often feel I should be making awe-inspiring landscapes or cityscapes with dramatic sunsets - the sort of photographs that make everyone ooh and ahh. The thing about Morocco is that the grand vistas spoke to me less than the little details. While places like Iceland feel vast, and demand using ultra-wide lenses and panoramic techniques, Morocco feels intimate. It is full of people and tourists, all moving through this maze of narrow streets filled with souks and cafes. The photographer in me feels like I gypped myself by not concentrating my time shooting landscapes. The storyteller in me looks at these images, remembers the story, and feels content.