Merchants in the inner markets of Fes, Morocco get their supplies by donkey, not by truck or motorcycle. The donkeys jostled against me, nearly knocking me over. The smell of the spice and perfume filled the air. Veiled women shyly hid their faces.
After an hour of walking through the labryrinth I came to Seffarine Square. Tiny shopfronts crowded the small opening. A coppersmith named Hamid Aziz hammered a pot.
I sat in the middle of the square on an orange crate and began a watercolor. But I forgot to bring water! Hamid poured some for me into a chipped glass from a silver teapot that he kept beside him.
A few bewildered tourists stopped to watch, but most of the commentary behind me was in Arabic. When I finished the sketch, I showed it to Hamid and his friends.