Squished in a collective taxi and drowsy from the hot Moroccan sun, we began to make out shades of blue in the distance, stark against the usual red, earthy tones of the land. Our noses pressed to the windows, the rickety old Mercedes began its path up the twisting mountain roads to finally reach Chefchaouen, the Blue Pearl of Morocco.
Over a steaming cup of mint tea, a new Moroccan friend explained to us that in the 1930s, Jewish refugees painted the village blue, the heavenly color reminding them to lead a spiritual life every day. Each spring, the locals paint their houses once again, continuing the tradition. Pierre and I were lucky enough to spend a few days wandering these powder-blue streets, soaking up the beauty of a world in blue...
