On the winding road from Tangier through Tetouan and up cliffs burnt rust-red in the high desert sun, we made our way to Chefchaouen, “The Blue Pearl,” welling up from barren mountainside and flowing down ragged hollows carved into the rock from memories of rains past. The houses of this city, painted the color of the late-afternoon sun, sit on the edge of the lower Rif Mountains, overlooking valleys stained green from modern agriculture and ragged ridge lines that cut the horizon in two.

The name itself translates to, “look at the beautiful mountains,” or something like that. At least that’s what we were told by a man who said he has lived here for the past 25 year while sitting on a park bench in the main square as the sun fell below the far ridges. Also, if you are wondering or ever searched why this city is pained bright-blue like an oasis in the red rock of the desert mountains, you’ve probably come across blogs claiming everything from mysteries of the past long forgotten to tales of Jewish refugees covering their homes in silent solidarity. According to our friend, there’s a much simpler answer: about 10 years ago, when the new governor took over, he wanted to make some changes, offering blue paint to residents for free so that the town stood in marked contrast to others in the region, which are bleached white under the glaring sun.

Either way, Chefchaouen is one of those rare places on Earth that can envelop the crowds of international tourists and still retain its soul and sense of character, as if the thing that calls so many to this place were etched into the deep lines of the canyon walls, rather than in names plastered in buildings and roadside stops; a place that’s foundations are planted so firmly into the roots of the mountain that time and people pass without notice. Somehow this place has swallowed thousands without a single Starbucks or McDonald’s sprouting up.

All that being said, Chefchaouen is a small city. Most of the narrow staircases and angled alleyways climbing into the blue lead to dead ends and apartments echoing the sounds and smells of daily life. As the name of this place suggests, probably the best way to waste an afternoon here is to find a bench in the square or a park forgotten behind some corner and watch the light and shadow play with the colors of the rocks and washes on the mountainside as the sun crosses the sky; evening falling heavy at the end of the day.

If you do have more than a day to spend here, there are a few ways to spend the time between the sun passing from one crest to the next (without booze, because you aren’t going to find that here - it’s definitely haram; well, there is one place, but you’ll pay for finding that bit of water in the desert). The center square is the beating heart of this city, with the central part surrounded by cafes and restaurants; music and lights rising above the building walls; small markets and Berber stalls like arteries reaching out into every corner of the valley. Just off the square is the local Kasbah (it means fortress or really any four-walled structure, not just a Clash single) - a mud-brick, brown structure with rectangular turrets reaching above the rooftops to surround gardens. For about 60 dirhams ($6), the place is pretty much yours. Not a bad price considering the local government is using your money to restore the architecture with traditional artisans working in styles passed down through the centuries.

There are apparently other things to do here (I’m sure they’re pretty awesome too), and a quick search on google or TripAdvisor will show you that; however, most are a good hike up the hill or outside the main city limits. If you’ve got the money, hire a cab and tell me about it. If you’re like us, one room’s rent above homeless, there is another option that I haven’t seen show up on an Internet search. Hang a left at the top of the market; wander your way up past clothes-lined terraces and hand painted staircases to the top of the city, where the walls give way to the wilderness. There, remnants of a 15th century fortress return to the broken rocks from which they came on the mountainside.

I would be lying if I said I knew its purpose. However, beyond where the staircases and vendor walls end, the ghosts of the fortress walls rise above the rest of the city, before losing themselves to the edges of the Rif Mountains. Past the shadow of the walls, there’s a cemetery made of broken tile and faded headstones open to the few who make their way up here. The earthen ramparts are free of the barricades usually found in more well-worn places and provide a view of Chefchaouen spilling into the valley, as far peaks fray into the haze of the arid desert sun.

Unlike the soft beauty of the city, leaving Chefchaouen was as rough and unforgiving as the barren landscape around. We had planned to take the morning bus headed west to Casablanca. So, we shuffled and shoved our way into the bus station office (you buy your tickets here, not at the bus station. Because Morocco likes to make things so simple.), and fumbled our way through broken French to ask for a ticket. Turns out the Chefchaouen to Casablanca bus is a popular one, and was booked into the next week. Chefchaouen to Rabat - booked. Chefchaouen to pretty much any major city was booked, and this town isn’t big enough for a trans-national train. After checking trains from any nearby city to Casablanca, it turns out the easiest was from where we started. So Tangier sucked us back in. It’s just what it does.

The next morning, with bags and backpacks haphazardly stuffed (maybe one day I’ll write about our initial packing fiasco), we tripped and stumbled down to the local grand taxi station; haggling one driver to the next, as we made our way down the cab-lined street. Finally, after what I’m sure are a few Arabic expletives, we “negotiated” a price of 500 dirham ($50) to take the 133 kilometer drive back to Tangier. If you are making this same trip, 600 dirham is about the standard price. So, down through nameless villages and forgotten roadside stalls, we made our way back to Tangier to catch the next train to Casablanca.