Friday evening in Asilah.
A soft breeze drifts through the palm lined promenade, 22°C, just enough to lift your mood without lifting your scarf 😏The sky moves slowly from gold to soft blue, then to that deep, near-black blue you only see by the sea.
In the medina, light clings to whitewashed walls and pastel-hued doors. The fading sun softens every edge. The alleyways glow. There is space here. Air. A rhythm you can feel in your chest.
Outside the medina, the pace changes. Families walk slowly. Friends laugh beneath lamplight, smoking. Couples in traditional outfits float past, elegant for Friday.
You see Muslim families together – fathers pushing strollers, mothers in graceful hijabs, silk and velvet, gold thread embroidery.
children running ahead with laughter bouncing off the walls.
All around, kids play beneath the watchful eyes of elders. There’s so much life, so much joy – and far fewer faces buried in phones than I’m used to.
Style is alive on Friday evening.
It’s not a fashion show, but a collective expression.
Headscarfs, denim, kaftans, makeup, silver earrings, Converse shoes. I see wool, cashmere, silk and cotton. Some wear traditional robes with gold buttons – elegant, historic. Others remix it with streetwear. Kids in counterfeit mega-brand tracksuits, with “Prada” or “Fendi” caps from leather.
The scent of freshly baked cookies drifts out from open doors. I peek in, hoping it’s a bakery – but it’s someone’s home. Oops.
Market stalls lean against ancient stone – baskets with pom-poms, rosewater in amber bottles, paintings, woven carpets, fruit juice in plastic cups. The vendors look calm, patient, proud. Everything has weight. A presence. A story.
The call to prayer echoes softly through the medina, weaving a serene soundtrack to the evening’s gentle pace.
It doesn’t interrupt – it settles. A reminder that time here is different.
Tonight, like every Friday, families gather for couscous. We do too.
Asilah doesn’t perform. It doesn’t rush. It just is.
Aesthetic in slow motion.
Everywhere you look.
