Sofia Costa

Essaouira is held together by wind. It pulls at your hair, your scarf, and your film canister if you are careless, which I was once. I walked the ramparts at dawn with the Atlantic slamming into the rocks below and the old bronze cannons pointing at nothing in particular.

The harbor is where the town actually lives. Blue boats stacked three deep, gulls everywhere, and an early fish auction where nobody had time for me, which suited me fine. In the evening I ate grilled sardines at the port, picked from a tray of ice, then went back up to the walls for blue hour. After Marrakech it felt like someone had turned the volume down and opened a window.