Older than my grandparents. Older than country music. Older than America.
Everything is old in the medina. The buildings, the streets, the mosques, the minarets; the gates, the fountains, the plazas; the traditions, sounds and recipes.
Just. Plain. Old.
Here, old is valued. Walls are so old that wooden beams criss-cross the ancient streets just overhead, holding them precariously in position. But they are not torn down.
The old isn't disposed of, like the little bags of trash placed on the street every morning to be collected by faithful garbagemen. Old is kept, held and even hidden in the medina.
Old, narrow and winding streets are solid underfoot and always lead the same direction they have led for hundreds of years. A dozen old minarets house the same call to prayer that has been heard in the medina for centures. Old recipes mark the creation of the same food at the same time every year, to commemorate the breaking of the same fast observed by practically everyone.
Satellite television, music videos and skinny jeans are new.
Can they become old?
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