In the West, everything sings. The wind brings an air of ray around the corner of an alley, the sea invites itself at the foot of the ramparts, and the hills tell centuries of history. In Tlemcen, the silence of a medersa speaks better than a speech. In Oran, the light extends over the bay to the rhythm of the muezzin. The West is not visited in a hurry. He lives himself, slowly. And he follows you for a long time.
