Oh, she had heard rumors of their existence before. And more than once she thought she saw something out of the corner of her eye. But somehow, yes, somehow, she managed to convince herself…. that it was the stuff of fairy tales.
A fumbling of the hand, a zoom of the lens, a click, click of the finger......alas, her only proof....
PS Do you remember the elusive feather hunters?
Oh, make no mistake: she was very busy while in Cairo. Yes, very busy. Cough. Working, of course. Would you believe that she had no time to shop at all? She really had no idea how these items wound up in her bag........(What do you mean, lie detector test?)
Part of an antique shrine from Upper Egypt that has 4 windows that open and close.
A hand embroidered suzani parasol for Skylar's room.
Hand hammered containers to hold items in her Peacock Pavilions shop. Shown against a vintage Zanafi blanket that she was selling and could be seen here.
White blown glass petites cups bigger than a pyramid.....
Handmade bronze key chains.
What ever could this item be with a little bird? Hmmmm...no idea. But so darling. Atop a henna stencil.
Several vintage bronze kohl holders from Upper Egypt. Set against a Lehnert & Landrock photo Yes, yes, for the shop......
Oh dear, she said.
Yes, Officer, I'm afraid he's mine.....
P.S. Special thanks to the Financial Times for including an excerpt of this blog here. (It seems Edith Wharton fared rather better...)
P.P.S. And Shoukran to Typepad for posting news of my book deal here. (I want Matt's job. Don't you?)
She loved writing. She loved the power of words. She loved the mingling of words with art. She loved art.
She had walked into the store in Cairo. It wasn't the first time - she had shopped there before, liking its fair trade commitment, liking its humble beauty, liking its appreciation for the handmade. It was there that she saw them, these special pieces of Fayoum pottery. As if they had been tattooed with a mysterious language.
If only, if only.....she could break the code....
Photographed against a bolt of hand-loomed cotton stamped with old plates of Persian calligraphy. To be sold one day, oh one day, in her Peacock Pavilions shop.
PS. Many thanks to Domino Magazine and the darling Holly Becker for including My Marrakesh in their editors' picks of international design blogs.
It was in Cairo that she determined that there most definitely was a God. Why you ask? Well, because she found herself staying in the Four Seasons, and she didn’t have to pay for it herself. (What further proof could one want? Frankly, the whole walking-on-water-thing was over-rated.)
Now most people stay at the Cairo Four Seasons for the usual reasons: the luxuriously appointed rooms, the highly discreet but friendly service, the fabulous buffet breakfast overlooking the Nile.... But not her -- she stayed at the Four Seasons for the flower arrangements. (Was she turning into her mother?) Such botanical marvels! And changed so frequently that one never saw a single wilted petal. As the other hotel guests rushed by her, heading towards their, cough, very important meetings, the blogging girl just stood in wonder of all the blooming beauteousness. If the hotel staff thought her odd, they never let on. (Undoubtedly rule #37 of the Four Seasons Staff Handbook read something like this: Do not openly make fun of eccentric guests.)
PS. Many thanks to Typepad for making me the Typepad Featured Blogger today. Aw, you guys are so nice:)
She had been born in Cairo through parental happenstance, lending her an imprint of exoticism that she was not sure she rightly deserved (and causing passport stampers worldwide to raise eyebrows before letting her through their corralled airport gates).
As an adult, she had returned to Cairo on a number of occasions. The first time, many years ago accompanied by a beautiful boy with whom she had fallen in love in Italy. And more recently on a variety of assignments associated with her day job. She never grew tired of Cairo. Despite its congestion, pollution, and endless honking of horns, the city had an energy that was all its own. She looked forward to getting lost in the Khan el Khalili and returning shamefacedly to the hotel with purchases that presented incorrigible packing problems. And she secretly enjoyed getting swept up into late night shisha smoking sessions of which she was dutifully never proud the next morning.
You see, things happened in Cairo over which one had little control.
Tomorrow, the stories would all begin again.... In the mean time, there were the past stories of her encounter with the polygamous sailor, her bout as the city's Juice Queen, and her Egyptian contemplations of an imaginary (or real?) heaven. Just in case you were interested in that sort of thing.
There was packing to do now. She would see you next somewhere on the other side.........
Mesmerizing image by Hexchrome
Dear friends,
Let me tell you a story.
Once upon a time (okay really, it was late March 2008), there was a blogging girl sitting in front of her computer writing a long-ish report. It was a day like others in her Marrakech olive grove. The skies were blue, the birds were chirping and, sigh, the landscaper still hadn't shown up. It was then that she received a message from a woman with an impressive sounding name, a certain Ingrid Abramovitch. The email went something like this: Hello Maryam. I read your blog, and I quite like it. I am a senior editor at Artisan Books and a former long-time editor of House & Garden. Might you be interested in doing a book?
The girl looked around the room but there was no one else there named Maryam. It seemed - amazingly - that the message was for her....
The weeks that followed were filled with book proposal scribblings and advice from angels. Literary agents stepped forward to represent her, and the girl finally signed Kneerim and Williams, which also represented all kinds of prize-winning authors. (Gulp. Please don't tell these Kneerim and Williams people that her vocabulary was limited to mostly two and three syllable words.) It felt very grownup to have a literary agent, and even more grownup to have two: the witty and savvy Jill Kneerim and the darling and smart Cara Krenn.
The book proposal was received and liked, and one fine day, the book deal was done. The girl felt so lucky to be working with Artisan Books, which publishes only ten books a year, including the heart-stopping
Flower, the gorgeous Fandango, the delicious French Laundry Cookbook and one of her favorites, Vicente Wolfe's fabulous Learning to See:
Bringing the World Around You into Your Home. (Oh dear, she had already begun suffering from an inferiority complex...)
As for the blogging girl's book-to-be -- part memoir and part Moroccan design treatise -- she would do her very best to make sure it was accessible (i.e. no hoity-toity-ness) and packed with plenty of inspiration. The book would not be a reprint of what was in this blog. Oh, no, no, no. It would go in a different (and super fun) direction and be filled with many special, beauty-saturated surprises....
The book would be all shiny and ready in 2009. Between now and then, the blogging girl would be rolling up her sleeves and getting to work. But you would still see her on this blog as always:)
Today's pinch-me-but-it's-true tale will end with flowers - roses picked from the garden and offered with thanks from me to you. Thank you for your friendship and support on this little blog -- you are my inspiration for this book-to-be. Many thanks also are due to Artisan's lovely Ingrid Abramovitch and Ann Bramson for showing me that the universe is an enchanted place where magical things can happen - and do - each and every day.
With love and gratitude,
Maryam in Marrakech
She was in Manama having a meeting in a Persian restaurant. It was 121 degrees outside, and the
restaurant's air conditioning felt illicit and luxurious. They settled
into one of those booths found in the Gulf that have curtains for privacy. The
man she was interviewing had been arrested when he was 18 and had spent 17
years in prison. For nine of those years,
he didn’t have a fan.
The dishes came out one after the other, and the tastes brought back sudden rushes from her childhood… the maast-o khiar, the kebab soltani, the saffron rice. Afterward, they were served tea that was sweet and strong, and its scent filled the curtained booth. But it was the tea glasses that caught her attention. They were sorbet colored, decorated with great flourishes of gold painted by hand, and stylized images of Shah Abbas. She remembered having tea in those same glasses in Iran so many years ago. Seeing her interest, her dinner companion leaned forward and said, If you like those glasses, you can buy them in the Irani Baazar. It’s not so far from here. She looked up at him and said, I think I will.
It was noon, and the sun was unrelenting. It was her last day in Manama. Please, she said to her driver, I want to go to the Irani Bazaar. He looked at her warily -- the Irani Bazaar was outdoors. But he drove on, obliging. Once they arrived, they went from store to store. Finally, they found them. The glasses. I would like the violet ones, she said in her broken Farsi. Please, I'll take the rose ones, too, and those little blue ones. And the pink sugar holder. And the glass stirrers. She didn’t even bother to bargain.
She hand carried the parcel on the flight to Dubai, through
transit, on the flight to Casablanca, and by car to Marrakech.
What’s
in the box? her husband asked. Let me
show you, she said....
She was inspired by vintage Moroccan caftans. In an era of plastic, of mass consumption, of strip malls, of chain stores, of Big Gulps, of Chinese manufacturing, of “it bags”, of identical outfits at identical parties ….they were a gentle reminder of another possibility. Of things made by hand, stitch after stitch. The embroidery : exquisite. The finishing : perfection. The drape : flattering . Inspiration to pick with care, to wear with care, to store with care. To buy fewer but better. Why they were the very antidote to disposability. In a time of Spanx, of control tops, of shapers, of slimmers, and of liposuction, the caftan evoked an ideal self merely through suggestion. No exposed décolleté, no slit to the hip, no parading of the thighs. But discretion, beauty, elegance.
And so if you wondered where the blogging girl in Marrakech
might be, perhaps you would find her somewhere deep in the heart of the medina souks,
looking…… for yet another vintage Moroccan caftan.
Yay, it was the weekend! Just right for a garden birthday party in Marrakech!
The blue was so inviting and the balloons let them know they were at the right place....
They walked through a magical bamboo thicket......
And finally, they arrived! The porch had gotten all dressed up for the party.
Even the fountain insisted on getting in on the festivities.....
Oh, the children wore appropriate footwear and caused a ruckus....
Presents were opened and candles were blown out...
But all too soon, it was over. In the end, there was only one sad little fairy who didn't want to fly back to her buttercup. Ahem, where she lived, of course......
PS Take a peek at Alex's new shop (of Gypsy Girl Guide fame) right here! Yay, Alex!
Finalist in the category, Best Middle East or Africa Weblog
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