My Marrakesh

Marrakech: and reaching for grace under pressure

When it all goes wrong......When no landscaper can be found...When the counter tops arrive stained....When the olive grove's pump is broken.......When the tile man steals money.......When the doors are put in askew.....When the pool is empty and the credit card full.....

that's when the blogging girl tries to keep some perspective....

when she tells herself that there is magic everywhere....

if she just takes the time to see it....

when she reminds herself that the important things have nothing to do with cement, and bricks, and deadlines....

but are clad in pink and wear high heels....

and just as bad luck blows in with the wind......so too, will it be swept away......

if she is just patient....

A tale of sadness at the American School of Marrakech

Teachers.....one of our most valuable commodities.  And wonderful teachers ......oh my, those are treasures, indeed.  Yes, every once in a while parents are fortunate enough to come across a teacher who not only instills in their child the great desire to learn, but also fills their days with magic.  This year, the blogging girl's little daughter, Skylar, had been lucky enough to have one of those, a certain Ms. Clare Ducker at the American School of Marrakech.

Now Ms. Clare was not made like ordinary teachers.....oh no.  She had something extra special about her.  The kind of specialness where every child in her classroom shrieked with pleasure when she walked through the door.  The kind of specialness where the very most fun exercises had children clamoring for more spelling, more reading and more math (imagine that!).  The kind of specialness where only the most fanciful  art projects would do (and were recounted in breathless detail at home) . 

Parents somehow felt that Ms. Clare not only wanted the children in her class to excel, but that she cared deeply for them -- each and every one.  And in return, the children could do nothing.... but love her back.

Sadly, so sadly, Ms. Clare Ducker's contract at the American School of Marrakech -- at the very last minute -- was not renewed.  Parents wrung their hands and worried.  Surely, surely, there was some mistake! A typo....or a computer glitch......or a wrong folder in a wrong file.... But their letters to the school went unanswered.  (It seems that good manners are in very short supply these days.)  When little Skylar heard that her darling Ms. Clare might not be returning to the school next year, she put her head down in her arms and wept.  Nothing -- not even a chocolate cupcake and a new kitten -- made her feel the slightest bit better.

And so it is.... a sad and puzzling tale written from an olive grove in Marrakech in the middle of the night.  Let us hope that happier tales are to come.... 

(And as for you, dear  Ms. Clare, should you happen to stumble upon this blog, please know that you may be gone from the school but you will not be forgotten.....Oh no, never forgotten...)

Marrakech: and the Moroccan slipper or babouche

Oh, it may not be in the medical books, but mark these words:  sequins have curative powers. 

Preliminary findings from clinical studies currently underway in Marrakech demonstrate that sequins can be used to treat a wide variety of modern day ailments --  from crabby moods, to snapping unnecessarily at one's spouse, to sweating the small stuff. 

Never mind those paragons of good taste who poo-poo  sequins at every opportunity.  Indeed, the blogging girl had noticed that it was those very poo-poo-ers who seemed to suffer from high degrees of  irritability.  'Nuff said.

Although scientific advances had not yet allowed for the ingestion of sequins intravenously, other means of application seem to provide almost instant diminishment of problematic symptoms.  Particularly promising appears to be the wearing of sequinned babouches, or Moroccan slippers.  The only reported side effect is an accompanying giddy, light headed feeling. 

One six-year old tester, who had recently scraped her knee when riding her bike without training wheels, put on a pair of Moroccan slippers and immediately shrieked, ooooh, pretty, sparkly, princessy....!

A medical miracle. 

Applications of sequins via internet remain highly experimental of course.......

Psst, a gift of Moroccan slippers with every purchase of a sequined Moroccan wedding blanket.  A double whammy for those suffering from mild forms of depression.

Marrakech: and Zara Home tribulations

The blogging girl slipped through the doors of the new Zara Home in downtown Marrakech. She was instantly surrounded by pretty ethnic chic, with bold pops of color.  She made her way through the aisles, stroking a coverlet here, admiring a glass vase there.  Everything so enticing.

On her way down the marble stairs, a large and perfect image loomed before her.    She reached into her bag and pulled out her camera.  Click, click.

Stop! Cried a voice.

She looked down the stairs.  A burly security guard glared up at her.

No photos allowed!  Erase them from your camera immediately!   He said, in a not-so-nice voice.

But I want to post them on my website to encourage people to visit Zara Home,  she protested.

I repeat, erase those photos immediately!   He shouted, threatening.

They wound up before the check out counter where a slight girl who looked no older than 22, listened to the security guard, shrugged her shoulders in a woebegone way, and said nothing.

The blogging girl slid her camera back into her purse.  Then, she looked defiantly at the security guard, and she marched out the store....

PS  See more Moroccan-influenced Zara Home photos right here at Sandman Chronicles.  (He is one of the sweetest bloggers around, too.)

P.P.S.  For Peacock Pavilions three vintage Saarinen tables like the ones in these images were purchased from the Italian Cultural Attache in Marrakech a few months back.  Another story for another time........

Casablanca: and the Sqala restaurant

Nearly every week, the blogging girl took the train to that fabled place, Casablanca.  Truth be told, it wasn't one of her favorite cities -- its beauty had been lost in the hodgepodge of architecture, in the whirring of cars, and in the smog that clung to her like a second skin.  But Casablanca had its slivers of light, too,  particularly along its corniche, or coastline.  It was there that  one of the  girl's favorite  lunchtime  restaurants could be found, the Sqala. 

The Sqala's doors were the perfect sort of blue.

And within those doors lay an unexpected oasis.

There were small stools here and there on which to perch.

The plantings were lush, and flowers climbed with few boundaries.

The blogging girl sat with a French-Moroccan friend.  They shared tiny salads in tiny bowls.  So charming.

They weren't the only ones enjoying themselves in this tiled wonderland.  Why every table was taken.

One last cup of mint tea from a shiny Moroccan  teapot, and it was time to go.

Another meeting, another train....  Sigh. But there was always next week....Same time, same place....at the Sqala.

The Sqala Avenue des Almohades - Casablanca (When you see the flags, you'll know you're there.)

Marrakech: and watery blue tales

Ah, a little  party by the pool in Marrakech.  How very nice.  They loved being invited to those.

They kicked off their shoes. 

And changed into their swimsuits....

before heading for the pool, walking....

or running....

They ditched their hats....

and stepped in.....

Why the dog, too....

oooh so refreshing....

Afterwards, they  lay on the  cool , green grass,  and thought how very fine life was...in late Spring...in Marrakech....

Marrakech: and Expat Radio

Architect husband Chris and I were on Expat Radio (WTBQ 1110 AM  in New York) today talking about Peacock Pavilions and the highs and lows of being expats, hotel-builders and olive farmers in Marrakech. 

Very fun.  Many thanks to sweet and funny Expat Radio host, Tai Aguirre for having us:)

Marrakech: and shopping with the disciple of vintage

She had a fondness for things that were old, that were used, that were vintage.  She had an affection for items that were frayed at the edges, that were dogeared in the corners, that were worn on the ends.

No matter the missing button.  No matter the broken zipper. 
No matter the chipping paint.
No matter the wrinkle. 
No matter the gray hair. 
No matter the varicose vein....

Because everything (and everyone) deserved a second chance. 

Because she believed, truly believed, that middle aged and fabulous were words that went together......

But lest you think that she digresses, perhaps you might like to see some of her pre-loved items from the Marrakech souks....

A vintage Moroccan blanket in pink.  How fantastic it would look upholstering a headboard. More importantly, their dog, Rocky, thought it showed off his  complexion to great advantage.

Vintage kitschy peacock trays.  A whopping 75 cents for each.....

Vintage silvered  bowl with hand stamped patterns and blue  handmade resin beads.  (Set against  ikat fabric  for upholstering a chair at Peacock Pavilions.)

Vintage child's hat from high in the Atlas mountains.  Dazzling with mirrors and sequins......

A mixed flat weave and pile vintage carpet in the loveliest colors.

A Moroccan coin headband from the 1950s on a handloomed light -as-air cream wool throw.

Embroidered appliqued peacocks on a vintage velvet caftan from the 1920s or 30s.

And so if you find yourself one day in the Marrakech souks, perhaps you will find her -- the disciple of Moroccan vintage....