My Marrakesh

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.)

Zagora: and hallucinating Le Cafe Bleu...?

They had been lost in the Sahara desert for hours. They were hot, hungry, and harassed, when they finally arrived back in the desert town of Zagora.  It was then, suddenly, that Le Cafe Bleu appeared out of..... nowhere.  Funny, how was it that they had not seen it before.....?

A bedouin princess welcomed them when they walked through the cafe's doors...

And blessings were showered upon them...

They lounged on kilim-covered couches and sipped mint tea...

And sank into comfortable chairs and swapped strange tales...

Le Cafe Bleu's owner, Veronique, was a French artist in psychedelic garb.  Her hand could be seen in the cafe's charming details...

Delicious aromas of couscous wafted from behind gauzy curtains.  The food did not disappoint.

Later, much later, they had drinks on Le Cafe Bleu's roof terrace.  They were told that they were the cafe's first customers -- the cafe was said to have opened only hours before.

After they left that night, they couldn't help wondering if Le Cafe Bleu was real.....or just a blue mirage on the outskirts of the Sahara desert.

Hmmm....you decide....

Le Cafe Bleu

Hay Draa Zagora

+212-24-848496 Ver-O-Rev@hotmail.com
Menus starting at only $10

Zagora: and a desert tale

Did they ever make it to the Sahara desert, you wonder?  Oh ye of little faith, of course they did.  There were a few detours along the way. (Aren't there always?)  But in the end, there was sand in their hair, sand in their pockets, and shhhh...... sand in their underwear.

But let's back up and start at the beginning.... 

A man in blue wearing a turban (yes, a real turban) who spoke  none of the 8 languages that they collectively spoke, motioned to the group that they were to follow him.  They did as they were told -- they were very polite.

They stopped for victuals of dubious quality along the way and met a genuine nomad (the fake kind just wouldn't do). His purple turban was divine and he wore the most remarkable footwear. Wouldn't you agree?

Frankly, their own footwear paled in comparison. 

They drove and drove and drove.  And then they stopped.  They had arrived in the Sahara desert.  There were real tents.  Well, sort of,  anyway.

Their Czech friend with a multi- sylabic name decided to dress like a desert bedouin.  She looked most charming.   

They unpacked and made themselves at home in the Sahara desert.  There was no electricity or running water.  (Well, of course there wasn't.  What kind of wussy desert dwellers did you think they were, anyway?)  It was soon time to conquer the dunes. The blogging girl peered at the path before her.  Oh my, very high.

Mothers slathered sunburn protection on now-bedouin children, and they all set off with enthusiasm.

They climbed up and up, huffing and puffing but pretending they were all in frightfully good shape.  Then they ran down and down, making loud, foolish whooping sounds, limbs flailing. 

Just before the sun set, they uncorked and made a toast:  To the Sahara desert!  they cried.   clink, clink.

Then they lay back on the most comfortable pillows.  Sand was everywhere.

....and all was right with the universe somewhere in the Sahara desert. 

Riad Zamane: and where to stay in Zagora

After many hours on the road South, they found themselves in a town that rhymed enchantingly with aurora.  Yes, they were in Zagora.  Moroccan men in blue turbans and Moroccan women in black sequined shawls, strolled up and down the streets.  It was dusty and it was gritty but it was just right, too. 

The group of them -- three Americans, two Italians, one Belgian, one Brit, one Czech, and one Moroccan, as well as a motley crew of children of mixed origins -- checked into Riad Zamane.  A strange and special place, Riad Zamane was a bohemian respite nestled into Zagora's palm grove oasis. 

The walls were etched with mysterious symbols....

Bungalows were hidden among the luxurious plantings.

And nomadic sleeping tents could be found behind blue doors....

Maharajas had been there before them....

They sat outside and  told  secrets to traveling companions...

They had tea with visiting grandfathers on couches made from vintage Berber blankets.  (The blogging girl had a collection of such blankets for sale for modern bohemians worldwide....)

They savored a lamb and fig dinner in a brightly fringed Bedouin tent with arched windows.

They admired the perfect little Moroccan handmade rugs here and there.....

At night their path was lit by candles and Moroccan lanterns......

The next day, a man in blue led them away to the dunes of the Sahara desert.  But that's another tale.... for another time.....

Riad Lamane Amezrou, Zagora, Morocco riadlamane@menara.ma www.riadlamane.com

The Sahara Desert: and let the dunes begin....

The six-year old girl's card to her grandfather was simple and straight to the point:

Dear Grandpa Joel,
I feel happy you are coming to Marrakech.  We are going to go into the Sahara desert!  We are going to ride real camels! We are going to sleep in real tents!  We are going to have fun!

xxoo,
Skylar

See you back here on Sunday.  I anticipate tales of runaway camels and runaway sunburn.    oh dear

Image by Dan Laskowski.

The Kasbah rocks Boracay

Many years ago........ the girl went on a difficult six-month assignment to a place that was sad.  She worked for hours each day in a dark room that had only one small window.  Even though she was fighting for justice  (on behalf of people who had so very little), she suffered from loneliness. 

At the end of her assignment, she was sent to the Philippines to conduct a training.  She got off the plane and gulped the sunshine greedily.  After her work was done she left for an island where all the longitudes and latitudes were just right; she left for Boracay. 

On Boracay, she swung in hammocks, swam in the ocean, and swilled lemonade.  She took long naps, she read fat books, and she ate big meals.  Everything was almost perfect but she was alone.  With her toes dug in the white sand, and her arms wrapped around her knees, she watched as couples walked by her, hand in hand, in love.  She swore that one day, she would come back to paradise with someone who would hold her hand, admire her dress, and laugh at her jokes. 

If she went again, she would spend her days at Boracay's Kasbah.   

She would lounge on the colorful loungers.   She would go for dips in the clear blue sea with her family.........

They would take breaks in Kasbah's hip interior, comfy on the prettiest leather poufs....

And enjoy refreshing glasses of fresh mint tea from silvered Moroccan teapots....

When dinner rolled around, they would savor Moroccan tagines....

The darling proprietress was quite the cook, using spices bought in Marrakech with the blogging girl.   

At night they would tell funny stories and laugh by lantern light.

Yes, this time, this time, everything really would be perfect.....

Kasbah, Boat Station One, White Beach,  (next to Discovery Shores) Boracay island, the Philippines

***************

Rabat: and the hidden pleasures of Riad Oudaya

Oh Rabat.  My first Moroccan home, my first Moroccan love.  That leafy coastal city that is Morocco's capital.  What memories I have of my time in Rabat. 

Now I travel to Rabat for work and stay in a hotel.  How very odd.  But a little less odd because I have found a delightful little place to stay.  In a home.  I mean in a hotel.  I mean in both.  Because I have found Riad Oudaya. 

Tucked in the heart of Rabat's medina, down a little alleyway.  So very discreet.  So very charming.  Just 2 suites and just 2 rooms.  Isn't that darling? 

Why as soon as I walked through the front door, I knew that this place was like no other.  Because, you see, the entry is bubble gum pink and sunny yellow.  I could only surmise that this was due to a psychotic break or a really good sense of humor. 

I was greeted by a vision in violet. How very kind and lovely she was.

Oh pinch me - is it true? I have been upgraded to a suite! I have two rooms and my very own hallway in between. Oh lucky, lucky me!

And my very own Alison in Wonderland fireplace! (pssst, 4 of the 5 rooms at Peacock Pavilions have their own fireplace. Just in case you were wondering....) Courtyard breakfasts on handpainted Moroccan dishes. And what sweet little treasures here and there. Perhaps I should sell these antique incense holders in my little shop.....?

And the rooftop terrace with its fresh white walls!

What a lovely little respite it all was.

Just one last click of the camera.........

Riad Oudaya: 46 rue Sidi Fateh Rabat Maroc Fax : + 33 (0) 546 413 217 Phone : + 212 37 70 23 92 Email : reservations@riadrabat.com

Rooms starting at $120

Casablanca: A guesthouse story of Jnane Sherazade

Hmmm...there are some issues with this Moroccan boutique hotel in Casablanca ....The huge arrangements of fake flowers (oh why, oh why?) must go.  The fountain in the entryway with no water must have a drink.  The entire reception space must check into an interior design clinic for a facelift.  The heavy, old fashioned draperies must be retired.  The velvet and velour pillows and coverings everywhere (oh, gulp, those bedspreads) must be put away for all but a few cold months a year.  The scattered tchotchkas must be put in a box and given to Aunt Fatiha. (They would go perfectly with her doilies.) The $5 paper shades on the antique lamps must....well you get my drift.

But Jnane Sherazade, a little luxury Casablanca guesthouse has its lovely secrets, too. 

The march of white pots up the front stairs.

The leafy lure of the Moroccan garden.

The gracious hand tiled terrace.

The glamorous marble floors.

The dramatic inlaid feature in the salon.

The elegant staircase.

The Harlequin-like velvet bread basket (Can't you just see this in white linen with black piping?)

The theatrical dining room. 

The fanciful crystal chandeliers.

The fun and feminine table settings.

The chic, beckoning lady.  Shhh....did I hear her say,  Oh won't you please come and stay?

*

*

*

Jnane Sherazade, 8 rue de Belgrade, Mers Sultane, Casablanca, Morocco.

Rooms start at 130 Euros/night or $180.

Essaouira, Morocco: and shopping for trinkets and treasures

Now I told you in a tale that I loved a certain blue and white Moroccan city, nestled along the  sea, called Essaouira.  However, you might not know that my fondness for Essaouira has been shared by the likes of Orson Wells and Jimi Hendrix (I like to keep eclectic company, you see).  I also neglected to tell you that Essaouira has been known as a favorite haunt for pirates.  Yes, genuine pirates.  (No need to mention that that was centuries ago -- that's clearly a minor detail.)

And so like any good pirate's cove, Essaouira is filled with treasures.  I thought you might like to see some of the booty.

Rugs to put down - after the decks have been freshly swabbed, of course.

Mysterious items from the four corners of Africa.

A place to rest your flask of rum (or whatever it is that pirates drink).

Something stylish to carry your loot away in.

It gets chilly out there sailing the seven seas.

Beads for the most bohemian of plunderers.

Lanterns so you can see properly what you are stealing.

Herbs for potions to grow fatter or thinner or, ahem, rev up your romantic prowess.

Bangles, bangles, bangles - how else do you expect to woo the ladies in every port?

*

*

*

Well, I would love to stay longer and chat, but I have places to go and people to rob. I am sure you understand.  Oh dear, where is that black eye patch when I need it?

Essaouira: and a tale of a dying summer

Our Summer in Essaouira.  It came and then it was a-snap-of-the-fingers  over.

Did we spend it as we should have?  Did we rest enough?  Did we play enough? 

The picnics - should there have been more? 

Did we skip enough stones? 

Did we collect enough shells?

Did we jump enough waves?

How can it be that there is no more?

Did we let it slip away?

Is this the way life is?  Will we blink and suddenly find ourselves old?