My Marrakesh

Marrakech: and Thomas Cook City Spots Guidebook

Eeek!  She had had a book published! 

Oh my, that pseudo-Moroccan girl clearly was prone to exaggeration.  She most definitely had not had a book published.  But she had updated a guidebook on Marrakech:  Thomas Cook City Spots, to be exact.  She was told it was on the book stands on this very day.  And she assumed that her name was in tiny letters somewhere inside. 

In addition to oodles of phone and address confirmations, highlights of the guide book updating process included: 

* Testing home made ice creams in ice cream parlors.  Demanding second tastes just to make absolutely sure of quality.  Putting only her most favorite in the guidebook.

* Loitering in gorgeous riad guesthouses, pretending to be a potential guest, meanwhile stealthily taking undercover notes

* Spending ridiculous sums of money while updating the shopping section.  Rationalizing the purchase of approximately 63 pairs of Moroccan sequined leather slippers.  Sigh.

* Sneakily slipping in a few of her own photos.  (shhh....don't tell the publishers!)

* Observing whether the snake charmers on Jemma el-Fnaa square were truly able to charm the snakes or whether the snakes had a skeptical look in their eyes.

Needless to say, it was arduous, and it was harrowing, and the blogging girl barely made it out alive.  But it was all for the good of her beloved new homeland. (Isn't this when the national anthem is supposed to start playing in the background?)

Marrakech: and a Saturday stuffing

It was one of those days in Marrakech - sunny and breezy.  Just the right sort of day to have a little lunch party in the garden.  So the blogging girl and her family invited four couples and a flock of  six children to spend the afternoon with them.

Naturally, six-year old Skylar decided to dress as Snow White.  She thought it would be enchanting to sprinkle tiny flowers on the tables.  Her prince charming -- a small blond boy named Finn -- was to be among the guests.

Roses from the garden were set in vintage Moroccan footed bowls.

And a handprinted tablecloth in pink and red was brought out of the linens closet.

The children had the open air  Berber tent to themselves.  They sat on cushions on a sequined Moroccan kilim and whispered secrets at a low table made from a huge vintage Moroccan aluminum tray.

Lunch was leisurely:  spicy briouwates (a Moroccan dumpling) with tomato and coriander dipping sauce, roasted mashed potatoes with rosemary, 6 sorts of barbequed sausages, saffron chicken and vegetable brochettes, green beans in olive oil, and arugala and lemon salad. 

And of course, there was tea and desert, served with idle chatter and laughter.

Before they knew it, it was nearly 6:00.  Children's sweaters were buttoned for the  journey home and suddenly everyone was spirited away.... 

... until another Saturday that is....

PS I have fixed my blog subscription service!  If you type your email address in the space provided in the left side of my blog, you'll find Marrakech in your email box on a regular basis:)

Peacock Pavilions: and an entirely real conversation

They looked to be taking a nap. 

She tapped each on the shoulder.   "Excuse me," she said.  "Sorry to bother you," she said ( in a voice that showed that she wasn't terribly sorry at all). 

They gazed up at her from their slumber.  They had heard that tone of voice before.

"We need to talk.  You see, we seem to be behind schedule, far behind schedule," she said briskly, her finger tapping the clipboard.  "I need to ask for your full cooperation in getting things back on track. " 

Her eyes unwavering, she continued: "Now all things considered, I believe I have been rather patient.  But frankly, my patience is wearing thin.  I don't know how to put this politely, but I am going to have to ask you to speed it along.  Yes, to hurry it up.  I hope I am making myself quite clear."

The two bedroom pavilion, which had a tendency to be insolent, retorted in a phony British accent, "No need to get your knickers in a tangle.  We're doing the best we can. "  And then he yawned. 

The girl flushed.  It was precisely this kind of attitude that worried her.  With her hand gesturing vigorously she replied, "Well, I'm afraid your best simply isn't good enough.  While your outsides are done, your insides remain in a state of disarray.  The plasterwork needs to be finished and the painting must commence this week.  Yes, this week.   And as for the pool tiles.....very disappointing.  They need to be identified and installed immediately."   

"No more excuses please."  And with that, she turned on her heel and walked away.  The 3 bedroom pavilion called after her shrilly,  A stitch in time saves nine!  Good things come to those who wait!

But the blogging girl didn't even bother to turn around.

 

Peacock Pavilions: and the flowerless quest for a landscaper

You had heard about her landscaping woes already but unfortunately the botanical hand wringing continued unabated.  Imagine Peacock Pavilions nestled in among olive trees and scorched earth.  Oh dear.  The blogging girl had to, had to, find a landscaper.  It was urgent.  She placed all her bets on the annual garden show, Jardin d'Art, taking place in Marrakech.

When attending the show, six-year old Skylar suggested that they dress up as flowers in order to attract landscapers.

When the flower get ups didn't work, she tried drawing attention to herself by wearing a fantastical garden hat and murmuring the names of plants under her breath while milling through the crowd.....  But everyone just ignored her.

The blogging girl then tried questioning a particularly attractive plant (surely, surely, she would know a landscaper) .... but the plant just flung a long flowered tress over her shoulder and answered melodramatically:  a garden without a landscaper is like the night sky without the moon.... 

She then tried starting up conversations with complete strangers (who might just be landscapers) in the garden show's charming cafes.... but people just thought she was odd and moved away.

She even asked the fellow behind the beautiful tiled counter if he wouldn't happen to be training as a landscaper, would he? (Kind of like Hollywood where all the waiters are really actors).....  He replied no, but said he was an expert chicken sandwich maker in case she needed one of those.

All seemed lost.  So the blogging girl went home and wept into her lone cactus (who put up with this sort of appalling watery behavior on a regular basis).

That night she dreamt that she was peering through an intricate garden gate behind which grew potted rows of night jasmine, and acres of lemon and fig trees.  She rattled the gate  but it was locked.  She then tried calling out, Helloooooooo......Is there anyone home...? But all she heard was the sound of her own voice echoing faintly over the vast terrain.

Marrakech: and shopping addict?

You see, she had a shopping problem.  Any day now she would come back home to find her husband, her closest friends and her extended family sitting in the living room with Dr.  Phil.  They would be waiting for her, feet tapping expectantly.......Isn't that the way shopping interventions worked?  The kind where drastic measures were foisted upon you, where they cut up all your credit cards, where they put you on a budget of $42.50 a month, including magazines?

It didn't help matters that she took clients on personal shopping trips to the Marrakech souks, that she shopped for others in addition to herself.  You see, she lived in a state of perpetual anticipation.....of the next purchase.  She was sure that there were medications for people like her.

Here's a little of what she had bought just recently:

Vintage handmade Moroccan tassels in happy colors used to strap bags on to horses or camels.  The ones with pompoms had been used to hold in place women's skirts in the Atlas mountains.  She imagined them tying back white or ecru linen. 

A Moroccan vintage embroidered velvet caftan and vintage hand sewn brocade and velvet platform shoes.  Baby, let's disco...

Heavy bronze tribal jewelery and turquoise mosque-shaped ink pots.  She liked pairing them with modern fabrics and treasures from the garden.  So fresh.

A handmade red wool carpet covered in talismanic symbols and sequins.  Purchased for a room in Peacock Pavilions.  (Do contact her at maryam at mtds.com if you would like one of your very own.)

Old Berber sprocket bracelets against hand loomed fabrics. She had purchased the fabric for a room in Peacock Pavilions she was doing in creams, whites and blacks.

An antique silver and gold brocade saddle from a Moroccan fantasia horse rider.  She had two of these for Peacock Pavilions.

A strange little vintage handmade leather doll with a turban.  He was so darling against her tissu fleuri, wouldn't you agree?

Oh dear, and that's just the beginning.... (muffled background noise.  Yes, Dr. Phil, I promise I will try to do better.....)

PS Speaking of shopping, new stock of beautiful vintage Moroccan wedding blankets can be seen right here.

PPS Thank you darling Joni, of lovely blog, Cote de Texas, for this beautiful post.

Marrakech Royal Golf Club: and come one, come all...

Oh, the weather was fine and they decided to have a spot of lunch at Marrakech's Royal Golf club with a group of British friends.  How very exciting and la-tee-da.  There was even a crown on the sign.    

In preparing for this momentous occasion, six year-old Skylar deemed that a change of clothing was needed.  You see, she had been wearing this....

But something more elegant was required just in case royals happened to be dropping in.  Skylar did some deep curtsies and kissed her cat's paw for practice and then promptly changed into this...

Now the men in the group had all left early for the Royal Golf club to do something truly ridiculous......play 18 holes of golf.  Frankly, it made no sense at all to the blogging girl but she kept quiet like a dutiful little wife. Cough.

The  girl and her rascally brood arrived at the Royal Marrakech Golf club.  There were no royals in sight but there were golfers everywhere in silly footwear, carrying primary colored bags . 

But she had to admit it was a beautiful golf course.  It almost made her want to take up golfing.  Almost.

The others had already arrived and frosty Casablanca beers were being served. Visiting Grandpa Joel exclaimed that this was his kind of place.

It was all quite casual, including the menu.  There was a fab salad buffet and entirely acceptable mixed grill options for about $12.  And there were even options for the kiddies.  Needless to say, the parents were very pleased.

The deserts were particularly good.  The blogging girl was glad to see that the monarchy liked profiteroles with ice cream.  It was nice to know that they had something important in common.

After lunch, the children played very British rugby and then ran around like a pack of wild hyenas.

Except for the littlest one.  He was exhausted from all that golfing....

Royal Golf de Marrakech, Ancienne Route de d'Ourzazate, Tel: 024-40-98-28

Please note that anyone may go to the Royal Golf to shoot pool and cause a ruckus play golf or enjoy a meal. Membership is not required.  Those royals.......such lovely, equal opportunity manners.

Marrakech: and Ludovic's beautiful decay

He had a home in Marrakech.  He had shops in Paris.   He had design projects left and right.  He had 350 embroiderers  embroidering. (Sigh, so refined.)

His name was Ludovic (a Russian prince?) and she loved his lanterns.  She had to have one ....or perhaps two.....or perhaps more....A meeting was called for.

But eek, what if he was terribly snobby?  What if he drank his tea with his pinkie in the air?  What if  he carried a small white fluffy dog with a small white fluffy name? What if his home was oh so Architectural Digest?  In that case, he might not welcome the likes of her.....

With a friend, she set off to meet him anyway.  Nothing risked, nothing gained, she told herself firmly. 

Ludovic's Marrakech home was down an orange (orange!) passageway in the old city or medina .   

A statuesque blond answered the door.  She looked stern and spoke with a Spanish accent.  Yes,  Ludovic was expecting them...... They walked in and the blogging girl learned that she had been wrong -- wrong about Ludovic, wrong about everything. 

Ludo wore faded jeans and a red hoodie. His hair was perfectly  disheveled.  He had a droll French humor.  And his place could only be described as in a state of beautiful decay....  Ludo laughed that although he spent his days working on luxury projects, he had filled his own home with the rejects, with the riff-raff, with the flotsam and jetsam.  How charming he was.

There was a red parasol in the open courtyard. So naughty Victorian.

There was a Moroccan vintage bucket on the brightly tiled wall. 

There were mismatched pillows  on makeshift couches. 

There was a mannequin who doubled as a lamp. The girl wanted one, too.

There was a schizophrenic chandelier rigged up in the plants.  (Well, why not?)

There were surprising still life compositions.

And mysterious bags designed for shopping the souks of  Marrakech or Manhattan.

Just before leaving, Ludovic's cat whispered in the blogging girl's ear that she had been forgiven for all that fluffy white dog nonsense.  So, if she promised to be on her very best behavior, she might just be permitted to come back to spend another afternoon at Ludo's...

PS... and as for the lanterns......look for them at Peacock Pavilions......

PPS Liz and Ted, I am happy to help you with your wedding but your email is not working.  Please do write me with another email address.

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