My Marrakesh

Marrakesh: and a tale of an end and a new beginning

Dear friends,

We grow older and things change.  And so it is with this little blog.  My Marrakesh has moved homes!  Please find me here in my new, swanky digs!

I promise that you'll continue to find memorable little tales,  life at Peacock Pavilions, #tribalchic finds, and travels to farflung places.  And of course, lots of beautiful images. 

Yes, the good stuff that all of us modern nomads like to see:-)

And please do subscribe on my new SquareSpace site to receive My Marrakesh once or twice a week in your inbox.  

Just a little inspiration from me to you. Yes?

 

 xo,

Maryam

in an olive grove in Marrakesh

Marrakesh: and a tale of M.Montague {or an almost new me}

It’s my birthday this week and perhaps it was then so many days ago when it all started.  The day I was born in Egypt, in Cairo, in a hospital near the Nile.  I was born to parents who weren’t Egyptian but who were travelers and adventurers and do-gooders.  And Egypt seemed as good a place as any other to settle down. 

We moved from Egypt to Tunisia, spending our summers in Iran.  We eventually would wind up in New York with a container filled with my parents’ strange loot from all the places that they had been. 

Our home didn’t look like the homes of any of the neighbors.  And my parents didn’t look like the parents of any of the other children.  My father worked in Africa and persisted in wearing a khaki safari suit regardless of where he was.  Meanwhile, my mother breezed about in caftans – her dark hair and brows a marked contrast to the blond soccer moms. 

In my house, there were ethnic foods and ethnic friends and endless talks of programs to reduce poverty in far flung places. 

That’s the way I grew up.  And perhaps, really, nothing has much changed. 

As an adult, I hit the road and moved and then moved again.  From Washington to Senegal , from Bangladesh to Nepal , and from Namibia to Morocco.  And it was here in Marrakesh that I settled down, as much a nomad can, and built Peacock Pavilions in an olive grove – my very own bohemian enclave filled with my own curious loot.  I started this blog to chronicle my small tales, and I opened my shop to showcase my tribal treasures.  And because that wasn’t enough, I founded Project Soar – a social experiment in doing good.  I was my parent’s daughter after all and I had married a man as crazy as I was. 

It’s all grown organically, without rationale or a plan- everything scattered here and there on the web.  But now….now a little order.  My new site, M. Montague, that houses everything in one spot – my blog, my hotel, my shop, my nonprofit.  A place for all the things that I am up to -- my fascinations, my travels, my obsessions, my products.  A place for modern nomads everywhere. 

Come visit.

Marrakesh: and a tale of hope for you and me

When she was a kitten, my cat Bizou did not know how to meow.  She would try to meow -- she’d open her tiny fanged mouth to try but nothing would come out.  One, two, three months went by but Bizou still didn't meow.  One weekend, my daughter, Skylar -- who was seven at the time-- announced that she was opening Meow School.  True to her word, she sat cross legged on the ground and placed the cat in front of her.  With a serious look in her eye, she said sternly, Bizou, I am going to meow and then you are going to copy me. Ready? Meow, Meow.  Okay you try now.  The small cat looked slightly bewildered but adoring as she was of her adopted human mother, she occasionally seemed to attempt to respond.  Nothing came out.  She was mute.

My husband and I found Meow School hilarious, especially Skylar’s teaching techniques.  But I also worried that Skylar would be disappointed because obviously, there was no way that the cat could possibly learn how to meow that way.  I tried to encourage Skylar not to waste her time but she remained undeterred.  Meow School continued unabated. 

One day, Skylar rushed in and announced triumphantly, She did it!  She meowed!  Sure enough, when Skylar meowed at her, the cat meowed back.  Now it didn’t sound like a proper meow – more like a strangled yowl.  But this was a huge leap forward.  In the coming days Bizou’s technique improved.  She became louder and louder until she was the loudest meower we had ever heard.

Perhaps Meow School offers a lesson for all of us, something besides just meowing.  Perhaps it’s about all the things that we thought were not possible but actually are.  All the things that we thought we couldn’t do but we actually can. 

I think I might need to enroll in Meow School immediately.  On my list of impossible-but-perhaps-now-possible things to learn includes:

• Graphic design
• Drawing
• Photography lighting
• Photoshop
• Eye makeup (ahem, cough)

What’s on your Meow School list? I want to know.

Images at Peacock Pavilions.

Anywhere: and a tale of friendships and vampires

It’s been a tricky few years for friendships.  I recently made a new and very special friend.  She looked at me, a weary look in her eyes, and said, “Be wary of the vampires.  You know, the ones who drink your blood and leave you with nothing.”  

Oh yes, I know.  I know about those. 

Over the last several years, I’ve made the hard decision to cut out a vampire or two {or three} from my life.  It didn’t involve pointed wooden stakes but it was painful.  I liked and in one case loved blood sucking creatures.  But I had to love myself more.  

Friendship is a tricky thing.  But basic rules apply.  Lying, sneaking around, breaking promises, backstabbing – they are not on the list.   

Oh why am I telling you this?  You already know.  Right?  

I want new friends.  But I’m watchful of that telltale white luster just beyond the skin’s surface.  The kind that’s not so beautiful when you get up close....  

PS Would love your thoughts or advice on this subject, if you have a moment.