from Marrakech: coins and clay pots

From Casablanca, we take the Marrakech express.



fellow travelers

The compartment is old, but we are given good seats – reserved for pregnant women and war ravaged veterans. I have to think there weren’t any on the train today. Or that I had eaten too many pain au chocolat in France.

So this is northern Africa! Rugged. Beautiful.











In Marrakech, we’re staying at an old riad (the El Fenn) – a house built around a small courtyard, the handful of rooms facing the quiet, green space inside.

It’s inconspicuous. The riad entrance gate has no marking. The alley leads nowhere and has only an occasional person walking home, or out again.





Inside, it is...sensual. Roses, plants, pools of water. Couches, of the type where you rest as on a bed, with woven blankets and throw pillows and mint tea brought to you if you’re in need of refreshment.



mirror images




riad room: sitting spaces


I have the usual (and still unsolved) Internet problems, and I don’t think they’ll be fixed in the five days we are here, because connecting to the outside world isn’t a priority. There are no TVs, no phones. Just roof terraces and steam rooms and birdsong. Loud, love sick birds, echoing their chirpiness within the courtyard.



In the late afternoon, we stroll through the Medina and onto the large square. Just to get a taste of things.

















And I learn a few things. When I take out my camera, people want to get a coin. I have no coins with me and it costs me some haggling to try to extricate myself from pay up requests. And it is my fault. Some of the local color is there for show and show people need bread. They don’t parade their skills, wares or clothing because they’re bored. They need to bring home coins.

In one vivid demonstration of this, in the large open space of the square, I see a very very large group, nearly all men, gathered in a circle to watch something. I make my way toward them and they let me move to the front to get a better view. I note there the presence of a rooster and a drummer. Several drummers in fact. Out comes my camera, of course. The lead drummer comes over and asks me for coins. I don’t have any. The ATM doesn’t spit out coins and no one gives small change. I explain this. He says he’ll give change. My sense of justice tells me that I should play fair and hand over a payment and so I do. And, as promised, he brings back change. I now have coins, he now has my payment – larger than anyone else’s I’m sure (the equivalent of maybe $1.50).

I see that my bill is now the subject of the story. For there is a story that is being told in Arabic and everyone is listening. I am invited to sit on a stool at the front. Money buys stool space. But the attention is not at all on me, nor my camera. It is fiercely focused on the words of the storyteller.









In French, the drummer tells me they are Berber musicians. It could be, but in the ten minutes I sit there, in that circle of mostly men, I hear no music. After a while, I retreat.

There are many small and large pieces of wisdom to be culled from this. And Marrakech is like that – you want to capture its utter beauty, you want to be part of it all, and it reminds you that you need to be savvy and sharp. Use your wits. Play by the rules. Be generous but smart.

Of course, a respite from all this is wonderful and the riad offers us just that. You’ve been out there learning? Great, now come in and unwind. On the roof, above it all.





In the evening, we eat dinner at El Fassia, owned and run solely by women. It is a beautiful space with low tables and plenty of plush pillows and we oder tajine dishes with caramelized pumpkin and tomato. The clay pots give context: these foods are earthy and aromatic and when the domes are lifted, your senses soar into high gear. I break of pieces of meat and dip couscous in the sauces and I am transported.









So ends a Marrakech day. At the riad, I close the large, ancient wooden door to our room. Shutters are latched. All is quiet.

from Casablanca: a different continent

Time wise, I am, it appears, closer to Madison. I gained two out of the seven lost to France back again.

Distance wise, I am further.

Culture wise, I am even further.

I was told not to think of Casablanca as having anything to do with the movie. Much of Casa (as it is locally called) is new, commercially inclined.

Except for the Medina – the old neighborhood, the marketplace. We walked this evening through its heart. No tourists here. Just people selling and people hurrying to get something, somewhere. Or idling, without purpose, with companionship. Cafes and bars (are they bars? I can't tell) where only men congregate. Lots of them. In the alleys, women walk in clusters, in pairs, mostly with other women. Food stalls with the extraordinarily popular jugs of yogurt. And muffins. And bowls of broth and snails. And nuts. And mint tea.

Further, at the food market, we pass carts with eggs, apricots, melons and strawberries. In bulk, Heaping. None of this parceling out in cute little boxes.

French is common but Arabic is the language out on the streets.

Later, at dinner, we eat couscous and many cookies with aromatic nuts and spices and we toast our successful crossing of the wide boulevard on the way to the Medina. The cars, old cars, all cars, do not stop for anything or anyone. The traffic lights are weak and hardly visible and why should they be? No one looks to them for guidance.

I know I am on another continent.



out the window, looking toward the Medina




the Medina and beyond -- the ocean




at the entrance




branching alleys




hurrying





lingering




selling apricots




tea? spices? lentils?

from Paris: “when one jumps out, the other jumps in…”

It’s a child’s rhyme. But so apt for this day.

Ed and I eat breakfast in Lannelis, just outside Aber Wrac'h. You know, the place of the best baguette.





We sit on the square, by the church, where the market is held Thursdays. The market where we picked up the most flavorful apple juice. No market today. Just a place to pass through. Or pause, for a pain au chocolat. Or a friendly chat with neighbors.





We pick up juice (note to commenter: Four bottles. One for the ride, two for the sheds back home and one for Ed’s cat sitter) and head east.





We break for bread and cheese. Overloooking a Brittany graveyard. We read gravestones and talk about lives cut short, family funerals, small cars. And apple juice. Life can be random. So can lunches and musings in the shadow of a village churchyard.





Continue. Eight hours of driving (note to commenter: no, it wasn’t Ducey!) until Paris.

I marvel how I can force our car into the madness of Place de la Concorde and emerge without a dent.

Paris. Too late here for much of anything. We walk to a nearby restaurant, passing the Parisian bikers. So different from the Lannelis ones! I’m wondering, do they bike much in Morocco?





We are only two hours late for an 8 pm dinner reservation, but the place is chaotic and informal and monsieur seats us anyway. It’s a French-Italian restaurant (Casa Bini). I do not want to face another plate of seafood. Here, in Paris, we seem so far from the sea…

And, it’ll have to be fraises des bois over mascarpone cream rather than crème brulee. Pink. Paris rosy pink, over Brittany blue and buttercup yellow. Or butter yellow. Or cider yellow. Oh, Brittany...





And then it is night.

…and then the early light of the next day comes through the window that overlooks the very quiet little street that Ed likes so much (I can hear footsteps outside, even in the middle of the day).

I’m about to see Ed to the gate where he will catch a flight home. (Thank you so very much for liking Brittany with me!) Minutes after, I’ll meet my daughter at another gate, where she will have arrived for a week long vacation with mom. (Hello, little one! Tell me about you, tell me about your sister…) If we’re lucky, we’ll be in time for our flight to Morocco. If we’re super lucky, our hotel in Casablanca will indeed have Internet as promised and I’ll be able to post from there.

from Brittany, France: one last

Thursday. Last full day here.

Last morning trek to Lannelis, to get a café crème and Ed’s favorite baguette. Except that the best of the best boulangeries is closed on Thursdays. Ah well, back to the second best bakery and the forever great pain au chocolat. I'm okay with that.

Last hike. This one along the northern coast of the Aber Wrac’h (the inlet; not the village). Five hours, and that’s only along the widest shoreline, near the mouth. At low tide now.









One last chance to get lost and we do. The trails are marked well, until they’re not marked at all. Instead of by the Aber, we wind up in a cabbage field. It’s an interesting detour. We pause to watch the tractor move on its own as two farmers hack at the cabbage heads and a woman stacks them in crates.





Other fields: many are sprouting new growth. Must be the second planting, no? The rows are often, well, artistic.





…And, randomly, we find art just next to a field. At first it looks like a boulder. Ed stares at it and says – it’s no boulder. It’s quite a striking human form.






The trail is empty, as usual. Oh, but wait, we do encounter one small group of hikers. Not French! This is rare! Can you guess the nationality? (A hint: he’s from the country closest to Brittany and he is studying a butterfly.)




Last search for a café, last loving look at the flowers here, at the blue shutters, blue gates, old stone houses.



















And the coast. Channel up ahead. Lighthouses. Seaweed at low tide. Did you ever pop seaweed? Ed asks. We pop it, explosively.














On the return, a brief, gentle sprinkling of rain. It was supposed to rain all day, but it didn’t. As every other day here, the weather was magnificent. Varied, surprising, but ultimately magnificent.

Aber filling in now. Twice a day in, twice a day out. It’s like having two runs around a track, two opening times of a store, two chances. Today, morning, sun pokes through, tide’s out. Afternoon, slate gray sky, slate gray waters, tide’s in. Slate. Like the roof shingles of a Brittany house.





By the bridge over the Aber, we find a restaurant that oozes charm and is packed with French men and women. We reserve a place for the evening.





At the apartment, we eat the last of the artichokes (call it a predinner aperitif). Over the sweet taste of choke and Brittany butter, I mention for one last time that we should have a summer house here. The last page of a story. Close the book. With a deep sigh.

In the village, people are gathering in and around the handful of eating places. Wine, cider, drinks of choice. Warm enough to take out to the stone wall that runs along the edge of the Aber.





At the Auberge du Pont, I have my last plate of Brittany seafood. Oysters and such. Brought in from the fishery across the street. Served on a bed of seaweed.




Our dinner trilogy is there as well: rosé, water and apple juice. In addition to having a favorite Brittany baguette, Ed now has a deep and abiding love for Brittany artisanal apple juices. Waiters can’t quite get used to his ordering a large bottle and drinking it down before the main course arrives. He has a favorite grower (I agree – this one orchard produces the most heavenly bouquet of flavors…honey sweet but with a touch of no nonsense crispness…mmmm) and tomorrow, before we leave for Paris, we’re setting out to look for it. Some people take back wine. Ed’ll take back apple juice.





A last taste of crème brulee. For now. I’ll have more in June.

And a last look at a ten-thirty evening sky, just out our window. A long and wistful look.

from Brittany, France: sales and sails

From the early minutes of the day, talk is of weather.
Sky looks good. Wind’s a little tame. I don’t know how that’ll work.
But there are boats out on the water.
Seem pretty slow to me.

I suggest we go to Lannelis (4 km south). It’s market day there and markets are an upbeat thing. Besides, Ed is smitten with one particular baguette, from the second bakery there. It’s true love. Other baguettes are mere infatuation compared to this one.

I’m sipping my café crème, nibbling at an apple pound cake, Ed is breaking off chunks of baguette and taunting me with a real estate newspaper. Sure enough, I find the perfect house for me. Modest, pretty and only1 kilometer from the sea.

Would you be surprised if in the weeks ahead I spontaneously walked in and purchased it?
Yes.
I would if I could.
And that is precisely why you can’t and you wont.

Is there a suggestion there that I tend to spend with the heart rather than with a calculator and a strategic plan in hand? Fine, I admit it. I haven’t outgrown my post war Poland skepticism with the whole idea of planning for a future. Life then was a day to day thing. That attitude stuck.

We pick up the essentials: more cheese, more strawberries, and as my special gift to Ed – a big slab of local butter.




And now it’s close to two – the afternoon opening time of the Aber Wrac’h sailing school. Ed is thrilled to see the wind kicking up. I am getting nervous. Did I mention that I don’t like to sail? In principle, it seems perfect: I love water. I love controlled speed in open spaces. I love order and clean surfaces sprayed with ocean water. But I don’t like to bounce on waves.

We’re handed the keys (so to speak) to a Dart 16 catamaran.
Long sleeve or short on the wet suits? – the school instructor asks (at the time of our outing, local children, very very young children, are having a sailing and kayaking lesson).
I don’t know…
Take the long. You’re always cold. (This from Ed.)
I look at the two wet suits. The long sleeved one looks all encompassing. Sort of like hiding in a black rubber brace. The short sleeved one looks … cute.
I’ll take the short sleeved one. Ed is grinning. My decision making process, exposed.

The instructor tells us to not go beyond a certain landmark. He’ll be out on the waters with the kiddies keeping an eye on things.

Ed tells me to leave the camera on shore.

I’m stunned. Leave the camera? I’m engaging in this death defying activity, bouncing on ocean waters for hours on end and I should not even take photos?

You don’t understand. You’ll be sitting on the hull and salt water will be coming at you from all sides. You’ll ruin your camera.
I have the small one (it’s not THAT small). I have a plastic baggie. I’ll tie it to some line or post…
But Ed is shaking his head.
If it’s calm, we can come back for it.





And so we launch the monster ship. Surrounded by little ones and their dainty little boats.

At first, it is tame.
I want my camera.
Alright, back we go. Ed is a patient person. It is one of his greatest traits.

But the going back part is tough. Ed maneuvers the boat brilliantly close to the dock and a fellow sailor catches the line.
Off you go.
I teeter on the hull. Lord, the things I do for my hobby.

Back again, camera in hand.
And here comes the sailing instructor on his motor boat.
What’s happening here? He shouts out.
My camera…
You can’t pull up like that! The boat isn’t made for docking! I thought something was wrong.
It was. I didn’t have my camera. We’re really sorry.
He shakes his head and speeds back to his class.

The little ones with their little boats are like dolphins. In and out of water, turned over, right side up again, down again, all in seconds, again and again. Ed is amazed at the cleverness of the simple design of the small boats. What a perfect boat for kids, he says again and again.










And now we’re on the Aber waters. The tide is coming in, but we’re still not at the high mark. And the wind indeed kicks in. I am drenched. My camera is hidden under my life jacket. I need a hand to keep it from being exposed. The other hand is clinging to a handle on a line.
Move your ass up over the hull! Ed shouts.
I can’t do that! I’ll fall in!
It’s that, or we capsize.

I move my ass over the hull.
And it’s all quite thrilling, in a cold, wet sort of way. Aber Wrac'h is fading into the distance.





Take my picture! I shout, thinking this sailing moment must be commemorated.
No!
Ed is busy holding a rope by his teeth, so the no comes out garbled. One hand is on the tiller, the other is jerking the jib this way and that.
And still he manages to do it. Nothing to write home about, but then, neither are the photos I took. That catamaran lacks the stability and dryness of solid land. I spend the better part of three hours protecting the camera rather than using it.

Still, there are the occasional shoreline shots. Of oyster farmers. Of children in and out of boats. Of quiet country scenes and distant lighthouses. None of them especially good, all of them quite memorable in the taking.


oyster farming




three lighthouses


We were told firmly to bring the boat back so that everyone can go home at five. We oblige. We pull the boat out and haul it to its destination.




The school instructor, appreciative of our efforts has mellowed. We’re all friends now. In the dressing room, the tiny little girls are neatly stacking clothes and wet suits, giggling at this and that. Happy – it strikes me how happy they are.

The sailing day is finished. People disperse (taking their dogs with them).





Ed and I walk home. Salt covers my arms, my face. I soak in a hot tub and think about it all. Predictably, Ed was terrific with the boat. Only one curse at a dropped line during the entire trip and some deft maneuvers between poles and buoys and little kid boats.

It’s good to have skills.

We eat at our favorite place across the road. Moules frites with garlic for Ed, buckwheat crepe for me. (Which one do you recommend? I ask the owner. I love them all! – he answers.)





The place is packed. Rapid fire French, loud laughter, men with thick whiskers, women giving a rub to their husband’s back. Fishermen? Farmers? It’s not a fancy place and these are not fancy people. But it is a buoyant place.


two favorites: local artisanal apple juice and rosé wine


The owner and the waitress are running between the tables. I see sweat on their faces. As we get up to leave, I ask Monsieur if his business (here for ten years now!) is mainly supported by the locals. No, we need the tourists that come in too. But they’re mostly Parisians, with summer homes here. Do you have any Americans here? No! He laughs at that. Oh, but your salad! The one you served us the other day? I posted a photo of it and it got so many nice emails and comments! He smiles, pleased.

From our rooms, the water takes on the deep blue colors of the night.