from Marrakech: darting and swaying

Throw back the shutters, see the sun playing with puffy clouds.

Eat a hearty breakfast of oatmeal and yogurt and set out.

You need stamina. Not so much for the long walks, but to move with haste to avoid the scooters. One honk, that’s all the warning you get. I push us out of harm’s way, right into the waiting vendors who seize the moment and beg you to buy. German? French? Fish and chips? (The latter must be a short cut for British.) Best price!





At first, the endless market, snaking in all directions, far far grander in size than the market of Istanbul, seemed nothing more than a blur of rich color. Yes, there are the Moroccan slippers and leather goods and silver platters. The cloths, the spices, the old tea pots. Now, though, I’m seeing favorites. Not just slippers, but lemon slippers with pointed toes. I focus on those. I don’t buy them, but I like to pick them out each time I pass a slipper store. Look! There is another, even nicer version of my lemon slippers!

We are strolling and admiring and avoiding scooters and saying endless no’s to the hopeful sellers and this continues for a long long time, except this time we have a destination. Not many historically significant buildings are open to non-Muslims here. Not the mosques, or places of religious meaning. But one is and it is a gem: the Mendersa Ben Youssef. An old building (16th century), with all the detail and curved entryways and tile work we have come to associate with Moorish and North African art and architecture.





It was once a religious school and there are cells where scholars worked and it all gives you pause about the demands of scholarship in the past.

The Mendersa was nearly empty, or at least very quiet and in Marrakech I have come to expect this: chaos outside and tranquility within.





Did I say chaos? In wandering back, we stumbled on a food market, where buyers were picking out the best mint leaves and melons and potatoes. I’m sort of a student of fresh air food markets. I visit quite a number of them and I like most of them and I have never found two that were alike. This one had goods spread on low crates and on the ground and so buyers stooped low to pick what they wanted.









And what stands out? One child so beautifully curved over the arch of his mother’s back as she reached for food.





And just at the edge of the market, the clay pots that I have come to appreciate at each dinner in Morocco.





Rest. We need a riad moment on the roof. Chaos followed by rest followed by more chaos. So goes the pattern of each day.

Our riad hosts bring us cheeses and salads and refreshing beverages and afterwards, invite us to sample an apple cake and mint tea, the drink of choice in Morocco.





That’s good enough. The sky is still a mix of clouds and sun, the afternoon melts seamlessly into early evening. We set out again. We are looking for the Jewish neighborhood and we never find it. The chaos of the alleys and shops is nothing compared to the chaos out on the streets and at one point I tell my daughter that I cannot endanger her life anymore, so we head back. This was the nontourist Marrakech, where children dart between speeding vehicles and old men and women sell small quantities of insignificant things to no one. It is an achingly poor Marrakech. Robust and crowded, but straining.

It’s not many times that I turn back and give in, but this time, it was inevitable. We did pass the crumbling walls of the palace where indeed, as described in literature on the city, storks nest and look at the world from their strategic vantage points and assess it all.





And now it is evening and in the vast Medina square, cooks and vendors are just beginning to set up their nocturnal operations. Food stalls crop up and smoke rises as cooks dish out grilled meats from animals whose heads are positioned there for you to admire.









At the side, snake charmers play their flutes and story tellers tell their tales and I haven’t many coins again so I keep the camera at bay. Most of the time.





And now it is night. Monday night. Many restaurants close today, but our riad hosts suggest one which will welcome us, just down the alley. I accept the reservation but am curious about this place and since it is nearby, I suggest that we take a peek. Maybe study the menu some?

We can’t find it. Alley boys are eager to help. Anything for a coin and I am willing to part with my last one but I know they wont find it either because it is one of those Marrakech things – it is secret.

We ask at the riad hosts how to get to the mystery place and they tell us to go out on the end of the alley and look for a man with a yellow robe and red hat. He will lead us to it.

And sure enough, there is a man and he is dressed just so and he escorts us this way and that until we come to a wooden door.

Suddenly, we are inside a room with many candles and the tables are low again and the cushions are in abundance and we notice that the building has no roof, or at least has only half a roof so that it is half courtyard too. At the side, a musician sings the continuous song of Morocco, swaying to the moan and warble of his own voice, while somewhere in the dim light a beautiful woman, leans against the wall and thinks her own remote thoughts. A mystical scene of deep rich colors, a canvas, a sensual moment of music and spices.





Our own server tells us that the cook cooks what he pleases and what’s fresh that day and we should come to expect a wonderful meal. Dishes come, one after another and we don’t know whether there will be another or how many are still in the making. Vegetable plates and tajine pots of chicken and lamb and more aromatic vegetables and spiced stewed peaches at the end.





The candles burn down and I am in danger of drifting off to the music of the Moroccan singer and so we lift ourselves from the soft cushions and our yellow cloaked man leads us back to the riad where the wooden door is opened for us and shut behind us and I tumble into the huge bed and drift off.

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.