He will give a crown of beauty for ashes, a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair.–Isaiah 61:3
Trust your heart if the seas catch fire; live by love though the stars walk backward.—E. E. Cummings
Someday, after mastering the winds, the waves, the tides and gravity, we shall harness for God the energies of love, and then, for a second time in the history of the world, man will have discovered fire.—Pierre Teilhard de Chardin
When I met my friend, Monica, in Nashville many years ago, she invited me to her hometown, Vigo, Spain. She visited me last fall in Morocco, and I met Alessandro and her in Tarifa in March, but I saved my visit to their city for this week. I wanted to be here on June 23 for La Noche de San Juan (St. John’s Eve). This year it finally happened. As we picnicked in the sand before bonfires blazing, flames dancing to the tide’s tempo, I joined a celebration observed throughout Spain and in much of Europe and Latin America– a night to remember and release what we need to forget.
St. John’s Eve and Day June 24 commemorates the birth of John the Baptist, born six months before Jesus that first Christmas. John said he baptized Christ with water but his cousin would baptize believers with fire and the Holy Spirit. The event of water and fire coincides with Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year, which begins my favorite season—summer—a time of freedom. In Italy celebration for Saint John, patron saint of Genoa, Florence and Turin, lasts from July 21-24. Likewise, last Saturday when Monica and I met in Porto, Portugal, the city was starting what some say is the world’s biggest celebration with live music echoing through the hills surrounding the Douro River.
Moni, Ale, and Vesa, a UK student studying/living with them in Vigo
Staring into the flames and glowing embers that warmed us, I thought of fire as a symbol of passion and a means of purification. I thought of the healing powers of the sea’s salt and was warmed by old friendships and the night’s invitation to new beginnings. By tradition some jump over bonfires for good luck or swim in the ocean after midnight for cleansing, renewal, and energy. Students burn school notebooks to celebrate the end of the school year. Participants of all ages write on a slip of paper what they want to purge from their lives—something holding them back or pulling them down– and throw it on the fire. I watched as the flames turned the napkin I’d written on into black, curling crepe paper, then devoured it completely. I thought of God’s promise in Isaiah 61:3 to make beauty from ashes. He has, and He will.
Adventure, beauty, relationship…basic human desires. Spain’s Costa Brava (Wild Coast) fulfilled them all. Between Barcelona and Jimmy Buffett’s Coast of Marseilles, I snorkeled in open waters, biked through Medieval hill towns, and laughed over meals and a pottery wheel with bloggers from Canada, the US, and Europe. I’m a romantic. I’ve always loved the Middle Ages and the sea. My first fling in Spain in 2009 made me a Gaudi Girl, but I later fell in love with the country’s beaches. I also value independence, freedom. So when I received an invitation to “Discover the Medieval Coast,” a sponsored trip to familiarize travel writers with Catalonia, Spain’s autonomous community, this castle-craving pirate princess was on the boat ready to ride. Day One began with a walking tour of Lloret de Mar. I tweeted that it felt very Game of Thrones (and discovered later that the fantasy series was filmed here and so was the prequel, House of the Dragon). See links to the 5-part series on Costa Brava below.
The former fishing town with Iberian and Roman ruins was transformed by fortunes made in Spanish-ruled Cuba and was the site of the European Travel Bloggers Exchange — TBEX — held days earlier. We followed the seaside promenade to the 11th century Castle of Sant Joan, a defense against sea attacks. Though all but the tower was destroyed in 1805 by the British navy battling Spain and France, I climbed along the wall, each turn a new view of waves crashing into coves and crags below.
The natural beauty of Spain’s Wild Coast birthed free spirits, Dali, Picasso, and Gaudi. Surrounded by sea and mountains, I was energized. Inspired. And once perched at the peak, I remembered writer Madeleine L’Engle’s words about artists. The Wild Coast made me feel — more than anything — free.
Artists have always been drawn to the wild, wide elements they cannot control or understand — the sea, the mountains, fire. To be an artist means to approach the light, and that means to let go our control, to allow our whole selves to be placed with absolute faith in what which is greater than we are. —Madeleine L’Engle
Motorbikes line the oceanfront “strip” in Lloret de Mar. Lloret de Mar has oceanfront hotels and bars. It’s the largest resort town on Costa Brava.
I loved my stay at Hotel Santa Marta for its spacious grounds and secluded, private beach. Hotel Miramar and Hotel Marsol are less expensive options with beachfront balconies and easy access to restaurants in the hub of town.
Lloret de Mar Beach has a 300-meter long red sand promenade surrounded by palm trees like those in colonial Americas.
Stunning Coastal Trail
Get inspired below to do this wild walk where Medieval meets Mediterranean. A Romantic’s dream! Though the actual medieval castle in Lloret de Mar is St. Joan’s Castle, built in the 11th century, Castell d’en Plaja (below), constructed in the 1930s and 1940s, is a majestic, magical landmark.
Castell d’en Plaja in Lloret de Mar is a majestic landmark. Gorgeous waters of Lloret de MarCastell d’en Plaja in Lloret de MarCosta Brava’s longest seafront walkway has challenging areas with hills and many steps.Caves along the coast of Lloret de Mar add mystery to a walking tour.Breathtaking views are around every corner of the coastal walkway in Lloret de Mar. Lloret de Mar is a fitting film location for Game of Thrones and House of the Dragon. The coastal walkway in Lloret de Mar can be busy with tourists.The coastal walk in Lloret de Mar is challenging, but this mountaintop view is breathtaking. After reaching the summit of the coastal walk in Lloret de Mar, our tour group opted not to take the stairs down to this tiny beach in the bay.
Getting to Lloret de Mar: The closest airports are Barcelona (airport code BCN), 90km (56 miles) away and Girona-Costa Brava (airport code GRO), 30km (19 miles) away. I flew RyanAir from Marrakesh. My flight there was approximately $50/return $21, then took the Sarfa bus, which runs approximately every 30 minutes. Tickets may be purchased at the airport bus office or on the bus for around 10 Euro. See latest transportation modes and prices here.
Thank you to Catalunya, Costa Brava Pirineu de Girona, and El Consell Comarcal del Baix Empordà for an amazing stay and introduction to all Costa Brava offers! Note to readers: the opinions on this 5-Part series are all my own. This blog contains affiliate links. I recommend only travel experiences, destinations, services, accommodations, and restaurants I experienced and truly enjoyed.
“One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.”–Henry Miller
Sundays are delicious days. Finally, the work-weary can feast on time. We say of Monday, the most unpopular day of the week, we’ll “hit the ground running.” We lament that until the weekend we “won’t have time to turn around.” But today I do. And I did.
In Nashville, Sundays began on my deck under my grandmother’s quilt. In the trees I’d rest, recharge and remember. There God lifted my gaze from problems to possibilities. I’d later walk Ella, ready to face the world again with faith, love, and hope. As if she’d never seen the familiar greenway, she’d strain at the leash leading me. I’d, too, with new eyes, see panoramic beauty on our path.
In Marrakech, today began on my balcony in a handmade chair delivered on the back of a motor scooter. My feet propped on a pouf under a Moroccan wedding quilt, I was reminded in my quiet time of the same promises. But this time my chair faced a different direction.
Last August when I stepped on my new balcony, I took a quick look down the alley both ways. At one end I saw cluttered buildings and satellite-covered rooftops. On the lower end, nearer my apartment, I saw pretty palm trees, green space, and hills in the distance. I loved that view and have looked that way each time I stepped outside since.
But today, I looked the other way.
I couldn’t believe it. There they were. My favorite site in Marrakech–The Atlas Mountains–strong and beautiful, peered back at me as I stood, amazed. Though hidden behind summer heat and sand when I moved in, they must have shown themselves last winter. They had been there all along. For months I could have enjoyed them on clear days, if only I’d looked a different way.
Two years ago, my friend, Kim, gave me this Marcel Proust quote on a porcelain plaque. Neither of us knew I’d be moving to a French- speaking country: “Le véritable voyage de découverte ne consiste pas à chercher de nouveaux paysages, mais à avoir de nouveaux yeux.” Translated, it means, “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.”
A friend asked yesterday what I’ve learned most since the move. I said I realize now that understanding people and places takes time. That just when I couldn’t be happier and think I have this thing of living cross-culturally “all figured out,” a situation or person disappoints me and I feel I’ve slipped back to square one. But if I take a breath–my yoga class helps with this–release, pray, I realize I just need to step back. To wait and watch. To be patient with circumstances and others. And with myself.
Sometimes we find beauty, as I did, at the end of the street and are satisfied to stop looking for more. Contentment is good and being thankful for what we do have even better. Settling is not. Knowing the difference is hard. Sometimes we aren’t ready to see something even better–wouldn’t recognize it–even if it appeared. Others we scan the horizon in faith, in expectation for a vision for our life, a deep desire, a dream planted in our hearts long ago to be fulfilled. Today before stepping outside I was reminded though parts of the vision I have for my life tarry, to wait. What I desire may be years away or right around the corner. In the meantime, I’m thankful for my destiny and this day.
I’m still thankful for the pretty patch of green at the end of the street that continues to soothe me. The sun sets there. But I’m amazed to see today that it rises over the majestic Atlas Mountains, symbols of strength, gifts of beauty, within my vision. With patience, they revealed themselves when I looked up in a new direction. When I could see.
There are so many precious moments we take for granted or don’t appreciate until later. Then there are those that while IN the moment, we realize we are happy and THIS time we will never forget. I knew on April 3, 2015 I was in one of those moments.
Since reading Paulo Coehlo’s The Alchemist–an inspiration for my move abroad– I’ve wanted to see Andalusia–the land of the book’s hero. I always understood why Santiago wanted to see the pyramids. But after seeing the shepherd’s home with Ale and Moni (who live in Vigo, Spain and met me in Tarifa), I marvel that he ever left.
I’ve loved singing in the car with the windows down since I was a kid. We sang with our taxi driver–a warm southerner full of fun and music–who even played one song dedicated to me, a fellow Southerner. So if you are in Tarifa and need a ride to Bolonia Beach, Taxi 21, at the Tarifa Bus Station or 695 080 841 is the way to go. The fee is 25 Euro. Later in the season, a public bus will also be an option, but bet it won’t be as much fun as we had.
I had a spring fling. I fell in love. With Andalusia.
Exhausted, I’d returned to Marrakech the day before from a 12-day, 7-city European tour/ Model United Nations conference with teens. Needing a vacation from that “vacation,” in less than 24 hours I’d washed clothes, repacked, and flew Ryan Air to Spain. In an hour, I was in Seville.
I wanted to relax in the sun after the snow in Russia. I needed time alone, then time with friends, Monica, who had suggested the southernmost tip of her country, and her husband, Ale. I needed to write, drink sangria, eat grilled meat, and wear summer clothes without harassment. I needed to be in a country that celebrates Easter. I needed to feel free again.
Though the distance between Southern Spain and Morocco is merely 35 kilometers and the two cultures share Moorish roots, in many ways they are worlds apart. Those wanting to experience both can fly from Marrakesh to Seville, then take the bus or rent a car to Tarifa. (Details found here.) Or from Marrakech, they can take the train or car, then ferry across. Likewise, some travel from Tarifa to Tangier by ferry for day trips or extended stays. And for those wanting to experience a third culture, they can hop a bus or taxi to British territory, Gibraltar, just 45 kilometers down the beach from Tarifa. The bus ride from Seville began at 8 PM—just in time for creamsicle sunsets and Irish green fields and olive groves.
I arrived at the bus station from Seville near midnight and was so happy to see, as promised, Juan Jose there to drive me to the condo I’d booked. He not only showed me how the kitchen appliances worked, but the pantry and fridge which he’d stocked with coffee, bread, butter, milk, and local olive oil. He showed me the lights of Tangier from the balcony. From The Beatles to the Beat Poets, the likes of The Rolling Stones, Tennessee Williams, William Burroughs, Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg sought the city’s inspiration. But this trip, I needed distance. I was grateful to be on Spanish soil again—not only because I’d been to Barcelona, but because the country is what a friend calls “the Mothership of Hispanic culture “ which I love and feels even more like home. I fell into bed and slept deeply.
Refreshed, I wrote again while drinking coffee before green grass, sand, and sea. Though I didn’t see whales common to the area April-October, I felt another force of nature creating waves. Here winds created from air pressure where the Mediterranean meets the Atlantic range from 45-80 kilometers per hour, making this coast a kite-surfer’s paradise. (The next night I’d be blown so hard walking back to the condo from the Old Town that a new earring I bought that first afternoon would be swept from my ear and lost.)
This is the land of Don Quixote. It was too windy to ride one of the gorgeous Andalusian horses on the beach as I’d hoped, so I wandered into the Old Town, named from the Moorish invader, Tarif Ibn Malik, in the first century. Castillo de Guzman was a walled fortress where long after African rule, the Spanish and British together defended the tower from Napoleon.
Cafe Babel became my wifi/sangria spot, and the next day where I had a Texas-sized plate of local beef. (Everyone in Morocco thinks my accent is Texan, so it seemed fitting.)
Guitarists playing, people laughing, beautiful boutiques with breezy beachwear calling. By the time I left, the saleswomen at Butterfly Tarifa and Natural Chic Tarifa knew my name. And I knew a new name, too. I love MELÉ BEACH resort wear.
That Diane Lane moment in Under the Tuscan Sun when you want to just go for it.
Moni and Ale arrived on my second night in Tarifa. We caught up on the balcony over good wine, then headed to the Old Town for the Easter procession and fresh catch.
Happened upon these guys–El Pícaro, El Recio and El Viejo– whose faces tell the age of the wine. Enjoy @matsuwinesAfter arriving in Seville I noticed many men dressed like this.
During Holy Week, Semana Santa, crowds–Catholic, Protestant (like me), or neither– come to see the processions of decorated floats carrying images Mary and Jesus. In Tarifa the processions begin on two different streets but converge in the city square. In churches floats of Mary and Jesus are cared for by members of cofradías. We saw the Holy Thursday procession with Mary where black-robed “Nazarenos,” or the penitent ones, are in front of the float with a band behind. Monica said Antonio Banderas carries a float annually in Malaga (another coastal city 160 kilometers east of Tarifa.)
On our last day we headed to Bolonia Beach where we explored Roman ruins and ate on the sea. The next day we boarded different busses and hugged goodbye…till June.
On Bolonia Beach, west of Tarifa, is the Roman ruins of Baelo Claudia. Here Emperor Claudius controlled trade routes in the first century AD.
I did it. I bared all to be pampered like a princess at Royal Mansour Spa. I was bathed like a baby. And I liked it.
Marrakesh Must-dos for a Girl’s Day Out are what I call the 3 Ss — souk shopping, Jemaa el- Fnaa Square, and a scrub. By day, the largest market in Africa hops with henna and monkeys and snakes, Oh My. And by night, pop-up food stands serve with a shake (aka) belly dancers. But to really Go Moroccan, after a day of dodging noisy motorcycles, pushy peddlers, and some pungent smells, globe trotters can wash away a world of care.
For locals through the ages, public bathhouses, like those found in Turkey and Rome, are places to steam to release steam weekly. Those covered head-to-toe on the street disrobe and socialize here, but for those too shy to go public with strangers, private spas and hotels are ways to test the waters.
My first two hammams were with three friends at two different private spas. While those experiences were good, this Goldilocks found the third bed at my last close encounter—the slab of stone on which the washing takes place—to be just right. It’s not surprising that at Royal Mansour Spa, a luxurious mini medina of private riads built by the king’s decree, one will receive regal treatment. The spa is open to the public for those wanting to splurge.
Massage room
Up to a party of six can receive hammams simultaneously. I went solo, but a party it was nevertheless. Whether your fantasy is to be Jasmine preparing for Aladdin in Arabian Nights, or a mom, who after years of bathing little ones and watching the Disney version gets to rediscover her own child within, letting go under waves of water is wonderful.
First I was given a plush robe and slippers to walk from the dressing room to the entrance of the hammam across the hall. At the cold pool where the hammam begins and ends, the attendant took the robe from my shoulders and led me to a warm, king-sized slab of stone. She filled a silver bucket of water from a beautiful basin, poured it on me, and left me to stretch out and steam.
My stone bed and silver bucket
Next, she lathered me with black soap and olive oil, sabon beldi, and left me as my skin became more supple for what was to come. Slippery like a seal or mermaid, I waited, till it was time for her to scrub off my scales.
She untied a gold bag that contained an exfoliating glove or kese. She told me to turn over and sanded my back side from scalp to heels, then my front side from forehead to toes, taking layers of peeled skin till silk was exposed underneath. Next, she covered me in local Argan oil with honey from the Maroc Maroc line. On my face, she used a mix of Argan oil and powder. I was rubbed with aromatic Vallée des Roses cream, and on my hair, she used almond shampoo, then an orange masque for conditioner. More buckets of warm water.
We walked back toward the frigid pool for a final dip, but first, she instructed me to take a tepid shower with multiple nozzles. Wrapping me in the robe, she led me to the “relaxing room” where I had my own tented bed to sip mint tea served by the waiter. Or was he just a dream?
Like Scarlet O’Hara at the Wilkes’ picnic, I was encouraged to nap. Unlike her I obeyed. Outside my curtain, birds sang about the balcony. After my rest, I sat by the pool and thought about how good it felt to feel be like a little girl again. Arms raised and lowered to be dressed and undressed. Back massaged, and my hair caressed. I left smelling of oranges, roses, and almonds. And feeling pretty.
Thank you, Royal Mansour, for the invitation to tour your haven and for the hammam. Indeed, the experience was a whole new world.
I’m back in Marrakech where sidewalks in my neighborhood are crowded with tourists (Nashville, think CMA Music Festival Fan Fare). And this party is just getting started! While I was in Paris, Russia, and Prague (pics below) during Spring Break, my new city made big news. What a perfect place for a travel blog. 🙂
Congrats, Marrakech, for being voted the #1 DESTINATION IN THE WORLD! Check out TripAdvisor’s Top 25 Picks. If you have travel questions about Marrakech or places I’ve been (ones for which I’ve posted pics below), please post in a comment. From the list below, my next destination pick is Budapest. What about you? Please share YOUR next stop/ travel plans for 2015. Top 25 destinations
It’s good to be back on the blog and away in Spain. I’m writing again, finally, from my balcony in Tarifa in another Cádiz– not the one beside Kentucky lake where I grew up, but in a province of Andalusia. From here Santiago, seeker in The Alchemist, set out on his adventure. Here I’m taking a much needed break from mine.
As the fog lifts and I listen to waves roll in, I can see Morocco just across the sea. Tarifa to Tangier is a 35-minute ferry ride but tired from travel, I’m ready to finish my spring break relaxing. In the last 13 days I’ve tasted 9 cities (all but one new to me) in 7 countries…posts of all of them to come.
Today I’m simply sharing Easter in Europe…eggs, lambs, baby chicks, churches…symbols of spring and new life.
When I was a child, Easter was boiling, then painting eggs with Mama Lou. Each one became a fancy ladies’ face with tulip lips, rouged cheeks, bright eyes, and long lashes. We’d top each girl with a tiny, pink hat, place her in a wicker basket on faux grass, then pose with our pretties by Forsythia bushes, buttercups, and purple hyacinths. Easter was new dresses and patent leather shoes from J. C. Penney where Mama Sargeant worked. It was an orchid or gardenia corsage for church from Daddy. One year it was capes Mommy had tailored for my sister and me. It was always sunrise service, breakfast, then back for Sunday school and church.
With my kids in Tennessee, Easter was a visit from the bunny, egg hunts, church, and a big lunch–glazed ham with all the fixins’. We posed for pictures seated on the wicker lounger on the porch or hugged under the dogwoods and beside the snowball bush.
I miss my family this week, but I’m so thankful neither they nor I am ever alone. Easter to me isn’t just personal. It’s a person. The ultimate demonstration and celebration of love.
Mahatma Gandhi said, “A man who was completely innocent, offered himself as a sacrifice for the good of others, including his enemies, and became the ransom of the world. It was a perfect act.”
Whatever your beliefs, I wish you a week blossoming with peace, happiness, and love. And I hope you find Easter eggs–precious surprises of hope–all year long.
Pretties in Prague…
Saint Basil’s Cathedral, now a museum/UNESCO World Heritage Site, in Moscow…
Palatial palace cathedrals in St. Petersburg and Pushkin…
and buds bursting everywhere…
Sunny smiles in Vilnius, Lithuania…
And bagels with eggs and lambkin in Bratislava…
PInks and purples in Paris…
yellows and greens in Italy.
Now off to the beach to hunt seashells…and Easter eggs… in the sand.
Elegant and beautiful. Mysterious and still. Oh, Resplendent Respite.
When I accepted an invitation to visit the Royal Mansour, I didn’t realize I’d be entering a sumptuous city handmade on command. King Mohammed VI commissioned over 1000 artists from Marrakech, Fez, Meknes, and Essaouira to use the finest materials in crafting the showcase of Moroccan splendor which opened in 2010. Here guests are guided ot to rooms but to fifty-three regal riads. With one to four bedrooms, the three-story mansions boast butlers and rooftop pools.
Hidden behind the 13th-century walls of the Marrakech medina, Royal Mansour was fashioned after the medinas of all the imperial cities of Morocco with its courtyards, winding streets, and great gates. Cedar, metal, and sculptured plaster construct an entrance like the famous “Bab el Khemis” (Thursday Gate) promising happiness, wealth, and prosperity. Inside is North African, Spanish, and Portuguese traditional Moorish architecture.
Here every desire is anticipated. A white-gloved hand offers a straw on a china tray for fresh-squeezed orange juice. A plush robe is lifted from my shoulders, then hung on a hook to prepare me for the hammam. As if with a sixth sense, staff appeared when needed and discreetly disappeared to allow me to roam the riad and relax for hours in the spa.
Most impressive, they protect the privacy of their guests. Unlike some in the service industry who use VIP labels to create a place “to see and be seen,” Royal Mansour offers a hidden haven for government officials, diplomats, and celebrities. The large staff including 24-hour maid service, valets, and cleaners move surreptitiously through underground passageways so the world above is kept quiet. The goal is for guests to feel they are the only ones there unless they wish to interact in public areas, such as the restaurants under the supervision of Yannick Alléno. Last month the legendary Parisian chef won 3 stars in the 2015 Michelin Guide.
Alléno says his objective for La Grande Table Marocaine is “to give the Moroccan cuisine, already great by itself, a new dimension.” And of La Grande Table Française, under the same roof, he offers “a creative, structured, sensitive and modern cuisine. The menu was created in accordance with local raw materials using leading Moroccan products such as spider crab, Moroccan black truffles, lobster, or veal.”
You can have your own royal wedding here as well as experience many other events. Royal Mansour loves children so there are many options for parents. And resident or not on the property, you can learn at signature workshops open to the public.
I was invited to Royal Mansour three times to take Beauty Breaks for the Soul. I played Monet and studied my subject — a masterpiece —in the morning, noon, and night light while touring, lingering at La Table for breakfast with a friend, and enjoying a hammam. Each time I entered, attentive, amiable staff members welcomed me. Each time I left every sense felt energized.
Birds, fountains, basins, and breezes. Hot marble. Cold marble. Steam rooms, cool pools, and sheets.
Trees dripping olives, lemons, and pomegranates. Gardens of roses, gardenias, jasmine, and rosemary.
Follow me and experience Royal Mansour…
Another world awaits at Royal Mansour Dress by Max & Jan
Royal Mansour Entrance
La Grande Table Marocaine
La Grande Table Française
Riad 32 with one superior bedroom
Entrance courtyard to main floor
Master Bath
One big reason I moved to Marrakech was for warmth, and I don’t just mean the sunny skies. I grew up in a culture of Southern hospitality. In Nashville, like many, I take pleasure greeting friends with a hug or kiss and serving guests on fine china under my magnolia tree.
Here Moroccans greet one another with kisses on each cheek. Waiters don’t rush you from the table by bringing the check. They wait for you to ask for it because they don’t want to intrude whether you are socializing with friends or family or traveling solo. Moroccans observe tea time as do the British but with a French- flare- for- fancy as they pour the hot mint brew from silver pots into decorative glasses. Though
Thank you, Royal Mansour, for your hospitality and exotic brand of charm. Readers, as always, opinions here are my own.
At my home in Nashville, Tennessee my favorite room had no walls. On my second-story deck my kids and pets would swing and I’d grill dinner most every night. Every day started under the trees with coffee, a Quiet Time, writing until heat drove me inside. I taught three streets from my school and Friday nights Wildcats would swing by after the game. The first night my nest emptied, I cooked Italian for the salsa girls, serving sangria under the stars so I wouldn’t fall apart after delivering my son to university. From here Precious the Persian and Ella the lab mix watched squirrels play tag in the yard below and on branches above.
At my apartment in Marrackesh I have a balcony. From here I can see people, mountains, and pink sunsets. From here I can host friends. On my deck were herbs for cooking and flowers for hummingbirds. Since moving to Morocco in August, I’ve longed for green and pink, yellow and white blooms…LIFE… outside the glass doors sliding open to a balcony extending from my bedroom to living area. Finally I found a “plant guy.”
His name is Rachid and his stand is located across from the Koutoubia Mosque across from Jemma-el Fnaa. He gave deals to my friend, Jasna, and me. On Sunday he was out of some of what we wanted, but said if we came back the next day he’d have those plants and more. Monday after work he greeted us like old friends. And he had exactly what I wanted– yellow, pink and white jasmine, lavender, rosemary, mint, thyme, and geraniums. While I pointed placement, he and a coworker planted them in ceramic urns that took two men to carry. Best of all– he delivers for free. But when I showed him the address, he said through another game of charades, (the one we’d played when I chose and he priced the plants), that he didn’t know the place, so he and his driver would follow our directions.
“So you have a truck and want us to get a taxi?”
He shook his head no and motioned in a Meet- the- Parents -Robert -De -Niro- Circle- of- Trust- gesture that we were to go with them.
“With the plants? But in what? Where is your delivery truck?”
I realized it was behind me as they began loading into a cart balanced on two wheels pulled by a motorcycle. “He wants us to ride with the plants,” Jasna said. But where? I wondered since the cart was about full, and he had disappeared. “Voila,” he said, producing two plastic chairs for us to sit in and offering his hand in a your-carriage-awaits way. So, giggling, we climbed in. Knowing he had to help the driver carry the urns and we had no more room in the cart that seemed destined to dump us onto Mohammed V as we made our way to Gueliz, we asked where Rachid would sit. He jumped on the bike’s running board by the driver, balancing himself with the cart. A man steadied the cart and launched us into traffic that terrorizes tourists. Most swear they’ll never be caught dead in it…for fear they”ll be caught dead in it. A boy on a bike riding amidst the motorcycles, cars, and taxis hung onto us whether to steady us or hitch a ride I’m not sure.
(As I write this I shiver thinking about earlier tonight. Two teens on a motorcycle cut around a curve as I crossed the street. Swerving close to scare me or just being boys, they lost control and the bike skidded out from under them, then slid on its side across the street. I was one step from being taken down in the wreck. They got up, laughed, and walked it off the road. I was thankful no one was killed.)
But riding home in the back of that cardboard covered cart, all I could think was I was thankful to feel so alive. Drivers must have wondered who was laughing on a Monday night from behind all the branches and blooms.
All winter, especially when stressed, I’ve looked to the Atlas Mountains from whence cometh my strength. Surrounding Marrakesh the snowy sentinels protect my heart and mind, particularly when work gets stressful. I take my lunch and take to the hills. Literally. Staring at their beauty is a breather that calms my soul.
Seeing pictures from home of Kentucky and Tennessee buried under record snow made me want to join the fun from afar. When teaching there I prayed with my kids that Channel 4’s Snowbird (a puppet penguin) would say schools were closed. NEVER did I get the time off they’ve gotten this year.
With predictions that temps in Marrakesh would climb to the low 80s this week, we wanted to play in the snow at least once this winter while it remained. So last Saturday I went to Oukaïmeden, a ski resort 75 kilometers from Marrakesh. There was one seat left in Ismail’s van which coworkers rented for the day. Who else would we trust to drive us on possibly icy roads winding 10,500 feet up?
We left at 8 AM and by 10 were having jam, bread, and fresh squeezed OJ overlooking the slopes.
Only one of us skied this trip, using a guide, while the rest of us sledded.
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Even whiter and brighter than the snow on the bunny slopes were simultaneous smiles. And even louder than the rap Red Bull played for the ski competition was the sound of laughter.
Our Crew at lunch on the way back Photo by Laurie Neeno
We ate on this rooftop.
Location. Location. Location. So thankful I can be at the beach in 2 hours west, the mountains in 2 hours east, and back in Marrakesh by a pool for sunset.
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