I had pulled into the Marrakech train station from Casablanca the night before, and at 8 AM Ismail drove me to Supratours (located behind the trains). I had taken the bus to Essaouira (2 hours and 15 minutes west of Marrakech) and loved that beach town for its mystery and authentic Moroccan feel. This time I boarded for a 3-day weekend in Agadir (2 hours and 35 minutes southwest). Both are located on the Atlantic, but Agadir is known for being more typical of beaches in parts of the US and Europe.
The city was built by the Portuguese in the 15th century as a trade route with the Sahara. Though it was destroyed in 1960 by an earthquake that killed 18,000 people, it was rebuilt boasting a promenade and marina of yachts.
I stayed at Iberostar Founty Beach, my first ever all-inclusive. The 4-star provided all the food, drinks, private beach, sea view room and pool time I could stand. My cost for two days was 203 Euros/$227 USD. The bus charges 200 dirhams/$20 USD round trip (return tickets are purchased upon arrival) so on February 20th I was beach bound or bust.
The drive there left behind winter blues—the coldest, wettest winter Moroccans say they remember. The chill of January and most of February was healed as I passed bruised-blue mountains soothed by dollops of snow and cumulus clouds.
Sheep and goats grazed in green fields and tents were pitched in orchards. I thought of my favorite Italian comedy, Bread and Tulips, where a woman is left at a rest stop. At a crossroads–literally– she catches the next bus to Venice and starts a new life. But because I’d started a new life and six months in was enjoying it, I didn’t want to get left. I chugged my cappuccino and ate my Chocolat Pane—both about the best I’d ever had—beside the window where the bus was parked. I had no idea how long the driver had allowed us since I don’t speak Darija, Moroccan Arabic.
From the bus station I took a cab to the resort. As I walked in I dodged parents trying to steer their kids and parents through the lobby to the dining room for family lunch time.Tour busses emptied folks looking for fun—one of them a fortysomething guy who slapped a lady friend on the behind and took off running while she chased him. With its own airport Morocco’s busiest beach is where Europe comes to play. Some tourists, like the German family I met on the bus, split their time in the country between Marrakesh and Agadir.
Something about the budget, beach cocktails, buffet, and Love Boat throwback (staff does a routine daily around the pool) reminded me of Spring Break ’79. So much so that I messaged my college friend, Cissy. We’d caravanned with friends to Daytona Beach the first year by car and to Ft. Lauderdale the second by plane. In those days my diet consisted of five Girl Scout thin mints and hooch poured poolside- by- day, then an all-you-can-eat buffet in a beach bar by night. Before internet we chose the restaurant daily by checking deals on banners flying behind planes over the ocean.
Like Muscle Beach in Venice, California, in Agadir guys show off for each other on iron gym equipment–circa 1970s–scattered along the boardwalk. Between the promenade and the sea, soccer games stretch for miles.
Walking back to the hotel I thought about tourists who visit all-inclusive resorts in the Caribbean and say they liked their destinations as long as they never left the resort. I live off the resort. But on this weekend getaway, I, too, enjoyed a vacation oasis where salsa and bachata played from the pool.
I soaked in sun and beauty.
Dad, who loved the American west, was with me as the bus curved along mountain mesas to a beach in Africa. There I saw sisters—the older, like me, turning cart wheels and dancing– while the younger, like Penny, investigated something buried in the sand. Their mom, like Bev, filmed them.
While unwinding to the sound of waves, I remembered a 20th birthday spent at a beautiful marina restaurant.
I thought of vacations when my kids were small and members of Kids Club.
I saw a mom pulling her daughter close. I wished it was my arm around Taylor.
I messaged and skyped loved ones, wishing they were there, then noticed others doing the same.
I met friends for breakfast one morning at the hotel who were staying there, too. And one night other friends– one who will teach in New York City next year, another in Brazil–down the beach at an Indian restaurant.
And I did something for the first time since moving to Morocco. Something I once allowed myself to do every Sunday. As palm trees rustled, casting dappled shadows of sequin sunlight and sea reflections on my balcony, I left the door open, lay down on the cool sheets, and listened to splashing and seagulls. In the late afternoon, I stopped thinking, allowed myself to drift off, and dared to dream.
Like Tom Cruise I’d been sent on a mission. Anxiety, however, made me fancy myself more like Frodo. I was to go to Casablanca on a workday to the Russian Consulate to pick up a dozen passports/visas. I opted to take a Sam—my friend, Kate–in search of Russia and another Sam at Rick’s cafe on the Moroccan coast.
The plan is I will go in March with the Model United Nations team to competition in St. Petersburg. We will leave on my birthday. I’d filled out pages of questions—even information on my parents and ex—to get clearance. I just hoped I’d navigate the trains to Casa and back, the 8-stop tram ride in between, and, most importantly, find the Russians and fetch the documents with no problems.
At 6 AM sharp Ismail, my go-to driver for can’t- miss plane, train, and bus departures, texted: “Good Morning, Cindy. I’m downstairs.” Kate was at the station, and we boarded the train at 6:45 and found our first class compartment with four other passengers.
I’d been to Casa once when my plane first landed in Africa last August. I was picked up by a driver and the trek to Marrakesh was barren and brown–dirt cracked open all the way. I hadn’t been out of the city since winter rains turned the landscape green. On the three- hour trip last Thursday, I looked out the window on what seemed to be England‘s green, rolling hills.
The tram stop was just across the street from the station and, as on the train, we were the only non-Moroccans who boarded. Though we walked a block too far and couldn’t find our Russian destination, a nice, older couple in a new BMW, seeing we were lost in their neighborhood, offered to drive us to the front gate. In front of a single garage-sized door, the guard asked for my ID and welcomed us in.
While I packed passports in my purse, Kate gave travel tips to a Flemish couple who live in the resort area of Marrakesh. They were getting visas to visit St. Petersburg for their twentieth wedding anniversary.
Mission accomplished, we left the Russian Embassy and headed across town to the iconic Rick’s Cafe, owned by a former US Embassy diplomat, Kathy Kriger. The service and setting–we sat by “Sam’s piano” as 40s music played sipping a martini and cocktail in old-world style-were legend-worthy.
Prices for lunch range from $10-$20The Obama Family Chili was listed alongside Rick’s Special (Hamburger and Fries)
Never thought I’d pick Rick’s Special over lamb chops, but a good hamburger is now hard to find.
Glace, French for ice cream, is high on most menus.
Upstairs the cafe’s namesake plays.
We walked to the Hassan II Mosque, the largest mosque in Africa and the 7th largest in the world. It’s minaret is the world’s tallest at 210 metres–60 stories high. Below school children on field trips ran and played on the plaza, some singing soccer songs and others asking us to pose with them in “selfies.” Non-Muslims can tour in groups unlike the mosques in Marrakesh, but we had a 4:45 train to catch. Still, in just six hours in the city, we made memories–ending our adventure admiring immense Moorish architecture on a windy wall and crashing sea.
Each day for six months has been nothing but new. My only constant has been change. Even traditions–Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve—were celebrated in first-ever ways. St. Valentine’s Day 2015 I climbed with friends to a riad rooftop supported by 300-year-old walls. New chums encircled by the snowy Atlas Mountains, we sat sleeveless on a sunny summit above the Marrakech Medina. Good company, fabulous food, pure peace.
My friend, Kate, was our hostess for lunch at Riad Mur Akush which she manages. New to Morocco, too, she moved here from Melbourne. I met her and Maria, the English owner, at an InterNations mixer last fall. Kate had flown from an empty nest and we meet regularly to share stories of our second acts. This time, rather than meeting for dinner at a restaurant in our neighborhood, I asked if we could do lunch at her workplace. I love riads–traditional Moroccan houses or palaces. For privacy, rooms open to interior gardens or courtyards with flowing fountains or tiled pools. Most of the riads serve meals only to guests, so I knew friends would love to spend an afternoon in such a pretty place.
Always about beauty breaks and exploration, I added: “Maybe we could visit other riads, too?”
She loved the idea and made it happen. “We could do a Riad Crawl like the pub crawls in Australia! I’ll speak to our cook and get back with you on a menu.”
And with that, what we hope to make a new tradition began. Since she had a full house for the holiday, she said we’d start small on the roof. Later when too hot to be up there, we’d move downstairs to accommodate more.
I’ll be interviewing Kate soon on her reinvention and our meal—a fusion of Moroccan and Australian cuisine. Some left with plans to book family who visit; some to take a stay-cation there themselves. All needed Cupid’s wings because we were too full to walk home. But we had a second stop, Le Maison Arabe, the oldest and largest riad/boutique hotel in the Medina where Kate had arranged for us a tour and coffee.
We were greeted by their friendly staff, the sounds of fountains draining into the pool, the smell of cedar, and the feel of a 1940s jazz club. Some plan to try their cooking classes and others their spa which, unlike wellness centers in many riads, is open to the public.
Thanks, Kate, Riad Mur Akush, and La Maison Arabe for sharing the love on February 14th with seven newcomers to Marrakech.
Update: La Mamounia’s love affair with artists has lasted 100 years! The luxury hotel provides a Beauty Break for the Soul and is a Muse to many. Congratulations, La Mamounia, for making the Condé Nast Traveler Gold List in 2022 and Condé Nast Traveler Readers’ Choice Award in 2018 for “Best Hotel in the World.” I’ll never forget an afternoon when you gave a southern girl living in Marrakech an early spring.
Winter in Marrakesh is usually shorter and milder than in most places, but I was ready for it to be gone. I needed a Beauty Break. Badly. I’m not talking about a manicure, makeover, fancy frock, or new ‘do. I’m talking about the kind of beauty we find in creation — nature spun by God and art fashioned by man. I needed an artist date so I took a ten-minute ride to La Mamounia. I’d read about its splendor — the architecture, history, and drama — that make the luxury hotel a masterpiece. Also, La Mamounia’s love affair with artists has lasted 100 years.
As much as I love to write on weekends, I needed inspiration. Julia Cameron convinced me long ago in The Artist’s Way that in order to create something, we need “artist dates.” She says, “Creativity lies in paradox: serious art is born from serious play.” Likewise, Clive Matson said in Let the Crazy Child Write! that our best work comes from our subconscious — our inner child — and that child needs room to roam. In Tennessee, my artist dates were walks beside a lake or weekends where I’d marvel at the massive arches and stained glass of a Gothic cathedral hidden in the mountains. I’d return home refreshed and write with clarity. Poet John Keats was right: “Beauty is truth, and truth is beauty. That is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know.”
Looking up at blue and out at green is what we all need. Studies show that workplace productivity increases when employees have windows with views. Natural light and green space reduce stress and boost morale. The University of Washington lists many benefits of going green, including alleviating symptoms of Alzheimer’s, dementia, stress, and ADD. Nature breaks also enhance cognitive, imaginative, and social functions.
From the moment I entered the gates, I was energized by the warm staff, gorgeous gardens, soothing waters, and palatial design. La Mamounia quenched my thirst for spring with fountains of blessings. Everywhere you look, beauty brims here.
Hope springs eternal at La Mamounia Marrakech
La Mamounia invites guests to focus on beauty.
La Mamounia’s love affair with artists has lasted 100 years. No wonder, because the property is a portal to an exotic, creative world.
La Mamounia Marrakesh Terrace
Artists have been drawn to Morocco for its natural beauty and creative culture for centuries. For the last one hundred years, La Mamounia is where superstars have stayed … Nelson Mandela, Charlie Chaplin, Kirk Douglas, Omar Sharif, Sean Connery, Francis Ford Coppola, Martin Scorsese, Ronald and Nancy Reagan, Nicole Kidman, Kate Winslet, Tom Cruise, Gwyneth Paltrow, Jennifer Aniston, Orlando Bloom, Salma Hayek.
Until 1923, La Mamounia was the palace of Prince Moulay Mamoun, son of Sultan Sidi Mohamed Ben Abdellah, ruler of Marrakech in the 18th century. Guests are still treated like royalty and rock stars (and yes, Elton John and The Rolling Stones slept there, too).
While directing Doris Day and Jimmy Stewart in The Man Who Knew Too Much at La Mamounia, Alfred Hitchcock, the King of Thrillers, was inspired to make the movie The Birds. Judging from the way a flock of fine, feathered friends eyeballed me from orange trees while I had lunch on the terrace, I understand why.
Entrance to La Mamounia Marrakesh
La Mamounia Marrakesh Pool
La Mamounia Marrakesh Pool
La Mamounia Marrakesh Pool suites
Astronomer Galileo Galilei discovered that Earth orbits the sun and not the other way around. He also said, “Wine is sunshine held together by water.” While sipping a Chardonnay on the La Mamounia Marrakesh terrace, I saw beauty reflected in the glass and all around me. Beauty Breaks for the Soul remind us that all is right with the universe.
Alfred Hitchcock was inspired to write The Birds here.
Alfred Hitchcock’s Muse at La Mamounia
La Mamounia Pool Buffet
La Mamounia Pool Buffet
La Mamounia Pool Buffet
La Mamounia Pool Buffet
Dessert at La Mamounia Pool Buffet
Cacti and Succulent Garden La Mamounia Marrakesh
Cacti and Succulent Garden La Mamounia Marrakesh
Cacti and Succulent Garden La Mamounia Marrakesh
Orchard at La Mamounia Marrakesh
Down the Garden Path
Winston Churchill said Marrakesh was “the Paris of the Sahara” and “the most beautiful place on earth.” He loved painting at La Mamounia. Con Coughlin reported in The Telegraph, that Churchill invited President FDR to meet him there where they made history.
Art Deco Bar
1920s Art Deco Design at La Mamounia Marrakech
Plush Art Deco Seating at La Mamounia
A romantic bouquet from the gardens is fitting. La Mamounia’s love affair with artists has lasted 100 years.
Table Tennis at La Mamounia Marrakech
We are art, spun from the hand of the Creator. Made in His image, we get pleasure from creating, too. I learned at home in Tennessee that sometimes writers need to close their laptops and go find pretty. I found inspiration then in paintings hanging on the Frist Center walls, in light reflected off Old Hickory Lake, and in woods surrounding a Monteagle B and B. I now live in Marrakesh where beauty energizes me on a grand scale. No hotel I’ve seen thus far compares to this.
View of Mosque from La Mamounia Marrakech
Fountains are ubiquitous at La Mamounia Marrakech as they are in the Abrahamic religions. In Judaism, Christianity, and Islam fountains represent blessings, cleansing, abundance, and paradise.
Architectural details are gorgeous at La Mamounia Marrakech, a pillar of the artistic community.
La Mamounia’s love affair with artists includes rock stars, like Sir Elton John.
Surrounded by olive trees, lavender bushes, and mustard-colored blooms, we painted, stretched like yogis across the tent panels of the Project SOAR art area. Too cold to fan their plumes, the namesakes of Peacock Pavilions perched, watching us work to Dave Matthews with a rooster crowing as backup. Maggie requested a Lionel Ritchie encore.
Maggie O’Neill, American artist whose prolific portfolio includes designing the Washington, DC Twitter headquarters, flew in with friends from the Hill to volunteer in the grove. Meeting her was even better than I imagined. Not only because when I asked her about meeting President Obama for the first time she said he was so easy to talk to, so humble, so real, but also because she is, too. Energetic, funny, and friendly, she made our work play.
She said she had talked to the President surprisingly easily until asked to show him the portrait she’d painted of him. Then she became emotional. With tears in her eyes (which triggered tears in mine), she extended her arms to show how she had presented her work to him as an offering. All she had been able to say was, “I made this for you.”
On Sundays the girls now see our offering to them– newly painted walls of blues and greens on their sports court and walls left for them to finish in their art tent. Project SOAR is a beautiful space for beautiful girls. It’s a community of volunteers who cultivate confidence and nurture creativity through arts and sports.
Over lunch Maryam Montague, always the perfect hostess and founder of Project SOAR with her husband, Chris Redecke, shared stories of life in Marrakesh and needs for the girls and the village. The Be Girl program, a success in South America and South Africa, will roll out soon with Project SOAR chosen as pilot for Muslim countries. Health initiatives such as dental care and designs for trash pickup and a hamam for the village were discussed. If you’d like to volunteer or donate, please see how you can help here.
I left with new friends, like my painting partner, designer Adrienne Chinn, visiting from London. As her Twitter page reads, “Life isn’t about finding yourself. It’s about creating yourself.” And bringing together creative people who care.
Frazzled, frustrated, fearful in Fes. I left not a fan.
To be fair, the seven- hour bus ride on CTM with no bathroom break began the trip badly. At 10 AM as Monica and I tried to board behind other passengers allowed on the coach at the station, we were yelled at angrily and herded back into the lobby. As we showed the glaring employee our tickets he shut the glass door in our faces. Ten minutes later another man opened another door and we were allowed to file out with others. Was the first guy’s treatment of us because we were the only two on the bus from outside the country? Because we were the only two women? Because he was rude, tired, or angry? No idea.
At dusk we rolled into Fes exhausted. Monica had come for a fall break visit, and we’d just returned to my apartment the night before from a 3-day camel campout far south in the Sahara desert. Thankful for her company, I was glad we’d booked a big week. Outside our bus window we saw a mob of people running frenetically to cluster in a circle around something, someone in the middle. Was this the start of protesting the US Embassy warned us about via email while we were en route—a strike we were told could become violent? The email cautioning Americans to stay inside appeared on my phone a couple of hours from our destination. Hoping it was an an over-precaution, I contacted a friend who teaches in the city. She said her school told them to stay home and stay in. Too late for that. I messaged a coworker who was on an overnight train headed to Tangier to be careful.
By the time we arrived by taxi at the world’s largest Medina–a medieval maze dating back to the 9th century–it was too dark not to negotiate a deal with a boy who offered to guide us to our riad. With over a thousand streets and a population of 250,000 within the ancient city walls, we appreciated the young man grabbing our backpacks, throwing them into his cart, and taking off so fast we had to rush to keep up. Another man appeared, walking alongside the one we’d hired. We assumed they knew each other. He chatted at us as if our old friend. By October I’d already learned to ignore young men who give “helpful” suggestions you never asked for. Some follow foreigners even after being told their services are not needed. Unsolicited, they’ve told me I’m going the wrong way—and though they are sometimes right—a word of thanks leads to a demand for money. We’d struck a deal and typically that made us off limits to another guide asking for pay. Still, I didn’t talk to Guy Number 2 because I was too tired, a little suspicious, and experiencing the first symptoms of culture shock that would hit full force in this city.
I wondered why the fountains at the bus station had no water.
The alleyways smelled of sewage and animals live and dead. Cats clawed at garbage flung everywhere. Peering at me in the dark was either a Kafka-sized cockroach or scarab beetle that had migrated north from The Mummy set. Though I was thankful for the absence of motorbikes that threaten to run over my foot or mow me down with one mistimed step in the Marrakesh souks, donkey carts were more prevalent here—always depressing as I feel powerless while many drivers hit their animals with thick sticks. The stench of the tanneries— raw and pungent unlike a leather coat or couch smell– assaulted every alley.
Doors were open and from inside dark, narrow thresholds, solemn male faces and those of their horses and mules stared at us as strange creatures. Children’s cries came from upstairs windows. Scaffolding—wooden boards—held up leaning, stone walls, obstructing light and making sunny days dark. Groups of boys ran wild—no parents in sight, the older ones looking for business. A little guy, about six, smacked me on the behind and laughed as I passed. This was a male town. Over the next 24 hours I’d see younger boys with dads but never a girl and rarely a woman in sight.
When we finally stopped at our destination my imagination was in high gear, transporting us back in time. We used the iron knocker on the heavy wooden door and I waited for some mysterious, shrouded figure to open it, then give us some secret sign to enter. Thankfully, a smiling, professional, thirty-something man—Mohammed—opened the door and welcomed us in. Monica walked inside. I had no change, so I handed the boy we’d hired a 200- Dirham- bill and asked if he had any. The other guy grabbed the money, saying it was his portion. I’d reached my limit—furious from exhaustion and the repeat of a couple of bad experiences I’d had early last fall. I said we had no deal and that money was for the other guy—the one who had actually done the work.
The interloper took off down the alley, saying something about getting change. Monica came out asking why I’d given the guy cash. I hadn’t heard her say she was getting smaller bills. We wondered if he’d return. He did and insisted again he keep the money for his “services.” He was hostile and I’d had it. We paid the guy we hired, and the manager and Monica took over with Con Guy. I stumbled into our new place.
Moving to a new continent has taught me a lot. Mostly about myself and some of it not pretty. Navigating my first two months as an expat– some bouts of sadness over what I left behind and daily over-stimulation from first-ever situations– left me drained. I needed a break but in Fes felt placed on even higher alert. A baby in a new world, I was undone by hunger and fatigue and, in the words of my friend, Kim, ‘I wanted to fling myself on the ground and cry.”
Before I’d left Nashville, my friend, Dana, who was packing for Taiwan tried to give me preventive medicine. Having taught in Casablanca she gave me a list of comfort food to take from home that I wouldn’t find in Morocco. When my bags filled fast with a year’s worth of clothes, I dismissed her advice because when I’d previously traveled I’d loved eating the local cuisine. Tagines, grilled meat, and couscous was my future.Two months in, I longed for anything but. I didn’t realize the food here is bland for someone who loves spice. Tagines are pot roast, and grilled meat can be tough. On the Sahara trek only Moroccan food was served. The week before we’d had mostly the same. I knew from traveling one has to be flexible, but by fall break I’d learned living in a culture is very different from traveling through it.
Billed as a metropolitan city of 1 million, Fes had food reviews promising an international hub for delicious and diverse dishes. After the desert, food here would be dessert. Let the vacation begin! We’d planned to eat out; but after the drama of getting to our riad and getting rid of Con Guy, we were ready to stay in. The manager offered us dinner there. We asked about the strike.
“I’ll know by 10 AM tomorrow if it’s safe for you to go out. If not, you’ll need to stay here.”
Fearing our own episode of Big Brother meets Survivor, I asked, “If we can’t leave, what will we eat?” A carnivore with a gnawing stomach, I’d noticed the tagine on the stove he’d offered for dinner smelled good. Lamb or beef and a glass of wine would stop my hunger shakes and calm my nerves.
“We’ll find something. As soon as our other guests–a couple from Germany arrive, we’ll have dinner.”
“Ok, thanks. That sounds good.”
The tagine is vegetarian.” I need protein, my belly cried.
“And we don’t have wine in the medina.”
Meltdown.
I put off this post for months because I realize I should have been thankful for any food given that many people here don’t have anythingto eat. Having read Night I realize I’ve never been truly hungry in my life. But when baser urges took over, as we say in the south, I acted ugly.
I also hadn’t heeded Dana’s advice to stay rested. Recently I was talking with my friend, Sherry, an expat in Ecuador. She said it’s funny how much our way of doing things seems hard-wired within us–as if it’s in our DNA. Sometimes we naturally default rather than reset. Famished and frustrated, I reacted from my flesh rather than the Spirit. Assumptions about what a vacation should look like, smell like, feel like, sound like, and especially taste like set me up for disappointment I didn’t handle well.
It’s a fact of life. Sometimes what we expect is not what we get.
But by grace, we always get better.
Once I let go of what I thought I wanted and just went with what was, gifts appeared.
The riad was beautiful, and Frank Sinatra was crooning. Another guest, a young man from Australia, entertained us with travel stories. When the other guests arrived, we sat down to a delicious meal and, Voila, a bottle of wine, which the manager ordered appeared.
The conversation over dinner was one of the most interesting I’ve had since moving to Morocco. The couple that joined us was from Germany and the best treasure we found in that Imperial City. With Klaus, a vet, and Monika, a teacher,we discussed with Mohammed our children, education, travel, life. We learned that Islamic men are still allowed four wives if they can support them—another jolt of culture shock as I thought that practice was no longer observed and wondered how wives feel about that. He assured us, smiling, that he finds one is more than enough. We met her the next day—pretty and expecting their first child.
Though the protest closed most shops, it was deemed safe enough to go out. After a delicious breakfast with the best fresh-squeezed OJ I’d ever had, the four of us set out in the sunshine together. We strolled through the UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Oraganization) World Heritage Site, capital of Morocco until 1925, and still- religious center, finding the beautiful palace and gardens. We stopped for tea. Klaus and Monika deflected harassment though one boy did tell us the restaurant we’d chosen for dinner was closed, lead us to another one, then wait outside for payment. When we left the riad the next day we exchanged contact info. They talked with Monica about staying with her in Vigo and gave me an invitation to visit them anytime in Eichenzell which connects to train routes throughout Germany.
Photo by Monika
Photo by Klaus
Photo by Klaus
With more time, we might have discovered the new city and found it lovely, and in the medina, wandered into rich riads and enjoyed them. But on this stop Monica and me found it wasn’t so much about what we saw as who we saw it with. With darkness lifted by the new friends, we set out for the blue skies of Chefchaouen.
She and other creatives are flying in to decorate welcoming spaces at Peacock Pavilions and the non-profit’s new Dourar Ladaam village center. There girls and their moms will take classes in health, sports, and yoga. Also coming in 2015 is a Big Sis program and a Be Girl pads launch. Learn more about how you can help.
DC-based fine artist Maggie O’Neill paints works inspired by fashion, travel, and music. She also specializes in interesting Washington places and folks from Uncle Sam to Honest Abe, Teddy Roosevelt to President Obama. Partnering again with Maggie are the girls of Gypsy Mint, a Minnesota-based company donating stencils for the weeklong mission. Committed to giving back and eco-friendly best practices, painters and designers, Alicia Danzig, Kelly Fee, and Peg Malanaphy worked with O’Neill at Project SOAR in December 2013. You can be a part of ongoing support provided by Maggie O’Neill Fine Art and Gypsy Mint.
Showing girls how to discover their own passions means also modeling pursuits of our own. I’m thankful that since moving to Africa to do a couple of things I love– teach and travel–other passion paths have aligned. Writing, serving, finding community, even painting again. For all of us, taking the road less traveled does make all the difference.
Today marked the first hike of a new group and I’m so glad I joined. It was the maiden voyage of the Marrakech Trekkers—almost literally— given the rain -swollen river that gushed across the road we needed to cross. On the other side were mountain villages we’d hike around and through, lookouts over green valleys and the snow covered Atlas Mountains. Even before we reached the rushing creek bed we’d encountered another obstacle on our course. The Marrakech Marathon had closed so many roads that finding a way out of the city was daunting. After trying many alternative routes and back- alley shortcuts through neighborhoods I’d never seen, Shane, our fearless driver and human compass, found a way and we were headed southeast of town. An hour later at our destination, locals on tractors cautioned against trying to cross the river by car. As little girls gathered to watch, we searched for a stone path that would keep us dry–something Synnove and I preferred. There wasn’t one. We considered hitching a ride across by mule, but the owner laughed and walked on. When a passenger van appeared, we planned to ask if we could jump in. But since the van had two mules in the back, we decided to go by car another way.
We found a shady grove, parked the car and headed upward. The path snaked between bluffs on the left and fields on the right. In the middle of green sat workers drinking tea. A man chopping trees gave us directions as we went higher, passing women cutting vines with scythes and tying the firewood on their backs. A mother and her daughter smiled and said, “Bonjour Madame” as we emerged from a stone tunnel and continued following the creek bed. A grandmother sat watching her sheep graze as the wind rustled tall grass; another later joked with Shane in Arabic.
I hadn’t hiked steep hills since last summer, hadn’t teetered on narrow trails along cliffs since Ecuador, hadn’t been offered tea in Berber homes…ever.
Shane and the men and boys in each stone village talked and laughed and welcomed us with a handshake.
Women nodded and smiled. Children stopped their play and followed us–one jumping from a tree, some calling “Bonjour,” all giggling. One girl around six carried a baby brother swaddled on her back. Another girl of fourteen had a baby strapped behind her, too. Her own.
As we drove home we passed cyclers–motorbikes carrying a child, dad, and mom. Almond trees were already blooming this first month of a new year. I was thankful again for the kindness of strangers. Those who welcomed us into their villages. And those finding community in Marrakech. I look forward to more journeys with new friends–those who couldn’t make it today and others as the group grows. But today, I loved that a man born in Spain, a woman born in Norway, and a girl born in Kentucky all enjoyed this Sunday under the Moroccan sun.
Les Jardins de Bala, my favorite lunch spot in town, is perched atop the 5-star hotel, Les Jardins de La Koutoubia, located in the front of Marrakech’s Medina. Sun lovers can eat the best Indian food I’ve found while overlooking the pool, the Koutoubia Mosque, and the Atlas Mountains. Around the corner are tables in the shade with comfy leather couches overlooking the ground floor pool. In the terrace gardens birds sing on boughs where bougainvillea and lemons bob in the wind.
The staff is amazing, friendly and accommodating, making every visit a pleasure. I love that they serve my usual request, Chicken Tikka Masala, from their dinner menu no matter the time of day. For those needing a break from souk shopping or jumping Jamaa el Fna Square, follow the doorman outside the hotel who’ll escort you up the elevator to a hidden haven. If local and unable to do lunch during the work week, drop by to toast the sunset.
My first time here was last month with my children visiting for the holidays. It’s now “our place.”
My colleague and photographer friend, Rabi’a Laurie Neeno
Jasna and me Photo Credit: Rabi’a Laurie Neeno
Photo by Rabi’a Laurie Neeno
Photo by Rabi’a Laurie Neeno
A good day in the souks Photo by Rabi’a Laurie Neeno
A House Special for that Sunset Toast. Cuantro, Mailbu Rum & Bombay Gin Photo Credit: Rabi’a Laurie Neeno
Thank you to Kate, an Australian expat mom I met through InterNations who moved to Marrakech last fall, too. Her son visited and returned home before my children came, and she set up lunch for last Sunday before I left for London knowing I’d need a friend after the holidays who understands the joy of sharing this life with family, then sadly saying goodbye again. To all moms who spent quality time during the holidays with your children–adult ones who live elsewhere and little ones you could stay in pjs with you till noon, is there any gift greater?
January 1 as my daughter and son disappeared through Heathrow’s security gate I felt the ground I’d gained shake.
Before meeting them in London, I’d left school for winter break thrilled that I was almost there…Christmas Eve…when I’d hug Taylor and Cole at the airport. I also felt peace because I was there–my first big marker since moving– as students hugged bye and called across campus, “Have a nice holiday, Miss!” A coworker reminded me that our dance class would resume in January, and I looked forward to working with Model UN students in the spring, then traveling with them to St. Petersburg, Russia. I was excited for a colleague who had been hired by a school in Brazil next fall and wondered if I’d apply for South America or Europe one day. I’d met her and two other new friends for lunch at our favorite restaurant, and we all celebrated soon seeing family and friends in Italy, Austria, the US, and England.
Despite fall’s challenges, fears, tears, I’d made new relationships on amazing adventures, discovering beauty without and strength within. I realized I’d survived my first continent teaching/living on a new continent, and In 2015, I thought, I will thrive.
Spending Christmas and New Year’s Eve with Taylor and Cole in London and bringing them to Marrakesh were some of the happiest days of my life. Taylor said it was her favorite vacation we three have spent together. Cole loved his first trip abroad, and we all said we could not have had more fun.
On the plane to meet them I’d read a travel article called “How to Escape Your Family for the Holidays.” I was so glad I’d be traveling with mine. Seeing the two loves of my life–who are my home–and spending nine days with them was an even bigger blessing than I anticipated while planning our reunion for months. Knowing how short this life is, I am forever grateful for that time.
Even if the low that followed when they left was hard, the high of being together again was worth it. Even more… the bond that remains.
January 1st–too soon– we again hugged at the airport. I didn’t think I’d be able to let go. I ached and tears flowed as I boarded a bus for Gatwick, waited there till my flight, then prayed I’d sleep on the plane so I wouldn’t feel the physical pain.
When I’d moved to Morocco I used all the packing and planning to postpone the full impact of saying goodbye to them–the hardest part of this decision. My daughter, unable to handle an airport farewell, hugged and kissed me on a hot, August night in my sister’s driveway the night before my flight. As she drove away crying, I walked behind the house and fell on my knees from the hurt. My son, who tried to keep things light, hugged me and smiled the next morning at the airport. I cried but wouldn’t allow myself to feel the full impact. I was determined to grieve later– away. And I did. The sadness at times in early fall was so terrible only God, who I knew had brought me here and Skype calls from my mom; sister, Penny; and best friend, Kim, kept me from depression. I thought I’d paid the pain price for this life change then in full. I was wrong.
But this time my recovery came faster. Penny reminded me that when we all live under the same roof we don’t always make or value the quality time. She said this move has been life changing. Our time together now is more intentional, and we recognize it as precious. She reminded me the holidays always have to end, when we all return to school and work. My mom, like Penny and her family who I missed seeing at Christmas for the first time in our lives but who has always wanted to see me happy, reminded me that I have a “traveling soul” and this opportunity is who I am and what I’ve wanted for a long time. January 2nd I began work on a project that kept me busy till I returned to school January 6. Seeing students and colleagues was nice.
Again I remember that even if I still lived in Nashville, Taylor and Cole would not be living with me on Jenry Court. As families do after Christmas together, we go back to the “real world” to begin a new year. But what we experienced was REAL. The sweetest thing in life is relationship. Being together body and soul 24/7–no phones and computers (other than to check in briefly with family and friends in the US) — for over a week made us even closer.
First day in the Medina and rooftop sunset
School Visit
Rooftop lunch at Chez Joel
Thankfully the Taj Palace reopened; it is now the Sahara Palace.
Through Taylor’s Eyes
After initial culture shock, Taylor wrote this: “Marrakech has brought so much peace to my life. This has truly been a life changing experience! Today we heard the call to prayer for the first time. I saw the oldest mosque in the city with snow capped mountains in the distance. Now I know why my mom fell in love with this place. This adventure has been my favorite one yet! Marrakech has captured my heart!” Last night on Skype she said she feels so much better about my safety. That everyone she met here was so nice to us. That Morocco was not what she expected.
After the cold of London, both of them loved the warm weather and snow-capped mountains in the distance. Cole said when he first stepped out on my balcony the city looked and felt like Florida.
Though we’ve always been together in spirit, having them physically here has meant more than I expected. I can share stories now they better understand. Now when I go to the souks or grocery, I remember them there. When I eat at our Indian restaurant, on Chez Joel’s rooftop, or hear Casanova’s piano man, I remember them there.
When I watch a movie or see Queen Elizabeth dance in my apartment, I remember them here–and Cole hiding his Bluetooth speaker and Dancing Queen with a note for me to find when they were gone. A surprise gift that made me laugh and cry.
We laughed a lot. We appreciate each other more. For the privilege of being the mother of two amazing human beings, I am forever grateful.
Before I left Nashville and told Kim how hard it was to leave, she reminded me of a quote by Winnie the Pooh, a favorite friend who lived stuffed in my son’s room when he was little. It’s true. I am.
Never miss a post: travel inspiration, destination itineraries, tips, trends, and tales from the road here. Be the first to hear about online and destination travel writing retreats and workshops.
I met friends for breakfast one morning at the hotel who were staying there, too. And one night other friends– one who will teach in New York City next year, another in Brazil–down the beach at an Indian restaurant.
And I did something for the first time since moving to Morocco. Something I once allowed myself to do every Sunday. As palm trees rustled, casting dappled shadows of sequin sunlight and sea reflections on my balcony, I left the door open, lay down on the cool sheets, and listened to splashing and seagulls. In the late afternoon, I stopped thinking, allowed myself to drift off, and dared to dream.
