Marrakech (Part 4): The Souks

The souks of Marrakech were a feast for the senses and a shoppers delight.  Leather, iron and tin work, silks, and textiles all worked by hand.  Artisians worked their craft and sold their goods in little shops no bigger than a US style walk-in closet.  These men were wonderfully talented and the craftmanship was at times exceptional.

I did get an sense of how hard a life these men live.  They work with toxic and caustic materials which leave them in an early grave.  Master tailors frequently go blind due to the years of strain on their eyes working elaborate embroidery. 

Each work of art produced by these hard working men had elements of joy and tragedy.

Tin  Smith

Wool yarn hanging to dry



The boiling cauldren and wood burning furnace for coloring yarn



Dyes

 A wholesale leather market.  These men are bidding on tanned hides.

These photos were all taken in the souk surrounding the Medersa Ben Youssef, or in English, The Koran School.  Our guide said there were 3,500 artisian shops in this souk alone.  The winding dark alleys went on for miles.  It was the one place in the city I wish we had spent more time.

Marrakech (Part 3): The Wet Market

We were shocked and fascinated by this Moroccan food market.  Set in a small covered alley, each food stall offered something unique, sometimes something living waiting for slaughter!  There is no clean and tidy separation between the source of the food and the shopper here.

But as I thought about it, this market was completely Green:  no energy wasted on refrigeration or lighting, no plastic trash for disposal, and no carbon emmisions from long transport distances, this food most likely arrived by donkey cart.   It was food for thought.

Potpourri Stall

Very Fresh Chicken - Prepared while you wait

There were a great number of cats, I think related to the great number of butchers.

I don't know how they keep their meat from spoiling, but they must

It was an eye opening experience for me, raised in the US, land of sterile grocery stores. I wonder how much meat I would eat each week if I had to pick out the animal for slaughter.  I think much less.  It was the kind of experience you only get from travel.

Marrakech (Part 2): The Call to Prayer

I could not sleep.

Although dawn was not far off, the darkness was almost complete in this medieval city.  The stars littered the sky outside my rooftop bedroom, calling to me. A slice of moon hung over the horizon so clear I thought I might touch it.

I wrapped myself in the thick blanket from my bed and climbed the stairs to the roof.

In my early rising, I disturbed Ishmael, the sweet tempered servant of my Riad. Unknown to me, he had been guarding my room by sleeping on the roof wearing only his coat for warmth. We startled one another.

Safely ensconced in a chair and wrapped in my quilt against the early morning chill, I watched the crystal clear stars glitter above me.

As the sun started to warm the colors of the night sky over the distant Atlas Mountains, the call to prayer began. Far away, the voice called in Arabic the ancient words, calling us, calling us, to follow the one true path. Soon there were more voices calling. For a full half an hour, the calls continued both near and far, swirling around me, filling the void of the night, reminding me to follow to the one true path.

As the calls to prayer ended another sound rose up from the streets, a humming, almost the sound of a bee hive, of ten thousand voices at prayer. In this place, the faithful begin each day reciting their sacred words, facing their holy city, each attempting to follow his one true path.

I wrapped the quilt closer around me, grateful for its warmth. The glow to the Eastern sky brought the colors of pink, purple and gold, driving back the night, extinguishing the stars one by one.

Ishmael brought me coffee.

I savored every precious drop.

Marrakech (Part 1): dJemma el Fna at Dusk

Last weekend eight friends and I went on a journey in search of something completely different.  We found ourselves in Marrakech and emersed ourselves in the culture and color of Morocco.

dJemma el Fna is a magical place.  The main square of Marrakech is a feast for the senses:  smells of animals and steaming dishes of lamb, the color of spice stalls, music from street performers, and dapples of light from lantern shops.  The experience was overwhelming and wonderful.  Here are a few of our photos from our visit there at dusk...






Exotic food stalls fill the Square at night.   Here the cuisine is snails.



Roasted Sheep Heads with a side of Sweet Breads

This woman was selling Ostrich Eggs along with medicinal herbs and oils



A man in the traditional dress of a "water carrier"

Snake Charmers and Story Tellers fill the square





Lamp Shop on the edge of the square

Our eyes were opened to a whole new culture during our visit to el Fna.  The exotic foods, the crush of the crowds, the narrative of the story tellers, the music of the snake charmer calling his cobra from a basket all combined to give us a brief look into another world.  We were both shocked and touched by what we experienced. 

This is the first in a four part series on Marrakech.  I hope you enjoy!

The Christmas Market in Aachen, Germany

 I spent yesterday in Aachen, Germany enjoying the Christmas Market there.   Here are a few images of my visit.

Hand cranked Street Organ.  Don't be fooled by his big smile,
this guy was working hard.

The window displays here were so beautiful,
I had to include a few.

Lekker!

Fresh Roasted Chestnuts!  Despite their lovely aroma,
I've learned they are the one food I can't stand.

In this ancient city, this modern fountain added some whimsey.



Detail of fountain



Hand blown Christmas Ornaments

Candy Shop

These Springerle molds remind me of my Grandfather and his
rock hard anise Christmas cookies

The patterns haven't changed much in the last 200 years.

Aachen Cathedral - Contruction of inner octagonal
church completed in 800 AD.



The Throne of Charlemange



Ossuary of Charlemange

Hope you enjoyed the photos.  Aachen was just amazing.  I'm looking forward to going back sometime soon with the whole family!







A Return to Eastern Europe

Athens, July 1990

Twenty years ago (how could it be that long?), I was lucky enough to backpack a bit of Europe with my three cousins. I was 20 at the time. I'm the dorky one on the far left with the caterpillar eyebrows.

Since we had almost no money, we spent most of our time touring in Eastern Europe where life was cheap. Armed with our Eurail Pass, we slept on trains at night, sitting straight up in a compartment full of strangers. We would time our arrival for the opening of the tourist information offices, the banks to change money, and the embassies to arrange the visa for our next day’s destination. We stored our backpacks in the central station lockers and ate from street vendors. Each morning we would read through our travel bible, the “Let’s Go Europe”, deciding on destinations for the day focusing first on the places without entrance fees.



The night train to Belgrade

 I traveled Europe for less than $30.00 a day.

After 21 days, I had changed. I had lost 10 pounds. Dinar, Drachmas, and Forints jingled in my pocket. I had seen the inside of many beautiful churches, and the outside of many famous museums and music halls. I had met gypsies, communists, Aussies and Kiwis, and cute boys from Eton. I had traveled so far by train I was convinced I surely should have fallen off the edge of the earth.

And I swore that I would never travel Europe again on so little money.

Prague, 2010

This past weekend, my husband and I celebrated 15 years of marriage by traveling to Prague. Our one hour flight defied the 1000 killometer journey beneath us. And there we were, in a Golden City full of towers and castles and medieval bridges. We ate in fine restaurants and slept in a soft bed. We entered each castle and museum never giving more than a moment’s thought to the cost, (ok except the Jewish Cemetery which was wildly expensive. I hope they put the entrance fees to a good cause).



Old Jewish Cemetery

 I have everything (within reason) that I’ve ever wanted. I have the most amazing of husbands and three beautiful and healthy kids. I’m living this crazy expat life where ladies of leisure get together at coffee to discuss their travel plans, their maids, and their tennis game.



Still, crossing the medieval Charles Bridge with the seething mass of tourists, I saw backpackers. The real ones, carrying their world on their back like turtles. The whole of their adventure was before them.  They were off to see the inside of churches and the outside of expensive museums. They would soak in the architecture and look in shop windows.  And that night they would stare at the schedule board in the Central Train Station and decide where to go next. They will meet everyone: gypsies and communists, Aussies and Kiwis, thieves and saints.

And for that moment, I was jealous.

"Livin' Movida Loca" by Guest Blogger Amy Abroad

“Jalouse?” I heard Tina ask the bouncer.

I shifted in my new boots, the boots I bought in a fog of ecstasy when I realized they zipped up over my calves.

“Jalouse?” she asked again.

The bouncer said something else.

“Straight down this way?” Tina pointed. “Jalouse. Jalouse. Jalouse.” She said it over and over, like a mantra.

Thank God for Tina, I thought. She can talk to anybody. She’ll figure out what we should do. After all, it was Heather’s 40th birthday, and we’d traveled all the way from Amsterdam to London to celebrate. And here we were, all five of us, ready to par-TAY.

“Jalouse,” she said when she came up to us a moment later. “Like jealous? I don’t know.” She shrugged.

Jalouse was another nightclub, a short walk away. The club we were standing outside of was called Movida. According to one review I read online later, it’s the “most significant and exquisite club venue” in London and “has played host to the world’s rich and famous.”

We didn’t know what to do. Stand in line and hope the bouncer thinks one of us is sufficiently attractive to let through the velvet rope? Or give Jalouse a try?

I took a long look at the line of 30 people waiting to get into Movida.

I say 30 people in the broadest possible sense. Because 12-year-olds aren’t people… not yet.

I knew that those kids had to be at least 21 in order to see and be seen at Movida, but I couldn’t get my head around it. They couldn’t be 21! Not those gangly toddler girls that look like they’ve been drawn where they stand by Edward Gorey.

“Slips of things,” my grandmother might have called them.

They wore tiny hip-hugging sheath skirts and huge strappy sandals that looked like they’d sunk their feet into cement blocks instead of shoes. Their pupils peeped jadedly out from ovals of smeary black eye liner, and their bare legs went up, up, up to their shoulders.

These girls were jaded, I tell you. Jaded—at the age of 12.

Why our concierge had thought to put us on the “guest list” at Movida I can’t fathom. And little did I know at the time, but being on the “guest list” doesn’t mean the bouncer checks your name off on his little clipboard, winks at you, and watches your ass as you sashay in. No. It apparently means that you may, if you so desire, stand in line behind 30 prepubescent stick figures and pray that the bouncer takes pity on you and your friends, who have 14 children among you.

My first thought: Doesn’t he know who I am? I’m the jet-setting, worldly-wise expatriate housewife and lady of leisure who just dropped $365 at the Bobbi Brown counter at Harrod’s. Without a sting of buyer’s remorse! I mean, come on! I’m not some wanna be; I’ve arrived!

My second thought: Oh, God, when did I get so old? And so un-pretty? I mean, Brown fraternity brothers used to pick my picture out of the pig book and invite me to their parties. But, then again, that was 1989. And here I was, three children and too many chocolate chip cookies later, and the standard of beauty was little girls who look like little boys who like to wear little skirts.

The competition outside Movida was prodigious.

So we headed toward Jalouse and thought philosophically about ageism and the prejudice of the pretty people and how there are cliques that still don’t want you as a member—even now, more than 20 years after you wore that mortarboard.

But when we got to Jalouse, we discovered that the Gorey girls had followed us there, too. Apparently, London was infested.

There would be no drinking apple martinis and rocking out to Dexy’s Midnight Runners tonight. We hopped a cab. Back to our hotel. Back to our PJs and ponytail holders. Back to “Troy.” And while Eric Bana and Brad Pitt didn’t make us feel any better, they didn’t make us feel any worse, either.

Written by my friend and fellow blogger Amy Abroad