Tuesday, June 28 Marrakech
Our return to Marrakech has confirmed my feelings that one can never again have a first impression of a place. This time we are more relaxed, more confident….seasoned even after just one week of travel.
The heat of Marrakech hit us hard the moment we stepped off of the bus from Essaouira. Immediately we found ourselves yearning for shade but more importantly air conditioning. We stopped at the closest hotel only to find the cost of comfort beyond our purse strings. As we departed the cool lobby of the sterile hotel, we were hot and fully loaded with our backpacks. Before any semblance of a plan was constructed, a man from the hotel raced up to us on a moped. He said that he knew of a riad in the medina that would match our budget. He quickly hailed us a taxi (which cost considerably less since he hailed it) and we were zipping through the Marrakech madness to an unknown destination.
We were greeted at the riad by a kindly man who spoke a bit of English. He offered us a warm glass of mint tea…not really what I wanted on this 110 degree day, but ok. We were sold on the riad within seconds of walking into the sparse room during our brief tour… not because of the price, nor because of the very interesting bathroom that doubled as a shower. I was sold when I saw the air conditioning unit on the wall. The best part was that it was not just a fixture for show as it was in our first riad but it was blowing precious cold air. We found our home for the next 24 hours.
Just as I sat down in front of the coveted a/c unit, we heard what sounded like a parade marching down our street. Once again, we found ourselves racing out the door to find out what in the world was going on. We encountered an exuberant group of mostly women, happily singing and dancing and banging drums down the street. The smiles were beautiful and warm and they approached me to dance and join them. Why? With a few inquiries, we learned that the whole Arab world was celebrating because women had gained more rights. I nearly cried with joy. To be mixed in with such an exuberant celebration and then to learn the reason why, oh, how profound. I felt so privileged to be a part of this day.
Since we were out, we ambled our way through the streets and we found ourselves once again in the Djemaa el-Fna (a word I’ll never figure out how to pronounce). This time it seemed different. We knew not to watch the snake charmers as money would be demanded. We knew not the get suckered in by the women painting henna, we knew where to find the best fresh squeezed orange-juice and we knew where the best bread was made. Duarte could defer the hagglers in the souks by saying now in his limited Arabic…”not today, maybe tomorrow, Allah willing.” They liked that response.
Duarte did have one purchase in mind though. We had noticed some hand-made panniers being crafted in the souks. We have seen them on many a moped and bicycle during our time in Morocco and Duarte thought that this would be the treasure he would take home. Amongst all of the scarves, and leathers and metals and wooden crafts, there were four vendors fabricating panniers. It was impossible for me to imagine how they were sewing heavy duty fabrics in such heat and dust and darkness. They apparently enjoyed taking a break to talk with Duarte and I. We eventually emerged with an amazing set of panniers all for the amazing low price of $10. Every souk proprietor stopped to comment on his purchase. Duarte was giddy with pride.
And now our final day in Marrakech…. There is much to do and to experience. Layer upon layer of culture and difference, feed our curiosity. I don’t want to leave the magic and mystique of Morocco, yet I do long for my children. It’s time to go home. I will return again soon - there are many more treasures to be sought.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
Observations
Monday, June 27, 2011
Our final morning in Essaouira.
I sit here in the room looking out at the drab architecture, the dirty, run down streets. There is a cool ocean breeze passing through the room. Outside the flock of seagulls laugh and laugh. The roosters join in on the cacophony and I find myself also laughing. A comedy club with a world of laughter around us.
The most valuable pastime for us in Morocco has been sitting in open cafes, drinking mint tea and watching people. We have spent hours doing this.
Observations….
Men carry their babies and their children. Women (in most cases) appear to be happy, engaged in their families and enjoying the pleasure of an outing.
The beach scene is alive! Groups of men and boys play soccer on full length soccer fields they have drawn in the sand. These games seem to be somewhat serious yet filled with laughter and encouragement.
Soccer, gymnastics, dancing, singing, playing, swimming, running, stretching. The beach is an active place. A lively place. A happy place. It feels more free and active than our beaches do in the United States.
Without alcohol, people find other ways to enjoy time together. Mint tea is consumed by the gallon here. Beginning at breakfast and served until bed time, everyone is drinking mint tea. It is a dark tea – with a strong flavor filled with fresh mint. It is served in a tea pot filled with herbs of all sorts. When poured into small glasses, it is best to have some finesse to add a nice froth on top.
I so enjoy seeing groups of teenagers or young men happily singing and clapping as they walk down the streets. Music is in their souls and it isn’t unusual at all for a group of cool looking kids to start singing and clapping. It takes restraint not to join in, but when we have, we were welcomed with warm smiles.
Men hold hands, put their arms around each other, greet one another with kisses. Women sit in circles and talk.
Children steel french-fries from unassuming tourists’ plates.
Many people where strange, pointy yellow shoes… I just can’t figure this out. In all cases, shoes appear to be a size too small, with the heals hanging out of the back.
Cafes are for locals, restaurants are for tourists. The restaurants are nearly always empty. I can only guess that this is because the Moroccans cannot afford to eat out. Their yearly average income is less than $2000.00 per year.
Every single price is negotiable. Moroccans are extremely good at negotiating. Duarte and I are not. It is exhausting.
Arabic is the language of choice, then French, then Spanish…not English. Duarte speaks very good French. Thank Allah.
The guys selling baked goods on the beach (yum) also sell hash. Geez.
There are many people buying comforters. Why? It’s so hot here.
Animals do not appear to be very well treated in Morocco. I saw a baby donkey yesterday wondering the street all by itself. It seemed that it was off to explore the world. A few moments later it passed by us again heading home and ee-awwing nervously. I really want to take that donkey home with me but I don’t think I could get it through customs and Marrakech is not the place for a donkey! Donkey are worked hard there, with little water in the immense heat.
Oh, I could go on and on. Duarte and I watch and then talk at length about all of the many things we see around us. Trying to make sense of it all is a great part of the adventure. I wonder if we will ever travel to a place so different from any place we have ever seen or known in the future? We’ll certainly return to Morocco but the first visit to such a place is certainly the most profound visit.
We are off to Marrakech…again.
Our final morning in Essaouira.
I sit here in the room looking out at the drab architecture, the dirty, run down streets. There is a cool ocean breeze passing through the room. Outside the flock of seagulls laugh and laugh. The roosters join in on the cacophony and I find myself also laughing. A comedy club with a world of laughter around us.
The most valuable pastime for us in Morocco has been sitting in open cafes, drinking mint tea and watching people. We have spent hours doing this.
Observations….
Men carry their babies and their children. Women (in most cases) appear to be happy, engaged in their families and enjoying the pleasure of an outing.
The beach scene is alive! Groups of men and boys play soccer on full length soccer fields they have drawn in the sand. These games seem to be somewhat serious yet filled with laughter and encouragement.
Soccer, gymnastics, dancing, singing, playing, swimming, running, stretching. The beach is an active place. A lively place. A happy place. It feels more free and active than our beaches do in the United States.
Without alcohol, people find other ways to enjoy time together. Mint tea is consumed by the gallon here. Beginning at breakfast and served until bed time, everyone is drinking mint tea. It is a dark tea – with a strong flavor filled with fresh mint. It is served in a tea pot filled with herbs of all sorts. When poured into small glasses, it is best to have some finesse to add a nice froth on top.
I so enjoy seeing groups of teenagers or young men happily singing and clapping as they walk down the streets. Music is in their souls and it isn’t unusual at all for a group of cool looking kids to start singing and clapping. It takes restraint not to join in, but when we have, we were welcomed with warm smiles.
Men hold hands, put their arms around each other, greet one another with kisses. Women sit in circles and talk.
Children steel french-fries from unassuming tourists’ plates.
Many people where strange, pointy yellow shoes… I just can’t figure this out. In all cases, shoes appear to be a size too small, with the heals hanging out of the back.
Cafes are for locals, restaurants are for tourists. The restaurants are nearly always empty. I can only guess that this is because the Moroccans cannot afford to eat out. Their yearly average income is less than $2000.00 per year.
Every single price is negotiable. Moroccans are extremely good at negotiating. Duarte and I are not. It is exhausting.
Arabic is the language of choice, then French, then Spanish…not English. Duarte speaks very good French. Thank Allah.
The guys selling baked goods on the beach (yum) also sell hash. Geez.
There are many people buying comforters. Why? It’s so hot here.
Animals do not appear to be very well treated in Morocco. I saw a baby donkey yesterday wondering the street all by itself. It seemed that it was off to explore the world. A few moments later it passed by us again heading home and ee-awwing nervously. I really want to take that donkey home with me but I don’t think I could get it through customs and Marrakech is not the place for a donkey! Donkey are worked hard there, with little water in the immense heat.
Oh, I could go on and on. Duarte and I watch and then talk at length about all of the many things we see around us. Trying to make sense of it all is a great part of the adventure. I wonder if we will ever travel to a place so different from any place we have ever seen or known in the future? We’ll certainly return to Morocco but the first visit to such a place is certainly the most profound visit.
We are off to Marrakech…again.
education
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Our days in Morocco are long and full and delightful. I miss our kids terribly and long to share so much of what we are seeing with them. Though we are only 2 hours by plane from them, I feel worlds away. I attempt to reassure myself with the confidence I have in Geninha and Filinto and the great value for Marcos and Jenna to enjoy Portuguese life without their parents. Duarte and I too are noticing that there are many things we are learning about one another. The moment Marcos was born cracked open a world of parenthood and work and negotiation and ultimately less time to tend to a relationship. The hours and hours of travel with Duarte have given us hours and hours to talk, to discover the new world around us, to laugh really hard, to be quiet and to reacquaint ourselves with the older versions of who we were when we stopped doting entirely on one another. Though my heart yearns for my children, I am enjoying this gift of time.
Arriving in Essaouira after a 3-hour ride upon the smelly “Marrakech express” last Thursday, Duarte and I looked around and within minutes thought and said aloud…”I’m not so sure about this place.” Neither of us understood the appeal of a place so ugly, so windy and so vacant. We decided to give it a day and then plan our next move. We have now been here four days and we are still marveling over each new discovery. Essaouira has many hidden charms.
A tradition that Duarte and I started during our honeymoon in Greece is to buy a piece of artwork as a long lasting souvenier to capture our travel. Our quest to find the perfect painting that we both agree upon that best captures our combined experience is part of the adventure we find in traveling together. Yesterday, we found our painting deep within the medina walls. We talked with artist and fell in love with our painting and returned to our hotel room entirely satisfied with our new treasure, the price we paid, the experience of finding it and ultimately the sense of relief that our quest had been fulfilled.
With our treasure found, we decided to enjoy an afternoon on the beach since the wind had calmed a bit. As a western woman, wearing a bathing suit on the beach is a bit uncomfortable – even if it is a more conservative tankini. Arab men swarm the scantily clad women and engage in creative tactics to start up conversation. While Duarte was completely engaged in his book, I spent my time on the beach watching men harass white women.
A western woman sat down on the beach beside us. She was wearing a full length skirt and a long sleeved shirt. Because she was by herself the muslim men on the beach decided she must want some company. Their tactics were interesting but not real convincing. “Hello…Alo…Ola…Bon Jour…” attempting to discern her origin. “Can I bum a cigarette, a drink of water?” For some reason the woman obliged one man’s request and told him he could sit and smoke one cigarette with her. He worked it hard with her while he smoked his cigarette as slowly as possible. To no avail and with cigarette no more, the woman dismissed the eager man. She sat quietly taking in the scene. Man after man swooped in with a variety of tactics. Finally, the woman apparently became fed up and walked away.
I made the mistake of walking more than five feet away from Duarte to take a picture. Within the 4 minutes that I was gone, I received more compliments and assurances of my beauty than can be imagined within such a limited time. I made a note to myself after that to put my shirt and pants on before standing up.
There were many muslim women on the beach. They were up and about playing volley ball with their husbands, chasing their children, swimming in the ocean – but fully clothed. What was striking to me is that many of the men were wearing only their underwear. Really. As I mentioned before, this weekend had attracted millions to attend the international music festival. Many people, I assume, didn’t plan on swimming and thus shed their pants and wore their underwear to sunbathe, to play soccer and to swim.
Duarte and I walked away from the crowd and down the beach, beyond the camels and the horses. There we found a more peaceful Essouira. We encountered a few surfers, kite surfers, and a very joyous exuberant drum circle.
This place is amazing – so colorful – so very different from any other place I have ever been before. Our first impression of Essaouira was entirely wrong. With each hour, with each step we take, we see and learn more and more. Travel is certainly the greatest education of all.
Our days in Morocco are long and full and delightful. I miss our kids terribly and long to share so much of what we are seeing with them. Though we are only 2 hours by plane from them, I feel worlds away. I attempt to reassure myself with the confidence I have in Geninha and Filinto and the great value for Marcos and Jenna to enjoy Portuguese life without their parents. Duarte and I too are noticing that there are many things we are learning about one another. The moment Marcos was born cracked open a world of parenthood and work and negotiation and ultimately less time to tend to a relationship. The hours and hours of travel with Duarte have given us hours and hours to talk, to discover the new world around us, to laugh really hard, to be quiet and to reacquaint ourselves with the older versions of who we were when we stopped doting entirely on one another. Though my heart yearns for my children, I am enjoying this gift of time.
Arriving in Essaouira after a 3-hour ride upon the smelly “Marrakech express” last Thursday, Duarte and I looked around and within minutes thought and said aloud…”I’m not so sure about this place.” Neither of us understood the appeal of a place so ugly, so windy and so vacant. We decided to give it a day and then plan our next move. We have now been here four days and we are still marveling over each new discovery. Essaouira has many hidden charms.
A tradition that Duarte and I started during our honeymoon in Greece is to buy a piece of artwork as a long lasting souvenier to capture our travel. Our quest to find the perfect painting that we both agree upon that best captures our combined experience is part of the adventure we find in traveling together. Yesterday, we found our painting deep within the medina walls. We talked with artist and fell in love with our painting and returned to our hotel room entirely satisfied with our new treasure, the price we paid, the experience of finding it and ultimately the sense of relief that our quest had been fulfilled.
With our treasure found, we decided to enjoy an afternoon on the beach since the wind had calmed a bit. As a western woman, wearing a bathing suit on the beach is a bit uncomfortable – even if it is a more conservative tankini. Arab men swarm the scantily clad women and engage in creative tactics to start up conversation. While Duarte was completely engaged in his book, I spent my time on the beach watching men harass white women.
A western woman sat down on the beach beside us. She was wearing a full length skirt and a long sleeved shirt. Because she was by herself the muslim men on the beach decided she must want some company. Their tactics were interesting but not real convincing. “Hello…Alo…Ola…Bon Jour…” attempting to discern her origin. “Can I bum a cigarette, a drink of water?” For some reason the woman obliged one man’s request and told him he could sit and smoke one cigarette with her. He worked it hard with her while he smoked his cigarette as slowly as possible. To no avail and with cigarette no more, the woman dismissed the eager man. She sat quietly taking in the scene. Man after man swooped in with a variety of tactics. Finally, the woman apparently became fed up and walked away.
I made the mistake of walking more than five feet away from Duarte to take a picture. Within the 4 minutes that I was gone, I received more compliments and assurances of my beauty than can be imagined within such a limited time. I made a note to myself after that to put my shirt and pants on before standing up.
There were many muslim women on the beach. They were up and about playing volley ball with their husbands, chasing their children, swimming in the ocean – but fully clothed. What was striking to me is that many of the men were wearing only their underwear. Really. As I mentioned before, this weekend had attracted millions to attend the international music festival. Many people, I assume, didn’t plan on swimming and thus shed their pants and wore their underwear to sunbathe, to play soccer and to swim.
Duarte and I walked away from the crowd and down the beach, beyond the camels and the horses. There we found a more peaceful Essouira. We encountered a few surfers, kite surfers, and a very joyous exuberant drum circle.
This place is amazing – so colorful – so very different from any other place I have ever been before. Our first impression of Essaouira was entirely wrong. With each hour, with each step we take, we see and learn more and more. Travel is certainly the greatest education of all.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Enchanted
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Essaouira, Morroco
Enchanted.
We left the heat and hustle and overall madness of Marrakech in hopes of finding a seaside town with a cool ocean breeze. We had not a single idea of what to expect.
Nearly every hour…. no, to be more accurate, every hour has held the most incredible surprises. It’s impossible to fathom saying “Wow!” legitimately more than once a day. We have certainly said “Wow” more than once in a day.
A few things.
We arrived to Essaouira and learned that this weekend was the weekend of the international music festival. There are millions of people here gathered to see some of the best world music. One would expect the hotels to be full and the restaurants to be jammed. No. Our hotel is empty and it cost only $35 dollars per night. Restaurants are abundant. For the last two nights, we have been the only ones in the restaurant? Where are all of these people sleeping and eating?
The beach is alive and thriving. Muslim families are here to vacation. There are groups happily playing soccer on the beach. Mothers chase their laughing children. A happy time.
In crowds, large crowds, Duarte and I often find ourselves to be the only white people. We sense no feelings of discrimination or illwill.
Camels walk on the beach at night! Duarte chased after a Berber man and asked if we could have a ride. The kind man happily obliged. Perhaps one of the most beautiful experience of my life. We walked along the water’s edge in the moonlight, listening to the waves and enjoying the gentle cadence of our strolling camels. I rode Jimmie and Duarte rode Blanca. Wow.
We stopped for lunch unknowingly in front of a crowded mosque at noontime yesterday. As we indulged in the most delicious shwarma ever to be tasted, hundreds of men lay down their carpets to pray. The mosque was so full. We had a front seat view. Wow.
In the mornings, men and boys gather on the beach with their Arabian horses. These adroit and swift horses swim, surf waves, and sprint full gallop on the beach. Their owner relaxed and laughing and dressed only in shorts. The horses aren’t wearing saddles. I believe this is the equivalent to our passion for mountain biking. Mornings on the beach with Arabian horses. Wow!
Yesterday, we dragged ourselves back to our hotel after a long day of walking. It was around 3:00 and I was utterly spent and had it in my mind I would rest until dinner. Duarte was going to sit on the veranda and read a bit. Just as I sat down, Duarte came racing in and said (not for the first time)…”You’ve got to see this!” Well, if I had 20 guesses, I couldn’t have dreamed of what we saw… 100’s of Arabian horses on the beach. Of course, we grabbed our camera and run down to the beach for a closer look. What the heck? There we saw upon closer inspection Arabian horses fully dressed in decorated in the most beautiful…I don’t know how to describe this…. Ok, I’ll try… Have you ever ridden the carousel at Walt Disney World? If so, imagine those beautiful horses, with colorful saddles and bridles and eye covering things hopping off the carousel – walking onto an African beach and then racing. That is truly what I thought of when I saw these horses. So, all of these Bedouins (I guess) were adorned in turbans on top of their clad Arabian horses, carrying rifles. Within minutes, groups were racing up the beach at top speed in perfect alignment and then suddenly halting and shooting off loud rifles. What a thrill. We stopped only inches from where the horses were suddenly halted. We enjoyed the adrenaline rush of watching these incredible horses races at us, stop quickly and then the wildness of rifles being shot off. I ducked every time. WOW!!!!
The tastes, the flavors, the smells, the kindness of people, the beauty of a Burka, the ruggedness of the fisherman, the happiness of youth, the apparent pleasure of Muslims so enjoying the ocean, the dusty air, the setting sun, the cool nights, the prayer calls….wow, wow, wow!
I have much to share. We never stop processing and attempting to discern what’s going on around us. It is all….enchanting.
Marakech
Friday, June 24, 2011
Morocco
I’m ashamed that I ever spent any time wondering whether or not it would be wise to travel to an Islamic country. My Christmas gift from Duarte last year was 2 round trip tickets to Marrakech, Morocco. The idea of travel is always exciting, yet within seconds my thoughts went to whether or not I would actually go. As a mother of two, how could I leave my children for a week, travel to a different country, to visit what I believed to be a violent culture who despised Americans? With time and research, I eased myself into the idea of the trip and set my mind on going…yet, admittedly my concerns were vaguely lingering.
Upon arrival to Marrakech, the differences in culture seasoned my every sense. The dry, arid heat drank up all of the moisture from my body. The straight lines of every structure conveyed rigid conformity. Yet the ornate metal with the rolling designs adorning the structures hinted otherwise. The streets were utter chaos…or so it seemed. Zipping past our petit taxi, literally in every direction where ancient mopeds. Upon the mopeds were whole families. The men some of whom wore tunics, others not, had their wives on the back wearing anything from Burkas, scarves or western clothing. An infant often was tucked in between the husband and wife and perhaps an older sibling clung on behind the woman. It wasn’t uncommon to see women driving their own mopeds, often with another woman riding with her on the back. In addition to the taxis and the mopeds were horse drawn carts and donkey pulled carts and tall vans with roof racks and bicycles and of course the regular array of cars that I am more accustomed to seeing.
Our riad was tucked away within a muslim “neighborhood” far away from western hotels and deep within the medina. The narrow streets that couldn’t fit a car were quiet and mysterious to me. Women fully covered from head to toe walked with their casually dressed children through the labyrinth. Above us towered a tall minaret of the closest mosque. Frequently, there were small “stores” that were filled with the essentials…shampoos, diapers, bread, cigarettes, drinks, etc. The one attendant leaned over a counter while the customer stood outside and requested what he/she wanted to purchase.
Our taxi driver led us knowingly through the streets to a heavy wooden door. He knocked twice and the riad was opened by its caretaker. We were welcomed into the interior courtyard of the square-shaped structure. Looking up, I saw the tall courtyard was covered with a peaked canvas. The entire interior was ornate with metal and tile.
Our room was exquisite. Deep greens and reds colored the tiny room. The handmade wooden and straw furniture invited us for a sit. Intricate and elaborate carvings framed the ceiling. All of this for $65 per night.
Out we ventured through the streets of the medina. Without any sense of the people around us or what to expect…we wandered. Cautiously we looked at our map and attempted to navigate our way into the Djemmaa el-Fna – the main market place of the medina. We were unsuccessful initially and decided to sit in the first restaurant we encountered to enjoy our first tanjine of the trip. A tender stew of chicken and vegetables nourished us for the next stage of our exploration.
Asking for directions with limited French, we did get oriented to head into the main square. Aha…this was the magnificent Marrakech, westerners know about. Snake charmers, henna artists, belly dancers, story tellers, men with dancing monkeys, trained pigeons, orange juice stalls…. This and more filled the huge square. I was overwhelmed and thrilled and amazed. The energy in that place, oh, and the spicy smell, and the color and the sounds….would take so much more than words to describe.
Not wanting to be out too late, we found our way back to our Riad. I couldn’t calm my mind enough to sleep. I lay awake all night…my thoughts overflowing with the newness of all that I had observed and with eager anticipation of the next day. At 5:30am, the long and soulful prayer call being beautifully sung from the nearby mosque stirred me to give up any hope of sleep. I was ready to see and feel some more.
Morocco
I’m ashamed that I ever spent any time wondering whether or not it would be wise to travel to an Islamic country. My Christmas gift from Duarte last year was 2 round trip tickets to Marrakech, Morocco. The idea of travel is always exciting, yet within seconds my thoughts went to whether or not I would actually go. As a mother of two, how could I leave my children for a week, travel to a different country, to visit what I believed to be a violent culture who despised Americans? With time and research, I eased myself into the idea of the trip and set my mind on going…yet, admittedly my concerns were vaguely lingering.
Upon arrival to Marrakech, the differences in culture seasoned my every sense. The dry, arid heat drank up all of the moisture from my body. The straight lines of every structure conveyed rigid conformity. Yet the ornate metal with the rolling designs adorning the structures hinted otherwise. The streets were utter chaos…or so it seemed. Zipping past our petit taxi, literally in every direction where ancient mopeds. Upon the mopeds were whole families. The men some of whom wore tunics, others not, had their wives on the back wearing anything from Burkas, scarves or western clothing. An infant often was tucked in between the husband and wife and perhaps an older sibling clung on behind the woman. It wasn’t uncommon to see women driving their own mopeds, often with another woman riding with her on the back. In addition to the taxis and the mopeds were horse drawn carts and donkey pulled carts and tall vans with roof racks and bicycles and of course the regular array of cars that I am more accustomed to seeing.
Our riad was tucked away within a muslim “neighborhood” far away from western hotels and deep within the medina. The narrow streets that couldn’t fit a car were quiet and mysterious to me. Women fully covered from head to toe walked with their casually dressed children through the labyrinth. Above us towered a tall minaret of the closest mosque. Frequently, there were small “stores” that were filled with the essentials…shampoos, diapers, bread, cigarettes, drinks, etc. The one attendant leaned over a counter while the customer stood outside and requested what he/she wanted to purchase.
Our taxi driver led us knowingly through the streets to a heavy wooden door. He knocked twice and the riad was opened by its caretaker. We were welcomed into the interior courtyard of the square-shaped structure. Looking up, I saw the tall courtyard was covered with a peaked canvas. The entire interior was ornate with metal and tile.
Our room was exquisite. Deep greens and reds colored the tiny room. The handmade wooden and straw furniture invited us for a sit. Intricate and elaborate carvings framed the ceiling. All of this for $65 per night.
Out we ventured through the streets of the medina. Without any sense of the people around us or what to expect…we wandered. Cautiously we looked at our map and attempted to navigate our way into the Djemmaa el-Fna – the main market place of the medina. We were unsuccessful initially and decided to sit in the first restaurant we encountered to enjoy our first tanjine of the trip. A tender stew of chicken and vegetables nourished us for the next stage of our exploration.
Asking for directions with limited French, we did get oriented to head into the main square. Aha…this was the magnificent Marrakech, westerners know about. Snake charmers, henna artists, belly dancers, story tellers, men with dancing monkeys, trained pigeons, orange juice stalls…. This and more filled the huge square. I was overwhelmed and thrilled and amazed. The energy in that place, oh, and the spicy smell, and the color and the sounds….would take so much more than words to describe.
Not wanting to be out too late, we found our way back to our Riad. I couldn’t calm my mind enough to sleep. I lay awake all night…my thoughts overflowing with the newness of all that I had observed and with eager anticipation of the next day. At 5:30am, the long and soulful prayer call being beautifully sung from the nearby mosque stirred me to give up any hope of sleep. I was ready to see and feel some more.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Half Birthdays
A festa
We celebrate half birthdays for the kids while we are in Portugal every year since their Portuguese grandparents miss the big events in the United States. The celebration gets a bit better every year.
Geninha had the pastry chef from Quinta da Mata make the kids a castle cake. It was wonderful. A large castle shaped cake detailed with doors and garrisons and individual bricks. On top there was a Roman Soldier and a princess. This was quite a cake. It took a full day to make.
Lipe hosted this year’s party at his new condo with a huge patio behind. The party started when we all entered the building and followed a trail of balloons into the elevator and into the condo. Lipe was busily preparing a family feast in his little kitchen. We all played and danced and talked on the back patio. Soon the kids were ready to open presents. Oh my!
Each present opened was fun and special and somehow evolved into some silliness. I’m not sure if it was the wine we were drinking or if it was just the general excitement. But as each hour passed we all progressed into a rambunctious, hilarious group. There was dancing. There was posing, teasing and lots of silly memories erupted. This was especially evident when Filinto wrapped up as a gift a pair of 1980 sunglasses that Duarte once wore. …see attached photos.
Perhaps the best part of the evening was the closing dance party! Jenna danced though a bit reservedly. Marcos, however, was born with the gift of movement. Man oh man - can that kid dance! He had everyone cheering and clapping and admiring him. Great, great fun.
The kids are now 8 ½ and 5 ½. Measuring their years in increments like this reveals to me how quickly they are growing up. They are nourished in this country with love and history and an abundance of homegrown food. They are beautiful. They are so fortunate.
We celebrate half birthdays for the kids while we are in Portugal every year since their Portuguese grandparents miss the big events in the United States. The celebration gets a bit better every year.
Geninha had the pastry chef from Quinta da Mata make the kids a castle cake. It was wonderful. A large castle shaped cake detailed with doors and garrisons and individual bricks. On top there was a Roman Soldier and a princess. This was quite a cake. It took a full day to make.
Lipe hosted this year’s party at his new condo with a huge patio behind. The party started when we all entered the building and followed a trail of balloons into the elevator and into the condo. Lipe was busily preparing a family feast in his little kitchen. We all played and danced and talked on the back patio. Soon the kids were ready to open presents. Oh my!
Each present opened was fun and special and somehow evolved into some silliness. I’m not sure if it was the wine we were drinking or if it was just the general excitement. But as each hour passed we all progressed into a rambunctious, hilarious group. There was dancing. There was posing, teasing and lots of silly memories erupted. This was especially evident when Filinto wrapped up as a gift a pair of 1980 sunglasses that Duarte once wore. …see attached photos.
Perhaps the best part of the evening was the closing dance party! Jenna danced though a bit reservedly. Marcos, however, was born with the gift of movement. Man oh man - can that kid dance! He had everyone cheering and clapping and admiring him. Great, great fun.
The kids are now 8 ½ and 5 ½. Measuring their years in increments like this reveals to me how quickly they are growing up. They are nourished in this country with love and history and an abundance of homegrown food. They are beautiful. They are so fortunate.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
2 weeks to go
And now with two weeks remaining in Portugal we have found our rhythm. It takes time to adjust to this drastically different way of life and I never remember this.
I’m speaking Portuguese more comfortably and fluently than ever before. Since Duarte has been so busy with family and with work, I have taken it upon myself to get out and do some things on my own.
Yesterday I ran from Quinta da Mata to the city and then back up. On my way, I overcame two aggressively yappy ankle biting dogs; a flock of sheep, 3 sheep herding dogs and a shepherd, a man and his horse and cart working the fields, a number of old men hanging around talking with other old men who gazed at me awkwardly, a mother stork and her 3 juveniles in a tall nest above me, layers and layers of animal poop and my own tentativeness about it all. I will call that success.
Today is Wednesday. Wednesdays are the days when all forms of commerce come to town. There are hordes of gypsies selling everything from underwear, pirated movies and cheap plastic toys, to wallets, sporting goods and electronics. The local farmers bring in their vegetables and fruit and the men with livestock bring in their cattle, their horses, their sheep, goats, donkeys, pigs, you name it. Over the years, I’ve come to dislike the animal section of “feira” as I find the incessant “mehing” of the baby sheep quite stressful. Their cries stir up my motherly instincts and I find myself sad and anxious and yearning to help them.
Jenna walked into the rugged animal feira today wearing her purple crocs, a pink dress, a veil (yes, a veil) and a purse slung around her shoulders. She was like a delicate little flower entering a harsh, aggressive environment. Neither of us enjoyed the scene very much and thus we waited in the car while Marcos and Filinto negotiated a new harness for our burra named “Flash.”
It’s all going so much more smoothly than it did in the first week. D’s parents are now talking to me a bit. We have settled on food we agree upon and I’m finding time to do the things I need to do to feel comfortable. It just takes time to remember that we like each other and that we can communicate and we all desire the same things for our family.
I’m grateful for this time that my children have with their grandparents. I like to think about Marcos visiting Portugal with a girlfriend in the future and sharing his beloved childhood memories from this place. He is in his element here – appropriately stimulated and with each passing year he gains more freedom around the farm. He would be happier with friends around but really it is all so good. I envy his childhood. He has seen so much.
Jenna is the belle of Quinta da Mata…such a tough little girl, yet so feminine. I feel so fortunate the share life with her. Jenna is funny and dynamic. She is introspective, capable and so incredibly smart. Her grandmother adores her. Actually, everyone does. She is quite captivating.
Enough for now. I need to go to bed before the church bell rings twelve.
I’m speaking Portuguese more comfortably and fluently than ever before. Since Duarte has been so busy with family and with work, I have taken it upon myself to get out and do some things on my own.
Yesterday I ran from Quinta da Mata to the city and then back up. On my way, I overcame two aggressively yappy ankle biting dogs; a flock of sheep, 3 sheep herding dogs and a shepherd, a man and his horse and cart working the fields, a number of old men hanging around talking with other old men who gazed at me awkwardly, a mother stork and her 3 juveniles in a tall nest above me, layers and layers of animal poop and my own tentativeness about it all. I will call that success.
Today is Wednesday. Wednesdays are the days when all forms of commerce come to town. There are hordes of gypsies selling everything from underwear, pirated movies and cheap plastic toys, to wallets, sporting goods and electronics. The local farmers bring in their vegetables and fruit and the men with livestock bring in their cattle, their horses, their sheep, goats, donkeys, pigs, you name it. Over the years, I’ve come to dislike the animal section of “feira” as I find the incessant “mehing” of the baby sheep quite stressful. Their cries stir up my motherly instincts and I find myself sad and anxious and yearning to help them.
Jenna walked into the rugged animal feira today wearing her purple crocs, a pink dress, a veil (yes, a veil) and a purse slung around her shoulders. She was like a delicate little flower entering a harsh, aggressive environment. Neither of us enjoyed the scene very much and thus we waited in the car while Marcos and Filinto negotiated a new harness for our burra named “Flash.”
It’s all going so much more smoothly than it did in the first week. D’s parents are now talking to me a bit. We have settled on food we agree upon and I’m finding time to do the things I need to do to feel comfortable. It just takes time to remember that we like each other and that we can communicate and we all desire the same things for our family.
I’m grateful for this time that my children have with their grandparents. I like to think about Marcos visiting Portugal with a girlfriend in the future and sharing his beloved childhood memories from this place. He is in his element here – appropriately stimulated and with each passing year he gains more freedom around the farm. He would be happier with friends around but really it is all so good. I envy his childhood. He has seen so much.
Jenna is the belle of Quinta da Mata…such a tough little girl, yet so feminine. I feel so fortunate the share life with her. Jenna is funny and dynamic. She is introspective, capable and so incredibly smart. Her grandmother adores her. Actually, everyone does. She is quite captivating.
Enough for now. I need to go to bed before the church bell rings twelve.
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