Cindy McCainFour Seasons Marrakech: Pool Days for Tourists and Expats
Posted on May 28, 2016
Last Monday the temperature in Marrakech reached 108 Fahrenheit/42 Celsius making it the hottest day so far this year. Here pools can be enjoyed year round, but in May when temps typically range in the 80s and low 90s, the burning question expats and tourists are asking is where to find a cool pool. In my Southern -Girl -Gone- Global Guide to Marrakesh I will feature the best pools and, of course, hospitality in town. A Mermaid in Marrakesh, I love doing this kind of research.
At the end of March I returned to Morocco from spring break spent in Italy, packed away the down jacket I’d been wearing, and grabbed my bathing suit. I was treated to a pool and spa day at Four Seasons Marrakech. Truly, the name of the world- revered brand couldn’t be truer than in the Red City. Here spring, summer, fall, and even most of winter, there’s nothing but blue skies, green gardens, and birdsongs. I relaxed by the Quiet Pool…a peaceful place for adults.
Four Seasons Marrakech offers a safe haven and the best of all worlds… a place to gather with friends and family…a romantic retreat…a space of one’s own. The 5-star luxury resort is designed with the serene, palatial gardens of the Palmeraie yet is only minutes from the magical medina, Marrakech landmarks, and New City of Gueliz. Here tourists– especially solo travellers– concerned about navigating a new city will feel secure and experience exceptional service for which the brand is known. Expats living in Marrakech seeking a way to spend a birthday or simply self-care day can choose from many services the spa offers.
A single mom for twenty years, I decided to fly to Morocco when my children left the nest. Such a move two years ago could only happen after learning self-care in increments. It began, when single again, I went to movies alone, then restaurants, then a B and B annually in the Tennessee mountains. It progressed as I went to Ireland and Italy with people I’d never met, then culminated when I went to Costa Rica alone and later landed here. Four Seasons is not only for weddings, honeymoons, or anniversaries. It offers a way to celebrate the sacred relationship we have with ourselves. Currently the pool day package for guests not staying in the hotel includes lunch–a starter, entree, and dessert ordered à la carte–and pool use for 800 Dirhams/$80 USD. For further information contact Concierge.MRK@fourseasons.com.
Years ago I began taking the advice found in Veronica Shoffstall’s poem, “Comes the Dawn” (printed below). I wanted–and would still like–to be be married again, but until that person comes along I don’t wait for a honeymoon or husband to enjoy beautiful escapes, to live the life I’ve been given. Shoffstall writes, “Plant your own garden and decorate your own soul, Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.” In Nashville I once had a garden of fifty roses. Here, I enjoy them, too.
“Comes the Dawn”
After a while you learn
the subtle difference between
holding a hand and chaining a soul
and you learn
that love doesn’t mean leaning
and company doesn’t always mean security.
And you begin to learn
that kisses aren’t contracts
and presents aren’t promises
and you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and your eyes ahead
with the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child
and you learn
to build all your roads on today
because tomorrow’s ground is
too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down
in mid-flight.
After a while you learn
that even sunshine burns
if you get too much
so you plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul
instead of waiting for someone
to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure
you really are strong
you really do have worth
and you learn
and you learn
with every goodbye, you learn…
© 1971 Veronica A. Shoffstall
Thank you to Four Seasons Marrakech for a wonderful pool and spa day. As always, the opinions here are my own.
Jazzed about Josephine Baker and Riad Star
Posted on May 22, 2016
Play Me
Photo Courtesy of Riad Star
When people ask How? Why? I moved to Morocco sight unseen, I think to myself, I didn’t. Though I’d never been to Africa, my soul brimmed with vivid images from exotic Arabian tales my grandmother read to me from my dad’s childhood book.
I was lured by sultry desert tents, regal riads, and secret gardens where princes and princesses lounged in plush, cushioned comfort. In my imagination birds sang- by- day and lanterns glowed- by- night in arched Andalusian courtyards of fabulous fountains, mosaic tile, and intricately carved woodwork. I was meant to come here–a place where so many desires of my heart have been fulfilled for which I am forever grateful.
Photo Courtesy of Riad Star
Likewise, for some time I felt drawn to Riad Star, former home of Josephine Baker, Queen of the Jazz Age. I was first attracted by the place and a moment in time–the blending of beautiful Marrakesh design with an era I’ve loved since I was a little girl dressing up in my grandmother’s drop waist dresses and pumps. As an adult obsessed with Post- World War I Paris expats and Harlem Renaissance artists, I teach The Great Gatsby, The Sun Also Rises, and Jazz, and when living in the US had students play dress up, too, for annual ’20s Day events.
Recently I finally stayed at Riad Star and met “Jazz Cleopatra,” the legend for whom the boutique hotel is named.
I now realize that what drew me there was more than one period of history. It was a Renaissance Woman who before and beyond Harlem and the 20s never stopped changing, growing, giving, and overcoming. A woman of tenacity and tenderness.
Josephine’s photos smile at guests throughout the house, and in the dining area her costumes invite us to try on her life.
More shocking than flapper dresses in 20s America was Josephine’s skirt of artificial bananas which she wore in Paris for her performance in Danse Sauvage. In France she was an overnight sensation.
When Aziz greeted me at the taxi, walked me to the riad, and placed my bag in her very suite, The Josephine Room, I was in awe. There, under a photograph of her close friend, Grace Kelly, my favorite American Hollywood actress since I was a teen…
I devoured Josephine’s biographies found in my room and the library downstairs.
In the afternoon sun on the rooftop
near the cool courtyard,
and under the covers at night,
like Owen Wilson in Midnight in Paris I was transported to another time.
There I discovered a new treasure in Marrakesh..the “Black Pearl”…the “Bronze Venus” who Ernest Hemingway, her fellow expat in Paris, called “the most sensational woman anyone ever saw.”
Before Beyonce…
Or Rihanna
Or Angelina Jolie…
A dancer, singer, movie star, and mom energetically entertained crowds for fifty years and raised her “Rainbow Tribe.”
Josephine: “We must change the system of education and instruction. Unfortunately, history has shown that brotherhood must be learned, when it should be natural.”
Josephine said when called “beautiful”: “Beautiful? It’s all a question of luck. I was born with good legs. As for the rest…beautiful, no. Amusing…yes.”
Baker was the first black woman to star in a major motion picture, Zouzou (1934) and to become a world-famous entertainer. A superstar before Marilyn or Madonna, Josephine was named in 2012 Time magazine in the Top 100 Fashion Icons of All Time.
Likewise she was muse for artists and intellectuals of the 1930s such as Picasso, Pirandello, Georges Roualt, Le Corbusier, and e.e. cummings. Dance Magazine explained the allure of Josephine –the “geometry” of her oval head and lithe body–during the Cubist and Art Deco movements, both influenced by African art and sculpture.
A World War II spy for the French Resistance, Josephine Baker was awarded the Croix de Guerre and the Légion d’Honneur by General Charles de Gaulle and the Rosette of the Résistance. At her death she was mourned in Paris by 20,000 people including Princess Grace who gathered for her funeral procession. She was buried with military honors in Monaco, a place she and her family visited often as guests of the royal family.
A civil rights activist, she was the only woman who spoke at the 1963 March on Washington alongside Martin Luther, King. She told the crowd that day:
You are on the eve of a complete victory. You can’t go wrong. The world is behind you.
Later she said of her personal victory:
Until the March on Washington, I always had this little feeling in my stomach. I was always afraid. I couldn’t meet white American people. I didn’t want to be around them. But now that little gnawing feeling is gone. For the first time in my life I feel free. I know that everything is right now.
Josephine in Washington with Lena Horne
And for a time, she lived in Marrakesh in a room I just stayed in.
Mike and Lucie Wood, British owners of Marrakech Riad, added Riad Star in 2010 to their collection of boutique hotels in the medina. Mike explained their mission:
We bought our first riad (Riad Cinnamon) in 2005 after I was introduced to Marrakech by a Moroccan friend. We are passionate about introducing our guests to Moroccan culture, especially first time visitors. As well as the riads we are very involved in a charity which we founded with another English couple. It’s called Henna Cafe and has an active programme of education.
The Pashah Thami el Glaoui formerly owned what is now Riad Star, a guest annex to the palace which is now the Marrakech museum. Mike says he learned Josephine Baker stayed there when talking to a neighbor. The people of Derb Alilich still remember her warmth and she appreciated theirs. In the Josephine Room there’s a window looking onto the street–nonexistent in most riads where windows, doors, and balconies face inward toward private courtyards. It is believed the Pashah of Marrakech paid children to sit outside Josephine’s window and read for her while she was convalescing after a nineteen-month stay at a hospital in Casablanca in 1941-42.
Mike Wood says of the purchase:
The restoration was extensive and took two years with a team of highly skilled local craftsmen. We did not really change much except adding the rolling roof which is very practical and putting in more bathrooms.
Ah, but the details the Woods added are symbolic of a spirit whose beauty, sensitivity and toughness transcended adversity. There are nine rooms at Riad Star, each named for a part of Josephine’s life, such as the Jazz room, Paris room, Chiquita room, and Rainbow room. Though historically themed, each room has modern conveniences, such as refrigerators, WiFi, and flatscreen televisions.
Josephine was born in 1906 in St. Louis to Carrie McDonald, daughter of former slaves, and vaudeville drummer Eddie Carson who carried her onstage when she was a toddler but left the family soon after. She cleaned houses and tended children for white families who told her not to kiss the babies. One mistress burned her hands for using too much soap when washing clothes. At age twelve she began a waitressing job at The Old Chauffeur’s Club which led to being married off unsuccessfully at thirteen. At fifteen she was noticed for her street dancing and recruited for vaudeville. After witnessing the St. Louis race riots and experiencing abusive treatment which led to a time she lived on the streets and ate from trash bins, she moved to New York City during the Harlem Renaissance and performed at the Plantation Club. As the last girl in the chorus line, her role was to make the audience laugh–something she loved doing her entire life. But in 1925 Paris she moved from last to superstardom overnight when she opened in La Revue Nègre at the Theatre des Champs-Elysees. Continuing to amaze crowds with her sensual dances, costumes, and charisma, by 1927 she earned more than any entertainer in Europe. And then she took on another continent…
In Josephine: The Hungry Heart, Jean-Claude Baker and Chris Chase wrote of Josephine’s “Arabian Nights” when “she came to Northern Africa with twenty-eight pieces of luggage and her animals.” Before she adopted twelve children from various countries (she suffered miscarriages and “many surgeries” trying to have her own and a complication that confined her to the Casablanca hospital ), she had a menagerie consisting of Chiquita, her famous leopard she walked on a leash; Ethel, a chimpanzee; Albert, a pig; Kiki, a snake, and a goat, parrot, parakeets, fish three cats and seven dogs. In Morocco her monkeys played in the orange trees.
Baker records accounts of his mother’s time at Riad Star :
Every morning, as soon as the birds started singing, Josephine was up and running around in the buff going to the kitchen to help the servants cook… The house had four bedrooms—one which had her big brass bed from France… She adopted Arab customs. She liked eating with her hands, wearing the loose djelleba, going with her maids to the hammam, the Turkish baths, once a week.
….And wasn’t it queer that Josephine, who had spent her childhood dreaming of kings in golden slippers, should find herself there? In a place where, even more amazingly, racial discrimination did not exist? Thami el Glaousi, pasha of Marrakesh and the most powerful tribal chieftain in French Morocco at that time, was himself black.
From northern Africa Josephine was safe from Nazi racism. Langston Hughes wrote she “was as much a victim of Hitler as the soldiers who fall in Africa today fighting his armies. The Aryans drove Josephine away from her beloved Paris.” Nonetheless, while in Africa as she’d done throughout Europe, Josephine continued entertaining troops for Charles de Gaulle and carrying information for the Allied forces from Spain. Among dignitaries who visited her while in the hospital in Casa was Jacques Abtrey, Head of Intelligence against the Germans. Outside as a military parade with American, French, and Moroccan troops marched by, he and Josephine toasted with champagne. He recalls: “We raised our glasses to America, to England, and to our eternal France.”
Bennetta Jules-Rosette, Director of the African and African-American Studies Research Center at the University of California – San Diego and author of Josephine Baker in Art and Life: The Icon and the Image wrote of Josephine making Paris her home and learning not only French but Italian and Russian:
As a black woman, had she stayed in the United States, she could not have accomplished what she did….She never made a Hollywood film. But at the same time she was recording in France, you had the likes of Hattie McDaniel playing maids in Gone with the Wind…[She] was among the early path-breakers to use performance celebrity for political ends.
When in the US she refused to perform in venues that did not admit minorities. Says Jules-Rosette: “She was the first person to desegregate the Las Vegas casinos, not Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr.”
Still, in 1951 she was refused admittance to some hotels and restaurants, and when she charged the Stork Club in New York City of racism when the owner would not serve her, she was placed on the FBI watch list and lost her US citizenship rights for over a decade. In 1963 she returned with the help of Attorney General Robert Kennedy to speak at the March on Washington. She told the crowd:
You know I have always taken the rocky path…I never took the easy one, but as I get older, and as I knew I had the power and the strength, I took that rocky path and I tried to smooth it out a little. I wanted to make it easier for you. I want you to have a chance at what I had.
Summing up her journey, Josephine said: “I did take the blows [of life], but I took them with my chin up, in dignity, because I so profoundly love and respect humanity…I believe in prayer. It’s the best way we have to draw strength from heaven.”
When not reading at Riad Star, I chatted over dinner with a lovely group of ladies on holiday from England. All moms, they had decided to treat themselves to a girls’ getaway. For information on package deals including a Girls Getaway and other specialty escapes, go here. I spent breakfast with a little bird by the pool, then took off with Aziz to see two other properties owned by the Woods.
Though all guests are provided a downloadable App and cell phone to navigate the medina, after two years here and still taking wrong turns at times in the medina, I was thrilled Aziz was happy to walk me to and from the taxi as well as show me two other riads.
Riad Cinnamon has five suites, each named for a city in Morocco: Fez, Essaouira, Chefchaouen, Casablanca, and Meknes. Since I’ve been to all but Meknes, four of the rooms transported me to fine Morocco Moments across the country.
After raiding my grandmother’s trunk for dress up clothes, I’d wear them out into her garden to watch butterflies playing in the flowers. At Riad Papillon (Riad Butterly), imagination takes flight in rooms named for blooms, such as Bougainvillea, Jasmine, and Rose known to attract those feathery-winged wonders. The riad is just off Dar El Bacha, one of my favorite shopping streets in the souks, while Star and Cinnamon are just around corners from Merdersa Ben Youseff, a medina must-see. All are also near the Spice Square and Henna Cafe.
I enjoyed the morning and my Midnight in Marrakesh experience. HBO’s 1991 movie, The Jordan Baker Story, winner of five Emmys and a Golden Globe now tops my list of Must-see films. In “My Josephine Baker” her son explains in The New York Times how and why he had to write a biography of her: “When she died, something was taken from me. I suffered a loss and I wanted to know who she was, that woman I had seen in so many ways, sometimes a criminal, sometimes a saint.”
When she passed away in 1975, no doubt there were mixed opinions of her because she was– and her critics are– after all, human. Her legacy lives on in Riad Star in the Red City where others find rest and shelter and at the Henna Cafe that promotes appreciation of diversity, cross-cultural communication, and understanding. Though Josephine left school to work as a child, she later learned French, Russian, and Italian, an inspiration to language learners everywhere.
Thank you to Riad Star for the hospitality. As always, the opinions here are my own.
Authentic Home Stay in Atlas Mountains
Posted on May 16, 2016
Last Saturday I was home for my son’s graduation and my daughter’s birthday. We had lunch with family in the Tennessee hills and watched The Kentucky Derby, traditionally toasted with Mint Juleps.
This weekend I was back in Morocco where I had lunch with friends in the high Atlas Mountains and road mules to the Berber home where we were traditionally greeted with mint tea.
Last week I wished my dad could have seen his grandson graduate, and yesterday I wished he could have ridden with me in a land so rugged, so beautiful. Always interested in American Indian culture and nature, he would have appreciated the history of the Berbers, the indigenous people of the Atlas Mountains and Dades Valley—land like Colorado where he hunted and like Arizona where our favorite westerns were set. Seen from a saddle, the sweeping grandeur of Imlil made me feel like I was in a movie. No wonder. The village is where trekkers come to scale Jebel Toubkal, the highest peak in Northern Africa. Seven Years in Tibet was partially filmed here.
In Imlil, our host, Lahcen of Authentic Toubkal Lodge, met us with the muleteers at our car. He is a friend of Kate who had invited me to join her and her daughter, Amy, just arrived from Melbourne.
Photo by Kate Woods
Photo by Kate Woods
Mules carrying concrete blocks for a new mosque
I’d been in a few Berber villages—one where I entered a rug shop, another a girl’s school, and a couple I’d trekked through with two other hikers, but this was my first private home visit. Just as medina walls can hide secret gardens, village houses made of mud and concrete– seemingly hard and dark–can shelter cozy retreats. Such was the case here. Up the stairs, past a formal salon, then down a decorative hall a door led to a paradise of pure light. From the comfortable, colorful terrace we saw snow-peaked mountains and heard the mosque’s call to prayer.
Lachen made Amy the guest of honor, giving her Berber attire and the charge of making tea.
He explained the proper way to make Moroccan mint tea.
Large bricks of sugar are a must.
As is pouring the tea from the highest position possible.
Salad
Tagine
Photo by Kate Woods
Full and happy, we rested before taking a tour of the house and the village. The rooms’ design details and thoughtful touches–plush blankets, slippers, custom showers and tile — as well as the food, view, and hospitality have earned the home top ratings on Trip Advisor and Airbnb. Though grateful, Lahcen says he doesn’t display awards to persuade customers. Instead he preserves the authenticity of the home where he grew up and is confident “guests will come– inshallah.” He adds that while “money comes and goes” what matters is offering people the best of nature and making them feel at home.
To book a lunch, tour, or home stay go here.
Ready to continue our village tour, we received, as Kate said, “Rock Star parking” and curb service.
Gallery in the Sky: MB6 Street Art in Marrakesh
Posted on March 12, 2016
My favorite mural by Dotmaster of the MB6 :Street Art exhibit representing to me roses in the desert, something I’m thankful everyday in Marrakech, and the power of art to create community and love. Photo by Cindy McCain
Some use walls to keep people out. Others use them to invite people in.
The Dotmaster started painting on the streets of Brighton in the early 90s. His work has since been featured in Oscar nominated Exit Through the Gift Shop and in Martin Scorsese’s Tomorrow. Photo by Ian Cox
Work in progress Photo by Ian Cox
“Inclusion rather than exclusion is the driving force behind the festival,” says MB6: Street Art Curator Vestalia Chilton of ATTOLLO. Responsible for a myriad of murals in the medina created for the Marrakesh Biennale Edition 6, Chilton said the global collaboration began at the Marrakech TED Talks a year ago. There she asked Vanessa Branson, founder of the Marrakech Biennale in 2004, if she’d be interested in adding street art to the event ranked in the top 20 Biennales worldwide. The answer was yes, launching another first for Morocco.
Already a big year for the country, 2016 began with Morocco opening the world’s largest solar farm in the Sahara, and in Essaouira, unveiling North Africa’s largest mural (6400 square meters) painted by Italian street artist, Giacomo Bufarini aka RUN.
RUN’s Essaouira mural, largest in Africa, illustrates two people on opposite sides of the stream–one playing music, which the city is known for, and the other listening. Courtesy of Vestalia Chilton
The 6th edition Marrakech Biennale–Not New Now– running until May 8 with free admission celebrates the city’s artistic and cultural leadership in building bridges between the Islamic world, the Pan-African diaspora and the West. The event is overseen by Reem Fada, Curator for the Guggenheim Abu Dhabi, who believes the multi-disciplinarian approach connects local and international audiences to “new ideas and artistic visions from Morocco and abroad.”
On display for MB6: Street Art in the Marrkaech Medina, the “Galery in the Sky,” are murals by Mad C (Germany), Dotmaster (UK), Giacomo RUN (Italy), Dag Insky (France), Kalamour (Morocco), Alexey Luka (Russia), LX.ONE (France), Lucy McLauchlan (UK), Remi Rough (UK), Sickboy (UK) and Yesbee (UK).
On a press tour led by Vestalia and a lunch interview at Kosybar following (video below), I saw the gifts left to the city and learned more about the genre.
Creative contrast Photo by Cindy McCain
A study in contrasts, the works convey not only innovation and change but also universal, timeless values. They juxtapose human diversity with commonalities.
“Street art has no ego. If people like it, it stays. If not, if goes. One mural is already gone,”Chilton explained.
Once graffiti artists on the run, painting where they weren’t allowed, this new generation of contemporary urban artists are critically acclaimed agents of restoration rather than rebels. The independent spirit and creativity of the underground scene which produced works accessible to the general public in urban environments has risen to become the biggest art movement since Impressionism.
The work of Alexey Luka, progressive Russian artist, can be enjoyed in the square of Café des Epices. His work have been exhibited in Moscow, Saint Petersburg, Amsterdam, Lyon, Paris, Portland, Rotterdam, and San Francisco, and Rome. Alexey is a member of the creative association ‘Artmossphere’ which organized the 1st Moscow Biennale of Street Art in 2014, supporting Russian street artists and graffiti writers. Photo by Ian Cox
Worldwide acceptance has led to commissioned public works and inclusion in high profile galleries and art festivals. Mainstream culture and media has created demand for the sale of originals and multiples, which allowed street artists to break into the art world with access to galleries, museums and auction houses such as Christies and Sotheby’s.
Morocco’s Renaissance Man and the Biennale’s Native Son, Kalamour, has been passionate since childhood about drawing, photography, painting, and music. His paintings and sculptures have been exhibited in Canada and his home country. Also an award-winning video artist, Kalamour’s releases have been featured at festivals in Morocco and Portugal.
Kalamour at work Photo by Ian Cox
Kalamour’s work on Cafe de Epices Photo by Cindy McCain
Gallery work by Kalamour Photo by Cindy McCain
British born artist Lucy McLauchlan (below) has work in galleries and museums and on multi-story buildings throughout Europe, gigantic billboards in China, on walls outside Moscow’s Red Square, and on New York subway tunnels. She deeply respects nature and uses etches of leaves and other elements of her environment in her paintings.
Lucy McLauchan Medina Mural Photo by Ian Cox
Lucy McLauchan originals Photo by Cindy McCain
Mad C Photo by Cindy McCain
Just outside the gate of Dar El Bacha is the work of the most famous participant in the project, MadC. Despite being booked five years out, Claudia Walde enthusiastically joined the Marrakesh project and created a fan frenzy on social media. Her mural was created with seventy cans of colors. Born in Bautzen, GDR and currently based in Germany, she holds degrees in Graphic Design from the University of Art and Design, Halle, and Central Saint Martins College, London. Her two books on sticker art and street fonts published in 2007 and 2011 are praised for their anthropological insight into the graffiti art movement. Her name, derived from her childhood nickname, “Crazy Claudia” encourages all to live their creative dreams.
Giacomo Bufarini, RUN Photo by Ian Cox
RUN, Italian-born Giacomo Bufarini, is a beloved muralist of international street art. His Marrakesh mural is outside Palace Bahia. A lover of travel, the London resident’s epic-sized murals distinguished by detail and complexity, colorful faces and interlocking hands, stretch from here to China and attest to his playfulness and commitment to communication. His characters speak languages of diverse audiences, and while painting in Essaouira and Marrakesh, the artist impressed Moroccans with his willingness to take time for friendly chats. His measure of success? He says if a child likes his work, he is happy.
Photo by Ian Cox
RUN Photo by Cindy McCain
Another Favorite by RUN Photo by Cindy McCain
Photo by Cindy McCain
One of the most dramatic moments of the tour was turning a corner off frenetic Mohammed V into an alley car park and seeing the works of LX.ONE and Remi Rough canopied above.
Photo by Ian Cox
Mural by Surrealist Sickboy Photo by Cindy McCain
In one week eleven painters completed the MB6 Street Art exhibition, but their contribution to the city and the world that enjoys it will be appreciated long after. Below Vestalia, joined by a member of her team, Elena Ivanova, speaks warmly of Moroccan hospitality, kindness, and the human spirit inherent in this city and this global collaboration.
Map of MB6 Street Art
Surf Berbere an Endless Summer Camp for Adults
Posted on November 17, 2015
A brilliant beam lasers through the blue wooden shutter. Now awake, I push open the window to catch the sun rising slowly, then bursting boldly from behind buildings on the beach. I’m singing Cat Stevens. He loved the Moroccan coast as I do.
Morning has broken like the first morning…
Mine is the sunlight,
Mine is the morning,
Born of the one light Eden saw play.
Praise with elation, praise ev’ry morning,
God’s recreation of the new day.
The afternoon before, I’d been picked up at the bus station in Agadir and driven along the coast to Taghazout. The stretch reminded me of the route my kids and I took one summer in a convertible from Santa Monica to Malibu. We’d stopped to watch surfers at Zuma Beach. This time my destination was Surf Berbere to practice yoga, learn about surfing, and live in community with the people who do it.
As we rolled into town I smelled fish sizzling. Minutes later at reception I met a friendly blond girl the age of my daughter. She, like everyone, was dressed in shorts and a tee shirt and radiated sunshine. In Marrakech it was sweater and boots weather, but here, just three hours south, it was summer (my favorite season) again. Since moving to Morocco I’d gotten serious about yoga, and when my instructor spoke of retreats on the coast, I added another destination to my Bucket List. I’d wanted a fertile climate where my inner flower child could bloom. Here banana trees abound, the sun shines 300 days a year, and people relax. Seemed I’d found the place.
She led me to the Vista Apartment all shiny clean and spacious. Flinging my suitcase on the bed, I turned and was stunned by the sight of nothing-but-sea out my window.
As on my first beach solo trip to Costa Rica, I felt broken by beauty. I’d planned to rest or write before yoga class and dinner, but thoughts began churning within like the waves without.
Reliving our California trip had made me again miss my children in Nashville. Simultaneously experiencing this amazing Moroccan place made me again realize how much I’ll miss this country one day. My thoughts were like the tide mightily pushing and pulling me in two directions. How can I live abroad much longer so far from people I love across this ocean? How will I go back after all I’ve seen and felt here? How will I give up the beauty and adventure of this place?
Thankfully, by morning future fears robbing me of the present had washed out to sea, leaving diamonds—not smoke– sparkling on the water. The night waves pounding the shore below my balcony had somehow soothed my soul as nature and its creator always does. I woke rested and ready.
As the campers of Surf Berbere had gathered around burgers on the rooftop grill the night before, we shuffled toward breakfast from our apartments to the café terraces that morning. Under clear, blue skies, fat cats chilled and a cute puppy begged as beginners and intermediates wondered which beach our instructors would choose for the day. The pros—many who had lived there for months—mapped their route for chasing waves as well. Van Morrison sang “Into the Mystic” as I finished my coffee.
I’d loved summer camp when I was a teen, so much so I became a counselor. I’d learned to ski on Kentucky Lake as many learn to surf on Hash Point. Nights at both places we circled up to tell tales of days on the water. Here some seemed to be old friends, but most campers were traveling solo and had only recently met. It seemed they, too, had decided to stop waiting for someone else to rock their gypsy souls and had shown up confident they’d find what they were seeking with strangers who’d bond over shared passions for sea, surf, and yoga.
By nine we were grabbing boards and suits at the surf shop, then bouncing on Taghazout’s main street (really only street) toward Anza Bay. In our van the campers were as eclectic as the playlist. Two girls from Cologne, Germany and another from London—aged 27-31—were excited for their first lesson. A guy from Ghent, Belgium had surfed the Great Barrier Reef. New friends from Sweden, Norway, and Switzerland were in the other van. All were on holiday from careers or retired from public service, as was the man I met from the same area of Wales as my grandmother’s family. All identified me as the only American but were surprised I now live in Marrakech—a city all travelers described as too intense and frenetic.
Later that afternoon two experienced surfers traded stories of battle scars–one a West Australian travel blogger whose fin sliced open his butt. Though it still hadn’t healed completely, he had recently gone swimming in the Nile.
“So you have a gnarly scar!” laughed the UK girl who’d been in wine sales, moved to Surf Berbere, then Sri Lanka, now Surf Berbere where she is taking the surf instructor’s course. She’d had a friend whose board rope wound so tightly around the tip of his finger, it popped the joint off. Both were energized rather than afraid of injuries, but when he said he was traveling a year, she sighed and said the same words another woman spoke at lunch the day before: “I don’t know if I can ever go back again to the western world.”
The Moroccan surf instructors, Imad and Rashid were patient, skilled, and fun. After warm ups and the lesson, they stayed in the water for one-on-one coaching throughout the day. I quickly understood the close relationship between surfing and yoga. Upper body strength, flexibility, and balance are key. Like dancing, surfing can be graceful and beautiful once techniques are learned and practiced. Like life, it’s about being in the moment rather than over thinking. It’s about catching the wave when it comes and riding it out.
Imad
Rashid
Fueling us was Chef Mohamed who served huge portions of home cooking including the best burgers and spaghetti (packed for lunch) I’ve had in Morocco. Friday I enjoyed the international fusion of favorites– traditional cous cous with apple crumble for dessert. Managing with Hamza and Beth for James, the warm and welcoming London owner, is Marie. Like many creative campers I met, she is a travel blogger from Frankfurt (where I’ll go next month as well as to Cologne thanks to the girls who said the Christmas markets in their hometown are must -sees). When Marie isn’t custom planning each guest’s daily schedule, she’s writing her Masters thesis in Brand Management. She gave me a sneak peak of her uber-cool line of surfing tights. You won’t see her without a smile.
Marie (front) and Clare (back)
As for all the campers, they were tenaciously teachable, grateful, and kind. Truly some of the nicest people I’ve met in one place. Wherever I am living a year from now, I’ll remember beginning yoga with sun salutations that were literal goodnights to the golden orb as it turned orange and melted into the sea. I’ll remember ending class with Savasana under a navy-black sky of stars above. And I hope I (and single empty nesters like me) remember the words of the instructor: “It’s not selfish to take care of yourself. It’s not selfish to love yourself. It’s necessary.”
Check out pricing and book here. Apartment rentals are here.
Thank you to Surf Berbere for an amazing retreat. As always, the opinions are my own.
And thank you, Marie, for my first Christmas card of the season. Peace to all from another traveler, Odysseus:
“Come, my friends, It is not too late to seek a better world.”–Tennyson
Living Large (and Small) at Ouzoud Falls
Posted on October 18, 2015
Ouzoud Falls Quench Thirst for Adventure, Beauty, and Relationship
Yesterday I was ambushed by monkeys, then drenched by a waterfall.
The first incident felt like being on the set of Scarface as Tony Montana’s compound was seized by Sosa’s drug cartel. What followed was like playing opposite Harrison Ford in yet another Indiana Jones movie filmed in Morocco.
Ok, maybe not that dramatic, but life here is sometimes like the movies– a mix of realism, magic (like the sandstorm that blew up outside my apartment as I wrote this as if on cue), and moments of Monty Python. Yesterday’s road trip was to Ozoud Falls, located150 kilometers from Marrakech, in the province of Azilal. We began at 8 AM in a van arranged by Ismail Amzilo of Morocco Desert Adventures. Our journey was cathartic providing fright, wonder, and laughter. It quenched thirst for adventure, beauty and relationship–especially because it was shared with a community of coworkers that functions like family when living abroad. Together we weathered the long ride (3 hours each way fraught with bathroom stops behind bushes and in some scary Turkish toilets). Still we pressed past queasy stomachs, even rain that prevented the full hike we’d planned, but in the end were rewarded with much fun including a couple of surprises.
So about those monkeys…while seated on a café terrace watching the waterfalls and waiting for tajines,
Monkey #1 climbed out of the rocks onto the bamboo ledge that wound around our table. His eyes were fixed and unreadable as he slinked toward us like a model on a New York runway while we, the paparazzi, breathlessly snapped photos. With one swift leap, he dove into trees behind and below our table and was gone.
We all sat down again, thrilled with the close encounter. Emily was sitting beside me, her back leaned against the bamboo where the monkey had disappeared. Suddenly, with the stealth, stoicism, and surprise of the assassins who scaled the walls surrounding Tony Montana’s mansion, the monkey’s paws, then terrifying grin appeared beside Emily’s ear. At our screams (and my unfortunate “Oh Shit!”) he again vanished. Emily moved to the other side of the table, and I scooted close to her, while Bethany and Jon said they weren’t afraid and would keep watch.
Clockwise from head of table: Jen, Rachel, Eliza, Jon, Ali, Bethany, Audrey, Emily, Ben, Jason, Julie
While we finished dessert, a large female monkey– Big Mama– appeared on the ledge at the other end of the table. She stared, unblinking, at us, then began her strut down the runway.
Jumping up, we again grabbed cameras. One…two…three…four steps…
a quick leap to the right…and she POUNCED on the middle of the table. Brazenly grabbing the breadbasket, she took off, rebuked by Jon who had seen his 3rd grade teacher bitten on the butt by a monkey at school. That poor woman had rabies shots and stitches.
Thankfully, the ones we saw on the trail the rest of the day were smaller and not aggressive. And though Jon’s story (and another he told in the van about an alligator who bit an elephant’s nose) had us worried about the man we saw with a monkey perched on his shoulder, I hoped his turban would protect his ear should the creature take a nip.
We headed down to the platform where we posed, snapped poses, and were posed with.
Photo by Julie TuSpaz
And then our descent began down what seemed to be hundreds of steps–a great workout considering a storm looming prevented our mountain climbing.
New customers had taken our seats on the ledge. Wonder if the monkeys made an encore appearance?
At the bottom were more photo shoots before we boarded a Moroccan-style gondola for our ride into the cascades.
Photo by Jon Wommack
Back on the van we heard a story from one of our tiny troopers about giants wearing flip flops. The waterfalls made us all feel small again with their Jurassic Park size and spray. As our guide rowed us into them, I’m not sure I’ve laughed that hard since carnival rides with my sister at the Wilson County fair or Opryland’s Grizzly River Rampage. And there were two more surprises. Who says life isn’t ponies and rainbows? Yesterday we enjoyed both.
Our tiny teller of tall tales
Photo by Julie TuSpaz
Photo by Jon Wommack
Ride home with our tiniest trooper
Morocco Desert Adventures is on Facebook. For tour information, Ismail can be contacted at info@moroccodesertadventures.com.
Worldwide Photo Walk
Posted on October 5, 2015
Last Saturday over 21k people were involved in a worldwide shooting. From my home in Nashville to my residence in Marrakech, participants grabbed cameras and celebrated life on photo walks in 1000 locations. To learn more about Scott Kelby’s Photo Walks go here.
Ours was scheduled in the medina to begin at 9:30 at the Café de FRANCE on Jemma El Fna square. Jon–a friend, pro artist and skilled photographer– and I met Kate, a friend from Australia who told me about the event because she had previously done a walk in Melbourne. Synnove, a Norwegian friend I met on a hike last spring, surprised me when she appeared as we were meeting Mustapha, a Moroccan tour consultant of Intrepid Travel, signed up for the walk. After mint tea and juice, we wondered where our photographer/organizer was. Kate checked online and discovered he had changed the time to 3 PM. Unable to wait or return later, we made Jon our fearless leader and were off.
After winding through wares of silver, sequins, and Sahara green pottery, we went into Ben Youssef Madrasa, a visual feast. A special treat was a place I’d been wanting to check out– The Marrakech Museum of Photography— where we saw Jean Manuel’s Portrait of Touareg, the first “photoshopped portrait,” Landrock’s Young Arab, about which I learned Tunisian boys wore jasmine behind their left ears to signify to girls they were available, and Jean Manuel’s Portrait du Tourareg, a personal favorite for a couple of years now. Our session ended at the rooftop cafe of the museum–one of the best panoramic views from within city walls. Shooting in Marrakech manually–bringing its kalidescope shapes and colors into focus– was magic. Especially because it made me feel like a kid again.
Choosing settings for the study of light and dark the souks provide. Photo by Kate Woods
Photo by Kate
Kate
Kate’s photo
by Kate of me
Said to be first “photoshopped” photo (head placed on different body)–details below
Essaouira…When Goats Fly
Posted on September 27, 2015
I spent my second Eid al-Adha, “Festival of Sacrifice,” in Morocco perched again in my favorite holiday nest above Essaouira. I love Jack’s Apartments–especially numbers 6 and 7–positioned above the medina and wall hailed by history, Hollywood, and HBO. From the balcony all I see is sea. All I hear are seagull shrieks slicing through blue sky and roaring winds, waves crashing into rocks, then spewing like geysers below.
I returned to be calmed by the churning ocean and to be broken by beauty. To rest on the ramparts–a visual reminder of God’s protection everyday.
Here I can relax and remember what I too often forget–that prayers have been and will be answered. Though I’m usually optimistic, in seemingly impossible situations or when I’m tired of waiting for answers about the future to come, I’m tempted to think change will occur “when pigs fly.” Translated: Never or in a long, long time. Here pigs don’t fly because there are none. But goats do. It’s easy to be hopeful, to be grateful in Essaouira. Here my faith is strengthened in the quiet, the calm, the time to simply breathe and remember and cling to promises that I’ve been given for my good.
Thanks to my friend and coworker, Ritchie, for photographing the goats climbing Argan trees to feed. She joined me the last day of the break and her bus driver stopped, unlike mine, to allow passengers to get shots.
On this wall anything seems possible. Orson Welles became Othello in Shakespeare’s play of a biracial couple hundreds of years before South African apartheid and south America’s Jim Crowe laws were abolished. Here Game of Thrones’ Danerys—a widow and queen—raised an army from men she freed and commanded her dragon to destroy an evil ruler.
Danerys and her army–photo from link below where you will also find Tom Rowsell’s “Game of Thrones Holidays in Morroco” which includes a video of the scene to which I referred. http://www.essaouira.nu/culture_movies.htm
Here Mogador, original name of Essaouria, defended herself since she was founded by the Phoenicians in the 6th century agains Roman, Arab, Portuguese, and French rule. Pirates, an earthquake, and a tsunami couldn’t destroy the city that, like the Phoenix, rose from ashes.
I’ve always been revived by the sea. A mermaid in Marrakesh–a sometimes fish-out-of-water– I need its salt as salve. I feel small next to the ocean and the horizon–reminders of how big God is. His love washes over me. Though I still miss my children on the other side of the Atlantic every single day and find this empty nest thing one of the biggest challenges of my life, I’m thankful for this new season away with God where he provides new adventure, beauty, and relationship.
On a rooftop with a 360 panoramic view I wonder where I’ll be a year from now. One of my biggest lessons of last year–of this move–was in a book I taught, Life of Pi: “All of life is letting go.” I’m still working on more trust, less worry. I only know the same hand that stirs the surf and tames the tide holds whatever is to come. As is said here by Muslim friends (as well as Christians and Jews in the Middle East and parts of Africa)… In sha Allah. As God wills.
Apartment 6
Jack’s Apartments–#7 just below rooftop and #6 below it
Jnane Tamsna…Garden Paradise
Posted on September 3, 2015
“The soul cannot thrive in the absence of a garden. If you don’t want paradise, you are not human; and if you are not human, you don’t have a soul.” –Thomas More
The lesson I have thoroughly learnt, and wish to pass on to others, is to know the enduring happiness that the love of a garden gives.”–Gertrude Jekyll
My love of gardens began in my grandmother’s backyard. She told me names of heirloom flowers, shrubs and trees transplanted from her childhood home, then my grandparents’ farm, Mockingbird Hill. Weekends I now play in secret gardens I once read about in fairy tales, Song of Solomon, and Arabian Nights. They hide behind Marrakech walls from the Medina to the Palmeraie, and I seek.
When my daughter turned five I had a garden tea party for her I’d been planning since she was born. I, the “Flower Fairy,” hid pearl necklaces in fifty rose bushes and left a note instructing her and her guests to find them. Purple hydrangeas big as soccer balls bobbed in bowls on white-clothed tables under our oak dripping with ivy. Her birthday fell near Mother’s Day–appropriate since she made me a mom.
Twenty years later, I drank mint tea with a friend in another garden last Mother’s Day. With her children in Australia and mine in Nashville, we vowed to survive our first one without them. Tears dampened my lunch and blurred epic beauty surrounding me.
But thankfully, a couple of weeks ago, I entered that paradise again. This time as I walked through the magical arches of Jnane Tamsna, I was ready to explore the passion project of Meryanne Loum-Martin and Dr. Gary Martin recognized by press from The New York Times to Architectural Digest to Gourmet. I was drawn back to the quiet of this Edenic place of sprawling size and biodiversity for which Gary, an ethnobotanist, received recognition last March. Janane Tamsna and Villa Oasis, Madison Cox’s creation, were the only two gardens chosen for private tour by the Botanical Symposium on Mediterranean Flora of Jardin Majorelle. I was also eager to meet expats and tell them I appreciate their commitment to the local community.
I was led to my gorgeous room to drop off luggage, then to a poolside garden where Meryanne and Gary had just finished lunch with a guest.
They’d been talking awhile, so as they invited me to sit, we all shifted chairs into the shade. Quickly I knew what Laura Werner meant when she wrote in Forbes, “Staying at Jnane Tamsna in the Palmeraie is like being at an extended dinner/house party.” And by the time I left, I understood why Hugh Jackman, a regular, did the Happy Dance by one of the their five pools. Privacy and peace are premium here.
Advocates for culture and education, they’d hosted salons where authors, such as Esther Freud (I’d read her memoir of Marrakech a year ago upon moving to Morocco) and historian William Dalrymple, had read from their works. I learned their daughter had graduated from the school where I teach, and they’d just returned from Paris early to see Suddenly Last Summer performed for a fundraiser in Tangier–the city that inspired Tennessee Williams (my favorite southern dramatist) to write it. The murder in the play segued to another book set in Savannah and gardens there I love, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. This literature lover and mother had found kindred spirits. When I told Meryanne I’d been there briefly Mother’s Day, she completely understood. She, too, misses her children.
They headed to projects and I to the pool, where lounges like gentlemen in crisp, white dress coats joined me in saluting summer and bidding my last day of vacation goodbye.
Jnane Tamsna
Like smooth music the afternoon soothed my soul. That night, the moon escorted me to dinner.
“A garden to walk in and immensity to dream in–what more could he ask? A few flowers at his feet and above him the stars.” ― Victor Hugo, Les Miserables
The next morning I woke to wander the property and gardens.
“The Venus flytrap, a devouring organism, aptly named for the goddess of love.” — Tennessee Williams, Suddenly Last Summer
Though Gary doesn’t have a Venus flytrap…yet…he has over 230 varieties on a lush list hailing from the Chilean Andes to Madagascar, from Australia to Hong Kong that continues to spread on 8.5 acres. He has accomplished his “childhood dream of a botanical garden with signs giving the common English name, Latin name, botanical family and geographical origin of species.” A walk through it taught me a lot as did his address (excerpt below) to the Botanical Symposium:
Facing nearly nine acres of water-stressed palm grove, I first set out to create our own organic orchard garden (arsa) where the scent of orange blossoms and mint could waft around colorful aubergines, kale, tomatoes and many other vegetables. Then I put in a border of transplanted olive trees – part of the ‘rescue horticulture’ I practice, saving fruit trees from areas of urban sprawl elsewhere in Marrakech. This created a pathway to our bustan (Arabic for garden from a Persian word that means ‘a place of smell’), which is resplendent with angel trumpets, Japanese mock orange, white iceberg roses and climbing jasmine.
Every bustan needs its water feature, and ours is a zen swimming pool where guests can take a dip before enjoying lunch in the garden, shaded by prolific date palms and mulberry trees. Our two interior courtyard gardens (ryads) feature frangipani, gardenias and star jasmine as well as some rapidly growing olive trees with native viburnums and Mediterranean ruscus in their understory.
pomegranate
On that morning walk I heard in my memory my grandmother humming her favorite hymn: “I come to the garden alone. While the dew is still on the roses…” I thought of a favorite quote by Emma Goldman, “I’d rather have roses on my table than diamonds on my neck,” and saw my daughter at five, plucking pearls from roses. And I realized that when I am present and thankful for now–even when missing my children on Mother’s Day–I can receive beauty and thus feel them there with me. And when I stop fretting about future plans and dwell in the now– of birds having breakfast with me or the moon looking down upon me and those I love a continent away, peace is no mirage. It’s an oasis in the desert.
Thank you to Jnane Tamsna for my stay. As always, opinions are my own.
Luxury Tent Experience…Camping in the Country
Posted on June 17, 2015
Koutoubia Tent at Manzil La Tortue
Whispers within as lanterns flicker, casting silhouettes on white canvas. Stars without, winking from an ebony sky at the palm grove beneath. All is silent but green leather leaves rustling in a restless breeze.
Since I was a child, Hollywood has fueled my love affair with tents. Though Tarzan never slept in one, the adventurous women on African safaris did. So did leading ladies in my favorite romantic movies–Beyond Borders, The English Patient, Lawrence of Arabia. At Manzil La Tortue my adult fantasy of nomadic nesting made chic by sheiks was finally fulfilled. Merging my love for camping and country (Dad’s only idea of vacation involved a campfire, and our grandparents took us every Sunday to visit relatives on farms), my stay at this rural retreat was heaven. As Paula (see video below) said after welcoming me with mint tea, “This is our own little piece of paradise.” I’m so grateful they shared it with me.
I had booked a Sunday pool and lunch day with friends the weekend before. My fish was delicious, the molten chocolate cake amazing, and the pool was perfect.
I couldn’t wait to return for a weekend stay when I’d wander and photograph the property. When I arrived last Saturday with my friend, Jasna, who photographed me for this post, Paula walked us past the herb gardens. Outside our tent we could smell the orange and lime trees, but the breeze also carried mint, thyme, lavender, rosemary, and scented geranium which reminded me of home.
As we passed the hen house I thought of my cousin, Sonjia, who showed my sister, Penny, and me how to gather eggs. I remembered my cousin, Brock, who showed prize rabbits as we passed the thatched area where bunnies were munching on breakfast.
We passed through a gate to a private area where our tent awaited. I hadn’t looked online to see if because I wanted to be surprised. My mind flashed back to last fall when my friend, Monica, and I rode camels to a campsite in the Sahara Desert. I had expected a white canopy cloud blowing in the instead. Instead our guide disappeared to fetch dinner so we stumbled by the light of my phone into a pitch-black tarp where we slept on 2- inch burlap mattresses tossed on the sand.
As I walked inside, I was stunned. By contrast, Manzil La Tortue provided so much more than I expected… glamping at its finest.
Tour the deluxe Koutoubia tent in the video below– an immense 61 square meters/656 square feet. Waking up to morning light illuminating the colorful canopy was as delightful as falling asleep to the wind’s breath causing the canvas to rise and fall.
The rest of the weekend I felt like a kid again in my own secret garden.
As a Southern girl who values beauty breaks in bucolic settings and family, I love that this peaceful place is owned and run by a team of great people: Fouad Housni and his wife Meriame, manager of two companies, Unitours Moroc and Morocco My Way, providing excursions for guests; Fouad’s mother, Paula; and two adorable girls, Lina and Salma. I enjoyed hearing Paula’s romantic story (video below) of passing through Casablanca in 1970 headed to Canada but never making it. She moved to Marrakesh with Fouad in 1981.
Tents of many sizes are available as are rooms in the villa or even “camper cars” for those who want to rough it.
Breakfast is included, and half board and full board is also available for lunch and dinner. As a mom who grilled nightly on my deck in Tennessee and a girl whose dad grilled on every camping trip in Kentucky, I was excited to try their specialty, Planchas, plates of food grilled by guests at the table. Not quite sure what to do with so many olive oils and spices, I was assisted by Brahim, the waiter, then Chef Abdelhaq, who showed me how it is properly done. From Abdessamad, pool tech and security, to Naima who served breakfast, the staff made us feel welcome.
Seafood Plancha
Beef fillet with mashed potatoes, apples, and apricots
Moroccan chicken tagine with prunes
Gazpacho with home grown tomoatos
Marrakesh is a frenetic place–a speedway of honking taxis and zooming motorbikes. Malls and even grocery stores blare “disco” music, and at my last pool in the Palms, the speakers that hung over every lounge chair vibrated from a DJ who made relaxation impossible. Sometimes we need wide, open spaces…especially when the road ends here. Fouad can assist with transportation.
Manzil La Tortue, thankfully, is a No Noise Zone. All I heard were brilliant blue birds singing; fat, white doves cooing; and hens clucking. Whether your “tent thing” is Gatsby, Game of Thrones, or a childhood version in the backyard, here you can play.
Lina and Salma watching a child’s program on a tablet
For the Manzil La Tortue picture gallery, go here.
Thank you, Manzil La Tortue, for a wonderful experience!
Best Beaches in Morocco: Agadir
Posted on March 1, 2015
I was the first on the bus ready to ride.
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.
Sunny Sunday with Marrakech Trekkers
Posted on January 25, 2015
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.
Cindy McCain 
