The London/Marrakech Express, Part Six

It was late morning. We sat in the horned chairs outside our room and pondered our plan for the day.

Luca wanted to explore the hotel again, so while Piero made some calls, we crept through the exquisitely detailed hallways and corridors and courtyards (all five of them).

One...

...two...

...three...

...four...

...and five.

After peering into every nook and cranny, Piero reappeared and we headed for a repeat visit to the souk. We tried to assume the insouciance of locals, but our efforts proved hopeless as everything was so enchanting it required a second glance...

...and sometimes a third.

Caution: Becoming oblivious to your surroundings may result in a real-life game of Donkey Kong.

After my harsh jolt back to reality, we repaired to the safety of a cafe where Luca ordered his favorite new elixir: sparkling water and mint syrup. It tasted exactly like fizzy mouthwash, but Piero and I kept that to ourselves.

Lastly, there was a freshly-drawn henna scorpion to make the outing truly indelible.

Back at La Sultana, Luca discovered the pool had a secret viewing window...

...which could be seen from the underground "Jules Verne" bar.

The waiter said we were the only ones to want to take a photo like this.

But why not?

The afternoon was spent at Les Jardins de Majorelle, the resting place for Yves Saint Laurent.

Formerly owned by French artist Jacques Majorelle (1886-1962), it was purchased by Yves Saint Laurent and his partner Pierre Bergé in 1980. The main residence, designed to emulate a Moroccan palace, sits in the midst of a paradise of lush vegetation.

The palette of red, blue, yellow and green is based on Majorelle's fascination with Fauvism.

When Saint Laurent died, he requested that his ashes be buried here.

Sssshh.

Later that night, we prepared for our stealth mission.

(Note: For very important reasons which I will explain later, there are no photos in this section.)

The Plan:

Famed blogger Maryam of My Marrakesh had invited us over for dinner. When I spoke to her that afternoon, she gently nixed our plans to take a cab to her house because, in her words, "we live in a very remote village. Even the taxi drivers can't find it."

The Pick-Up:

At 8pm we had our driver deposit us in front of a giant supermarket about twenty kilometers outside of Marrakech. Imagine Costco meets Home Depot with djellabas, dust and donkeys and you're halfway there. A few minutes later, a black car glided into the parking lot and the window rolled down a crack.

"Are you Lisa?" asked a deep voice.

I nodded.

"Maryam has sent me. Please to get in."

Inside the car, we found the delightful Jaime and David, two honeymooning New Yorkers who had also been invited to dinner and who also had not yet met Maryam. It was turning into a Graham Greene novel. We bounced on unpaved roads deeper and deeper into darkness, through teeny villages (that I swear are not on any Google map) and finally up to an immense gate. In the distance, through a grove of olive trees, a white pavilion beckoned. As we drove up the long drive, we saw two elegant figures standing in the doorway, silhouetted by soft golden light. This was our first glimpse of Maryam and Chris, her husband. It only got better from then on.

The Night:

My memories, in no particular order:

1. Children playing hide-and-seek in a magical outdoor grotto.

2. Plates piled high with Moroccan delicacies.

3. Touring the jaw-dropping, not-to-be-believed main house and grounds.

4. Being serenaded with an impromptu violin concert by two little girls.

5. Laughter. Lots of it.

6. Luca inside a huge Berber tent whispering with four new confidantes.

7. Moroccan wine (surprisingly good).

8. Discussing embroidery with Maryam, a fellow textile obsessive.

9. Spiky, the huge spiked pet lizard, running down an endless hallway.

10. Saying our goodbyes and hearing, "We met with a handshake. We leave with a hug."

The reason I can't show you any of my photos of the night is for a very exciting reason: Maryam is writing a book about her life in Morocco, due out next year on Artisan Books. Well-known editor Ingrid Abramovitch (author of the just-published "Restoring a House in the City") is helming the project, so it's bound to be fabulous...and of course, mum's the word until then.

I did get clearance on this one, however.

(LBG with Maryam of My Marrakesh. Photograph by Anna Wong)

The London/Marrakech Express, Part Five

It's dawn in Marrakech. Thanks to jetlag, I awaken early and creep up to the hotel roof to see the sun make its first appearance over the ancient medina.

(Marrakech and Atlas Mountains)

Breakfast is a quick affair as we have hired a car and driver for the day to take us on a Moroccan road trip to Essaouira, a coastal town three hours west of Marrakech.

Within minutes, we are out of the city...

...and speeding headlong into the sheltering sky.

We're in the middle of nowhere and our senses thrill to it. After 36 hours of exotic chaos, the stillness is both deafening and strangely intimate. We stare out the window at the unfamiliar landscape and even Luca is silent for once.

Then suddenly I spot something that makes me blink once, then twice. Have we stumbled into a Dr. Seuss book?

A goat in a tree?

How can that be?

In fact, there are three of them, perched on the highest branches of a scraggy-looking tree. Our driver explains the goats have climbed it to eat the argan berries, which are similar to olives.

After eating them, they excrete the nuts inside which are then collected and ground up to make the region's argan oil, famed for its culinary uses and anti-aging properties.

When we pass a cooperative selling argan products a little while later, I tell Piero we have to stop.

Him: Really? You want to stop again?

Me: Yes! How many times are we going to get the chance to buy something excreted from a goat? I'll use it on my skin and you can use it in all the tagines you're going to make.

Luca: That's disgusting. I am not eating it.

Inside, local women sit on the floor shelling, cracking and grinding the nuts into a fine paste.

It does not look like an easy job.

Piero purchases a bottle of the nutty-tasting oil and I buy some skin elixir from this lovely woman. She swears it will make my skin "go backwards in time." (Should this happen, I promise to let you know.)

By now, we are getting so close to Essaouira that we can smell the sea air.

The charming white-washed buildings are a stark difference from the rose-colored walls of Marrakech and there is a palpable hippie vibe here. We walk through the main square...

...past the 18th century fortifications...

...and down to the harbour. The day's catch has just come in.

It is all I can do to drag Piero away from these freshly-caught sardines slathered in rock salt.

I think this fisherman is very "Sartorialist."

We head into the walled medina and wander through the narrow streets. We move slowly in the hot sun past unblinking cats and dusty wares and faded doors that hint at a colorful past...

...past children playing soccer with a dented basketball...

...past regal towers of cumin, coriander, ginger and turmeric...

...past meat and toys, hanging from shared hooks.

We look. We listen. We take it all in.

We don't shop. We watch others shop.

For lunch, we choose one of the countless fish stalls that line the harbor.

After reverent deliberation, Piero makes his selection and within minutes...

...it's returned to us. We try to sear the memory of every delicious bite into our consciousness for retrieval at a later date.

By now, it's late afternoon. We take a walk up to the old fortress...

...and embrace the stillness one last time. The sun is sinking in the sky and it's time to drive back to Marrakech.

As I gaze out at across the endless Atlantic, I try to remember a famous passage from "The Sheltering Sky" but only succeed in summoning the emotion of it, not the words.

Later, back at the hotel, I find the book in the upstairs library.

"Because we don't know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that's so deeply a part of your being that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more, perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless."

-- Paul Bowles, "The Sheltering Sky"