Marrakech: and safari as a way of life {your jungle: real, urban or other}

I was in Napa when I saw it.  The Journey is the Destination:  The Journals of Dan Eldon.  It was in one of those carefully curated book stores, where you can loiter all day with interest.

I picked it up.  I leafed through it.  I bought it {immediately}.

I don't want to tell you about Dan Eldon's journey because perhaps you might like to find out about that yourself.  It's a complex, tragic and inspiring story.  It's also hypnotic {really}.

I can tell you that one of the places Dan Eldon visited was Morocco.  {Of course.}

But more than his beautiful images {of which there are many} and his poetic yet amusing words {many again}, it's his outlook on life that stops me in my tracks, his manifesto.

Here are his words:  

"Free at last" Voyages - the search for clean water in a swamp.

Mission statement for....Safari as a Way of Life

To explore the unknown and the familiar, distant and near, and to record in detail with the eyes of a child, any beauty (of the flesh or otherwise), horror, irony, traces of utopia or Hell. Select your team with care, but when in doubt, take on new crew and give them a chance.  But avoid at all costs fluctuations of sincerity with your best people.

Buy Journey as a Destination right here.  Published by the brilliant Chronicle Books.

Manhattan: and a tale of a return

Ah, Manhattan, that Metropolis of dreams filled with those inspired and inspiring.

I find myself here.  Or perhaps I am just coming back.  My father grew up here, my grandfather grew up here, my great grandfather grew up here.  On Waverly Place in Greenwich village in a 3 story apartment with a proper salon.  The stories I could tell you (Yes, mistresses, scandals, and stolen hearses).  But those are blog posts for another time.

In the meanwhile, wish me well.  I am here to see Artisan Books, the publishing house that is publishing my Moroccan interior design book in the Spring of 2012.  Let's hope they still like it. (Just in case, please keep your fingers crossed, talismans on, and do a little hail Mary for me, if that's your thing.)

Image by Melintir 

Marrakech: and an expat tale without seat belts

I was having one of those conversations.  The kind that goes like this: Weren't you nervous about moving so far away? How could you just leave home like that?  Weren't you worried it would be dangerous?  And what about your children?  I mean, you're not even citizens there......And afterall, it's not exactly like you were moving to FRANCE or .... [insert somewhere "civilized"]. 

Oh, I've had these conversations before.  The kind where I know that the person is covertly thinking....That woman's a little, well ..... CRAZY.  And then they make a cuckoo finger twirling motion near their ear when I'm not looking. 

But here's the thing:  No I wasn't worried.  Because you can look at the world in two ways. A place where you should always wear your seat belt.  Or a place where you shouldn't always wear your seat belt.  You can worry about the What Ifs. Or you can say I can deal with the What Ifs.   Because when you travel off the beaten path, bad stuff will happen (and it might be bad stuff that you have never even heard of before).  But good stuff will happen, too (and it's often extra good stuff that you could have never imagined).  *You see it's a law of nature -- the universe rewards you when you are brave.*

And after a while you get good, really good, at not wearing your seat belt.  So good that you choose not only not to wear one, but to ride on the running board of the car.  *You see it's another law of nature -- when you stick your head out, the wind blows though your hair. *

 
If you do, make sure to wave at everyone you pass by, even strangers.  They might think you're crazy.  But then again, maybe they'll wonder if they shouldn't just give it a whirl.

 

Egypt: and the tale of an ordinary revolutionary

It's hard to explain, she said.  But I feel like I was dreaming before, like my eyes were closed, like there was no hope.  I knew I couldn't leave Egypt because I couldn't leave my parents.  But still I told myself that if I had children one day that I would go elsewhere so that they, at least, could have a future.

And then it happened.  The revolution.

I saw it on Facebook at first -- notices of marches, protests at Tahrir square.  In the beginning, my parents were afraid for me when I walked out the door.  

But it took only two days before my parents understood that this was a cause worth fighting for.  They remembered the 1950s -- a time when Egyptians had a real identity.  A time when people had hope.

The revolution had taught me so many things.  I used to see only the differences between us, we Egyptians-- class, education, our approach to religion.  During the revolution, we mingled for the first time, sharing a dream, a love of this country.  I remember there was one man from the Muslim Brotherhood who came up to me on Tahrir Square and appologized; he said that before the revolution he thought that girls like me were unchaste, bad somehow, but that now he had changed his mind.  Another girl wearing a full face scarf asked if I would look after her daughter while she ran an errand; she said that on the Square she had seen me -- really seen me -- and that she trusted me.  During the revolution, men in beards with prayer marks on their foreheads walked arm in arm with men in T-shirts and tattoos.  

I know now that this is Egypt.