I feel like I am always chasing,
chasing the man in the Moroccan red jellaba.
Sometimes I almost catch up.
But then he gets ahead of me.
Far far ahead of me.
Again.
So much to do. Oh, so much to do.
{on deadline. and, yawn, tired.}
Essaouira: and a tale of Jean and a life filled with adventure
My grandmother Jean was a native New Yorker from Greenwich Village. Standing nearly six feet tall in her stocking feet (but never hesitating to wear heels), she wore a bold red cape and chunky tribal jewelry. Her perfect posture had been learned by balancing books on her head. You could see her from blocks away, particularly as she was always flanked by her immaculately clipped standard poodles (that had names like Genevieve and Charles).
Growing up nearby in Chappaqua, I spent many enjoyable weekends with my grandmother. A graduate of the Juliard School of Music, she would play pieces for me on her Steinway grand piano, her hands quickly turning the note-filled pages. She would also cook for me, as if I were a grown up. Her specialty was banana flambé, and I'd be ushered into the kitchen to watch with excitement the cognac-induced flames.
Over civilized lunches, my grandmother would advise me about all manners of things. Often, she would invite interesting cab drivers from Punjab or Lagos or Cairo to join us, and I learned about their countries of origin over prolonged cups of tea. In typical fashion (for her) my grandmother began learning Arabic when she was 60 – not surprisingly, the sounds rolled right off her tongue.
She was, quite simply, like no one else. Not even close.
I remember – as if it were last week – a particular conversation that we had. She said this to me: Maryam, don’t live an ordinary life -- anyone can do that. Be brave. Live a life filled with adventure.
And so it is that now I pass on that message to you.
Images from Essaouira.
Marrakech: and a tale of the Moroccan Atlas Mountains
Oh please don't mistake me for one of those girls who always has her bed made, or her make up on, or her schedule set.
Yes, please don't mistake me for one of those girls who always has her act together.
Because I'm not one of those girls.
In fact, lately, my mind has been a cluttered place. Jumbled, if you know what I mean. And when it gets that way, I know that I have to get out....
And the Moroccan Atlas Mountains are just the ticket to peace of mind.
Because in the Atlas Mountains, there is quiet ambling to be had.
And discoveries to be made.
And treasures -- of the very most valuable kind - to be found.
You can even set up a shop with the lowest rent imaginable.
And after that.......
with this canopy overhead......
you can fall asleep in a bed just right for you.
So this weekend..........leave your city troubles behind. And escape -- if only for an afternoon -- to your own Atlas Mountains.
Here's hoping they're nearby.
Mirleft Morocco: and a story of twilight
There's something that happens at dusk, when the sun sets, when the lights are dimmed, when the candles flicker.
It's something like, well, magic. Yes, magic. Because what else can explain why -- suddenly -- spaces become more intriguing, conversations more thoughtful, faces more mysterious?
Why suddenly people reveal their secrets?
What else can explain why everything, yes everything, becomes more beautiful........
at twilight.....
PS I've hopped over to Washington DC on assignment:-)