Kabul: and a tale of remembering yet again

It's so easy not to look.  It's so easy to stay in our own little worlds where dramas revolve around broken appliances and children with the flu, and alarm clocks that don't go off.  It's so easy to live in a way that's safe and sanitized, away from the Syrias, away from the refugees, away from the child soldiers.  

We can pretend that it's not happening.  We can sweep it under the carpet.  We can turn off the nightly news.  We have those choices.  Lucky, lucky, aren't we?

I wrote this blog post from the restaurant that was just bombed in Kabul Afghanistan.  How ironic that I was writing about remembering a different war when I was there.  And now I will remember this restaurant and this war  and ponder the inexplicable nature of inexplicable things.  

Terrible. So so terrible.

I will also try to remember that when small things go wrong that seem so very tiresome in my own little world, to snap my own fingers in front of my own face and snap out of it.  I've disappointed myself in that department lately.

And so to mourn this sad event in Kabul, let these words be my own moment of silence without the silence.  And let them also be a reminder to me to do better at doing better.  

PS I'll leave you with the series I did on finding beauty in Kabul:

Kabul and the quest for beauty: a tale of music

Kabul and the quest for beauty: a tale of the miniaturists

Kabul and the quest for beauty: the tale of the woodcarvers

Kabul and the quest for beauty: a tale of Zarif Design

Kabul and the quest for beauty: a tale of the Afghan jewelers

Kabul and a tale of beauty's uncertain future 

Marrakech Morocco: and a tale of Femina magazine fashion photo shoot at Peacock Pavilions

They were Swedish and Danish.  They were mostly blond. They were Femina Magazine.  

A team of 6 - a fashion editor, 2 models, a stylist, a makeup/hair artist & a photographer - came to Peacock Pavilions to shoot not 1, not 2 but 4 fashion stories (and a magazine cover!).  I couldn't have been more excited:-)

They came with bags and bags of clothes that they hung here and there. 
  They came with shoes arranged in rows and rows.

 They came with pairs and pairs of sunglasses.

And oodles of jewels.

{The latter displayed for selection in interesting ways like on our Moroccan mobile sink from the 1940s.}

 There were flowers and herbs from our garden to weave into the hair of the models. 

Peeking through the blossoms, there were looks for consideration.

The hairstylist/makeup artist did her magic. 

And finally....there was shooting!  The camera was enormous!

German model Claudia Raba by the pool....

and in the Medina Pavilion.

And Swedish model Ingrid Wrisley in the Atlas Pavilion.

and with all eyes on her....

in the main Pavilion....

There was furious photo editing......!

but we'll have to wait for the final images in the Spring issues of Femina!  Many many thanks to the sweetest fashion editor I've ever met, Sarah Thornqvist.  We loved working with you and your adorable team!

PS  With blooms in her hair, Ingrid perused my book, Marrakesh by Design.  She may be Swedish, but I hope she won't soon forget Marrakesh....

PPS Photo shoots are one of our very favorite things to do at Peacock Pavilions.  Fashion, jewelry, handbags, bedding, homewares -- we love it all. Our rates are super reasonable even for new brands, and we can help you with everything from models, to photography, to flowers, to props, to camel rental {really}.  Or just come with your goodies and we'll be the most charming shoot location, while providing you with yummy meals and cocktails.  Bookmark us and contact us here to inquire.

Morocco: and a tale of New Year's Resolutions

I bought a plane ticket to India, she said in her French accent.

Oh! I exclaimed.

You know I've been saying I want to go to India for years.  But it always seemed like I didn't have enough money or enough time or enough something.  And then I asked myself, If not now, when? So I went and bought a ticket.  Quickly.  Just like that.

I nodded my head and said, Yes, that's the right attitude.  Because, for so many things --- if not now, when?

My family and I were with her, with this girl and her family for the holidays.  Huddled under our blankets in a converted goat shed, we discussed matters of small and great importance.  We solemnly declared that we needed to do something -- something dramatic -- to mark the new year.  We decided that on New Year's Day, we would plunge into the frigid winter sea and swim.  We'd wash 2013 from us and we'd start fresh. We'd start better.

And so it was that on New Years day, we arrived at the beach. We peeled off our scarves and our jackets. Soon all that was left was our swimsuits and the sand. Our children chickened out at the last minute but the rest of us held hands and ran screaming like banchees into the sea. We sucked in our breath and we plunged under the waves. And under again. And then....we swam, the icy water invigorating. Later we scrambled shivering out of the sea. Elated.

It was 2014.

That night, I announced that rather than having a resolution, we should have a mot clef, or a key word for the year. We decided on the word, Foncez! Which in French basically means, Go for it! Yes, Foncez!

And so now, I pass this word to you....

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PS So nice to be featured on EasyLiving Mag. Check it out here.

Mirleft Morocco: and a tale of New Years Eve

We left it all behind: Marrakesh and its hustle. The restaurants, the clubs, the bars. The fancy cocktails and sometimes fancy people. The beds with their down blankets and the trickling fountain with their roses.

We took only the necessary:  books, music, the odd change of clothes.

Hour after hour we drove until we arrived in Mirleft. One main street of bohemian cafes and lopsided hotels, and a beach vacant with the exception of surfers in wetsuits.

With our friends, we settled into a converted goat shed. {The goats were now next door.} Shade was provided by an argane tree.

On floors covered in reed mats, we slept on mattresses piled high with handmade woolen blankets.  No microwave and no oven, only a  circa 1975 stereo and refrigerator.  

With the husbands and children sleeping in their beds, every morning we climbed a rickety wood ladder to the roof.  There we meditated, said affirmations, journaled and read.  We spent afternoons on the beach bundled up in scarves, reading memoirs of religious leaders and Patty Smith (but not the two together).  

We dressed like gypsies. We drank bottles of good Moroccan red wine to keep warm.

And so it was that far from the Red City's lights that we celebrated New Year's Eve.

Fishermen in small blue boats caught our dinner.

We marinated tiny salmon filets as hor d'oevres.  We braised artchokes and fennel.

The children set  a long wooden table with vintage china.  They made a centerpiece of rocks and shells collected from the beach, lit by lanterns made from old jam jars and painted tomato cans.

We ate and ate and told bad French jokes.  Aftewards the boys smoked their Cuban cigars.

DJ Delphine was in rare form with an all 1970s playlist.  There was dancing, really for hours.  

At midnight we drank champagne and gave kisses .   

It was sort of perfect.

Here's hoping you had the happiest of New Years eves, whether spent in a goat shed, a yurt, a bar, or cozy in your own home.  Happy New Year, lovely people.

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PS Excited to be starting off the New Year featured in the National!  Many thanks to writer Sarah Gilbert!