Marrakesh: a tale of Cafe Clock and The Last Storytellers

I grew up with a father who loved libraries.  We used to spend our Sunday afternoons in one nearby no matter where we lived.  I liked those libraries best which paid special attention to the children, with chairs, tables and shelves just the right size.  And, of course, I loved the books with their glossy plastic coated covers.  I took pleasure walking down the aisles, my hand brushing one spine after another, as if they were piano keys. But as much as I enjoyed reading the books myself, infinitely more thrilling was being read to.   My heart tipped open to those kind volunteers who would hold the books aloft and really tell us the stories -- their voices taking on dastardly characters with ease or haughty British accents when required.   I would sit in a chair just my size and be swept away.

When did that all stop?  Why?

I remember when I first went to the famed Jemma El Fnaa Square in Marrakesh.  It was there that I spied a huddle of Moroccans, hushed, just listening.  I peeked through their shoulders and saw an older man speaking in Arabic, his hands gesticulating, his eyes vivid.  What’s he saying? I whisper asked to a man next to me.  Is he selling something? I queried.  No, my neighbor responded.  He’s telling a story. 

Sadly, those Moroccan story tellers seem to be fewer and fewer -- dying one by one, and trumped by the internet, video games and texting. 

Café Clock opened today in Marrakesh, a sister to the well known Café Clock in Fez. There’s food of the simple and very good variety.  But more than that, there are master Moroccan storytellers.  And along with the storytellers are their newly trained young apprentices, some of them women, who will tell these Moroccan stories to you, yes, in English.  Every Thursday from 5-7 in the evening.

Honestly, it’s all too wonderful. 

Cafe Clock

224 Derb Chtouka

Kasbah, Marrakesh

+212 (0)6 55210172

PS If you can’t make it to Marrakesh {and even if you can}, purchase The Last Storytellers, by BBC journalist Richard Hamilton.  Richard is a passionate collector of the storytellers' stories.  Read his book to yourself.  And then read it aloud to someone you love.

Marrakesh: and a tale of a once revolutionary Valentine

You might think you know me but here’s the thing…..I used to be a revolutionary.  

I consorted with campus radicals.   I built shantytowns in protest.  I stood in silent fury at candle light vigils.  I even went to Guatemala to attend the 500 year anniversary of resistance to Columbus. 

I decried the system, I protested organized religion, I mocked state-sponsored traditional values.

And then I met, Chris. 

Chris wasn’t a revolutionary.  Quite to the contrary.  On our second date, I accused him of being a Republican because of his attitude towards medication costs for the poor.  

I didn’t believe in marriage then.  I thought it was a set of societal shackles that encumbered rather than protected.  Chris disagreed.  He was Catholic.  And he wanted to marry me.  (I’m not sure why he wanted to go on a third date, much less marry me.) That was his line in the sand.  And so eventually….I married him.  And it was a happy day. 

15 years later, I am still married. 

Here’s the thing, marriage is tricky and I think that maybe I’m not an easy woman to be married to.  But somehow….he still stands by me. 

And so on this Hallmark sort of day, I pay a little tribute to my life partner, Chris.  

And to you, friends, wherever you may be…….Happy Valentine’s day.  May there always be love in your heart whether you are married, single or something else………...

Image by Photographer Christine Johnson

Cairo: and a tale of the man with {maybe} two or three wives, Part 5

(This is a continuation of the tale:  Cairo: and a tale of a man with {maybe} 2 or 3 wives.  If you haven't already, read Part 1 of the tale here, Part 2 here , Part 3 here, and Part 4 here.)

I was in Cairo, and we were driving, of course, when Ahmed said, Egyptian General Sissi is just like my dead brother.

How so? I asked.

General Sissi’s a sweet talker, Ahmed replied. Strong but a sweet talker. Egyptian women love General Sissi. It was the same way with my brother. You should have seen the way his three wives loved him, all at the same time. He had a way with them.

Really? I asked. Like what?

A smile crossed Ahmed's face and his voice changed when he imitated his brother’s baritone. He explained, This is how it went.  When wife #1 walked in, my brother would say, “Darling! Come sit here, right here, yes, right next to me -- not a centimeter away or I couldn't bear it!” Ahmed's hand tapped the steering wheel for emphasis.

Ahmed continued, Then five minutes later when wife #2 walked in my brother would practically shout “My beauty! I am such a lucky man! Such a very very lucky man!” and then he'd kiss her hand. 

I laughed.

Ahmed went on. Of course when wife #3 walked in, five minutes after that, my brother would say, “Oh my love! That lunch you made…..it was so tasty! I doubt even in heaven lunch is more tasty! Every man is jealous of me!”

Looking at Ahmed's belly, I couldn’t help myself from saying, Well, I think you share your dead brother’s opinion about wife #3, Fouzia. I know how you like her cooking.

Yes, Ahmed said.  In fact, I’m heading down to Ismaliya to check on Fouzia this weekend.  I need to check on all my dead brother's wives, of course -- it's my duty.  So anyway, Fouzia has been calling me every day to tell me what her plans are for Saturday lunch. Did I tell you that she raises chickens? Chickens, chickens, everywhere! Fouzia’s planning on taking one and stuffing it with rice, just for me! Ahmed swallowed hard in anticipation.

I see, I said.  Smiling I added, And will you tell Fouzia that you doubt that even in heaven lunch is so tasty?

Ahmed laughed.  Well, you know, maybe I learned a thing or two from my dead brother.  Then he added,  Now if only I were as handsome as General Sissi.

The Marrakech Marathon: and a sort-of tale of running

When I met him, he had run a marathon and was training for a triathalon. And after we got married, he continued to run despite knee surgery and a bad back.  Nothing serious, nothing dependable.  Just on and off  -- the same way he played basketball and baseball, and the same way he golfed, skiied, climbed, rode and surfed.  It was all now and again.  He was sporty but he wasn't consistent.  Life got in the way and he did less and less.

And then a friends husband, in his 40s, had a heart attack.  Just (with a snap of the fingers} like that.  And it was months later, my husband began to run again.  Not a lot but routinely.  Another friend's husband also in his late 40s, began to run, too.  

You both should run a 10 k, I said, excitedly.   Maybe we will, they replied.    

My son watched his sister -- a girl who tried out for every sport and made every team.  A girl who rode a horse year-round.  With his headphones on, my son mostly looked away.  A little surfing, some skateboard camp, a week or two of track.  But that was it, really.  

Three days before the Marrakech Marathon was to begin, my husband and his friend registered to run the half-marathon.  

The night before the Marrakech Marathon was to begin, my son said, I'm going to run it, too. 

And so they showed up that morning with thousands of others.

My husband and his friend ran.  They ran fast.

 My son, wearing sweatpants and fake Converse shoes ran too.  And he finished, too, ahead of hundreds of others.

I think that there's a lesson here --- a lesson for you and me.  Remember the key word for the New Year? No?  Remember it here again, then.  Foncez!