Mali: and a tale of African trade beads

Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, I'm not sure what country I'm in. I blink and I try to make out whether I'm in a hotel room or home in my own bed.

But no matter where I am, there are always beads in my shopping bag.

Beautiful old Venetian trade beads.

Favorite vintage glass beads from Sudan.

Incredible antique glass beads from Mali.

Huge gorgeous old Venezia glass beads from Dogonland.

Enormous bone beads from Kenya. Light wood black and silver Tuareg prayer beads.

So lovely antique white and turquoise glass beads from Mali.

 Intricate hooks I designed and had handmade to hang my beads  (and everything else) on.  Inspired by Ethiopia. 

PS I've just arrived in Cairo and tomorrow I hit the road.  Follow my adventures on Twitter  here. 

PPS Gorgeous new stock of Moroccan Beni Ourain carpets and sequined wedding blankets for sale.  Take a peek right here. 

Marrakech's Corinne Bensimon: a tale of a Moroccan dinner party

She lived in Marrakech down a path at the beautiful Beldi Country Club.  Her door was lit by a Moroccan lantern.

Her name was Corinne Bensimon. She was French.  An interior designer, a stylist, a boutique owner....

She was a woman who loved to laugh.

Her tunic with its grey on grey embroidery was chic, very chic. (I shop in the Men's Department, she whispered to me.)

In the heat of the Marrakech Summer, she had set the table for 9 in the garden.  So lovely.

The wine was poured.  A photographer, a publisher, an architect, a doctor, and more raised their glasses.

  The flowers so scarlet in a muted cloisonne vase.

An old Moroccan door as a backdrop. A spray of buds. 

There was dining and wining and funny stories.

And then it was over. It was far past midnight when we left.

 

As we made our way back down the path, all we could hear was the rustling of the tall grass. 

Can we please live at the Beldi Country Club, too?  I asked my husband. But he just laughed.

Mali: and a bitter tale of missing parts

He's my third, she said, smiling.  And I envied her then.  Not her youth.  Not her beauty.

But her baby. 

Oh I had had my babies, of course.  But they were big now.  Immersed in their ipods, their knitting, their friends.

You see,  I,  too, had wanted a third. But my husband, he.....he had said no.  He had said that two were plenty.  And what could I do, really?  And so a  kernel had formed, tiny but unyielding -- the kind that would break your teeth if you bit down hard enough.  Just a little bit bitter about the missing third.... 

about the one I never had. 

Oh, it was ridiculous really.  After all, what kind of mother was I?  Always busy.  Dashing from one country to the next.  In front of the computer, the fingers flying, the Blackberry rattling against the desk. 

But I envied her, nonetheless.  Not her youth, not her beauty.

But her baby.

Mali: and a tale of life and laughter

Oh, I've been to many places........

But I have never been to a place where people laughed more than in Mali.

The kind of laughter where you have to wipe your eyes, not once but twice.

The kind of laughter that  when you try to stop and speak, you just laugh again.

The kind of laughter where you (seriously) might fall sideways out of your chair.

It might seem slightly deranged if it weren't so adorable. 

I love being around people who make it a priority to laugh, really laugh.  

And I can't help but laugh, too.  Hard.

 
Do you laugh enough?  What can you do to laugh more?