Marrakech: and a tale of Peacock Pavilions in the news

 You know, it wasn't a fairy tale building Peacock Pavilions.  To the contrary. There were disasters.  

There was the contractor who spent all of our money, leaving us with a building site only a third complete. There was not one, but two mortgages.  There were our retirement funds cashed in in their entirety because we didn't know what else to do.  There was a foreign government who wouldn't issue us permits for reasons we couldn't understand.  There was a building crew that spoke a different language than we did.  There were windows put in upside down and staircases torn out because they were wrong, all wrong.  

Yes, there were bodies strewn in the wake of the making of this dream of ours.  There was depression.  There was a desperate wringing of hands, over and over and yes, over again.  

So remember....Peacock Pavilions wasn't made from fairy dust but from a mixture of hardship and folly. Don't let the pictures in the glossy magazines fool you.

And speaking of those.....

An 8 page feature in the February/March 2014 Elle Decoration, the Netherlands. 

Thanks to Laura van der Linde for sending the images above our way.

My tips for Moroccan-style entertaining at Peacock Pavilions are on Lonny in March.  Check out the floor that was done by Melanie Royals and her team.  My inspiration for that project was African wax resist patterns on cloth. See the Lonny story here.  

Images by Patrick Cline

Peacock Pavilions is mentioned in Vogue Italia this month as a great place to stay in Marrakesh:-) Take a peek at the story (in Italian) right here.  Many thanks to Alessandra Turci.

PS It's finally Spring time in Marrakech. Sometimes the Spring is all the more beautiful when the winter has been especially cold, yes? Hope you are managing to thaw out wherever you are.  

Philosophy's Amazing Grace: and a tale of how I learned a lesson from a beauty product

I had given her the middle name, Grace, in a fit of gratitude - so desperately thankful that she had been born without the problems the doctors predicted.  

Back then, when they were tiny, I still believed that I could greenhouse my children.  I thought that I could give them just the right ingredients -- the right teachings, the right lessons, the right examples -- and grow them into the sorts of people that I wanted them to be.  I learned fast that parents were important but not that important.  I learned that my children were their own people, independent of me and what I did and said.  That they developed their characters and characteristics largely on their own.  I had to content myself with floating on a wide perimeter of their existence, where I would cajole, encourage and chastise, understanding all the while that their love of basketball and math and drawing really had very little to do with me and a great deal to do with them.  

I continued to try, nonetheless.  Sitting them down for "talks" and "life lessons". They mostly put up with me.  

I was in New York roaming the aisles at Sephora looking at products that promised to restore my youth in a few precious drops.  I also needed to buy a gift for my daughter -- the one with the middle name, Grace.  I stopped at the Philosophy counter in front of their Amazing Grace products.  And I saw it -- the lesson.  

I read it.  And then I read it again.  Then I stopped the saleswoman and asked her if she had read it.  She said she had but she stopped and read it with me, anyway.  We both nodded at the message's relevance.  It was like a song whose lyrics we suddenly paid attention to -- instead of just listening to them carelessly as if they were in another language.

I bought it for her, for Skylar Grace.  But I also bought it for myself. For the reminder that it gave me, for the lesson that it taught me.  

{If I had been duped by smart packaging, so be it.  I had paid far more before for far less.}

Marrakesh: and a tale of Swatchroom and Project Soar

Dear Friends,

I'm hitting the road.  I'm leaving for the US tomorrow.  I'll be in Washington, DC & New York for work & fun.  While I am in DC, I'll be attending this event on March 7 and 8 organized by my uber-talented pals at Swatchroom!

There will be live painting, live music & live performance art.  There will also be some incredible art for sale and an amazing crowd! A portion of proceeds go to Project Soar Marrakesh, a cause so very close to my heart.  {If you don't know about Project Soar, I can't wait to tell you more.  If you do know, then you know it's a project that's all heart, benefitting underprivileged girls in my Moroccan village.}

Come and join me on March 7 & 8 if you are in the DC area!  Find out more here.

I hope to see you there!  

xo

your friend in an olive grove,

Maryam

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.