This trip report was written by Mellen Candage, a writer and travel consultant for France. StCirq@aol.com
Pauline posted the report for her. Mellen included many wonderful photos in the Word document, but once again, I could not get them to look good. We will see if we can post some of them in this thread.
An Inauspicious Beginning
11/12/01 - A plane crashes in Queens this morning. I try to dismiss thoughts of it while I finish packing for today's trip. Fortunately, it's not a terribly hectic day at the office, and I'm ready to go when my father arrives at 2:30 pm to pick me up. We swing by school and pick up Taylor. I've said my morning good-byes already to Mitch and Madeleine.
Airport security is palpably stringent. My pockets are emptied, my laptop examined with care. Random searches of bags are being carried out, though not on mine. The people mover that takes me out to the satellite terminal nearly crashes into the one in front of it, then makes a terribly jerky "landing." People are noticeably wary of every even slightly odd occurrence.
At the United counter, an Algerian man is engaged in a lengthy, imploring conversation with the United rep. He's holding a ticket to Paris and then another, six days later, to Algiers, but he has no visa allowing him to stay in France in the interim. He claims a family emergency, a desperately sick child, has caused him to change his travel plans and that he has no intention of staying in France but rather plans to fly right out of CDG to Algiers tomorrow morning. But the United rep is firm - he will not allow him to board the plane until he gets confirmation from the Algerian embassy that the man has the proper documentation or that he has a ticket to fly to Algiers directly from the airport tomorrow.
The man pleads, grovels, but the United rep won't hear it. This goes on for 45 minutes; the United rep lets him call his wife in Algiers, but he can't get through, which makes the United rep even more skeptical about the man's story. They are still arguing when I board, the United rep offering to sell him, for $1600, a new ticket to Paris and on to Algiers.
The plane is only half full. A woman in front of me turns and asks if I have heard the exchange at the United counter. I say yes, and add that it was a bit disquieting. She says "Want to know what's even more disquieting? The guy just boarded!" I don't see him in the mush of people milling around storing their carry-ons, but 10 minutes later two burly security agents carrying enormous walkie talkies come down the aisle and escort the same fellow off the plane. We're nearing take-off time but then there's an announcement that bags have to be removed from the hold and it will take a half-hour at least. Then another team of security agents, and someone else is removed from the plane, and another announcement is made about yet more bags being removed from the hold.
An hour passes. Another announcement - there is a problem with the plane's brakes, and a mechanic is being summoned. Another half-hour goes by. One more announcement - the mechanic brought in to deal with the brakes has discovered an engine problem. By now I am thinking my husband's last words ("You're SURE you want to take this trip?") are becoming prophetic. Takeoff just about shatters what nerves are left of the passengers. We get up in the air, and the plane begins to shake violently. Overhead compartments open and clothes and bags fall out. People scream and clutch each other. In half a minute, it stops, and the pilot (sadistic little bugger that he must be) comes on and says "Sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen. I forgot to mention that the brake work we had done required us to keep the landing gear down two minutes longer than usual, and that's what caused the 'shuddering.'"
Dinner, by the way, was served with a plastic knife, but metal fork and spoon. I guess no one considers puncture wounds to be a problem. It is also the only plane I've ever been on where people kept going "SHHHHH!!!!" if anyone made any noise after they turned the lights off.
Back to the ticket counter. I can wait for a 2 pm train or take a 12:15 one from the Gare Montparnasse. I need to keep moving, so I opt for the latter option, and am soon in another taxi with a driver who appears to be very agitated about some political issue, but who's got rocks in his mouth so that everything sounds like "Eh bof! Mckn foula craj, znf ta, non?" I just nod and say "mais oui, bien sûr, d'accord" until we get to the station.
Meanwhile, my glasses have broken. I've lost the little screw that holds one of the lenses in, and every time I go to a counter (for a ticket or a coffee or a whatever), the lens falls out and I have to do contortions with my bags and bend over and scoop it up. I find a pharmacie at the train station and buy some surgical tape and manage to bind the pieces together, albeit with a huge beige blob over my left eyebrow.
I buy a sandwich for the train and sit down to have a coffee. An elderly woman wanders over and sits down next to me. "Excusez-moi, madame," she says, "mais est-ce que je peux vous poser une question?" I say sure, and she continues: "Est-ce que vous aimez lire?" she asks? Yes, I tell her, I love to read. So out of a paper bag she whips a paperback, a treatise of some kind on the suffering of Afghan women. It's only 150 francs, she says. I say no thank you, I'm traveling and I already have several heavy books with me, and I have no room for more. She becomes very angry and slams the book down on the table several times in front of me, repeating "Il faut que je fasse ça! il faut que je fasse çaâ¦!" then grabs the book up and storms off. What she HAD to do, I don't know - sell the book? It's been a very long night. I make a call to AutoEurope to tell them I'll be arriving around 5 pm, and then board the train for an uneventful ride to Bordeaux on the TGV.
I stoke the fire, gulp a cup of coffee and poach an egg while making a list, and prepare for a busy day. By 8 am, I'm off to Sarlat to the market and for other errands. On the way down the hill I stop for a hug at Madame Lacoste's house, which turns into another cup of coffee, a bit of catching up on local gossip, and an invitation for her to join me this evening for a traditional Thanksgiving dinner.
Though it's the small Wednesday market in Sarlat today, which features only a dozen or so vendors, there are few parking spots to be had, and a big jam getting into the centre ville. I find a parking spot high on the hill above town and walk down with my market basket in the crisp air.
I buy saucisson de sanglier for Patricia, bags of chocolate-dusted walnuts (three different kinds for a taste test), potatoes, walnuts. Mâche, saffron, and apples.
Heading back to the car, I make a detour to wander a bit in the Public Gardens in Sarlat. I haven't strolled through here in 9 years, though I've passed it countless times. There's a particularly lovely alleyway of trees (plane trees that haven't been customarily shorn?) that are shedding enormous leaves. I shuffle through them and admire the gardens briefly before heading back toward St-Cirq.
*photo of gardens*
I take the long way back home, via Beynac and St-Cyprien. I stop in Beynac to admire the river, the lifeblood of the Dordogne. This time of year the landscape has lost its soft edge, and with the fall light and loss of foliage there is a starker beauty to it.
And in the church, the roster of those "morts pour la France" in the first World War.
I leave the village and wander a few back roads before hooking up with the main road back home, satisfied that I have made yet another "discovery" in the Dordogne.
*photo of plaque* *photo of village*
As I pull into my driveway, something drops onto the roof of my car. Getting out of the car to inspect, I see a fairly large, yellow fruit sitting there on the roof. I look up, and above me is a tree laden with these fruits. I vaguely recall Madame Lacoste telling me I had a "coingier" on the property, and these must be the "coings." My grandmother had quinces, but they grew on bushes, not trees, and I remember the fruit being exceedingly tart. These are large, formidable-looking fruits, and the tree is simply dripping with them. By the way, I love my bright blue Twingo!
*photo of car*
Here's one "up close and personal."
*photo of fruit*
In that grand tradition of learning a new word and having it leap out at you over and over again immediately following your first cognizance, coings will follow me throughout this trip.
Back home I make a sandwich and make more lists. The stores are closed this time of year from noon until 2:30 or 3:00 pm, so the forced siesta is upon me, which is fine, as it gives me time to get the fire going again. The electric wall radiators give off lots of heat, but in order to make sure the house stays warm all night while I'm sleeping, it's necessary to stoke the fire during the day and keep the house stones warm. In fact, at night I turn off the electric heaters because I will suffocate from heat if I leave them on. A stone house, once heated, smolders.
Back home in St-Cirq around 5 pm. I've told Madame Lacoste to come around 7:30, but said to come earlier if that's better for her. At 6 pm, I'm on the phone with my office, and there she is at the door. I've got the potatoes cooked and mashed, but the turkey hasn't even made it to the oven yet. While talking to my office, I pour her a kir and shove the turkey in the oven with some sage and white wine, make a vinaigrette, and shred the mâche.
When I'm off the phone, Madame and I catch up on the "St-Cirq news," tales of elderly people who've passed away, young people who've fled to the cities, crops that have flourished and crops that have failed, and a brand new recycling system I will have to explain to renters as well as get used to myself. Madame has another kir; I pour red wine. My jet-lag is beginning to show after the first half-glass. It's been a long trip yesterday, and today was a hectic first full day that began early. I am having trouble being truly coherent in French and am "sounding simple," and can't converse without thinking really hard. Madame wants to discuss difficult topics like September 11, and I know I am being incredibly simple-minded in my comments, but I'm simply too tired to do better. It's not as if I could have an intelligent conversation in English at this point. My travel experiences have caught up with me, and I am basically a basket case and need sleep in order to function.
In a completely jet-lagged stupor, I grab the flashlight with its new batteries and walk Madame down the lane to her house under a panoply of stars around 9:30 pm. Upon returning home, I throw all the dishes in the sink to deal with tomorrow. I take one last look out the front door and realize there is a spider web above the door that is home to about a dozen spiders gleaming in the starlight. They're not harming me, so I leave them alone. I throw another log on the fire, turn off the lights, and climb the ancient stairs to my cosy bedroom lair for another dreamless Dordogne sleep in the absolute quiet of the valley.
People with sleeping disorders should come here. It is virtually impossible not to have the most perfect night's sleep here, no matter what time of year, though I suspect a time of year when a fire is roaring below in the fireplace is ideal. The air, the mattresses, the quiet of the village, it all just comes together to make sleep a brilliant and precious commodity.
11/15/01 â It is past 10 am when I open my eyes on this, my second full day in St-Cirq. It has rained overnight, and the valley is just beginning to steam as the sun pours down from a flawless, cloudless sky. Workmen are drilling and hammering on the old barn just below our property, which is being turned into a house for the gardien of the âpetit chateauâ down the lane, which some wealthy family has bought and is renovating. The fields along the alluvial plains of the Vezere are bare of crops and recently plowed, a fecund brown that contrasts with the green grass of the pastures higher up.
I need coffee and a shower before plunging into last nightâs dishes, which are filling the sink, but once Iâve gotten the pots and pans clean the rest goes quickly. Household chores done, I race into town to see what I can accomplish before the stores shut down for the siesta. Not much. I stop by Simply Perigord, the company that takes care of the swimming pool and other odds and ends for me. I chat with Dy-vid, the affable chap who with his wife and another couple run the place and who ostensibly has risen from Liverpudlian odd jobs man to well-to-do entrepreneur of the Dordogne. He blanches when I tell him of my trip over, then reminds me that in 20+ such trips, I must expect a bit of *nonsense* now and then. I pay a bill, and then he breaks the news to me that thereâs a â slight issueâ with the pipes under the swimming pool that take the backwash down the hill. A slight issue to the tune of about $2,000. I have the feeling that had I not showed up, perhaps there might not have been an âissueâ (I really loathe the use of that word in place of âproblemâ), but I am not about to dig a tunnel under the swimming pool this afternoon to inspect, and, after all, in the grand scheme of things Simply Perigord has been good to me and even invaluable at times and I must trust them. So I give the go-ahead for the work.
Now itâs noon and Le Bugue is shut tight as a closet, so I meander over toward Le Coux-et-Bigaroux, a teeny jewel of a village I have â discoveredâ last summer and want to visit again. Itâs a lot like Beynac, on a completely miniature scale â a handful of totally precious stone houses on a small bend in the river, with no commerce of any kind to mar the image. I want to stop to take pictures, but a truck laden with root vegetables is blocking the road while the driver converses with a villager, and by the time he is finished, Iâm impatient to move on. I take a small, winding road off the main street and am soon heading up into the hills. The views up here are magnificent.
*photo of view*
Itâs not far from here that a British woman I know leases the Chateau-en-Ciel for extraordinary, extravagant week-long excursions into the Dordogne area. I was supposed to write an article about her business for publication this fall, but I doubt many Americans would have pounced on the notion of a luxury trip to the heartland of France in the fall or winter this year.
There is a large plateau up above the river here, with working farms all around, growing corn and tobacco and wheat and sunflowers. In todayâs golden light, they shine quietly, with the occasional tractor or plow evident in a completely serene landscape.
*photo*
I drive home via Souillac and St. Cyprien, where thereâs a deviation that occasions my meandering through tiny villages Iâve never seen before. In one of them, I glance left to see troglodyte formations Iâve never seen before, with donkeys grazing in a field below.
Evening brings a swath of clouds and smatterings of raindrops. The temperature is still fairly mild for end of November, though, in the mid-50s. I have an absolutely monstrous time getting the fire restarted this evening and use up every scrap of kindling in St-Cirq, along with several newspapers and paper towel rolls. Still, itâs only smoldering. I give up and make myself some dinner out of leftovers. Then I scour the kitchen and pack my bags for the long drive to Patriciaâs in the morning. Iâm in bed before the mad rooster stops crowing for the night.
Itâs past 4:30 when I get off at Arles, but I somehow â and it really is miraculous as there are about four different signs pointing four different ways to Les Baux â find myself out of Arles and nearing Mausanne in about 15 minutes flat. Iâm at Patriciaâs house just past 5 pm, and within seconds am fending off Pistou and Chanel, who come bounding out to the car the minute Iâm in the driveway.
Seafood Bourride 1 lb. monkfish, cod, or other firm white fish, chopped roughly 3/4 lb. medium shrimp 3/4 lb. squid, cleaned and chopped scallops and/or mussels optional 1 large carrot,peeled and julienned 1 stalk celery, chopped 3 shallots, chopped fine 1 small bunch parsley, chopped 1 cup water 1.5 pints heavy cream 1.5 court bouillon cubes handful of thyme salt and pepper to taste saffron to taste (i.e.,loads of it)
Serve over couscous (medium grain or Israeli couscous). * * * * * * * * * *
So we dined on bourride and eggplant beignetsâ¦.mmmmmm. Then it was time to pack for tomorrow, do a load of laundry, and admire Alanâs new wine cave. Then to bed in anticipation of the adventureâs beginning.
to be continued...
[This message was edited by Pauline on 11 January 2004 at 10:58 AM.]
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Posts: 26620 | Location: Santa Fe, NM | Registered: 15 June 2001
11/17/01 Alan calls out for me just after 6 am, but Iâm already awake. A quick shower, cup of coffee, re-check of tickets and passports, and weâre in the Twingo heading for Marseille. Itâs a freezing cold morning, and hardly anyoneâs on the road. At the Europcar office, I realize I canât locate the car rental paperwork. To my utter amazement, the girl behind the counter asks my name, checks the computer, and just waves me on, saying âtout va bien, Madame.â
The check-in line is fairly short, but hectic. Muslims returning to Africa are piling huge brightly colored striped plastic bags full of bedding on the baggage checkstand (could bedding be cheaper in France?), and everyone is laden with bags of all kinds even though only one carry-on is allowed. Glancing around, we decide that the Tunis line looks a lot more ominous than ours, though, with a row of thug-like brassy-eyed and tattered men glaring at each other. Our line for Marrakech is simply full of over-laden shopper types and large veil-clad ladies who try to butt in line.
At the counter, the check-in lady asks to see our visas. Weâve both checked on whether visas are needed for Morocco (not), so weâre startled. Patricia tells the woman we donât need them for stays of less than 90 days, and the lady thumbs through a book and says âVous avez raison.â Phew. Then we wait in the security line while people with excess bags are sent back to check them and others are frisked and wanded and asked to empty pockets.
Weâre off on time through a heavy cloud cover and not insignificant turbulence, and Patricia is amused at my anxiousness. Iâm not the greatest flyer under any circumstances, but my flight of last week has jangled my nerves. A stewardess approaches a pregnant lady opposite us and tucks a blanket between her stomach and the seatbelt â first time weâve seen that airline service be offered.
The flight pattern seems to us to be quite odd. We first appear to go straight out across the Mediterranean, but are soon back hugging the coast of Spain. There are myriad huge round brown âfieldsâ of some kind along the Spanish coast. You can see the circular plow marks within them from the air.
After I point out what is clearly to me the coast at Tangier (I tell Patricia with complete assuredness that you can see the circular beach where all the young boys bathe in summertime), we fly straight over Gibraltar, and Iâm completely confused; that canât have been Tangier after all. Then we are hugging another coastline, which seems to mean to us that we must be traveling south along the Moroccan coast. There are more circular fields, 22 of them in one area, all different shades of brown and pale green. We fly over two cities, each of which I assume is Casablanca, before we come to Casablanca itself. Thereâs a sirocco or some other windy phenomenon going on, and the plane is bucking all over before landing, and Iâm pleased to be on the ground when we land. A bus is waiting to take us about 20 feet to the airport entrance.
The flight to Marrakech is shorter and better, with breath-taking views of the stark North African terrain. We fly low enough to see it all â mountain communities surrounded by mud walls, animals grazing, a lone river but myriad wadis, the domed edifices that are the burial grounds of local religious leaders, the Marrakech Express trains speeding toward the city from Casablanca, and more of those mysterious circular fields.
Marrakech is warm in both temperature and welcome. The passport control man smiles at the lime-green ink on my landing card, and another airport attendant goes through the line bringing elderly people to the front â a good thing because this is the longest passport control line in Africa, I expect. There are two men each in three booths, checking maybe 50 passengers, and it takes about a half-hour to complete the job.
Once through we find a nice gentleman holding a âMaison Arabeâ sign awaiting us. He takes our bags and we go to change money from a silent guy at the exchange window. Then itâs into the jaunty little Maison Arabe van, out onto a broad boulevard, and into Marrakech, which is just around the corner.
We turn off the boulevard and head behind the walls of the old city into the old medina, the Jemaa el Fna. The congestion on the narrow street is astonishing, with vehicles of every description coming within fractions of an inch of one another as they maneuver through the crowds.
One of the enchantments of this part of the world is the way its architecture is so protective and inward-looking. There is a feeling of sanctuary within the walls and courtyards of every dwelling. The Maison Arabe has perfected this notion. From the airy reception area, with its antique stone oven and enormous carved banc, one descends into a calm of intertwining courtyards, sitting rooms, and alcoves, as mysteriously laid out as the medina itself.
*photo*
One courtyard, which becomes our favorite place for afternoon tea (included in the price of the room), is open overhead and beautifully but simply decorated in white and Mediterranean blue.
*photo*
*photo*
The finely carved windows of our bedroom suite overlook this courtyard, where birds flock in the evening and early morning, and where one domesticated bird sleeps in the archway that leads into the dining room.
*photo*
We have been upgraded to a suite, which is fine, except that it contains only one queen-sized bed and a long, comfortable window seat that is about as wide as a single bed. They will make the window seat up as a bed for us, and we will switch off sleeping in the real bedroom part of the suite. I get the window seat the first night.
The suite is L-shaped, with the main room off to the left and the bathroom beyond it. In the living room part of the suite is a beautifully carved fireplace and an exquisite collection of water jugs.
*photo*
But weâre eager to get out and explore before sundown, so we unpack quickly and head out to the medina.
Two kittens, one black and one yellow, are lumped in a small heap on the doorstep of the Maison Arabe as we exit. For the following four days, they are there every time we come and go, each time with one draped over the other, fast asleep.
Just walking down the main street into medina is a challenge. Traffic moves in all directions at once, Donkeys line the streets with their noses in feedbags. People walk three and four abreast in the middle of the street, dodging pullcarts, bicycles, taxis, and delivery trucks. The noise level is intense, between all the workmen hammering and chiseling and drilling and the passersby talking and yelling, and the vehicular honking. The smells are pungent â cumin mingled with donkey dung and exhaust fumes, frangipani and sewage, sweat and honey, charcoal and wet wool, roast lamb and orange flower. Itâs a heady, chaotic, intoxicating place.
Armed with a minimalist map of the city that shows the main boulevards, the outline of the medina, and the names of general regions within the old city, we enter the main medina square, where the scene hasnât changed much in a thousand years or more. Row upon row of oranges are stacked up on lengthy tables that are lined up in the center of the market area, the stall owners furiously squeezing and yelling out the prices for a cup of juice. Water carriers with their silver cups hung over their shoulders and their bright red tunics and turbans approach every foreigner who looks thirsty. Snake charmers with their drugged-looking serpents try to lure us to watch them kiss the cobra. A few dozen men are gathered in a tight circle, within which two are playing some sort of card game and the rest are taking bets. Rows of âpetits taxisâ are lined up on one side of the square and, on the other, rows of yellow Mercedes taxis. A tour bus improbably enters the fray, drives around the perimeter, and disappears. The number of women in the medina is minimal; most are tourists, of which there are few as well.
We wander into the labyrinth of the souks for a bit. Thereâs a certain organization to the souks, with most of the inlaid wood shops and all the silver shops and all the jewelry shops and all the leather slipper shops and all the spice shops grouped together, but itâs not that simple â nothing in Morocco is. There is lattice over the alleyways of the souks, to keep the heat down in the summer months, but in November, and at the end of this afternoon just before sundown, it makes navigating within their shadows even more difficult than usual.
Marrakech is not a center for dyeing wool like, say, Fez, but nonetheless there are plenty of sheep in neighboring communities, and djellabas and rugs must be made, so periodically we come upon a wool store with its brilliant offerings.
*photo*
Thereâs pottery galoreâ¦.
*photo*
The marquetry work is admirable. Cypress and lemonwood feature prominently in it.
*photo*
Thereâs even a television souk â a new development since my last visit.
But what Patricia and I are really after is spices, herbs, and potions. We find them at the Berber pharmacistâs shop.
*photo*
The pharmacist is a naturally gracious man â in a nation of aggressively gracious people â a soft-spoken but eager-to-please man who seems ready to treat us as knowledgeable customers and not as targets for endless negotiations. We enter the shop asking for saffron threads, which he has (although not at first in the vast quantities we are seeking), but are soon seated and sampling all manner of dried flowers, herbs, and grasses. We buy cumin and a 12-spice couscous mixture and a 6-spice mixture and ginseng and musk and curry and rose water and who knows what â the weirder, the better. We buy more saffron than he has in his shop, and he has to send a runner to get some from someone else. Then he takes us up on the roof of the building his shop is in and shows us the wool-dyeing enterprise going on on a neighboring roof â todayâs color is indigo.
We manage to peel ourselves away from the fellow at the bar who wants to commandeer our next four days and with our trusty non-map we venture into the souk again.
We return to the hotel and decide to dine there in the restaurant. Itâs very hush-hush and elegant, but we convince a waiter who understands that we want to eat lightly.
Itâs around 11:30 pm when Patricia and I climb into our respective beds and turn off the lights. A perfect crescent moon shines through the latticework of my window. Here and there a catâs meow can be heard from one of the thousands of feline denizens of the city. A motor scooter passes through the alley, the muffled voices of passersby fade into the crevices of the city, and just as I am drifting into dreamlandâ¦â¦â¦
ALLAH-UH-AKHBAR!!!!!!!
ALLAH-UH-AKHBAR!!!!
ALLAH-UH-AKHBAR!!!!
âHoly sh*t!â I hear from the other end of the suite. The prayer continues for several minutes, then silence. I turn over and prepare to begin the descent to sleep again, but within minutes there is a swelling sound in the streets of Marrakech. A drum begins to beat. A crowd is clearly forming somewhere nearby in the medina. Soon there is chanting. Then waves of smaller crowds passing by the hotel street, singing and cheering. Then hordes of children can be heard and, soon after, fireworks erupt throughout the city. Dogs are barking everywhere, and soon thereâs the sound of a violent dogfight. A cat is either outside my door or on the windowsill, plaintively meowing. And who knew that Marrakech was a city full of roosters? They prepare to crow the night away. The cacophony swells and recedes, but never dies down enough to hope for sleep. I try to sort out the sounds and rank them from most to least annoying â the drum wins hands down for the former prize.
Somewhere around 2:30 am, when the roar has died down to a fervent din, another prayer begins. This one is long, complex, and with the bits of Arabic I can recall from long-ago study, it seems to be reciting the five pillars of Islam. The words âRamadanâ and âmeccaâ are audible, but with my brain in an exhausted tizzy by now, it also sounds like snatches of a CNN report: âMULLAH OOOOMMMAAAARRR!!â âJJIIIIIHHAAAAAADDD!!â
In fact, there are three mosques competing at once in this orchestra. Oddly, the prayers are different coming from each, and the tone of each is different, creating a godawful discord on top of the pure noise of it all.
When this ruckus subsides, a new sunami of sounds begins, with people scurrying through the alleyway beside the hotel speaking in loud tones and cheers emanating from first one side of the medina and then the other. The cityâs animal life also becomes revitalized. More fireworks. And then, in a final insult, someone with a horn â an extremely loud horn, and one that mimics perfectly the pitch of the muezzinâs call â begins to blow hard and steady. Whoever the wretch is who is responsible for this is roaming all over the city, but heâs never out of earshot of our room. On and on it goes, and we toss and turn and curse under the covers.
At last, toward about 4:30 am, there are pockets of silence, then a brief stretch of calm. I have practically given up hope of any sleep, but think that perhaps I have one last chance. I am breathing steadily and trying to clear my brain of the clutter that has built up in it overnight, when a bird chirps outside my window. And then another, and then a dozen, and then a few dozen, and then there is a great whirring of wings and a few hundred birds descend on the palm in the courtyard to herald the morning, all bleating their morning greeting. I sit up in bed, looking ruefully out over the courtyard, and at that moment, the call to dawn prayer clamors out of mosques 1, 2, and 3 and I abandon all hope.
As a fitting finale, when the dawn prayer has ended, the cityâs World War II air raid siren goes off for a full minute â JUST IN CASE YOU WERE THINKING OF SLEEPING IN, YOU INFIDEL!!!!
Needless to say, Patricia and I are up in plenty of time for our cooking class. Weâre scheduled to leave at 10 am, but first we have to tank up on coffee after our all-nighter.
Breakfast is delightful, with several kinds of breads and pastries, butter, delicious honey, marmalade, and jam. And coffee, lots of coffee. I donât even drink coffee normally (well, I do in France from time to time), but I need coffee this morning. Reviewing the nightâs events is pretty comical â âHow about that horn? That was a nice touch. What time was that? Around 4?â âYeah, but the siren was really the finishing touch, donât you think?â
At 10 we are at the front desk, where our driver awaits us. Itâs a short ride to the grounds where the cooking school is located. We shove our way out of the street and onto the Avenue Mohammed V, past the Royal Gardens, which are hidden behind a high wall, with only palm fronds showing from street level, down a lane with a number of butcher stalls, past a few of the ubiquitous lone squatters, and are soon entering the Maison Arabeâs other compound, which houses the cooking school as well as a swimming pool and gardens. Eventually, I expect, the spa which was supposed to be open in October but which isnât open yet, will be here.
Karim, our host, meets us at the entrance and gives us a brief tour of the place. Itâs magical, even to my exhausted eyes.
*photo*
Thereâs an Arabian Nights-style tent to one side of the pool, full of low tables and cushions and candlesticks taller than I am. I surmise itâs used for parties and receptions, or perhaps just as a cool place to get out of the heat in the summertime.
*photo*
As we climb the stairs to the second-floor kitchen weâll be cooking in, a group of people passes below â âthe American Ambassadress,â says Karim, âShe comes here often.â Patricia and I exchange knowing glances.
An antique spice chest greets us inside the kitchen, which is huge and light-filled.
*photo*
Karim introduces us to Lali (which means âdarlingâ in Arabic), who will be our teacher, only she speaks only Arabaic, so Karim is there to translate to French for us. But first we take a lesson from him in the origins of Moroccan cooking. We sit together at a wooden table where a sheet of paper and pencil have been laid out neatly for each of us, and we listen and take notes.
Once the liquid is reduced, we remove the chicken from the heat and begin the next âlayer of the pie,â which is an egg stuffing. . While the chicken cools, we break four eggs into a dish and add them one at a time to the remaining liquid from the chicken. We stir and stir until they have scrambled and become hard and absorbed all the juices. Then we press the remaining juice out of them. Lali checks up on us at every stage and whispers to Karim, who passes on her suggestions to us in French.
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While our egg stuffing rests, we debone the chicken and, with scissors, cut it into small pieces. Then we make the third layer of the pie by mixing a bowl of chopped almonds with sugar (Lali likes to use lots and throws more in when Iâm not looking, but Patricia and I agree itâs better not so sweet) and orange blossom water and cinnamon.
After lunch, we stroll the grounds until our driver comes to take us back to the Maison Arabe. Itâs a beautiful day, but crisp. A group of Brits arrives to have lunch, and one intrepid fellow jumps in the pool. Aside from them and a French couple, we have the place to ourselves. The Atlas mountains rise up with snowcaps in the distance. Even with no sleep the night before, itâs a delightful day.
Our driver comes around 2 pm, and we hop in the van with the French couple, ready to go back to Marrakech to do some further exploration with our non-map.
11/18/01 After a brief respite at the hotel, we hit the streets again. Weâre looking for a particular souk that is described as having âbetter shops.â Weâre not truly interested in heading back into the warren of pottery and babouches shops again, and we donât want to run into our friend from the first dayâs trip to the medina.
There are virtually no street signs, except on major streets, and following the incredibly vague map is a challenge. As darkness falls, we enter a series of interconnecting alleyways. By the time the muezzin has called out the evening prayer we are in a shadow world of tortuous alleys where, behind intricately carved closed doors the sounds of families talking and squabbling can be heard, and the first smells of dinner are escaping. The shadows of stray cats bounce on the stucco walls. A boy on a bicycle whizzes by in the gloam. Two men are talking at the entrance to a closed shop. A lone veiled woman slides by soundlessly. We talk about the fact that if our Francophile and other friends knew we were alone in dark alleyways in a Muslim country, theyâd think we were nuts, yet we feel perfectly safe. Itâs actually very quieting to be here, wherever we are. Dark, different, exotic, but thereâs no fear factor.
And just as suddenly as we entered this netherworld, there is light ahead and the sound of traffic, and we have emerged from wherever we were and are on a grand boulevard, opposite a brilliantly lit mosque.
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There is a sign outside warning non-Muslims that they cannot enter during Ramadan. The streets here are large enough that they appear on our map, so we locate ourselves and begin the walk back along the avenue Mohammed V. Itâs a balmy night and, it being Ramadan, everyoneâs on the streets. Young children chirp âBonjour Mesdamesâ at us, and parents smile. I think of how concerned some people were of us taking this trip, and right now it seems ridiculous.
Weâve spotted a restaurant near the hotel that is recommended in the guidebooks and by the hotel, so after changing our clothes and freshening up, we head out right before 7 pm for Le Pavillion. Itâs a stoneâs throw from the hotel, but weâre not exactly sure where weâve seen the entrance. As we walk down the street, a dapper young man pops out of an alleyway and says âLe Pavillion?â âOui,â we answer, and he points down the alley, then continues down the street. Now, this is a fairly improbable entrance to a nice restaurant â a filthy alley littered with stray cats â but sure enough it leads to a door marked âLe Pavillion.â The same young man who steered us here comes to open the door and greet us (how did he do that?). No, we donât have reservations, but they have room for us anyway.
The Brits are having an uproarious time discussing the wedding theyâre going to, what theyâre going to wear, and whoâs coming. The couple next to us rolls their eyes at Patricia, and the waiter indicates that some nights are like this. We have salad and rouget and loup de mer, and itâs all delicious, but the absurd conversations are the highlight of the meal.
When itâs time for dessert and coffee, the waiter brings the American men a plate with two chocolates on it. The loud guy makes a big deal out of this âOh, MMMM! Thatâs good!!!â and then he motions to the waiter and points at the empty dish and says âDoo! Doo!â The waiter is perplexed. âDoo?â he asks. âOui!! Doo! Doo!â and then he holds up two fingers and plasters an exasperated look on his face as if to say âWhat? You donât speak French?â âAh,â says the waiter. âEncore deux chocolats!â And he disappears into the kitchen. âFell right into the fookinâ sandtrap,â blurts one of the Scots. âShoulda seen me!â Gales of laughter.
The waiter returns with another dish, this one with four chocolates. The loud American looks down at it, then up at the waiter, and says âDOO!!! DOO!!â âI ASKED FOR TWO!!â as if some horrific mishap has just taken place. âNever mind,â he says sharply, âIâll give âem to the Scots,â and he waves away the waiter imperiously.
While we sip our coffee and enjoy our own chocolates, the Americans get their bill. They canât comprehend anything on it and the pore over it for an absurdly long time, then finally throw up their hands and just decide to pay it. Bill paid, they get up, say goodbye to the Scots, and then the loud one stumbles and falls to the floor next to the table of Scotsmen. âWhoa there, man!â says one of the Scots. The loud guy picks himself up and waves a humiliated little wave and stumbles out the door. âThat fookerâs pissed,â says one of the Scots.
Having had such a delightful meal, we decide to lounge in the Maison Arabeâs courtyard over a bottle of wine before heading to bed. We are brought a plate of little sweets to accompany it. Soon, the previous nightâs exhaustion sets in and we head for bed. I get the queen bed tonight, and except for the air raid siren at dawn, I manage to sleep through the Ramadan hoopla like a baby.
11/19/01 To the tune of 500 dirhams (about $47.00) weâve hired a car and driver for a half-day trip into the Atlas Mountains. After a luscious breakfast with coffee and two kinds of Moroccan breads, pastries, jam, honey, and marmalade, we step out over the sleeping kittens and down the alleyway to meet Hamid, our driver. He whisks us out of town in a comfortable yellow Mercedes taxi, down the Avenue Mohammed V again, past the old walls of the city.
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After passing the Royal Gardens â acres and acres of gardens behind high walls that limit viewing - the first 10 miles or so consist of olives groves, warehouses, the odd roadside butcher, and acres of satellite communities, Moroccan-style, with mud walls surrounding compounds of apartments. Children play in the rubble that surrounds these compounds and women walk seemingly toward nowhere with bundles of sticks and other items balanced on their heads. Men squat alone and in groups amid the palms and olive trees, at intersections and just along the roadside. Iâm contemplating doing a sociological study of squatting.
Hamid, like all Moroccan drivers, is partial to driving smack in the middle of the two-lane road, straddling the lane and moving over only if it appears heâs going to be overtaken, which doesnât happen very often as heâs got his Mercedes and most other vehicles are slower and shabbier. Eventually we turn off the âhighwayâ onto a one-lane road, and start to wind up into the mountains.
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Hamid points out a few luxurious villas, this one owned by an Italian, that one by a French familyâ¦..
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Our first stop is at a weekly Berber market in the Ouirika valley. Villagers are streaming in across what the guidebooks call âthe sparkling Ouirika river,â but what is today a dry, rocky wadi. Mountain dwellers are arriving on foot and donkey and in trucks and vans. Taxis and private cars are lined up at the entrance to the village to transport people home, and later in the day we see several trucks, brimming over with passengers who are themselves brimming over with goats and sheep and chickens and bags full of market provisions, heading up into the mountains. Thereâs a large Berber village in the hills right over the market town, and many shoppers have come to town on footpaths from it.
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The main market covers an area about the size of a football field, with specialized markets for donkeys, butchers, and poultry adjacent. Itâs organized into mini-souks with the usual goods: vegetables, herbs and spices, household products, clothing, pottery, appliancesâ¦.
The minute Hamid parks the car, we are surrounded by hawkers of various wares, shouting âEh, gazelles! Venez voir! Ce nâest pas chèr, gazelles. Jâai un bon prix pour vous, mes gazelles.â A young man with a bright blue teapot steps up next to me trying to sell it to me, and for the next 45 minutes, despite being rebuffed and ignored, he stays by my side like a puppy, murmuring from time to time and giving me imploring looks.
There are forgers in primitive huts with dangerous-looking fires smoking under flammable fabric and woven roofs â we get out of that part of the souk quickly.
There are grainsellersâ¦.
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and potato guysâ¦..
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And an onion manâ¦.
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Livestock is everywhereâ¦.
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This donkeyâs getting a new shoeâ¦..
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Thereâs even a âparking lotâ for people whoâve arrived on donkeys and mules and horsesâ¦.
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Hamid wants us to see the meat market. Having been privy to a similar one in Tunisia many years ago that is still âfresh,â as it were, in my mind (I literally ran screaming, albeit muffled screaming because my hands were clamped firmly over my mouth, from that one), Iâm not that eager to revisit a butcherâs souk. But this one is remarkably clean and, most important, doesnât smell. Thereâs plenty of air circulating over the stalls, and the meat is freshly killed. Itâs not exactly Fresh Fields, but itâs palatable. You do want to keep your eyes down, as the guy in the green djellaba is doing, though, lest you step on the little piles on the ground between the stalls. Those are piles of hooves â four of them, bound with string and ribbon (just in time for the holiday).
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After about 45 minutes, we are ready to leave the market, along with the many villagers who are streaming out of town. The last sight we see on the way to the car is a fellow walking home with a sheep over his shoulders.
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Back at Hamidâs taxi, Patricia is besieged by men who want to sell her djellabas and cotton robes. We havenât bought a thing at the market, but have sated our eyes, ears, and noses. The djellaba sellers are still swarming around our car as we pull out of town. People are heading for home now; itâs late morning, and a procession of donkeys, mules, horse-drawn carts, and walkers passes over the bridge over the Ouraiki âriver.â
11/18/01 We leave the bustle of the market and climb higher into the foothills. There are children everywhere along the roads, and Hamid explains that they go to school in the morning but not in the afternoon, when they are expected to work. From the look of it, itâs the girls who are working â doing laundry at communal washbasins, lugging firewood, and taking care of younger children. The boys are lounging in groups playing cards, or squatting by the roadside.
Our next stop is at a rug merchant, one carefully chosen by Hamid (who no doubt gets a piece of the profits). Weâve passed several rug shops already. The wares are displayed on high mud walls, beautiful faded colors and simple geometrical patterns. Hamid says the local women use them for barter, but someoneâs making an awful lot of them for sale as well. He also points out that some shops hang them up in all kinds of inclement weather and then sell them as âantiqueâ rugs. Wouldnât surprise me.
Three or four young men are bustling around inside the shop Hamid takes us to. We are steered up to a terrace to take in the view, then we descend to a large room full of rugs, where weâre seated and brought mint tea. One of the men gives us an overview of the kinds of rugs heâs selling. There are six types, he tells us. Patricia and I are both interested in the Berber kilims.
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Rug after rug is removed from the piles at the back of the room and brought out for our inspection. We soon get a feel for the colors and designs we are looking for, Patricia for a rust color, and I for a deep faded yellow. Itâs only two more cups of mint tea before we spot the kilims of our dreams.
And now the negotiations begin. We already know, because Hamid has told us, that we will get a fair price, and now we are being told by the salesman that his prices are the most reasonable in all Morocco, probably in the world. Do they think we are stupid? We of course tell them that we understand all about haggling and that, in fact, we LOVE haggling, and, well, letâs get on with it because we certainly wonât accept the first price. Out comes a piece of paper. This is puzzling. The salesman writes a number on it, an absurd number. This is new to both of us â haggling silently â but we comply and take the pencil from him and write down another number, an absurd number as well.
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Back and forth we go until the salesman reaches the point where he does the obligatory feigning of absolute horror, then caves and admits, well, he supposes he can relinquish the goods at that price, but his family will probably starve for a month because of it, and heâs only doing it because we are such lovely gazelles and itâs such an honor to have us pay him a visitâ¦â¦Bottom line, we buy the rugs for an extremely decent price, and we didnât even have to get shrill. Weâre actually pretty pleased with ourselves.
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The big question â Do you take American Express? â has been answered in the affirmative before the negotiations, so we dig into our purses while the packing crew gets busy wrapping our rugs in black plastic garbage bags and yards and yards of packing tape. Hamid slumps on a pile of rugs, no doubt weary from Ramadan.
So we take our taped-up garbage bags and head even further into the mountains to the Auberge Ramuntchko (and donât you have to wonder where THAT name came from?) for lunch.
Hamid deposits us at the entrance and heads inside to sleep for awhile in the lobby of the inn with other taxi drivers who have come here for the same purpose â to bring Westerners for lunch. He, of course, canât eat because itâs Ramadan. Children on a hill high above us yell âBonjour, Mesdames!â at the top of their voices.
We are greeted and led onto a terrace facing a mountainside. The grounds of the auberge are nice enough, but the view out over the wadi and the mountain is really just one of rocks and dirt.
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Patricia orders rabbit with mushrooms and I order a veal tagine with coings (!) that seems more like beef than veal, but it nonetheless tasty. There are the requisite cats roaming around the terrace, and it seems to be common practice to throw them your scraps, which sends them into fits of fighting.
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Itâs balmy out, and the food is good. A gardener below us is cutting branches off a tree in slow motion. He saws through a branch, then stops for a few minutes. Then he reaches in and tries to remove the branch, but itâs stuck because it has thorns on it. He pauses to think, then tries again. He goes on with this for about 15 minutes while we eat and watch. Above in the hills, a child sings an Arabic song that resonates out over the valley, his voice shrill and clear. Itâs not melodic to Western ears, but itâs a perfect accompaniment to the atmosphere.
Across from us, on the mountainside, a fellow is riding a donkey way up into the hills on a narrow dirt track. Two girls appear on the cliffside and scramble up to the same track. The man with the donkey waits for them as they skirt some big obstacle on the track â a boulder or washed-away portion of the piste â and then they all continue into the blue yonder, to some obscure village perhaps.
Buses go by on the road below us overflowing with people whoâve been to the Berber market. They are nothing more than large pickup trucks with layers of people and livestock on them. The buses lurch on the curves and everyone on the top layer hangs on for dear life. There are people just wandering through the wadi, too â where are they going and what are they doing? Thereâs a big disconnect in this country between people and geography. People show up in all kinds of places where there is nothing for people to be doing.
Thereâs a tiny, tiny mosque, maybe big enough to fit 10 people, way up in the cliffs above us, and suddenly there is the sound of the muezzin calling out the prayer. The young singer is quiet for a few minutes, then starts up again when the call to prayer has ended.
Our fellow guests are all Westerners â this is clearly a roadstop for tourists. But weâre the only Americans. In fact, we are about the only Americans outside the Ambassadress that we see on this trip.
After lunch, we wander briefly into the aubergeâs overpriced gift shop, then get on the road again with Hamid, who is such an affable man, and whom I feel somewhat guilty for having dragged out to a nice restaurant on a day when he canât eat. Then I remember my first night in Marrakech and donât feel so bad, after all.
The owner has a kohl box, but itâs vastly overpriced. Everything in the shop is overpriced, and the salesman, a large man dressed in a white robe and white turban, is a tyrant. Weâre clearly not interested in buying anything, but because Patricia has asked the price of the kohl box, he wonât let go. He keeps after her, following her around the shop and insisting he can give her a good price. She tells him price isnât the issue, sheâs just not taken with that particular box and isnâ
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