…and a million other people!
That would be the Bahia Palace inside the Marrakech Medina. Built by Ba Ahmid, a fat 19th century sultan who made sure there weren’t many stairs, and who named it after his favorite wife, Al Bahia, “the brilliant.” It has courtyards with fountains and geometric inland tile as well as exquisite reticulated woodwork arching above the doors, but it’s basically a series of empty echo chambers with fancy cedar ceilings.
How anybody ever lived in the place is left to the imagination, or the importuning guides who will explain which of the rooms were meant for men, and which for women. My movie version has Ba Ahmid, played by Danny DeVito, waddling like a penguin over the moonlit tiles to surprise one of his wives. Her POV would be of the carved patterns on the ceiling
What makes the Bahia Palace remarkable is its ability to engorge large groups of tourists and distribute them , without complaint, through archways into various dark chambers devoid of decoration. And according to recent data, this is the most visited site in Morocco. New Mexico take note! It’s time to turn the Montezuma Castle outside of Las Vegas into a legendary tourist trap. No need for clumsy furnishings, or visually distracting artwork; just a story or two about the cowboy king who came across a dry riverbed of gold while herding cattle, or the defrocked priest with a gambling problem who allowed mafia hit men to hide there in the twenties…
I wouldn’t say we fled the Bahia Palace. We certainly had the intent, but Ella’s energy was waning, so we slowly drifted towards Jamaa El Fna plaza and there I spotted a rooftop where people were seated and possibly drinking Moroccan tea. I was wrong. No tea, but there was finally a resolution to the ice cream crisis.
As we reacquainted ourselves with the pleasures of a cold dessert, we could see from our vantage point down to the plaza where a snake charmer had his cobra at attention.
The sugar hit was enough to propel us to the secret garden. And I don’t use “propel” lightly. It was midday and motorcycles were making their way. It has only been a couple of days, but I already miss the desert hush. (“Vroom! Vrrroom!” “Knock it off, dg!” “What you miss is whacking that golf ball into the desert dreaming of playing a round under par.” “It’s that aggressive, narcissistic noise that motorcycles make. Drives me up the wall.” “Sir Ali would rather have polo ponies and tea?” “I’d rather have motorcycles relegated to southern sporting events and low-rated college campuses. I have fond memories of Hydra, the Greek island where motor vehicles aren’t allowed.” “Tut, tut, old fellow, aren’t we precious!” “Age has its compensations, one of which is no longer having the need to rev an engine to feel powerful.”)
The secret garden? There’s the riad version in Marrakech that we peeked at, but it’s not nearly as fascinating as the children’s book.
