Happy to be Traveling

Yesterday. If it weren’t for the prayer broadcast from the minarets five times a day, I would have thought that we were mixing with the holiday crowds on the coast of France.  I’ve given up trying to exchange pleasantries in Arabic; the lingua Franca in Essaouira is French.  And it seems like there’s a crepes vendor every…

Grubb thinks it’d be fun to chart the path to our room. From the entrance into reception, pick up the key Back across reception and up to the next level, thread through salons Out to a terrace, walk across, turn left, walk a little farther Then turn right, step up into a hall and continue…

In Taghazout, the crashing of the surf was our night music. Here in Essaouria, the continual cawing of the seagulls drowns out anything else. Except for the music on the square. We are not far from the fish market where the gulls are on an endless quest for discarded fish parts. Leaving windows open last…

Ice cream.  Wherever we’ve gone so far, there seems to be a shortage.  If it’s listed on the dessert menu, the waiter is quick to be apologetic.  (Of course we have yet to see a waitress.)  If indeed it appears, it is dripped in lacy swirls on pomegranate seeds, or cake.  The markets lack ice cream vendors.  (Ella says “Sorry Jamie,…

Villa Maroc has many nooks and crannies, hidden staircases, and levels of suites and salons. For us, it is delightfully unique. Grubb tracked our path from outer door to our room. He will post that. I will try to do justice to the room. The door (up 3 flights of narrow stairs) opens onto a…

I stand on our terrace at the Munga Guest House in Taghazout for one last look. There is a thick mist and the beach below is stirring. A tractor hooks a small boat and ferries it across the sand to the water for a casual fisherman. Chaise lounges with umbrellas are being set up in…

Taghazout is off the beaten path for most. A surfer town with a surf shop every 20 feet. Meant for surfing. You can take surf lessons with a yoga session thrown in. Malibu on the Atlantic. My shoes have gotten a lot of attention. Instead of sandals, I wear my water shoes, otherwise known as…

Where are my EarPods?  That ocean’s loud!  I mean, after the silence of the Sahara.. Okay, it started with the blue rocks suggesting a kindergarten for adults.  Then, last night and today, families, French, Italian, American, with their kids on the beach and in the restaurants, as if school were out.  Was it?  I know last week was A Moroccan…

somehow, we neglected to publish this from Tuesday.Walking on a different kind of sand. Yesterday morning Ali picked us up at the hotel around nine and drove to a boulder strewn mountain valley outside of Tafroute where the rocks were painted blue.  One thing about Morocco, and certainly about the Anti-Atlas Mountains, if you’re looking for…

This morning, the hotel in Tafroute with its mountain view looks gorgeous. But we are coast bound. To Taghazout, the Moroccan surf capital. Ali swoops by at 9:00 to collect us, dressed for the coast sporting a California T shirt. He has ditched the desert attire.  First, Ali says, we will go see the painted…

I think I’ve got the shot! Okay, maybe I didn’t use 78 mm film and a telephoto lens, but it’ll do for a Sahara morning memory. Leaving camp we said goodbye to Bashir who clasped my shoulder and said, “Bslama, Ali Baba!” We barreled over the desert flats. Stopped at a cozy oases. Three hours…

Monday Just another sunrise in the Sahara. I feel a surprising tug on my heart. I don’t want to leave. But we pack our bags and the moment we’ve zipped them shut, 2 young men are at our door to take them to the car. We are heading west, to Tafroute in the anti Atlas…

Sunday. After dinner last night, around 9:30, the dry heat of the day (nothing extreme in the autumn sun) had cooled so that by the time we went to bed there was a faint chill in the air.  And silence.  And a darkness so deep that even my doppelgänger kept his distance.  In the middle of the night I…

Sunday. It’s sunrise, we stand on a small dune outside our tent facing east. Bashir brings us chairs and coffee as the sun slowly crests the horizon. We wander down to the dining tent where breakfast is available. Spicy omelet, yogurt, assortment of Moroccan breads and jams, fruit, coffee, orange juice. All served. No buffet…

A rolling golden-brown sea of sand all the way to horizon.  The sun, hidden behind a thin cloud cover, is beginning to set.  Outside of a few voices in the distance, behind some dune, total quiet.   Earlier, down in the camp, Bashir pointed to the west in the direction of three large sandy hills.  “I meet you at…