Road Trip Blog
Casa Nuevo was a sweet two room adobe bungalow, simply furnished but stylishly designed with great art on the walls and the ubiquitous bleached skull above the bed. The front windows gazed upon the distant Chisos Mountains, two chairs and a fire pit adorned the […]
Leaving Austin early on a Saturday morning, I quickly discovered that our plan to make a few quick stops in the Hill Country outside Austin on our way south was nearly impossible. There was so much to do and we had luckily timed our meander […]
I’d been to Texas once before, 15 years ago. I visited San Antonio over a weekend, explored the Riverwalk, checked out the Alamo. I’d always wanted to go back, especially since I’d been hearing great things about Big Bend National Park, a remote and wild swath of land bordering the Rio Grande, one of our least visited parks in the National Park system. With all the fuss about the border these days, I thought it might be interesting to see the physical manifestation of that divisive and loaded word. I was also curious about Texans. It’s never wise to categorize the people of an entire state, though there is plenty of that going on these days. I decided the best way to implode one’s assumptions was full immersion. A classic Texas Road Trip was in order, one that would begin in Austin, that proverbial hipster town of BBQ, food trucks, and live music wafting out every other doorway. The road would then wind itself towards West Texas through the Hill Country to a few “middle-of nowhere” towns, with an extended stay under the wide open skies of Big Bend Country. It’d been too long since a ribbon of blacktop unspooled before me. I was ready for adventure.
First stop: Austin. Let’s just say Austin can be overwhelming. Planning a three day stay is challenging. (One can access the 48 or 36 hr guides published online, but Austin is a city where your itinerary should best be left to serendipity). There are three must-do activities; eat, drink and listen to live music. Austin is unquestionably a city of youth, with nearly 2/3 of its population under the age of 44. The energy is palpable on the streets. I had the impression that residency was only granted to those under 50, beyond that and you were encouraged to move out to the ‘burbs. Many locals we talked to complained about the popularity of their city. With a 34% increase in population in the last decade infrastructure was not keeping up. Rents were rising, the edgy cool parts of town were disappearing, the cost of living was skyrocketing, and traffic was nightmarish. That being said, Austinites love their city and wouldn’t move anywhere else. A conundrum for sure. Community biking and the dreaded scooter craze has taken over in attempts to reduce clogged streets. A word of caution, watch before you step off a curb. Uber drivers told us that emergency rooms were filled nightly with drunk tourists, both bystanders and riders, swiped off those scooter death mobiles. They tend to muck up a city’s appearance as well, riders leave them where ever they want, strewn on lawns, sidewalks, in the middle of parks. Get out early if you want to experience the city in solitude, by noon on a given day in Austin the sidewalks are jammed. Roaming mobs of young women celebrating bachelorette parties are a common sight, so much so I was at first weirded out. Are there that many people getting married in Texas?
There are a few distinct areas of the city a visitor wants to check out. Rainey Street corridor, a two block radius of repurposed one-story homes houses funky breweries and swanky cocktail bars. The 6th Street area(Dirty Sixth, as the locals call it) is likened to Bourbon Street in New Orleans, a stretch of road known for its nightly debauchery. Most locals told us to stay away, so we did. East Austin has the feel of the early 2000’s in Detroit or 1980’s Wicker Park in Chicago. Most of the best food trucks and BBQ (La Barbecue, and Veracruz All Natural) are here and some genre- busting eateries. I had a mind-blowing meal at Kemuri-Tatsuya, a mash-up of Japanese and Tex Mex isayake cuisine and the most exciting place I ate at in Austin. There is a separate menu for the adventurous willing to try “exotics and rareties” rated as nasty, funky or not funky. Think marinated jellyfish and monk fish liver. I indulged in BBQ Tsukemen ramen and smoked fish collar. Exquisite. (And thats saying a lot, because we ate amazing chow everywhere we went, including Odd Duck, a farm to table masterpiece of open kitchen theatre, a very close second.)
My favorite area was South Congress(SOCO), a perpetually hipster enclave where quirky shops traffic in vintage, artisan and original brands. A handful of great restaurants and food trucks plus the creme de-la-creme of music venues, The Continental, was a stones throw from our hotel. Mid- century modern and kitschy 50’s are competing aesthetics in this hopping town and our hotel, The Kimber Modern, a half block off Congress fell into the former. An intimate seven-room hotel with no front desk and keyless entry proved to be an ideal spot to base our explorations. An inner courtyard is shaded by a gargantuan old live oak, a calm and peaceful respite from the wild vibe out front. At any time, day or night, South Congress is teeming with locals and tourists eating, drinking and enjoying themselves. The street is also home to several chic boutique hotels whose courtyards open nightly to dj’s spinning records , full moon parties and record release events. Jo’s Coffee (where a line forms at 7am every morning), colorful wall murals( an Instagrammers delight), and competing taco bars(Guero’s and Torchy’s are must haves) attract a steady stream of happy people. The Austin Motel is a fabulous 50’s style motel with a pool/outdoor bar that was jamming with fun sun-worshippers every afternoon. The pool is open to the public, so for a small fee we laid our towels on the astro-turf and people-watched the goings-on of a company party. Wading in the pool between blow-up flamingos and pineapple floats, we talked to the CEO of Marine Layer, a hot retail chain out of California that was launching a new brand. He had brought the entire team to Austin for idea-generating and bonding over rose slushes and kitschy pool toys. We got a personal invite to the party at the new store on South Congress but alas, we were heading out of town and would miss it. (darn, these people were fun to be around!) One could spend their entire time in this neck of the woods and call it good but as I do in every city I visit, I walk.
I quickly discovered that Austin is not an ideal city for perambulation. (Thus, the ubiquitous scooters.) The boulevards are wide and heavily trafficked. With the exception of the Downtown, which houses the beautiful Capitol Building, the iconic indy bookstore Book People and the equally awesome Waterloo Records, areas of interest are spread out. We spent our first day walking to Zilker Park, a green space on the east side of town. I was keen to take a stroll on the footpath that surrounds the park. I was also intent on seeing Barton Springs Pool, a natural spring fed watering hole with an average year round temp of 68 degrees. We arrived when it was closed for cleaning but the pastoral beauty of the place was unrivaled. It’s got a cool history as well with roots reaching back to an era when the Tonkanawa Native American Indian tribe used the springs for purification purposes. I imagined what a treasure it is when the hot summer rolls around. On our return walk, we managed to take a side trip to Umlauf Sculpture Gardens, a definite must stop for art lovers. An outdoor park-like setting filled with over 50 bronze sculptures created by the prolific artist Charles Umlauf, the gardens are filled with touchable works of art. Hunger propelled our feet towards Terry Blacks BBQ by 11:15, where we realized we should have come a tad bit earlier. We had skipped the famous Franklin BBQ on the advice of several uber drivers who said there were other better choices. Despite doors opening at 11am, we had at least 150 people ahead of us. Forty-five minutes later, I sat down to eat the tenderest brisket saddled with a peppery slaw and warm from the oven crumbly cornbread. I’d earned it, we walked 8 miles before lunch!
Another popular way to enjoy the green spaces in Austin is to rent a paddleboard or kayak and check the skyline out from Ladybird Lake. We did not find the time to do that but we ogled the hordes of folks that were from the Pflugar Pedestrian Bridge Bridge. And if you are into super touristy things and love the idea of watching dark hordes of bats careen about into the sunset, then by all means make sure you stake a spot on the South Congress Bridge as the sun goes down. From April to October, the nightly spectacle attracts all kinds of nature /vampire fanatics. Unfortunately, the bat viewing interfered with our evening ritual of gorging on the next best thing, so maybe next time.
A word on eating in Austin. Between the food trucks and the myriad selection of excellent restaurants, it’s wise to have some semblance of a game plan. Be sure to eat at least one breakfast at a taco joint (migas, please!), enjoy a leisurely lunch on an outdoor patio watching the vibrant and impossibly cheery crowds before you (Perla’s for their baked oysters & June’s All-Day for a taste of Paris, great for Happy Hour as well) or get in line early for a gut-busting meat feast at one of the towns illustrious BBQ joints, and plan your evening meals in different neighborhoods to experience the vibe. Yeah, you could skip a meal but you’d be doing yourself a disservice. This town is exploding with exciting taste profiles.
Occasionally, Austin will get deluged with spring showers and thunderstorms. One of our three days here was a washout so we decided to hit up the Lyndon Baines Johnson Presidential Library. and I’m so glad we did. A surprisingly intimate and moving exhibit, we spent hours peeking into a replica of LBJ’s oval office, listening to actual historic White House recorded phone conversations and reading heartbreaking and poignant letters from Jackie Kennedy to Johnson after Kennedy was shot. Even if the sun is shining, this is a worthwhile break from the orgy of eating and drinking.
Music is the the backdrop to everything in Austin, the lifeblood that feeds the contagious energy on the streets. Upon arriving in Austin, we discovered Al Green was playing on the UT campus and snagged last minute tickets. At 73 years old, the master of soul still knows how to work an audience into a frenzy. A wild surprise was the front band, Tank and the Bangas. Winner of NPR’s Tiny Desk contest in 2017, the 12 piece melds a fusion of New Orleans jazz, funk, hip-hop and spoken word performance into a set that astounds. I was in awe, they were weird, eccentric and dazzling in their originality. Late night found us checking out some great clubs in town. Highlights were the Continental Club, where we saw Barfield, the Texan Tyrant of Funk. Indeed. A beloved fixture on the local music circuit, Mike Barfield and his band delivers a scorching brand of Texas funk that had us dancing madly with the enthusiastic crowd. The owner of the Continental Club calls him “the baddest mofo on stage anywhere in the world.” And we just wandered in off the street. Right place right time. Another great spot is the classic honky tonk, Broken Spoke. Spending a few hours ogling the wildly diverse crowd two-stepping on the massive dance floor is a throwback to another time.
By the time we left Austin, we were staggering. The level of energy and activity takes a toll, especially when you want to pack it all in and spend the wee hours following the music. Three days is not enough and yet it is. Pace is important and I would recommend resigning yourself to scheduling in some recovery time after your trip. It was curious, many locals questioned us as to why we came to town. They were surprised it was a tourist destination, pointing out that it didn’t have the culture or world-class museums of other major cities. I found Austin beguiling, the city captivated me with its youthful exuberance, its joyful celebration and zeal for the good things in life. On the morning of departure though, I was ready. I was pumped we were on our way to remote and unpopulated territory. Some down time under the stars was needed.
“What draws us into the desert is the search for something intimate in the remote.” -Edward Abbey I have been looking forward to writing about the desert, I knew that the words and memories would come easily, my time there was transformative and I have […]
The snow-capped Atlas Mountains are a constant looming presence when visiting Marrakesh. Running 1200 miles across the north rim of Africa, a dozen summits top 13,000 feet just south of the city. They serve as a resplendent backdrop to many iconic photos. I was excited […]
“Here we are, all of us: in a dream caravan. A caravan, but a dream—a dream, but a caravan. And we know which are the dreams. Therein lies the hope. -Sheik Bahaudin
Touchdown in a foreign city. You know that complex feeling of anticipation and apprehension? I had many preconceptions of Morocco, one of them being that customs would be a nightmare and emerging into the unregulated arena outside the airport doors would be chaos and I’d be immediately exposed as a neophyte solo traveler and be set upon by unscrupulous drivers who saw me as prey. Well, that didn’t happen. The travel gods smiled upon me as I was disembarking the aircraft when I noticed the woman standing in front of me was sporting a backpack with an MTS logo hanging from it. A fellow traveler. Taunya from Seattle was as relieved as I was as we made our way through an uneventful customs area(though the agents were surly and very very serious), retrieved our luggage(mine much bigger then hers, ha) and squinted our way into the Moroccan sunshine. Trepidation arose as I scanned the crowd, not seeing a driver with the MTS insignia, when Taunya calmly tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to our man. I relaxed. I can do this. Lucky for me, a stranger just became a friend.
I know what you are thinking. My first day in Morocco and I’m going to describe what is basically a spa experience? My “treatment” set the tone for my trip, literally stripping away any preconceived notions I had about what I was about to embark upon. Besides, I was stoked to try something I had read about and had been described as an essential part of the Islamic way of life. After all, the hamman is one of the four basic elements in the Medina, or the ancient walled cities of Morocco, the others being the bakery, the mosque, and the fountain. A hamman is at its very basic a public bath, a vestige of past centuries when indoor plumbing was not a thing. Today, every town and most villages have a public hamman, its function both social and practical. Quarters are separated by gender and apparently the atmosphere is very different in each case. For women in the hamman, it is an animated and social affair. An opportunity for camaraderie and a relaxing of the stringent rules regarding clothing and modesty. Steam and water are the two primary sources of relaxation but there is an additional element that ups the ante for ones definition of serenity: the loufah. Scrubbing one another’s skin until raw is considered cleansing, hygienic and leaves one feeling renewed. I understand its a weekly thing.
I had arrived a day early and it was late afternoon. Taunya and I had made plans to eat a traditional Moroccan meal in the early evening. I had a few hours to kill and I decided to call on a whim and see if I could book a traditional hamman to renew myself from the long trip. Imagine my surprise when I showed up for my appointment and my attendant was male. I was momentarily taken aback. I got the memo on modesty in Morocco, my suitcase was filled with appropriate attire for a Muslim country, loose fitting pants, long sleeves. it seemed strangely ironic then to be standing in this beautiful treatment room wrapped in a terry robe when a male attendant enters and gestures for me to disrobe. I waited for him to depart. I looked around for the modesty towels. I’ve had male attendants before and discretion is usually primary. The towels might be miniscule swaths of fabric, but a modicum of privacy is usually afforded.
When I checked in, I had been given a flimsy gauzy strip of cloth, a narrow diaper attached to two strings. I had to try the thing on several times as I couldn’t decipher back to front. This is what I had on as my hamman expert brusquely guided me to the first of three marble tables. The room itself was stunning, iridescent tile covered the walls and steam billowed under the elaborate arches at the ceiling. The first stage was a black soap rub to remove all impurities, followed by the highlight, the loofah scrub. What started as a pleasant tingling became borderline painful as the top layer of my epidermis was scraped over and over. I can’t say it was relaxing, in fact my man’s manner was rough and efficient to the point that I felt like a rag doll. My attendant tapped me on the shoulder to show me the disgusting detritus of skin left on his mitt and the table around me. He was triumphant as he waved his mitt in the air. The last stage of the treatment was an orange blossom oil massage. As the intoxicating fragrance filled the air and the burning sensation in my skin subsided, I began to finally relax as the oil anointed my newborn skin. As I was left on the marble table to luxuriate in the aroma, I pondered the obvious disconnect between the world “out there” and the the one in here. I thought about how this was a tourist hotel and these treatments were likely geared towards westerners. I imagine a visit to the community baths would be a much more authentic experience. At the very least, I’d experienced the pain/pleasure of the loofah and it it was oddly comforting. Shedding the old. A useful metaphor for beginning my adventure.
Marrakesh is a Muslim city influenced by its proximity both to the towering Atlas Mountains and the vast sand dunes of the Sahara desert . Home to a population of of over 1.6 million, I immediately noticed the diversity of its people, especially within the walls of the old medina. It is a young country, 45% of its population is under 25 and that contributes to an increasingly modern viewpoint. I began to notice distinct differences in the way people dressed and behaved. The Berbers are the ancient indigenous race of Morocco who make up 60%of its population. Though a majority they struggle to maintain a traditional identity under the dominant minority Arab culture that took hold in the 7th century after the Islamic Conquest. The native Berber language had just recently been recognized as an official language of Morocco and is now being taught in schools. Moroccans are obviously proud that their version of Sunni Islam is deeply tolerant and flexible. Guides consistently point to the long standing historical respect for both Jews and Christians who have been established in Morocco for 2,000 years. Moroccans will go out of their way to tell you how Jews and Christians lived in close proximity in the medina, in fact there is a Jewish quarter in every city, though their population has been depleted since the recognition of Israel as a state in the 1940’s.
Marrakesh holds treasures that are not easily accessed, I suspect that is part of the allure. The Medina(old city), is surrounded by century old walls, overlooked by the Koutoubia Minaret, where 5 times a day, the Call to Prayer awakens all unsuspecting tourists to the haunting cadence of the Arabic chant. It’s a sound that will resonate in my memory of Morocco, for no matter where I was in the following weeks, I would be reminded of the primacy of faith in this culture. I might be walking down a city street and suddenly prayer mats would be unfurled , knees and foreheads lowered to the ground, lips moving in whispered worship. The daily machinations of holy action moved me, in the early morning hours especially. I would listen from my bedroom as the muezzin announced prayers through the mosque loudspeaker: “Come to prayer, come to security. God is great.” and imagine the rustling of thousands of robes in the medina below me, the murmurings and upraised hands and the feeling of being an outsider was intensified by the mystery of Islam. The five pillars of Islam include the daily prayer, the giving of alms, the fast of Ramadan, a pilgrimage to Mecca, and the acceptance that there is no other divinity but God. These precepts filter in to and inform every aspect of the community.
The city is dominated by the urban square, known as Jemaa el Fna, popularly translated as “the place of the dead” or “place of execution”, a strangely savage moniker for a spectacularly lively place that enchants with all manners of spectacle and performance. From 1,000 years ago, when Saharan caravans laden with salt and gold, spices and slaves would arrive to trade here to the modern day circus of snake charmers, water sellers, fortune tellers, storytellers, musicians, monkees, and acrobats, the square has been a place of gathering and entertainment.
My first glimpse of the Jemaa el Fna was in the dark of night. Initially, I was disoriented by the undulating mass of humanity packed into the square, in the dim light I could see what felt like one organic living breathing thing. As I got closer, individual heads then bodies emerged from the mob and I could see large groups standing in circles around unseen performers. Tribal music emerged from the crowd and the general din of foreign tongues rose up like a dirge. At the same time, young boys kicking soccer balls descended upon our group and began tripping us up in an attempt to pickpocket our belongings. We had to physically push them away and walk faster. As we approached, I felt an energy coming off the crowd, a separate entity that pulsated with life. I did not know where to look first and I wanted to drink it all in. Over there, a fortune teller reading a scattering of beans on the ground. Over here, a turbaned band of Gnaoua musicians holding an audience in thrall. Here, two storytellers, one Berber, one Arabic, competing for the attention of a large crowd. We wandered through the smoky haze of the food stalls where goat head soup and sizzling brochettes were being served to locals at long tables under harsh lanterns. People approached from all sides, selling wares, asking for money, appealing for attention. Eyes would catch mine and drop away. “You have a pretty smile!”, “Can I be your Toy Boy?” Comments in broken English and Arabic were tossed our way but we moved like fish in a predatory sea, swerving down one path here, making a sharp left at the snake charmers there. We never stopped, we moved and observed and I felt alive in a way I’d hadn’t in a long time. My adrenaline was pumping and I wanted to linger but a solo American woman out in the evening on this square might be harassed. It was time to go.
The Jemaa el Fna is a different place in the daytime. Still a vibrant gathering place the daylight hours are less social, more transactional. The food stalls are absent but there are large blankets strewn about with everything from utilitarian kitchen items to sweatshirts and hats. The snake charmers are out and hoping to engage a gullible tourist into holding and possibly kissing a viper. Who in their right minds would do that? I’m raising my hand here. First, I am not afraid of snakes. Second, I’m easily persuaded to do dumb things. A crowd quickly grew as I was encouraged to let the snake charmer wound his slithery reptile around my neck and hold the hissing thing up to my lips in a replica of a kiss. What I wasn’t prepared for was for him to walk away, shoving the head of the viper into my own hands while moving on to engage a new customer. Not knowing what to do, I felt the need to entertain the crowd and I began a little snake charming dance of my own, singing a little ditty and swaying as I watched my snakes forked tongue dart in and out, its eyes watching me warily. My snake charmer returned none to soon, and unwound the beast from my neck. Feeling a wee bit proud of myself and in no small measure relieved, I handed over a few dirhams for the opportunity.
“If the end of the world happens while one of you is holding a palm tree that you are about to plant, do not get up before having planted it, if possible.” The Prophet Mohammed
Moroccans place a high value on the care and cultivation of plants and trees. There are places in Marrakesh that serve as sanctuaries from the heat, the noise and chaos of the street. The architecture of Morocco found in the design of the local riads is one that emphasizes hidden pleasures. Narrow streets are lined by high walls, a blank canvas of mud and hay. Doors are intricate wooden structures, adorned with ironwork and filigree. Beyond lies the mystery and the refuge. Riads(Arabic, ryad for Garden) are meant to be a haven for the senses. Traditional design consists of rooms built around a central courtyard. Windows look only into the courtyard one enters upon stepping through the door. Traditionally planted with four lemon or orange trees with a fountain in the middle, the inner panels are embellished with intricate tile work called zellij and typically, Qurannic calligraphy adorns the walls. Crumbling riads in the medinas of Marrakesh and Fes have been increasingly purchased by foreigners and renovated to serve as guest accommodations for tourists. Staying at a riad is one of the more authentic experiences you can have while visiting Morocco.The whole of the city is adorned by the living color of trees and flowers. Imagine olive, orange and cypress trees in great abundance. Ubiquitous palm trees soar towards the sky, bougainvillea and jasmine and spill over walls. Roses are a huge export business and can be found on the dustiest roads.
My first full day in Morocco included a visit to the celebrated Majorelle Gardens, designed and planted by French artists in the 1920’s and donated to the city by French designer Yves St. Laurent. Peaceful, despite the crowds, the garden showcases over 300 varieties of desert plants, mostly the spiky variety, interspersed with small ponds and fountains. The highlight is a vivid blue Moorish structure housing a Berber Museum of artifacts, the tribal jewelry alone is a feast for the eyes. It’s easy to see why these spaces are an oasis for Moroccans, a place of respite and calm. A horse and buggy ride to the Menara Gardens, built in the 12th century, led us to a completely different kind of green space. A popular place for locals to picnic and exercise, the gardens are actually an estate of irrigated olive orchards planted around a massive water tank, where giant carp await hunks of bread thrown to them by little children. It’s especially impressive in late Fall as the backdrop of the Atlas Mountains covered in snow is very picturesque.
If Jemma al Fna is the soul of Marrakesh, the souk it its beating heart. I was awed by it, the souk is where life happens. Walking the confusing jumble of narrow alleys, I felt like not much had changed in the ensuing centuries. Makers and dealers are packed in tightly, a grand display of all the traditional arts and regional crafts of Morocco, grouped together by trade. Weavers, dyers, carpenters, carpet merchants and herbalists. Most impressive were the workshops of the blacksmiths, where the cacophony of metal being bent and torched made me think I was in the flaming tombs of Dante’s sixth level of hell. Entering the souk on your on is risky business, you may never find your way out. The prevailing wisdom is to hire one of the many guides waiting at the gates to escort you through. Recently, officials have taken to painting arrows on walls to direct hapless tourists out of the maze. Either way, getting lost is part of the experience for the souk is a dizzying labyrinth of twisting alleys packed to the gills with hundreds of booths displaying a colorful array of goods. It’s an overwhelming and positively energizing trip through an exotic world of riotous color and smells. My senses were on high alert, as motorbikes whizzed by missing my toes by mere inches, I was bumped and jostled, two steps forward, one to side step, three back, I was walking like a crazy person but my eyes and ears were drinking up the scene. There was the constant hum of accented voices emerging from the dark recesses of the booths; Madame, look at this. Good deal here. Look at these magnificent slippers, this supple leather, this handsome iron-work, this exquisite tile. Mint tea, Madame? Come, I show you the loveliest rug like no other you’ve seen. Please sit down, madame, let me show you.
Bargaining with the owners of the stalls is an art. Many westerners find themselves uncomfortable with the process, either the seller is too aggressive and the transaction feels like an assault or there is concern over being too rude if you counter an offer. I’d read in guidebooks before I arrived that the bargaining dance is expected, in fact, if one does not participate, the seller is disappointed. There are specific techniques to guide the game. Knowing the value of the item you want is important. Never act like you really want an item, be nonchalant in your desire for a product. Praise the craftsmanship, the color and design but act non-committal and sad that you can’t afford it. A price will be offered and the games begin! I apprenticed myself to a dynamic and well-travelled fellow adventurer, Venezia. She was a master at the art of bargaining. I attached myself to her the first few times we entered a stall and I watched her techniques. At first, I thought her style was rude and dismissive and indeed, the sellers would recoil and act as if they’d been offended, but to my surprise, they would shake their heads and engage. She would walk away and they would chase after her, offering a new improved price. It was fascinating to watch and I could see the enjoyment(and admiration) on the sellers face after Venezia struck a hard bargain. Often, they would give her free items as she paid for her purchase, I figured it a reward for a game well-played.
I came to enjoy the bargaining dance as well. Many times, I would be taken away from my fellow travelers into another room or a quiet shadowed corner of the stall. Thats when the game would begin. I could not bring myself to be as aggressively ruthless as Venezia, but I began to enjoy the back and forth. There were times when I felt I had really scored a bargain, but others where I knew I’d been fleeced. Nevertheless, I felt initiated into a cultural tradition that was centuries old.
There is much to keep the explorer occupied in Marrakesh. Imperial Marrakesh, the era of the sultans, left some marvelous ruins and a day spent marveling at the El Bahia Palace lends insight into the lavish decor and design of the sultan’s architecture. The Moorish ceilings alone, carved, painted and gilded, are dazzling to behold. The Saadian Tombs were another worthwhile stop. The open air unidentified mosaic graves are the cemetery of the Sharfa , descendants of the Prophet. Extraordinary mausoleums surround these simple graves. Lit by the filtered rays coming in through an upper window, the interiors are jaw-dropping examples of gilded lace-like plasterwork and mosaic zellijs. It’s a fantastical feast for the eyes and heady to gaze upon. It was here that I first noticed the massive nests constructed atop ramparts and columns. I half-expected a prehistoric creature to be the creator and I wasn’t disappointed when I spied the giant wingspan of a stork coming in for a landing. Storks are considered holy animals in Morocco, the Berbers once believed the birds to be transformed humans. It is forbidden to disturb a stork or its nest, which makes sense when you see their majestic flight from their nest.
The ancient Jewish Quarter or mellah is a step back into another world. Once home to a talented community of metalsmiths, bankers, and linguists in the 15th Century, traditional specialists of jewelry , textiles and tailoring remain. An interesting visit should be made to the Jewish market, just prepare yourself as I found it to be an assault on my olfactory senses. Dozens of live chickens squawked in cages and large pens, awaiting their fate next door. Butchers and fishmongers practiced their trade, the blood and guts of freshly slaughtered things splashed everywhere, the greasy innards dripping through crevices on the floor beneath my feet. Unlike the pristine butcher shops one sees in the US, the process of getting a chicken from cage to plate was on display and while I was initially repulsed by the noise of knives slicing through bone and the pungent smell, I was a witness to a traditional way of life, untouched by centuries of change.
This is why I travel. To seek out not the new, but the old. I want to discover places where the old ways still exist, where craftsmanship is celebrated and practiced, where community still implies conversation on doorsteps and a shared history, where traditions hold fast and true. Marrakesh is a city of contradictions, it’s complexity of spirit would take a lifetime to unpack. But the mountains were calling, it was time to bid adieu to the city and set forth into the villages of the High Atlas.
“You’ve got to go naked into the world and make yourself vulnerable to it. Spells of acute loneliness are an essential part of travel. Loneliness makes things happen.” -Jonathan Raban I am at heart a social beast. I am also a traveler. You would […]
First, let’s be straight up from the get go. Four days is not nearly enough time to do Paris the justice it deserves. That is part of the reason I abandoned any kind of itinerary. I knew the Metro could help greatly in that regard, as Paris is surprisingly sprawling. I downloaded the useful app Paris Metro, but I did not anticipate using it often. After all, the intention was to walk and experience the gifts this fair city had to offer from the pavement, one foot after another. That meant exploring the arrondissement we had chosen to lay our heads in, Le Marais. This would be ground zero and we would walk as time permitted from there.
After a cancelled flight out of Detroit and a rebooked one late the same evening, we arrived to beautiful 80 degree sunshine in Paris, but to my great dismay we had no practical clothing to change into from our long flight over. Unfortunately, our luggage would go missing for two full days, which is ironic if you read my previous post. Immediately, my carefully planned roster of daily Parisian-chic outfits went awry. I had packed a change of clothes in my carry-on bag as the advice columns always tell you to do, so I did have a few items of clothing but nothing very pragmatic. I decided then and there that serendipity would be the theme of this vacation and I would welcome it. Best laid plans…as they say. C’est La Vie!
A word about accommodations. I’m an Airbnb fanatic and I would have been happy to go that route and rent an apartment for a few days but as my husband was traveling with me, he suggested we pick a hotel that oozed Parisian charm and romance. That’s how we ended up in the Marais district. In retrospect, your choice of accommodation and the location of it will define your experience, so I would suggest choosing carefully. After weeks of research, I settled on Le Pavillon de la Reine, a gorgeous boutique hotel without the outrageous cost of the ornate palace hotels patronized by designer-clad patrons, but not exactly inexpensive either. Depending upon your budget, there is most certainly an accommodation in Paris that fits your needs and next time we will definitely rent an apartment. For our purposes, the Pavillon fit our desires perfectly.
It was better then I could imagine. Adjacent to the Place de Vosges, the oldest planned square in Paris, and ensconced behind the street side facade of galleries and cafes, one encounters a more placid world. A lushly landscaped private courtyard welcomes you. The busy city sounds are muted while the interior of the hotel is understated, a dimly lit oasis of peace and calm. Our room had two floor to ceiling windows that opened on to an inner courtyard, where the sounds of birds chirping awakened us in the morning. Facing my chair by the open window, it became a favorite place to sit in the late afternoon with an aperitif, mixed at the honor bar in the lobby. As the small rectangle of light above the courtyard would fade, I was reminded of Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window, privy to all the comings and goings of the other guests as they arrived back to their rooms, flung open their window and planned their evenings, dressing (and undressing) in full view of my perch. A few even waved in my direction. It was amusing and felt a little naughty. If Jimmy Stewart did it, why not I?
Much has been written about whether to stay on the Left or Right Bank. Again, a matter of preference. The Left Bank(“La Rive Gauche”), south of the Seine, is smaller and is traditionally known as the artistic side, past home to many famous writers and artists; Picasso Matisse, Hemingway. It includes Montparnasse, a modern day haven for artists and the Latin Quarter, a vibrant student-centric area that house both Sorbonne University and Shakespeare & Co, the venerable and atmospheric bookstore popular with the intellectual set back in the day. The Right Bank(“La Rive Droit”), where we chose to stay, was traditionally the wealthier region of Paris. Encompassing 14 arrondissements and the majority of tourist attractions, it’s a great area to walk and get lost. Ultimately, it pays to read and research the different neighborhoods and choose one that fits your desired experience.
We spent the first two days exploring our neighborhood on the Right Bank. Le Marais, literally meaning the marsh, began as a refuge for those escaping from a crowded and dirty Left Bank. Historically a home to French nobility, it is one of the oldest neighborhoods in Paris and a joy to wander. It has the feel of medieval Paris. Our hotel faced a great open plaza surrounded on three sides by elegant 17th century architecture of red brick and stone with blue-slate roofs. Victor Hugo lived in an apartment (#6, where he wrote Les Miserables) on the square, now a free museum. The surrounding covered arcades are filled with art galleries and cafes. (I took a liking to a casted elephant in one and inquired the price, 18,000 Euros!! Maybe in my next life.) I was struck by the vibrant stream of life on display in the park. It was a Sunday, and every square inch of grass was taken by families, children frolicking in the fountain, boys kicking up dust with an impromptu soccer match, lovers kissing and embracing unabashedly on the lawn. The elderly sat on benches with clasped hands in the shade beneath the old pine trees edging the square and everywhere voices were raised in praise of the lovely day. A general conviviality filled the air. Place de Vosges would be a place we would return to daily, to sit and observe and relax. Everywhere in Paris there are opportunities to pause and take a rest and enjoy the scene before you. To be honest, it took both of us a few days to get in the groove. At first, we felt compelled to cover as much distance as possible, but after a few days the wrought iron benches and green lawns and sidewalk cafes beckoned us to stop and wile a way an hour or two.
I loved getting out early and walking the tiny cobblestoned streets in the Jewish Quarter, one of the largest in Europe. On the Rue de Rosiers, the stones underfoot would be freshly hosed down and a few merchants opened up shop here and there. (I would find that there is no strict opening time to the shops of Paris, it seems they open when they feel like it) We would stop to salivate at the windows of the boulangeries and patisseries along the way, sample the famous falafel, smell the fragrant tea leaves at Mariage Freres, and stroll the crooked alleys nearby in the hub of Paris’s gay community.
From Le Marais, we spent a day walking up the great steep hill to Montmartre, an artistic haven for many artists during the Belle Epoque period due to low rents and an atmosphere of freedom and camaraderie. Meandering in a serpentine fashion, we made our way through the grand boulevards and the narrow streets to the shining alabaster beacon of Sacre Coeur, where the view over Paris is indeed superb. Amassed with tourists, we chose to wander the back streets of this charming village, pausing at a cafe tucked away in a hidden square, marveling at the existence of a wooden windmill from the 16th century, checking out the unassuming facade of an artist collective(Bateau-Lavoir) where Picasso, Modigliani, Braque and many others worked their magic, searching out the old residence of Vincent Van Gogh. To walk in the footsteps of these artists was an exercise in imagination. I fell in love with the street art, the village-like atmosphere, the tiny curving alleys, and the abundance of picturesque sidewalk cafes, including Les Doux Moulins, made famous in the hit French film, Amelie.
For the most part, our ambles kept us to the Right Bank. We did take time to explore the islands of Paris. Ile Saint-Louis, smaller and graced with stately mansions and unique shops is the home to a much talked about ice cream shop. We sampled the exotic flavors at Berthillion, the grande dame of glaces, indulging in flavors such as roasted pineapple and fresh basil and salted butter caramel. We also strolled through Ile de la Cite, home to Notre Dame. The crowds here were overwhelming so we snapped some photos of the iconic church and kept on. On our last day we decided to focus on the Left Bank and visit some of the sights on that side of the Seine. We spent some time strolling in the Luxembourg Gardens, watching little ones float the small wooden rental boats in the reflecting ponds. In the Latin Quarter , we visited the renowned Shakespeare and Company, exploring the diminutive warren of rooms that housed hundreds of writers in the beds tucked between bookshelves. Owned by Sylvia Beach, an American expat, in the the 20’s and 30’s the shop was a center of literary culture and modernism. Writers of the Lost Generation(Hemingway, Stein, Fitzsgerald) hung out here frequently, this is a place where if you listen closely enough you might think you hear the whispers of great minds.
A few observations that arose in our brief time walking the streets of Paris. While it was close to 90 degrees, most Parisians dressed for Fall in heavy jackets and even a few puffy coats. While sweat dripped from our foreheads, the always elegant Parisians walked briskly in their layers looking cool and crisp. It confounded me. There was also a definitive absence of heels on the women of Paris. On my last visit 12 years ago, I was astonished at the ease with which Parisian women teetered about in 3 inch heels day and night. While the fashion was still very much haute, the shoes were very much flat. Pragmatism had won. I saw indigo velvet suits, garishly adorned hats. Shoes were an opportunity to make a statement. Older women were uniquely adorned with blue and green hair, funky flats, and distinctive jewelry. People watching is a valid pastime here, the outdoor cafes all have chairs facing the sidewalks, encouraging subtle ogling. It’s a pleasant way to spend a few hours, observing and appreciating.
At breakfast our first morning, we had a lovely conversation with two American gentlemen who just disembarked from a private yacht where they had run a private life coaching session with a wealthy client. Apparently, we had chosen our spot well, this was their favorite Paris hotel for many years running and they took the time to make suggestions for our meals and our walks in the days to come. I had painstakingly researched restaurants for our four nights in Paris, but I had neglected to pay close attention to the arrondissement in which each place was located. Turns out, two of my choices were a 45 minute cab ride away. It was serendipitous that we struck up a conversation with these two gentleman, as they steered us to several local places a few blocks away where we could walk to our evening meal. A word of advice, unless you are specifically looking for a Michelin-starred experience, you best bet is to eat in your neighborhood. There are myriad excellent choices and walking to your meal is quintessentially Parisian.
Our first evening was spent in a classic French bistro, Aux Vins Des Pyrenees. Located in the Marais since 1905, it has recently been restored to its former glory with polished wood, tapestries, tile, and mirrors. With famous past guests like Baudelaire and Jim Morrison, the bistro affects a timeless throwback to a gilded era. We were the first to arrive(first night and we were tired and starving) and chose a table by the front windows, thrown open to the balmy night air. The evening would only get better, as the place slowly filled up to capacity while the two young waiters danced between tables effortlessly delivering excellent craft cocktails and traditional bistro platters to hungry Parisians. My decadent Croque-Monsieur, oozing truffle gouda and crisped to perfection, was a masterpiece of sublime simplicity while Mark noshed on succulent croquettes of lamb. We were never rushed, we ate with a pleasant disregard for time. A bottle of wine was recommended, creme brulee was suggested and enjoyed. We joyfully listened to the lilting patter of conversation around us and pinched ourselves. We were in Paris.
The next three nights were each devoted to a completely different and original experience. Our friends at breakfast had suggested Gaspard de Nuit, a friendly neighborhood joint that served authentic local specialties. They swore we would be the only tourists and they were not wrong. Amazingly, after reserving a table through the front desk, the owner Miriam called me to warn that a large group of regulars (14 of them!) would be dining and that it might be a bit loud. Sounded good to us! The restaurant was a stark contrast to the evening before. Simple in decor, rickety chairs and a handful of old wooden tables graced the narrow rustic space. It was a comforting welcoming place. The menu was limited and entirely in French. The owner, knowing we were American, suggested some dishes and we put ourselves into her very capable hands. Here, we first discovered the very generous and traditional way of beginning a meal; a long interlude over an aperitif and several complementary edibles(amuse bouche) from the kitchen, beautifully prepared and presented in miniature. We were the last to leave the restaurant that evening and Miriam wanted to know where we were eating the rest of our time here and made a few suggestions. She made us feel like we had been dining there for years.
Our third night was a study in refinement. Restaurant Mumi (in the 1st arrondissement) offered a classic tasting menu showcasing the Greek chef’s culinary talents. Six courses of exquisitely presented fish and fowl and vegetables. Each dish a visual work of art, the meal was a revelation. Our last evening in Paris was at one of the more trendy brasseries, a hip place that sourced all their ingredients from local farms. Semilla, located in Saint Germain de Pres, opened a few years ago to huge acclaim for their approach to all things locally grown and under-appreciated, veggies in particular are given creative preparations. We sat by the open floor to ceiling windows, practically on the street, dining on imaginatively prepared food while enjoying the vibrant street scene.
Another word about eating in Paris. It is an event. Most Parisians don’t reserve until 9pm, so go earlier and you will have the place to yourself (or be dining with other tourists). The places we ate at were local’s favorites so we dined late as is the custom. Be prepared for a minimum 3 hour affair. One may not be greeted immediately and when you are, menus(or more often, a blackboard with daily specials written on chalk) are left to peruse for a good 15 minutes. Then the aperitif order. (Don’t order a martini, they will laugh at ‘you Americans” and bring a tall glass with ice with a bit of gin or vodka at the bottom.) Champagne is de rigueur, or Pastis, an anise-flavored liquor that is a local favorite. Finally, a starter is served, then the main, followed much much later by dessert. And one must NEVER skip dessert in Paris I found, because dessert is truly the STAR of the show. My favorite may have been the House “Surprise”, a glass of champagne surrounded by mini confections, creme brulee, chocolate truffles, madeleines, macaroons, and an exquisite sponge cake. We had four incredible gastronomic experiences in Paris, each was vastly different, each made me swoon with delight, each left me stuffed to the gills and ready for nothing but a leisurely walk back to the hotel. Therein lay the conundrum. When you dine out in Paris, there is little room to fit another outing, such as an evening at one of the iconic clubs like Moulin Rouge. A word to the wise, choose one or the other. Or drink lots of expresso and go for the all nighter. That was not in my wheelhouse. Of course, food was my priority.
For our daytime gastronomic experiences we decided to go another way. Lunch in Paris can be a big deal, in fact, the more elegant and pricier restaurants usually offer a price- fixed option during the day and many locals and tourists use this option as a way to experience the culinary talents of some famous Parisian chefs. Due to our orgy of eating every evening, we chose to check out the much lauded Marche Des Enfants Rouges. a destination market where foodies go to groan with pleasure. The name references the markets origins as an orphanage where children were dressed in red, the color of Christian Charity. It was almost torn down in the 1990’s but local residents chained themselves to the gates to prevent development of a parking garage in its place. The market still sells produce but it is more of an eaters destination now. I was so glad we found this place, as I was more excited by what was going on inside these old walls then all my evening experiences combined. Tucked behind an iron gate in the 3rd arrondissement, a bustling bastion of ethnic food awaits in what is the oldest market in Paris at 400 years old. Think Japanese bento boxes, Lebanese falafel, Moroccan couscous, a version of Italian eggplant parmesan that made me swoon, burgers made with farm fresh meats and homemade buns, buckwheat galettes. Each stall churns out utterly authentic chow to the massive lunchtime crowds. Go early as we did, and dip in and out of whatever stall strikes your tummy’s fancy. It was a deliriously good well-spent afternoon.
I saved the best for last. I made one reservation for a tour before I left home. I booked a 3 hour food tour with Paris by Mouth, a culinary walk focused on local food purveyors on the Left Bank in St. Germain de Pres. I did not know what to expect, we were told to come hungry. There were eight of us on the tour and it was led by a young woman named Isabelle, classically trained as a pastry chef. We would be making six stops to her favorite suppliers.
Our first stop was La Maison d’Isabelle, voted the best croissants in Paris in 2018. They were crispy on the outside and melted in your mouth. My fingers were coated in butter after a few bites. Around the corner, we popped in to Eric Kayser bakery where we purchased a few of the their iconic baguettes, warm and fresh from the oven. I carried them around for the remainder of the tour, feeling like a true Parisian. We also purchased the bichon au citron( a puff pastry similar to a turnover) and chouquettes(a cream puff pastry) to taste at the end. Our stop at Charcuterie Saint-Germain was an eye-opener. Such beautiful arrangements of terrines and rillettes, and pates. We purchased the Terrine au beaujolais, Rillettes de cannard and Rosette de lyon to complement our selection. Our visit to the the cheese shop, Laurent Dubois fromagerie was a highlight. I’d never seen such an array of delicious cheeses, all presented in a way that was so pleasing to the eye. We tasted a few options and purchased a contrasting selection of Roquefort, Comte, an ash covered goats cheese and a triple cream for our picnic. Our last two stops were for sweets, of course. Patrick Roger Chocolatier is a beautifully designed shop with dark walls and pinpointed beams of light showcasing the chocolates that resembled jewel like works of art. Finally, we stopped at Un Dimanche a Paris where we purchased the charlotte aux framboise and the éclair au chocolat. We carried all our goodies to a wine shop, La cave du Senat where our tour guide selected a few well-matched wines to complement our meal. We proceeded to taste and ooh and ahh at the bounty before us. I thought next time I come to Paris, I would do this in the first day in my neighborhood where I chose an apartment to stay, and patronize those shops for at-home meals. This was a fantastic experience, a real window into the way Parisians shop for their meals and the level of craftsmanship that goes into the production of food. It’s a way of life very much connected to community. I found out that if the cheese shop, as an example, were to go out of business, only another cheese shop could open in its place. No retail store or internet cafe. I love this concept, ensuring a way of life that serves both the producer and the consumer while sustaining a vital and dynamic community lifestyle.
I found in Paris that they do a lot of things well. The ebb and flow of daily life is on a different scale then America. There is a deep appreciation for history and tradition( and some would say some restrictive rules that keep those traditions in place), with enough space for creativity to flourish. I barely touched the surface and indeed the moment I left the city, I felt its call to return. All the books, the songs, the art, that elevate Paris to a romantic and idealized destination, they are not hyperbole. I encountered that current of effervescent energy in the four brief days I was there. I thinks it comes down to stimulation of the senses. There is so much here to activate a deep appreciation of beauty, color, shape and form. I already find myself saying, next time. Until then, I dream of Paris.
The calendar page has turned, the light has changed, summer is waning and melancholy colors the air. September, while beautiful in Michigan, is also a great season to explore the world. The need to wander has reasserted itself after a few months of enjoying Home […]
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