Apologies for the delay between posts! I still have a lot to tell you about Spain, but I haven't had a lot of personal time to post between preparing for the beta launch of our project Greener One and packing up our apartment for a move, as well as some more recent travel. Things are a bit calmer for the moment, so I'm taking advantage of being between homes to catch up on my blogging.
This post is part of a series about a dream trip from which Zoli and I just returned, traveling around Morocco and the Iberian peninsula. We indulged in many sins of gluttony in lively Lisbon, so perhaps it makes sense that we next visited a city that is good for the body and the soul: Santiago de Compostela. To read our trip adventures from the beginning, click here.
Time and again this year, Zoli and I have fallen in love with small cities and towns throughout Europe. Prices are lower, people are friendlier, and you have the traveler's satisfaction of being somewhere a bit - or a lot - off the beaten path.
Santiago de Compostela, a city of 116,000 in a rural, remote, and somewhat wild part of northwest Spain, fits this profile perfectly except for one thing: it has long played host to thousands of tourists. As the resting place of St. James the Apostle (Santiago), Santiago de Compostela is regarded by Christians as the the third holiest site after Jerusalem and Rome. Some 100,000 pilgrims trek on foot to the city each year (in the 11th and 12th centuries, half a million came each year), and the world's first guidebook, written by a French monk, details the French route of El Camino de Santiago.
The pilgrims fascinated me. I met one who started his journey in Canterbury, and walked (other than crossing over the water to France from England, obviously) the entire way. Pilgrims get a sort of passport at their place of origin (a church or cathedral), and use it all along their chosen route to receive free or incredibly cheap lodging and food (Rough Guide says you can walk it for around 20 euros a day, but I've heard stories of cheaper). Most carry walking sticks adorned with a scallop shell, the symbol of Santiago's pilgrims. The majority of pilgrims end their trek at the Cathedral in Santiago de Compostela, but some continue on another 75 kilometers to the westernmost point of mainland Europe, where they burn their manky clothes on the beach and enjoy a cleansing and invigorating swim in the ocean.
The cathedral is reason enough to visit the city. Construction began in 1075, and it is one of those cathedrals where you almost don't know where to look next from all of the treasures. A few things were of particular interest to Zoli and me. First, the Portico de la Gloria is a magnificent example of medieval carving by local artist/hometown hero Maestro Mateo. The portico depicts the last judgment and includes Jesus, all of the prophets, the four evangelists, the twenty-four Elders of the Apocalypse playing musical instruments, St. James, the Tree of Jesse, and a self-portrait of Maestro Mateo himself. For centuries pilgrims have pressed their fingers into the Tree of Jesse and touched foreheads with Mateo; you can see the results in the marble.
Second, the cathedral is lined on both sides with confessionals to receive all the pilgrims. They each have signs indicating the languages in which the priests can converse. While seeing so many confessionals was unique itself, I was also struck by the physical appearance of the priests -- I thought they ALL looked like the current Pope! I don't think I'd want to confess to them. They looked really strict!
The altar and crypt of St. James are every bit as elaborate as a Faberge egg, if not more so. What made the altar cool compared to some other cathedrals was that we could get right up to and IN it, marveling at is absolute treasure-ness and looking down the nave. It certainly made me wonder what it would be like to stand up there addressing so many thousands of people. The crypt of St. James is underneath the altar, and it is in this area that pilgrims receive their compostela, or certificate of completing the trail (as long as they've walked at least 100 km of it).
There are a few paid areas of the cathedral that you can also visit. One ticket is for a tour of the roof, which is supposedly well worth the price. We couldn't do this due to time constraints, but did opt for a ticket that allows self-guided access to the cloisters, treasury, and some other areas where we were overwhelmed by display upon display of priceless goblets, manuscripts, tapestries, and other religious stuff.
The last point of interest, which we also did not see in action because they only get it out for special occasions, is the Botafumeiro, the world's largest incense censer. This thing is 80 kilograms and 1.6 meters in height, and reaches speeds of 60 kilometers per hour when they swing it along the transept. It must be amazing, though cloyingly stinky, to see it in operation. Back in the day it was used to disguise the odor or all the unwashed pilgrims.
WHEW. Now that the church is out of the way, I can tell you a bit more about the city. The main area to see is its pedestrian downtown (a UNESCO site, of course!), which you can walk across in about 15 minutes. All the buildings are made from the same honey-colored granite and in a uniform style, and it is an absolute pleasure to stroll its streets. Galicia is located in Spain's northwest, and like the US Pacific Northwest, the area is verdant and rainy. Oddly, all of this rain actually makes Santiago de Compostela MORE picturesque, glistening on all that granite and shooting out of the spouts of gargoyles' mouths everywhere you turn. The city has such a peaceful, good vibe that I would like to go back and just rest for a week. Galicia itself has its own language and is Celtic in origin, and it is not unusual to hear Celtic-sounding bagpipes around town, very fitting in the rain.
Another thing we took particular pleasure in was eating and drinking. (Noooo, us?) Other parts of Spain get a lot of rah-rah for their food, but I think Galicia, or at least Santiago de Compostela, beats them hands down. We had our best seafood in all of Europe in this town, literally trying more and more until we couldn't eat another bit, a la Mr. Creosote. All of the restaurants display a sampling of seafood and meats in their windows, and you'd be hard pressed to find the freshest -- it all looks outstanding. Outside of seafood, one of Zoli's favorite things was what we named "boob cheese," a mild cheese that is shaped like a breast. Go figure. ;-) The town is also dotted with cozy, casual little wine bars, some serving tapas, some not, but all filled with students and locals socializing and enjoying cheap, good wines. And don't get me started about the chocolate con churros, which yes, you can get all over Spain, but I found particularly tasty here.
Too soon it was time to push on, so next up are some notes detailing noteworthy architecture and truly bizarre customer service in Rioja.
This post is part of a series about a dream trip from which Zoli and I just returned, traveling around Morocco and the Iberian peninsula. After getting a taste of Madrid, literally, we headed west to a city I've long wanted to see: beautiful Lisbon, Portugal! To read our trip adventures from the beginning, click here.
What laid back west coast city has steep hills, a mild climate, and a long suspension bridge painted "international orange;" is prone to earthquakes; and has lots of wonderful local wines? If you guessed San Francisco, you didn't read the title of this post, because the answer is Lisbon, Portugal, my new favorite city in Europe.
For some reason, I've always thought of Lisbon as a city caught in a time warp on the edge of Europe. Perhaps this is because magazines and television shows tend to highlight the old, tiled buildings and fado music. I also had vivid mental images of the city based on Herman Wouk's Winds of War and War and Remembrance. (In these two novels, two of the main characters have a bittersweet and whirlwind marriage and honeymoon in Lisbon during World War II. One is a reserve officer in the Navy and the other is a Jewish American woman trying to get herself and her uncle out of Europe.) Such romantic images of Lisbon are not inaccurate, but they do overshadow Lisbon's monumental contemporary development and pulsing creative scene. As we arrived in the city at sundown, I was left flabbergasted by the tall glass skyscrapers lit up in multi-colors and the sheer amount of traffic. It looked and felt like a city very much on the go, and indeed it was the city's vitality more than its faded past that grabbed hold of us over the next couple of days.
We stayed at Zuzabed and Breakfast, a fantastic deal in the Chiado neighborhood a few minutes walk uphill from the center of the city. (One of the most fun ways to get "upstairs" from downtown is to take the Elevador de Santa Justa, designed by a Raul Mesnier de Ponsard, a student of Gustave Eiffel. Eiffel's influence is very evident in the Elevador.) Luis, the owner, is an excellent host, carefully cultivating a friendly, comfortable atmosphere and filling the establishment with clever touches. Zuzabed also provides one of the best B&B breakfasts I've had in a long, long time. Many thanks to Fatima, the great chef!
The Chiado's bustling main streets are lined with fashionable shops, but these give way to a quieter, more residential areas such as where Zuzabed is located. The Chiado also borders Bairro Alto, an old neighborhood first built in the 1500s, packed with cafes, fado bars, wine bars, regular- bar bars, restaurants, and enough funky boutiques to put New York's Village to shame. Naturally we enjoyed this area a lot, though the bar crowd really made me feel old!
We spent the next day touring the city primarily by foot. There is a tram that is great for the tourist circuit, but since it was the end of the month, the line was crazy long to buy tickets. (In a lot of cities, you can buy public trans passes by the month, so there is always a big line at the end of the month.) It seems I've finally lost my San Francisco hill-climbing legs, because I was huffing and puffing by the time we made it up to Castelo de Sao Jorge, Portugal's hilltop defensive stronghold. The site is steeped in history: when the Romans came to Portugal in 138 BC a fort was already standing there, the Moors built a castle there, and Portugal's kings lived there from the 13th through the 16th century. The views of the city are spectacular from the castle.
We also strolled the Alfama neighborhood before stopping for lunch, a medieval section of town with buildings dating back to the 11th and 12th centuries. It is this part of town that evokes the Lisbon of my imagination. The streets are narrow and criss-crossed with alleyways not dissimilar to Marrakech. As you get lost in the maze, the only real directions are up or down! The homes are covered in intricate tiles, some showing the city's Moorish heritage and others telling the story of Portugal's history, painted in sea scenes. The streets were pretty quiet when we were there, with an occasional stooped old woman dressed in black wobbling up or down the hill. Lots of apartments had laundry hanging to dry in the sun from their windows and balconies. We were very happy to leave our coats behind during the day!
After a seafood lunch by the water, we strolled downtown for a while. Though downtown has some grand and beautiful squares, I can't say that this is my favorite part of the city. While other neighborhoods nearby have been polished up, downtown has a distinct feeling of neglect. Still, there are some gems, such as antique shops and a fourth generation tailor renowned for making the some of the most beautiful clothes in Lisbon.
Ticket lines also died down, so we caught the tram over to Belem to the west of central Lisbon. This area is full of monuments and museums, and one could easily spend a full day there. One of the more famous monuments is Padrao Dos Descobrimentos, commemorating Portuguese explorers and the age of discovery. The late afternoon sun caught the monument perfectly, and I lost myself in thought for a while, looking out to sea toward the April the 25th Bridge (the Golden Gate of Lisbon). There was certainly some irony in the air as well; right nearby there was an indigenous South American band playing music.
We ended our evening at Nectar Wine Bar, a place we could not miss because one of our favorite places in San Francisco is Nectar Wine Lounge. I have to be honest: I was a bit suspicious of Lisbon's Nectar. If you click the links above to the respective Nectar websites, you'll see what I mean. Same fonts, same colors, same theme. Coincidence? I don't know. What I do know is that the owner is pouring her heart and soul into Nectar, crafting excellent food, serving beautiful wines, and overseeing every detail of her establishment. In some ways, Nectar reminded me of things I saw all over Lisbon: hard work, attention to quality and detail, a blend of modernity and tradition, pride, and a look toward the future.
Lisbon is a very exciting city and full of potential. I hope to return many more times to see it continue to get better and better!
This post is part of a series about a dream trip from which Zoli and I just returned, traveling around Morocco and the Iberian peninsula. After six days in Morocco, we flew back to Europe, landing in Madrid. We then embarked on a nearly two-week long road trip around Spain and Portugal. To read our trip adventures from the beginning, click here.
When I think of Madrid, there are a variety of images in my mind: tiny old cars, bleeding bulls, proud matadors, a child in her winter coat running across a square, her long dark hair blowing in the wind behind her. These images come from slides my father took in the 60s, when he traveled all over Europe. Though we had a projector for viewing the slides, I best remember looking at them through a hand-held viewer. We kept the viewer and the slides in our upstairs hallway closet, where my mother kept sheets and blankets, first aid supplies, extra pillows, our school files, and other odds and ends. I would pull out the boxes of slides, plug in the viewer, and sit on the hallway floor, visiting city after city. The viewer made it look like I was watching the images in a movie theater, and I would imagine the scenes coming to life: a tiny old car pulling out of its parking space, the bull falling to its bloody death, the matador being showered in roses, the girl running and running, blurry as she moves across the frame. She turns her head toward the camera, but you can't see her face because her hair whips across it. She is laughing, but there is an impending sense of doom, as though she is about to be struck by a car, or a bomb is about to explode. The Madrid slides conjured up fatalistic, romantic, and disturbing stories in my mind. More than any of the other cities my dad made slides of, Madrid sparked my imagination. I vowed to never attend a bullfight.
Fast forward to the 2000s. Madrid has acquired a new reputation for vibrancy and energy. Some are calling it the New York of Europe. It is young, its economy is doing well, and it is shaking its "second city" status. It has been popularized in films, and the beautiful screen siren Penélope Cruz calls it home. Nightlife is supposed to be both wild and late. One of the world's premier art museums, the Prado, is located in Madrid, as is Picasso's Guernica, what I consider (in all my infinite knowledge of art history) to be the 20th century's most defining piece.
You could say I had high expectations for Madrid. And, well, maybe it was just that it seemed so staid and dull after the mayhem of Marrakech, but Madrid under-delivered. I don't put the blame squarely on Madrid. Zoli and I were certainly experiencing reverse culture shock, staring open-mouthed at the cleanliness of the streets, the sheer amount of concrete on the roads and sidewalks, and all the consumer goods. I felt like Marx, repulsed by consumerism and capitalism. Who needs all this stuff? It makes you rotten at the core!
Also, the whole "New York of Europe" thing. Spend one hour in New York, and you get the idea of New York. It is fast-paced, overwhelming, and more than full of energy. My blood pressure rises practically upon landing every time I go there, but in a good way. Madrid has the concrete, and it has young people, but the energy? Not so much, at least not that we felt in our roughly 36 hours there. I think I expected Madrid to grab me and sweep me along, that if I spent an afternoon just walking around, hundreds of things would interest me. It wasn't like that at all; I should have done more homework before going.
So, was there anything to like about Madrid? Yes, absolutely:
Happy people. Living in Hungary, you don't see many visibly happy people on the streets, and you definitely don't see many smiling senior citizens. My first impression of people in Madrid, riding downtown from the airport on the subway, was that wow, people look really happy here. And everywhere we went, we saw people of all of ages out enjoying themselves, smiling, laughing, kissing, and hugging.
Beautiful people. Actually, I should qualify that: beautiful men. I might have to rethink my position that Italian men are the world's most beautiful. So many men in Madrid were impeccably dressed and groomed, and had perfect carriage. It was as if the pages of GQ came to life.
Good food, wine, and beer mixed with lemon juice. After tagine, couscous, couscous, tagine, we were ready to EAT, and Madrid delivered on that mark. (Ok, our first night was inauspicious, when all we could find to eat at 1:00 a.m. was pizza.) We had inexpensive bocadillos (little sandwiches) and tapas for lunch, visited a very atmospheric wine bar/pub in the late afternoon, and had an outstanding dinner at Casa Lucas (known for tapas, but also has an excellent dinner menu). I can still taste the braised beef cheeks...
A cheap and delicious lunch
Fun place for an afternoon snort
The best dinner we had in a week
Clean, easy to get around. We stayed at the centrally located Hotel Ateneo Puerto del Sol, and were able to walk to everything. Also, a note on cleanliness: we saw a big protest march go by, and directly after it followed a bunch of workers sweeping up after them as well as a street-cleaning truck. I thought I was in Switzerland for a minute! :-)
Christmas lights. We had our first taste of the Christmas spirit in Madrid.
Great weather. Relatively warm temperature and a cloud-free blue sky. Need I say more?
Would I go back? I feel I should some time, because I think we gave the city short shrift. However, I'm not in a rush to go back: there are other cities I'd like to see for the first time, and other cities I'd revisit before returning to Madrid. In a way, I wish I still had my dad's slides, because I would like to recapture the romance in my imagination.
This post is part of a series about a dream trip from which Zoli and I just returned, traveling around Morocco and the Iberian peninsula. A lot of people have asked me questions about the Morocco leg of this trip, so I decided to post an FAQ list. To read our trip adventures from the beginning, click here.
Did you get sick? No. Before we left, everyone and their uncle cautioned us that we would get sick, so we stocked up on Imodium, which we never needed to take. The night before our flight we also asked a pharmacist in Germany if she had anything preventative, and she recommended Perenterol. This is an over-the-counter medicine containing yeast cultures, which help prevent diarrhea when people travel to areas of questionable hygiene. You are supposed to take this with food once a day, starting about a week before your trip. We took our first capsule the night before and didn't have any problems.
The only person I know who got sick is a woman who drank directly from a stream in the mountains. We were told that tap water is treated with chlorine, and was safe to drink. We did drink bottled water, but I brushed my teeth with tap water.
That said, hygiene isn't always that great. For example, the same plastic bucket of soapy water may be used all night to wash plates. Some guidebooks recommend that you ask for paper plates.
Is Morocco expensive? You can experience Morocco at any price level depending on what you want to do, how much you are willing to bargain, and how comfortable you want to be. I would consider our experience moderate, meaning that we weren't staying or eating at the most expensive places (except once to see what it was like), but weren't staying or eating at the cheapest places either.
A rough breakdown of our expenses:
Roundtrip airfare via Germany: Approx. 100 euros per person (that is about what it would have been if we didn't miss our flight in Germany and have to buy new tickets)
Accommodation at the Riad Safa: 80 euros per night, including breakfast. I can't say enough good things about this riad, and the users on Trip Advisor agree. It is rated #1 out of 224 B&Bs in Marrakech, and has a 5 out of 5 rating based on feedback from 103 Trip Advisor users.
Three day, two night excursion to the Atlas mountains and the Sahara desert: 95 euros per person, including accommodation and most meals. Lunches and beverages were extra.
Food: On average we spent around $20 - $30 per day.
Alcohol: We had two bottles of wine during the trip as well. A bottle at our riad cost 10 euros, and a bottle at an expensive restaurant was 20 euros. Retail prices are much cheaper, but alcohol is not widely sold.
Souvenirs/shopping: We are not big shoppers, so I really can't answer this. We spent about $50 on two scarves and a variety of stuff from a Berber pharmacist.
What did you eat/How is the food? Overall I was disappointed in the food, but it wasn't bad. In recent years, Moroccan and North African food have become trendy, with cool restaurants opening in New York and San Francisco. They tend to make use of exotic design and play heavily with different spices. I was expecting very flavorful food, but in most cases the food was quite bland. We ate street food, we ate at places recommended by local Marrakechis, and we ate at restaurants more geared toward tourists. There really wasn't much difference, but I think the street food was the best.
Breakfasts are simple. At the riad, it would consist of fresh fruit (kiwi or grapefruit), fresh yogurt, toasted bread, marmalade made from from fruit from the riad's tree, and coffee or tea. On our road trip, it was the same except instead of yogurt, we would have cheese or olives. (While you can buy many kinds of olives in Morocco, the ones typically served with meals are the black, wrinkly ones. They are very salty, and best eaten with some bread.)
Bean soup, tagine, couscous, brochettes (meat grilled on skewers), or omelettes are typical menu options for lunch or dinner. The word tagine refers to both the food and the vessel it is cooked in. The vessel is comprised of two pieces: a clay dish that is an inch or two deep on the bottom, and a conical lid on the top. Inside it you cook vegetables and maybe some meat, chicken, lamb, or cow. Cooked this way, everything gets pretty mushy and doesn't have much flavor. It is not unlike hospital food.
One dish that is unique to Morocco is b'stilla (also called pastilla). It is a pastry made from ground almonds, eggs, spices, and shredded chicken or pigeon, and is topped with powdered sugar and cinnamon. Zoli gave it a try and said it wasn't bad! Here's what it looks like:
Marrakech also has a number of very hip, trendy restaurants, which cater to well-heeled Moroccans and jet-set Europeans. One of the most popular seems to be a place called Le Foundouk, which serves a French/Moroccan menu. People say the food is good but not out of this world. The big draw is the amazing setting and decor. We didn't eat there, but we did pop in one afternoon to take some photos (click the pics to view them in a larger size):
On our last night in Marrakech, we decided to splash out at a similarly trendy joint called Narwama, a Thai restaurant that also serves Moroccan food. Unfortunately, we did not have our camera there, but the decor was exceptional. (You can see some pics online here ) One dramatic showpiece in particular was front and center in the main dining room: a round globe-like ball, covered in both running water and flame. Narwama is owned and run by a very cool guy named Ali Bousfiha, and it is due to his hard work and hospitality that I would go back. I say this because our overall experience was negative. First, the restaurant was INSANELY expensive. For a bottle of wine, a large bottle of mineral water, and two curries we spent about 70 or 80 euros. A similar dinner would cost us about $35 in San Francisco at a nice Thai restaurant. Prices aside, it IS a see-and-be-seen place, so I'll let the cost rest for a moment.
When we arrived (without a reservation), it was an hour before closing. There were several tables available, but it was crowded, and there were many people who still had menus in their hands. When we asked the hostess for a table, she said the kitchen was closed, and there was no more food. We didn't push it, but it occurred to me as we left that she had face-controlled us. (Face control is a practice at trendy nightclubs to turn back people who are poorly dressed or ugly or who somehow otherwise don't fit in.) Now, I admit we weren't dressed to the nines, but I don't think we were worse than some other customers. A couple came out shortly after us and we asked them if they thought it was weird that we weren't seated. They rolled their eyes and said that we would have to be pushy, and say that we would be fast and would only eat an entree, not a full meal or appetizers or dessert. So, we went back in and tried this routine on another employee. He said no problem, and led us to a table (along the way, Miss Priss tried to intercept us AGAIN to kick us out, but I gave her a snotty look and kept going). Once we were seated, it took a while to get menus, and after that service was spotty, including that we were served the wrong wine, and it took another 20 to 25 minutes for the correct bottle to show up. Getting our bill took equally long, and then the credit card machine didn't work. All in all, it was a very, very unsatisfactory experience for the price level. Service in the food stalls on the main square was about 100% better.
However, Ali did stop by to talk to us a couple of times, and apologized profusely for our troubles (stopping short of comping us anything though). We talked to him at length about service problems at high-end places in Morocco, how training is an ongoing issue for him, etc. etc. and he really seemed genuinely troubled by our experience. (As he should be, with a staff that turns away customers, and a reputation that you can only order an entree!) We saw him running around the entire time we were there, and I really think the place only runs at all due to his hard work. I describe all this just to caution others that just because a place looks phenomenal and is expensive, you shouldn't expect European, Asian, or American service.
What are the people like?/What are women like?/Did you experience anti-Americanism? While not all of our interactions with people were a pleasure, the vast majority were. People wore big smiles and were eager to communicate and tell us about Morocco, or find out more about where we were from. We were struck again and again by the excellent language skills of people young and old. Moroccan Arabic and French are the most common languages, and Berber is also widely spoken (Berbers are the original Moroccans, and many people speak both Arabic and Berber along with fluent French). Due to tourism, other European languages are widely spoken; my hunch is that English and Spanish are the most common after French.
Most people thought we were from England because of our language: "England? London? Manchester? Liverpool?" I don't think many Americans visit compared to other nationalities, but one waiter did tell me that Americans never want to say they are American. In our experience, people focus more on Europe than they do on the U.S. (Morocco wants to join the E.U., and thousands and thousands of Moroccans have emigrated to Europe), and were more interested in Budapest than they were in California or the United States.
The only anti-American remarks I heard were a couple of passing comments from an Australian (against the war in Iraq, and angry about the U.S.'s stance on climate change). Oh, and I don't know that the following picture is anti-American, but we got a kick out of it:
Women are more difficult to talk about, mainly because you seldom interact with them as a tourist. I can only think of three that we talked to during our six days: one in our riad, one in a pharmacy, and one who took our money at Sahara Expeditions. So, all I can really tell you is this: women dressed conservatively, in long sleeves and pants. Some dressed fairly western, but with scarves around their neck. Most wore scarves covering their hair and necks, and a few would use their scarves to cover their faces as well. In the countryside, dress was even more conservative, with some women almost fully covered. Women are out and about in groups all over the place during the day, but you don't see them out at night. You also only see them walking, never sitting down in a restaurant or a cafe.
It struck me while I was there that I wasn't getting the real story in Morocco. As a foreign woman, I was privy to a man's Morocco to a large extent, but I am completely ignorant what woman's life is like. I would be very interested in promoting women's tourism in such places, where foreign women could visit local women, and learn from each other.
Can you buy alcohol? Yes, but most restaurants do not serve it, and it is not sold in stores in the Medina. There are clubs and bars in the new town; otherwise your best bets are hotels and upmarket restaurants.
What were the most shocking or disturbing things you saw? Two things: the amount of child labor, and the sad donkeys!
There is no mandatory education in Morocco, and children begin working young, even under the age of 10. That was very surprising to see.
The saddest thing we saw were donkeys, which are used widely in both the city and the countryside. Do you remember the Christmas special Nestor? Poor old Nestor is a prince compared to the donkeys of Morocco, who toil endlessly while being whacked with sticks. Even if you approach them with gentleness to pet them, they shirk away in fear, like dogs that have been beaten too many times. I also read that after a life of hard work, old donkeys are sold to the zoo in Rabat to be fed to the lions and tigers. I kept telling Zoli that I want to buy property in Morocco and open a donkey sanctuary for retired donkeys. Their eyes are so expressive, and they seem so pitiful.
What were the best things you saw? Almost everything we saw was so new and unexpected that the trip itself was the "best." If I were to narrow it down though, I would have to say the nature, the decor, the architecture (like the kasbahs, and the Koranic school), and the people, who are so authentic and photogenic.
Is it easy to travel in Morocco? Well, I wouldn't recommend it for beginners, but we didn't have any major problems. With an open mind and a healthy dose of patience, it is absolutely worth visiting.
Do you recommend visiting Morocco? Yes, without question!
This is the next installment in a series about a dream trip from which Zoli and I just returned, traveling around Morocco and the Iberian peninsula. After a frustrating but interesting independent tour of Marrakech, we decided we wanted to spend our last day in the city with a guide. Fortunately our riad knew just the guy! To read part one of our Marrakech visit, click here. To read our trip adventures from the beginning, click here.
Throughout our stay at the Riad Safa, Zoli and I had the great pleasure of spending hours talking to Yousef, the attendant on duty in the evenings. Yousef grew up in Marrakech and has spent 20 years working with tourists, starting as a hustler when he was a kid and picking up at least five languages along the way, as well as street smarts and a knack for understanding people and identifying what they want from their time in Marrakech.
We thoroughly enjoyed our talks with him, which ranged from comparative religion to values to goals in life to the good things and the problems in Morocco. Yousef has a very reasoned approach to life, taking the long view: that it is better to show people a good time so that they will come back rather than to rip them off (it is better to have 100 dirham tomorrow than 10 today); and that the grass isn't always greener on the other side -- one might make more money in Europe, but at a high personal cost. We found him to be thoughtful and happy overall and optimistic about his future. In fact our best conversations of the entire trip were with Yousef.
It was natural therefore that we asked Yousef to be our guide on our last day in Marrakech so that we could gain more insight into the city. The plan was to see a variety of markets together, and then he'd take us to the Koranic school, which we could tour ourselves. In addition to gaining knowledge, having a guide has many other advantages, namely:
You won't get lost, or waste time being lost
No one will harass you on the street, trying to sell you stuff or show you to the "big square," and if they do, the guide will handle the situation quickly
You can look in shops and browse without being hard-sold by the merchant; if you want to buy something, great, but if not, you can look in peace
You will be taken to more reputable shops (assuming your guide is reputable), where you won't be sold poorly made, inferior goods (such as leather that loses its color all over your clothes the instant it rains)
Our first stop of the day was a local bread bakery. Moroccan bread is somewhat flat and round, and doesn't have much taste in general. It is served with every meal: you can eat it with tagine or use it to wrap around meat grilled on skewers. Local residents and restaurant owners bring their dough to the bakery and come back for the finished product later. Note that the finished loaves are tossed onto the floor as they come out of the oven, which is rather unsanitary especially considering what one walks through on the streets (and note also that the assistant is wearing street shoes). Best not to dwell on these things too much.
From the bakery we made our way to a spice merchant/herbal medicine shop, where the "Berber Pharmacist" explained all the typical Moroccan spices and their uses in cooking. I bought a packet of hot, red spices to add to oil when I get home to make a fiery hot sauce. The gentleman also told us about a variety of herbal remedies. Memorable among these is adding a heaping teaspoon of cumin to Coca Cola, guaranteed to take care of upset stomachs, including traveler's diarrhea. We learned too about teas for high cholesterol, oils for headaches and sleeplessness, and creams for wrinkles, hemorrhoids, and acne, ambergris for perfume/deodorant and to protect clothes from moths, and more. The big ticket item was argan oil, made from nuts pressed from trees in Southwest Morocco. This very precious oil has uses in gastronomy, massage, and cosmetics, and is also used for health purposes. The oil was too expensive for our budget, but we did agree to quick neck and shoulder massages. We also bought some seeds to help with Zoli's snoring (you put them in a thin cotton cloth, make it into a little bag, rub the seeds to release the oil, and inhale through the bag into each nostril) and some cream and argan soap to help with his psoriasis. The seeds do seem to help, as does the cream, though it stinks to high heaven.
Yousef next took us to the Criée Berbere, or carpet souk, which has auctions once a week where sellers from the countryside bring their wares to the city to sell to the shop keepers. We were quite clear we wouldn't be buying, and didn't stay long here. According to Time Out Marrakech, this is also the site of a thrice weekly former slave auction, active well into the 20th century. Time Out also says that "According to North African historian Barnaby Rogerson, the going rate for two slaves was a camel, ten for a horse and 40 for a civet cat."
The leather souk came next, with shops packed overfull of purses, babouches (Moroccan slipper/shoes), and luggage. Morocco is known for its leather (more on this in a bit when we talk about the tanneries), and much of it was very nice quality. There are some unscrupulous merchants though, so you are advised to wipe the piece with a damp cloth before you buy it to ensure that any coloring stays fast. I'd hoped to do some Christmas shopping for my sisters here, but the choices were so overwhelming that I would have needed hours to decide. Yousef also taught us what to look for in slippers: the ones they make for tourists have soft bottoms and often inferior stitching, and are good only for wearing inside the house. Moroccans buy slippers for wearing on the street as well, with collapsible backs for wearing inside the house, and with reinforced soles. They come in every color imaginable, often with fancy embroidery and/or beadwork.
The metalwork souk was a noisy, activity-filled place. The shops sold everything from lamps to tools to cookware. I would have loved to shop more here, but I'm sure the shipping alone would cost at least three times as much as the products themselves. We saw many craftsman at work, in little garage-like spaces like something out of a Dickens novel. The artisans worked the metal over open flames, pounded the metal into thin strips, and manipulated the metal into fantastic shapes and designs. It also seemed like there was considerably more child labor in the metalworks than elsewhere, and though I'm not sure there is a connection, people were not willing to be photographed.
In the dyer's souk, we stopped in to see Yousef's uncle, who he thought sold carpets. Hilarity ensued when it turned out that his uncle had changed professions and now sold herbs! Had Yousef known, we would have come to his uncle's for that part of our tour! Nonetheless, Yousef's uncle was the epitome of hospitality, inviting us for some excellent tea, giving me a gift of a small piece of ambergris, and taking us up to the roof so that Zoli could photograph all the dyed wool hanging out to dry. The dyes are made from natural materials such as saffron, indigo, pomegranate, and mint, and wool, silk, and leather are colored in boiling vats of the dye. Again we were taught about "cheats" in the dyer's market, with some makers taking shortcuts resulting in cloth where the dye isn't set properly. Zoli and Yousef had fun bargaining with one merchant for a couple of scarves for me; I couldn't decide between blue and pink, and in the end Zoli bought both for around $25. Yousef got the guy to come down in price by telling him that even though we speak English, we are from Hungary, not England, so he shouldn't charge us the English price! :-)
Our next stop was the tannery, which was a scene straight out of Dante's Inferno. According to legend, the tannery district was founded by demons, and it certainly looks and smells that way. Sartre said that hell is other people, but he is wrong. There is no question that hell, at least hell on earth, is the Marrakech tanneries. It was easily and by far the most disgusting thing I have ever experienced in person. Just looking at the picture makes me throw up a little. Imagine, if you will:
Entering an area, where as far as you can see, all you see are concrete vats filled with quicklime and water, water and blood, and water mixed with pigeon shit.
Animal skins (sheep, goat, and sometimes cow and camel) are stacked all over the place, in various stages of processing. Some still have hair and flesh stuck to them. The flies are thick.
The smell of decay and shit is so strong, you actually taste it.
Forget about keeping your shoes clean (Zoli's are still wrapped in a plastic bag in the hall closet).
Some of the vats are level with the ground, and the ground is soaking wet with God-knows-what. I was terrified of slipping into one of the vats, where I am sure I would instantly die an agonizing death.
I give up: I cannot put into words how horrible this place was. Interesting, but absolutely foul. And then, just as we were thankfully turning to leave, we ran into a friend of Yousef's, a very friendly and nicely dressed man, who invited us to come see his workshop. Alas, his workshop was in the tannery, and I had to follow the guys back across the crap-filled walkways back into its heart, gagging all the way.
Yousef's friend (seen here, standing up) first took us up to the roof of a three-story, run-down, concrete building. From this vantage point we could see how enormous the tanneries really are. Families live in the houses surrounding the tanneries, and the tanners have worked there for generations, the trade being passed down the male line, most workers retiring in their 40s with health problems (go figure). While we were up top, the friend asked me if I'd like to see his rabbit (!!!), tucked away in a hutch on the roof. It was only then that I realized we were all standing on a rabbit poop-covered rooftop, the poop being a good inch deep. I wonder if they use rabbit poop in the tanning process too? He then took us down to his basement workshop, where the air was delightfully filled with the smell of wood. The workshop was tiny, with woodworking projects in various states of completion throughout: tables, doors, chairs, panels. Patterns were drawn on the wood with ballpoint pen and then chipped out of the wood with hammers and chisels. The pieces are then varnished and inlaid with metal, camel bone, shells, and other materials. We were cautioned - AGAIN - about buying these kinds of things when they are sold as antiques. Apparently much of what is sold as antique is not, and is made in workshops like this. European buyers come down, buy fake antiques at inflated prices, and then take them back to Europe and sell them at even more inflated prices. Beautiful work, no doubt, but not antique. This little tidbit of information made me think back to the "special exhibit" we saw the previous day, and wonder how much of that stuff was fake antiques.
Our last stop of the day was Ben Youssef Medersa, the Koranic school near our riad. The school is attached to the Ben Youssef Mosque. Non-Muslims are not permitted entry into the Mosque, but can tour the school, the Marrakech museum, and the Koubba El-Badiyin, a domed complex thought to date from the early 1100s, all for around $8. Founded in the 14th century, Ben Youseff Medersa was in use as a school up until 1962. A courtyard centers the structure, with a small, water-filled pool in the middle. The facades surrounding the courtyard are covered with exquisite mosaic tile work and carved cedar. The upper level contains windowless rooms for the students, with lightwells in between. It is very much an atmosphere that induces peaceful reflection and meditation.
The nearby Musée de Marrakech is also a soothing place, but different. As a former grand old home, it doesn't have the meditative calm of the Koranic school. It is quiet and calm however, and a very lovely building in and of itself. There are few exhibits; the one that we spent the most time viewing was a photojournalistic account of the heart-and-gut-wrenching wartime atrocities in Aceh. Other exhibits displayed carpets, swords, and the like.
Lastly, our three-site ticket allowed us to walk around the ruins of Koubba El-Badiyin. This complex dates back to the founding of Marrakech by the Almoravids, whose dynasty lasted from 1062 to 1147. It is one of the earliest examples of the shapes and forms you see throughout North African architecture.
The sun began to set while we were at the Koubba, and we had just enough time for a quick bite to eat on the Jemaa el Fna before going back to the riad to say goodbye to Yousef, Frederic, Jean-Michel, Kermit the cat, and Piggy the dog. I know that I speak for Zoli too when I thank each of them for everything they did to make our trip to Morocco one of the best, most memorable experiences of our lives. And if you are reading this and are going to Marrakech, look up Yousef -- he's the best.
This is the next installment in a series about a dream trip from which Zoli and I just returned, traveling around Morocco and the Iberian peninsula. After our mountain and desert excursion, we had two full days to see the sites and souks. However, it didn't work out exactly as planned... To read from the beginning, click here.
When you travel, sometimes you have a list of things you want to see or do and it is easy to get through that list provided time permits and/or you don't find other things that may better occupy your time instead. Other times you have to go with the proverbial flow, and see what a place decides to show you. Marrakech and its denizens conspire to make this city just such a place.
With two days left in Marrakech, I had the following things on my agenda:
Visit the Ben Youssef Medersa (Koranic school)
Visit Majorelle Gardens (owned by Yves Saint Laurent)
Go to Galerie Bleue, a space for contemporary French and Moroccan artists; Frederic also suggested Galerie 127, a nearby photo gallery
Do some Christmas shopping in the souks
Zoli didn't have any particular plans, but merely wanted to get lost in the Medina taking photographs. I figured we could kill two birds with one stone on that last point; I could shop while he photographed. My plan was to do the first three things on the first day, and then do the shopping and photos on the next. Sajnos, two things were working against me:
No one told Marrakech that these were my plans. And Marrakech, if it doesn't know your agenda, chews you up and spits you out.
I didn't account for Zoli's trickery. I somehow forgot that he might agree to your agenda, but he still has his own and he does not always communicate it. For example, he might tell you that he's taking you to the Majorelle Gardens, but in fact he is getting lost in the Medina to take photos. After all, it would take you [me] a couple of hours to realize this and get cranky. You [I] wouldn't know the difference, being totally lost anyway.
These were the state of affairs when we ostensibly set out on my agenda on our first day back in Marrakech. If you've been keeping up with my account of this trip, you'll know by now that the Medina is an open air madhouse. After we left our riad, we were nearly instantly engulfed in wall-to-wall people, donkeys, carts, motorbikes, and the occasional screwball taxicab trying to fit through a passageway about as wide as my hips. What I haven't told you about the Medina is that it is surrounded by a wall that is 10 kilometers (6 miles) long, that the walls are 10 meters (30 feet) high, and that there are only 20 gates. In addition, maps are completely useless because nothing is marked, and if you ask someone where something is on a map, or where YOU are on the map, he/she cannot answer the question. Even the police cannot use maps. This leaves you with three options:
Get to a part of the Medina where you can get a cab and pay to be driven where you want to go.
Pay someone to guide you there.* Wherever you go, there is always a kid or an adolescent who wants to guide you who-knows-where in exchange for some money.
Try to muscle it out on your own.
*Just because you pay someone to take you "there" does not mean he will take you there, as we will soon find out.
After walking around for a couple of hours, Zoli happily snapping away, I began to be alarmed by the time. There were several things I wanted to see, it was nearing 2:00 p.m., and we were still in the Medina (of the items on my list, only the Koranic school is in the Medina). So of course I had to go berserk to get us back on track to get to the Majorelle Gardens. (I figured by this point we could go to the school the next day, as it was somewhat near our riad.)
Walking around the Medina on your own can be a frustrating experience if you are not All About Going with the Flow. Since I had an agenda, I was not going with the flow, and seriously, it's lucky that no one got hurt. There were three* particular points of annoyance for me:
Though the Medina is mostly impassable to cars, motorbikes are allowed, and the pollution is overwhelming to the point of migraine, asthma attacks, etc. I had to stuff my scarf up my nose again in order to breathe.
Everywhere you go, people attempt to "guide" you to the "big square" or some other attraction. Either that, or they lie to you. They call out that the alley you are about to go down is closed, the trick being that you will then let them show you another way, for payment, of course. If anyone tells you some way is closed, don't believe it. We were told about two million times that some way was closed and it never was. You might get lost, but not because some alley is closed. Anyway, it is aggravating to constantly have to say no. Another trick is to walk with you, even if you are studiously ignoring the person. Eventually he'll claim that he got you wherever you stopped and want money. It is really, really, f-wording annoying.
Everywhere you look, there is something interesting to see, especially as you go through the souks. This means that interesting things are for sale everywhere, and as soon as your gaze lingers for a millisecond on anything, someone jumps on you to try to sell it to you. And if you stop to look at something -- "It's ok just to look! Please, come look!" -- it is not so long before you are fending off negotiations or walking out. This then leads to feelings of privilege, guilt, and shame over having to be rude to get away from the guy.
*Honorable mention goes to lack of personal space. This doesn't exist in the Medina, so if you have a problem with it, don't go to Marrakech.
I don't say all of this just to idly complain. I actually enjoyed it to a point, but I just wanted to see the things that I intended to see and therefore things that were initially mild annoyances began to bug the royal shit out of me the longer it went on and on and on.
Eventually we got out of the Medina and thought we were semi on track to get to the gardens. Our map was only marginally more reliable outside of the Medina however, so we kept having to stop and scratch our heads. We finally decided that we'd keep going till we got to a main intersection and then flag a cab, and began to walk purposefully toward such a point. Soon after this decision a dude on foot crashed into my back on the crowded sidewalk, and began to apologize. Seeing that I spoke English, he quickly surmised that I was a tourist and said he worked for a riad, and were we lost?
Now, we sensed a setup here but since we had a specific destination in mind, we were enough at the end of our tether to pay the guy if he could get us to the damn gardens. Unfortunately, he informed us, the gardens were closed, but he knew of an amazing exhibit not far from where we were which would be ending its stay in Marrakech tomorrow! What luck that we could see it; did we want him to take us there?
Which is how we wound up back in that infernal Medina, in a shop that was sold to us as a museum/exhibit/point of Jewish (?) interest. Upon entering, it quickly became obvious that this was no temporary exhibit, but it was still quite interesting (go with the flow). The owner came and greeted us, and invited us to look around. Basically it was a gorgeous old house/mansion/something converted into a shop. The tile work and features were simply stunning. Ever have a dream where you keep going through room after room after room, never knowing what you are looking for? That's what this place was like, plus each room was jam packed with vases, urns, and other precious antiquities. It was the kind of place you don't want to trip, because you'll be paying for it the rest of your life. When we were finished, we tried to pay the owner something for letting us look around, but he declined payment. This should have been a warning bell... nothing is free in Morocco.
Back outside, we told our new guide that we wanted to get back outside of the Medina because there was a gallery we wanted to go to before it closed, but he convinced us to see another special "exhibit." This time it was carpets. I'm not going to bore you with another description of the whole carpet hoopla, since we've been through this already in previous posts about Turkey and Morocco. We had some tea, looked at some rugs, and got out. Our guide was all prepared to keep taking us around, but by now our patience had reached its limit and we had to get pushy about getting back outside the Medina. The guy took us ALMOST there, and then tried to shake us down for 20 euros! To take us to stores! That we didn't even want to see! F THAT NOISE, but we had to give the guy something, so Zoli gave him some kind of tip and we got out of there, AGAIN.
Back on the main drag outside of the Medina we caught a cab and took a chance on the Majorelle Gardens. Lucky we did, because that creep had lied to us. The gardens were open, and we got in no problem except that the sun would be going down soon and the gardens closed at sunset.
I will be the first to admit that the Majorelle Gardens are not exactly your "authentic" Marrakech experience. (I'm starting to annoy even myself here with my excessive use of "quotes" in this post.) The gardens were started in the 1930s by two French artists and are now owned by Yves Saint Laurent. The gardens themselves are not very large, but I found them calm, clean, and peaceful compared to the rest of the day. There is an extensive collection of cacti and succulents, lots of lily pools and koi ponds, and everywhere you look there are accents in beautiful Majorelle blue, a color inspired by the coveralls of French workmen. There is also a little museum of Islamic art, which we paid extra to get into, but really wasn't much of a big whoop.
We caught another cab leaving the gardens and went to the Galerie Bleue, which was (a) really hard to find, and (b) closed for renovations for the next two years. !!!! [Head spinning like the Linda Blair in The Exorcist] Galerie 127 was (a) very French, and (b) very depressing. The exhibit consisted of a bunch of stills from a French film, which the owner screened for us. The film was about a circus lady who ran off with someone, leaving her circus husband and daughter behind. The circus fell apart, I don't remember what happened the the husband, and the daughter wound up freezing to death on the street. I actually liked the film; it was well-made, artistic, and like cinematic poetry. The problem was that the day being what it was, I was not in the best frame of mind to appreciate it. Mainly it struck me as terribly absurd to be watching it in Marrakech. We left as soon as it was over, politely as possible.
This is the next installment in a series about a dream trip from which Zoli and I just returned, traveling around Morocco and the Iberian peninsula. With a night in the sand dunes under our belts, it was back to Marrakech through a snowstorm! After our excursion, the sights and sounds of the city were even more jarring than when we had landed. To read from the beginning, click here.
Sleeping amongst the sand dunes in the desert, under the full moon, under the stars... sounds romantic, doesn't it? It isn't. For the first time in recent memory, I woke up thinking it would be better to get up than to try to sleep in a little more. And mind you, this was at the first break of light, what my friend Laura calls the ass crack of dawn.
The Berber guides began rousting everyone up right away. We had the long ride back to the place from which we'd started, and then a 12-plus hour drive back to Marrakech ahead of us. As we made our way to our camels (each with a pile of droppings around its hind end; those things sure do poop a LOT), we saw something very sad. The previous night, we saw a kitten stumbling around, not acting right. By morning, it was dead in the sand, surrounded by several other kittens either dead or dying, wracked with shivers and convulsions. I don't know what was wrong with them; I've only ever seen symptoms like that when an animal had been poisoned and that didn't seem likely. It was a sad reminder that even though our group was out there on holiday, having a wonderful time, the desert is a brutal, brutal place. Even Zoli was cognizant of how easy it would be to become lost - go down a sand dune on the wrong side and get disoriented, and you could walk till you die out there. Easily.
The ride back to the kasbah was nice. Though it was still cold and so windy that I had to wrap my shawl almost totally around my face, the rising sun was strong and my bones began to thaw out, and the desert was just as beautiful, though different, in the sunrise as it was by moonlight. At one point, the last camel in the line somehow became detached, and its rider, one of the Canadians, called out for us to wait and for some help. His camel just stood there, lookin
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