In a small square in Marrakech, where the crotchety veiled ladies sell crocheted hats, the sun beats down on caged chameleons, good luck garden turtles and henna sifters. It’s midday, 30 degrees celcius and the Marakchi (the people of Marrakech) are at home in their skin.
“Now,” he says, “people hardly have time to stop. They are in a rush. No time to stop and talk, much less savor a taste.” Dreadful, I think. Surely it’s our (fast-paced American) fault. Do we all want such a place to go? Or just certain types of people?
Persimmons hang like jewels on leafless branches of the tree, like ornaments. Harvested and strung up in front of Japanese country houses like coral necklaces, this colorful display announces the end of fall and beginning of winter. Time to go in ~and digest~ and dream the year to come. They say if you can dream it, you can make it happen.
Devi Garh, our Palace fortress up above the village waits with a silver thali on a low marble table that looks over the valley, beds with white linens and a view. The food is very similar, just presented differently, yet we are not cut off from one another. We are close and smile and, able to share a kind word.
One man’s temple is another man’s palace. Namaste.
January has rolled around and we find ourselves at the top of the year. I find that leaving the country has been a fine thing to do. It’s hard to pick up in the middle of winter and fling oneself out the door, especially to the other side of the world. It feels wrong in some ways, like one is supposed to stay put by the fire.
It’s Sunday morning and I’m hungry. I remember that I have some super fresh eggs from Cure Organic Farm, from just down the road. I think to myself, shall I scramble them? Over easy? Poach? Yes! I say to myself with that smile that knows just exactly what to do. …