Je voudrais un baguette...

Sunshine and renewal, flowers in bloom, and newfound allergies in this city of superlatives. The gardens were radiant, the buildings grand, and the monuments glorious.  Even the Notre Dame was her outstanding self.  It’s springtime in Paris and little else needs to be said.  Who would have thought it would be my third time here in 18 months?  This time with Steph and my cousins Miki and Michael.

Somewhere in the 13^th arrondissement we found a good room at a price we’ve gotten accustomed to.  By metro and lots of walking, we took in all of the Right Bank, from Place d’ Bastille all the way to the Trocadero.  A good view of the Eiffel Tower, day or night, never got old. 

A stroll along the banks of the River Seine offered the quintessential experience of gushing over the city, and watching its residents and visitors.  Another good spot to contemplate it all was from a reclining chair along one of the ponds in the Jardin Tulllieres.  The Louvre was amazing, but so vast it felt like an accomplishment just to get through…

Other than the courtyard of the Louvre Museum, the inside of any good patisserie or bakery topped my list of places to visit.  Luckily there was one of those around practically every corner.  The pain au chocolat here was inimitable, as was the simple pleasure of biting into the crust of a just-baked chewy baguette -- plain, buttered, or filled with goat cheese.  Around the block, the lady at the counter actually asked her younger colleague how to say, “eat here?” in English after I did not understand her in French.  Yes, it really did happen…

I had a 6 Euro Café Americano (or what we call coffee) at one of those ubiquitous outside tables, but it was along the Champs Elysees and afforded a few hours of hanging out with Raj, my old friend from the Stanford days.  3-4 Euros (about $4-5) for a soda was fairly normal in most restaurants, so we dined in a brasserie only once.  The rest of the time we stuck to other affordable Parisian classics such as Vietnamese Pho, Doner Kebab, and take-out Chinese.  McDonald’s almost happened.

Inevitably, the sun gave way to the cloud cover, brisk temperatures, and rain that characterize Paris the other half the time.  We spent a few great days hanging out with our friends Phillippa and Francois, being Americans and finding out about life here.

Paris is amazing, if just for the baguettes.  And 15% of the time, they might even reply in English, if you try in French first.  At least at the bakeries… 

Madrid and the Rest

Madrid marked the start of the more costly segment of our itinerary.  The budget requirements were now stratospheric, compared to how low we were able to pare down daily expenses in Asia and Africa. 

The sights and pursuits here were of the cosmopolitan variety, rambling through plazas, sitting for coffee, and literally chewing on several kinds of jamon, Serrano or Iberico…  Then there was my staple, the calamari sandwich, washed down with a small glass of beer. 

If you’re into Picasso, Dali, Miro, Goya or El Greco, then this was heaven.  In a dizzying 24-hour span we visited the Prado, the Thyssen-Bornemisza, and the Reina Sofia Museums.  The first was amazing, the second surprisingly good, and the latter maybe overkill, and a bit too abstract.  But at least I walked away understanding Picasso’s Guernica.

Nearby Toledo was that picturesque medieval city on top of the hill.  The entire walled portion could be an open-air museum, but the gothic Cathedral dominated the sights.  The shops all displayed swords, knives, chainmail, and other sorts of Crusader paraphernalia.  We skipped the museum of ancient torture devices.

Another overnight bus then took us to Barcelona, a former site of the Olympics.  My cousin Miki hooked us up with rooms at the very posh Hilton – very nice!  The iconic Sagrada Familia, under construction since 1909, provoked only one reaction: Wow!  Simply imposing and quite the sight, though very, very, very different.  Such was the case with most of Gaudi’s other organic architectural designs throughout the city.  Las Ramblas held the largest collection of crazy costumed street performers on any promenade.  The Palau de la Musica Catalana had a stunning ceiling, but the opera and flamenco fusion show was a bit odd.  Otherwise, much of Barcelona’s charm lay in its space and convenience, its modernism, and its thorough “modern-ness.”  We stayed away from the museums. 

The Other Alhambra...

Following two great days in Seville, we ventured further across the green Andaluz plains. Cordoba was 2 ½ hours away and we had come to see La Mezquita, the grandest and most beautiful mosque constructed by the Moors in Spain.  The backpacks were stuffed into lockers at the bus station, and a short walk through the touristy Jewish Quarter deposited us into the outside courtyard.

The belfry tower didn’t look particularly distinctive, but the first glimpse inside the cathedral was immensely exciting.  Over a thousand columns supported the ceiling, with tiers of beautiful red and white painted arches lacing the dimly lit former mosque.  It was exactly the image from those Spanish coffee table books.  Individually, the Arabic prayer niches and Christian altar could be jewels, but the wonder really lay with gazing up at the painted arches. 

Having deciding that nothing in Cordoba would surpass La Mezquita, we proceeded further East, another 2 ½ hours on the bus.  We hadn’t any idea what Granada might look like, but the Alhambra in LA County was the only one I’ve been to thus far, so we were compelled to see the other Alhambra.   The weather was cool and grey, a little rainy, and the snowy Sierra Nevada loomed just behind the Granada hills.  Dinner was Chinese tapas, small plates of quite tasty wings and noodles, free with the purchase of any beverage.

As the main attraction, tickets to the hilltop fortress weren’t easy to score.  The early morning walk up left us breathless, but with ample time to cool our heels in the hour-long ticket queue.  Only about 8000 tickets were sold daily (most snapped up in advance by tour operators), and I think we were in the last hundred, with a visit slot for later in the afternoon. There was the opportunity to wander around the Sacramonte and Albayzin barrios, the Gitano and old Moorish Quarters, respectively. And enough time to find another hotel and sit down for lunch, sometimes not a simple decision when faced with too many choices…

A few women made the rounds, offering sprigs of rosemary to passersby – either an interesting form of hospitality or maybe a variation of smilingly passing a flower and then demanding money?

The Alhambra complex, with a rich history of Moorish conquest and Spanish reconquest, was huge.  Several palaces and sculpted gardens, along with a lot of tour groups, filled its high walls.  The Alcazaba was the impenetrable fortress you'd picture, but the Palacios Nazaries was beyond imagination.  The courtyard and harem were fantastic, their walls, niches, and arches so sensually and painstakingly adorned with intricately carved patterns.  The place in LA county was nothing like this.  I regretted not having an adequate camera, as the Canon dSLR and both lenses bit the dust sometime around February in Egypt…  

Sevilla

The flamenco at the intimate Casa de la Memoria earlier this evening left me with a stiff jaw and dry mouth.  So raw, so visceral was the performance that I could not wait to get back and write about it.  The stunning rhythm, the flamboyance of the limbs and the force of the stomps, followed by Rioja at Cervezeria Giralda – what a night.

Leaving Fes had been yet another adventure.  The 2^nd class train compartments for were packed, so we stood between rail cars for 2 hours until some seats opened up.  Tangier is legendary for hustlers, so we made for the port immediately upon arrival, but of course, not before the obligatory bargaining session with cabbies. The masochist in me regrets not experiencing the sultry chaos on top of the hill.  The ferry crossing to Algeciras was so chaotic and delayed, it nearly approximated the awful Egypt to Jordan ferry.  We finally got there past midnight.  With neither guidebook nor clue, the blue neon “Hotel” sign several hundred meters outside of the port felt like the warmest welcome on Spanish soil.  Another bus ride would await us in the morning.

Sevilla was the setting of Don Juan, Carmen, and Figaro.  It’s Andalucia – sunshine, bullfights, and flamenco.  What a beautiful, evocative city…

We checked into the first “reasonably” priced pension in the old Jewish Quarter, and after a few twists and turns, La Catedral de Sevilla stood before us.  I’m envious of those living there, with windows facing the gothic marvel, day and night.

Breakfast was a plate of piping hot churros, dipped into a mug of thick, syrupy hot chocolate, too rich upon reaching the bottom.

Inside, the Cathedral was so opulent, so ostentatious, that I much preferred the smaller churches and chapels.  The Giralda Tower, with its Moorish design, was beautiful, but very crowded.  The Alcazar was huge.  The white, yellow, and red of the circular Plaza de Toros radiated perfectly in the warm sun. 

The sun didn't go down until after nine, and many of the eateries didn't even fill up until after ten.  Nowhere at home would ordinary people be strolling around the city center after midnight.

There was a lot to take in, especially the varied and tasty tapas.  The heavily marbled Iberian ham was thinly sliced, right on the counter and right off the hock.  Stuffed pimientos, glazed duck breast, olive oil and tuna in tomato gazpacho.

"No Mo' Rockin"

We’ve been often asked whether all the traveling is tiring.  It's part of the deal, but on the 11-hour bus and train combo out of Essaouira it felt like a raw deal.  Nothing as romantic as luxury train travel, our 2^nd class compartment consisted of 2 rows of 4 narrowly squeezed people facing each other, lots of silence, and nary enough legroom, for 7 ½ hours…

This Easter weekend (like all others, I’m sure) all of Spain had crossed the Gibraltar Strait and descended upon Fes.  Immediately upon arrival, we knew it was going to be one of those nights.  The guidebook had listed a whopping 3 places for less than $25, and they considered any price less than $70 “budget.”  We criss-crossed the Ville Nouvelle, literally looking for hotel signs.  Everything was either full or above our budget.  And, for the occasion, prices were higher than the tariffs listed on the walls! 

Hotel Central had a room for $25, but the sheets must not have been changed for some time.  Clean sheets?  They didn’t have any…  So, it was back to walking around, until 2 students pointed out a small hotel we must have missed.  Clean sheets as much as the late hour convinced us that this was a winner.  The lack of hot water would be a minor detail. 

All the old cities had a walled center, but the Fes medina was the largest jumbled mess we had ventured into so far.  Guides did a brisk trade, leading around the trepid.  Many of the goods sold here were principally the same as in Marrakesh, but this medina boasted its own tannery area, where countless men earned a living immersing animal hides in putrid pits to attain just that wonderful color.  I hadn’t seen camel meat for sale before, until Steph spotted the camel head on a counter.  Makes me wonder what really was in my “couscous with meat.”  Why so mysterious?    

Content just to feast the eyes, we had not made any purchases.  Beheld one to many times, even the most brilliant lamps lost their luster.  Fragrant rose water and jasmine lay for sale, carts of pastel-colored nougat, as well as trays of soft, chewy almond cookies – those, we fortunately did try…

By the second night, we had chewed on Fes from several different angles.  With the desert and kasbahs far away, the medinas now less fascinating, Morocco began to feel a little laborious. Forget Meknes, forget Chefchaoun - Hello Tangier. 

Funky Cold Medina

Leaving Agadir was much more fun than getting there.  We slept through much of the early morning ride up the Atlantic coast.  As the bus approached the colorful, but faded buildings near the old city wall, the first glimpse of Essaouira was promising.  It was an old city and still looked that way, with its narrow alleys and rusty fishing fleet.  The central streets inside the medina, despite the density of shops and restaurants, retained a relaxed atmosphere.  The little side streets were absolutely still, except for the blustering winds  

We tried our luck at an old riad, with nice tile work and tons of atmosphere.  The price was 450 Dirham ($55) with breakfast.  That was too expensive.  “What is your budget?” she asked.  200 Dirham, I replied.  “Okay, I have a room for 200.”  I’ll take it.

With a reputation for being "the windy city," it was hardly a surprise to see many of the palm trees leaning leeward.  Flocks of gulls remained suspended in the sky without effort.  The wind howled across any area not walled off.  The top of the seaside rampart only amplified the force of the wind, as rough whitecaps transformed into heavy rollers that periodically smashed into the rocky shore, dissipating salty spray over its walls.  At times it took effort not to be blown back.  And it was impossible to sit at the beach.

There was a funky vibe with the many artists in residence.  The mounds of colorful spices were only mock-ups for tourists, it was revealed.  The real stuff was kept in jars inside; otherwise they would have been blown all over the place…

Much of the food was relatively expensive, catering mostly to French tourists and daytrippers from Marrakesh.  With the large fishing fleet, I thought the seafood might be better.  We tried it twice – one decent and the other plain bad.

There wasn't much else to do but stroll around, relax, and read, so that's what we did.

Ocean sunsets can have that nostalgic beauty, the ethereal yellow orange glow so often depicted in technicolor on vintage t-shirts, but this one was real, and windy.

Agadir

After visiting the kasbah used as a backdrop in Star Wars, we boarded a bus to Agadir, a large resort city along the Atlantic Coast.  Getting there was painful.  The ride was long and the bus broke down halfway.  It wouldn’t restart, so the driver got out to fiddle in different compartments.  Everyone disembarked to wait roadside.  Aided by telephone instructions, he proceeded to the rear battery compartment.  Sparks flew -- this was not promising.  Two too cool Westerners, attired in Touareg head coverings, sauntered off and tried to hitchhike.  They must have been Americans, as Canadians plaster their “Roots” gear with maple leafs and flag patches, just so there is no mistake.  I wished they had succeeded, but the driver worked a miracle as we eventually got going.    

The delayed arrival was in total darkness and we had difficulty orienting ourselves without streets signs or a proper map.  There were no taxis and speaking neither Arabic nor French didn’t help matters.  Parts of the center appeared slightly seedy, but it was after 10pm.  Eventually, we were pointed in the right direction, but the distances were improbably large.  After legging about an hour, we staggered up to our budget hotel, tired and hungry.  We understood the “budget” part, but the multiple big holes in the walls were disturbing, so we went down the street for double the price ($25).   

As it turned out, Agadir wasn’t worth the effort.  Visions of majestic waves dissipated in the windy beach and the piddly surf, so I had little interest in braving the 17˚ Celsius water.  After a large earthquake in the 60’s, most of the city was rebuilt, and retained nothing of its previous architecture.  I couldn’t quite understand the raison d’etre for all the gleaming resort hotels.  But at least, the sun was out and we were in shorts and flip-flops.

Desert Dreams

I’m reading Paul Theroux’s The Great Railway Bazaar.  He mused about travel being flight and pursuit in equal parts, and I think I know what he meant.  More concretely, our cave was already booked away and we would be in pursuit of the next destination, yet to be decided.  Over breakfast, the desert sounded better and better, so we’d make it happen.

First off, was the half hour walk to the bus station, for the hotel guy was vague and we had no clue what time the bus departed for Ouarzazate.  11:30 AM!  We had 45 minutes to gather our packs and make it back.  Without dallying, we hopped into a cab, which was only 7 Dirham, plus a few for tip.  Rushing through the Djemaa el-Fna, we stole last glimpses of signature Marrakesh and ponied up some coins for pictures of the snakes and charmers. 

Getting back to the bus terminal was typical of my experience with taxis.  The first guy seemed agreeable, but naturally was averse to using the meter and wanted 20 Dirham.  While he muttered something about 2 people and 2 luggages, we disagreed and got out.  The second guy was cast out of the same sad mold, but wanted 10 Dirham – fair enough, because it would be sans tip.  As I later handed him a twenty, he tried for the stale “it is 20 Dirham, 10 for each person” trick.  I’ve heard them all, and I knew the real price, so I took back the money and handed him 10.  No thanks…

The bus was late and full, but at least we had seats.  Evidenced by the green plains, the recent winter must have brought good rains.  The distant High Atlas Mountains were improbably snow-covered and hovered above the layer of haze.  The next 5 hours, we would traverse those same heights, swerving around the edge of dozens of sheer switchbacks, with slightly discomforting views of the green valleys far, far below.  A few people got sick, but I’m sure their discomfort dissipated as the bus descended smoothly to rocky desert and crumbling brick settlements.  Scattered flocks of sheep grazed the terrain.  Palms reappeared, as did visions of deserts and Kasbahs.

Soon after checking into the budget Hotel Royal, we made arrangements for a desert trip.  The two days and one night would surely inflict damage on our budget, but pursuits have a cost, and this would be a 480km 4x4 roundtrip journey close to the Algerian border.

Early next morning, we sped south, through an incredible mountain-flanked road, towards Agdz.  A quick off-road detour led to Les Cascades de Tizgui, a tiny, almost perpetual waterfall permanently palm-fringed.  Past Agdz, the route followed the Draa River in the similarly named Valley.  For about 100km, the Valley overflowed with lush palms and green crops, a testament to the wonder of water.  It could easily have been a mirage – flowing water, palms as far as the eyes could see, set below Grand Canyon-esque walls. 

The ancient “Route of a thousand caravans” originated as far as Sudan and crossed through Saharan Africa to Marrakesh.  All along lay small villages, with crumbling watchtowers and walls.  Even the centuries-old Kasbahs, also built of compacted mud, straw, and stone, were not immune to erosion.  There was an equal mix of Berbers and dark-skinned people in mostly traditional garb, some hawking dates, others riding donkeys, and a few just standing around.  This was the Morocco of my imagination, or as presented by the film Babel…  (Incidentally shot in this very same area).

Lunch break was in Zagora, the last sizable town and location of a several luxurious Kasbah-styled riads.  Lodging there might be for another time, but we did enjoy a humongous plate of couscous (though rapidly losing enthusiasm for it).  From there, the terrain started to resemble the frontier it was, arid, monotonous, and underdeveloped.  The weekly market day featured commerce and communion amongst villagers and vendors from far and wide.  A bounty was up for offer, but some were selling dry legumes and spices from a tiny bag – it might have been more worthwhile to keep it at home for personal consumption.

Like the Gobi in China and the Namib in Namibia, the Erg Lihoudi Dunes amazed.  The seemingly lifeless environment was ever changing, shifting sands in the intense mid-day heat, the tranquility of the setting sun, with renewal in the coolness of the morning.  The camel ride was hard on the seated anatomy, so a couple of hours felt more than enough. We slept under the stars in a Berber camp, where bedding was understandably sandy, but the blankets were ample and warm.  The next evening we were back in Ouarzazate, grateful for a hot shower.

Lookin' to Rock the Kasbah

From the window of the Transavia plane, Marrakesh resembled a bunch of pale ochre blocks surrounded by a mat of cultivated greens and hilly browns.  On this rare occasion, we had actually phoned ahead that morning from Rotterdam to book a room and pick-up.  Inside the medina, the tall, slender, and pink Koutoubia Mosque announced the center like a beacon.  Hotel Belleville was just off the Djemaa el-Fna, but I doubt we would have easily found it without being led there.  The surrounding area was a dense maze of derbs (alleys) and souqs (market streets) spilling out sensory assaults – the smells of grilled meats and spices, together with the dizzying array of carpets, lamps, metal ware, clothing, and all else, up for offer by too many voices vying for your attention and wallet.

The approaching twilight featured fantastic hues of violet amidst wisps of orange, as the ancient Djemaa el-Fna square buzzed with activity.  Mostly locals were out in droves to admire the spectacle of tumblers, carnival games, drummers, and string musicians, while I gravitated towards the snake charmers directing hypnotic drones at the vipers and king cobras.  Chained monkeys were sadly pimped out for pictures and children were hawking cookies.  

There were too many side streets to peruse.  As the sun faded, the square remained aglow with dozens of dried fruit stalls, which lay adjacent to dozens of citrus juice stalls, which in turn, lay adjacent to several dozens of street food stalls.  It was lights, smoke, and murmurs all over the place.  Roasted goat heads and escargot  begged for a taste, but prudence was in favor of chicken and lamb shawarmas, followed a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.  The first few hours in Marrakesh were good, and we called it a night.

The little riad (couryard house) only had 9 rooms.  Ours resembled a cave, barely large enough to squeeze in a bed.  Strong coffee, fresh juice, and warm pancakes greeted us after too short a night of sleep.  But the skies were blue and the warm day beckoned.

We didn’t rock the Kasbah, but we certainly ambled through a lot of it.  In one long day, we covered many of the sights, the more noteworthy being the fantastic Ali Ben Youssef Madrassa, Dair El Said, and the Bahia Palace.  Vividly colored geometric tiles, scalloped entranceways, and ornately carved wooden doors stood below the rich coffered ceilings.  The fountains were merely faucets, albeit historic ones, but the souqs were more numerous and interesting than in either Istanbul or Cairo; the hassles no more than anywhere else.  We paused for piping hot citron chicken and kabab tajines (a kind of clay pot stew), before continuing on.

Not much was left of the Badi Palace except for the ramparts, which offered a stork eye’s view over the old city.  Somehow, I had not imagined sightlines filled with improbably large stork nests and distracting satellite dishes.  We got a bit lost looking for the Saadian tombs and nearly called it quits when, amazingly, a sign for a carpet shop pointed the way, past piles of carpets and other trinkets, of course.  Even more amazing, the shopkeeper flicked on the lights, pointed the direction, and said nothing else!  We made it in, 15 minutes before closing.  The surrounding area was un-touristy and less frenetic.  

I thought we could check out the modern palace, but the high walls obscured all but the Moroccan flag.  On the return, recycled tires lay transformed into picture frames, water vessels, and toys.  Pails filled with slimy snails awaited the hot butter on someone’s plate.  A large helping of fluffy couscous with vegetables and lamb sounded better.