Fashion Fades; Style is Eternal


Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Why Morocco? Inquiring Minds, Well, Inquiring.

Ed Sheeran - I See Fire (Kygo Remix)

The first thing I get asked by A. people from home wondering why I left, and B. people from Morocco wondering why I came, is "Why Morocco?" with the most confused tone of voice I've ever heard.

To answer the question truthfully, which I usually don't do to those inquiring, I don't even really know why I chose Morocco in the first place.

I have always been really drawn to Africa, but if we're being totally honest here, I had to google Morocco to find out where it was before knowing it was even apart of the African, that strikes that answer head on.

I guess I wanted to go to Morocco because it was super far away from home, without being an island completely detached from society...which I wasn't totally ready to handle. Looking back on it though, I'd be down for some island time pending an offering of a slick do-over.

And as far as Casablanca is concerned...well, it chose me.

It's not as romantic here as the movie portrays it to be, but there's this sense of understated vibrancy in the streets that I really truly love. A confused mix of old world, new world that has oddly captured me.

There are souks and spices and women wearing the most beautiful silk caftans I've ever seen. Ones that sell in boutiques in America for two thousand dollars are available at the Habous for 200 dirhams (roughly 20 euros or cheap tapas for two in Spain). Everyone gathers to enjoy couscous on Friday afternoon, prepared in a great big tajine for the entire table to eat from. I've made friends with the man I negotiated my first (and only) Moroccan carpet from, who invites me every Friday afternoon to his shop's terrace overlooking the old Medina. 

He teaches me the Arabic words of negotiation and the language of getting a good Moroccan deal. And in exchange, I remind him of his first love from almost half a century ago. Apparently she and I share the same grey eyes, Cancerian horoscope, and sarcastic remarks. He gave me a beautifully woven rug the other day with symbols of the zodiac sign as a thank you for bringing my London friends to his shop who were in search of some lanterns to bring home. He jokes and says that he will give me a good Moroccan husband for the next group of friends I bring along, but I do in fact question his seriousness and travel alone from now on, just to be safe. I'm holding out for an Italian husband at the moment, I politely say, and he just laughs for about 5 minutes straight. 

People spend hours of the day at street cafés drinking Moroccan tea or sipping on a nus-nus (half-half), served in a transparent small glass, you can see the layers of milk, strong pure Arabica espresso, and foam on top. The French cafés play the hippest music - think Daft Punk and Melody Gardot remixes, and Starbucks Franklin Roosevelt Villa isn't a quick "grab'n'go" - it's essentially a coffee compound, complete with a hipster espresso room and a vast patio terrace. I wander here by myself on Sunday mornings for a cappuccino the size of my face. Some American tendencies die hard, what can I say.

There are really cool open air lounges and high-rise bars with panoramic views if you want to go out, and just like Los Angeles, the nights to be seen fall mid-week, Wednesdays and Thursdays. Everyone wears black and Kygo's remix of Ed Sheeran's "I See Fire" plays just about every handful and a half of songs. The choice of beverage is chilled rosé and unlike so many big city belligerents, moderation is welcomely observed.

All and all, I'm liking Morocco, and even though I question my decision to come at times, I don't feel like my time here is up.

Friday, September 25, 2015

I’d Rather Talk Me, Shrink, For Real.

Jane Austen, novelist

So, I’ve decided to start writing again.

Except this time, not to gain more followers through robustly unfiltered posts and witty remarks punctuated here and there in my paragraphs like swearwords rolling around in a sailor’s mouth, but rather…because I quite miss the outlet of self expression – my head can only hold so many words before it feels the need to projectile vomit all over a cursor marker in Times New Roman pt. 12 font.

This time around, I’m not so interested in the newest patent Saint Laurent is stamping all over, nor do I give two and a half sh*ts about the drunk girl stamping around in it.

I’d rather talk me, shrink, for real. I’m quite literally begging for someone to ask me a question and not listen to my response. Please, ask me, “and how does that make you feel?” and politely keep your advise aside. 

So, that’s what I’ve decided to start writing again.

My long, drawn out answer to how this effing world is making me feel with the hopes that you, dear reader, are only listening with one eyeball and out the other.

Instead of going down a randomly numbered “How To” list that would drive OCD people headfirst into a straightjacket, I’d rather just type with the point aside and ditch the chicly found Google images.

Like, how about we stop talking about how un-cool and 2008 it was of you getting it on in the SOHO House bathroom and talk about the fact that it took me 2 years too long to finally get over my boring ex and not want to publicly trash him anymore. That it was actually his engagement to his ex-girlfriend (I know, right, sucker punch to the vag) that offered me a real sense of closure and assurance that everything in this wild world does in fact, happen for a damn good reason.

And who, by the way, even cares about whether or not to check your Louis Vuitton luggage. Checking bags at the airport is a pretty freaking subjective topic to me. I’d rather talk about the overweight fees I paid on the beast of a bag I checked moving to Morocco with only one very heavy suitcase. But please, let’s not bring up the fact that I should have listened to my dad and split my new simple life into two smaller (and much cheaper) suitcases.

Speaking of my dad, I miss him a lot being away from home. He’s no doubtedly my favorite person in the world and I haven’t spoken to him once since I’ve been here in Morocco. I know he’s gotten word through my mom, and I tell her to tell him hi all the time, but still. I think I’ve avoided talking to him because I know if I did, I would turn into a big baby and start crying my organic, plant-based (and very un-Chanel) mascara down my face and want to go home – and I don’t want to be homesick yet! 

This is a solo mission and I’ve still got some boxes to check.

So, yeah, I guess I’ve decided to start writing again.

Let the words begin...

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