The Red City

Marrakech, sometimes referred to as the Red City, is true to its name. The walls and houses of the city are a dusty pink in the afternoon light, a rusty red at night, and a pale orange in the first light of day. The feel here is quite different from that of Rabat. I suddenly find myself surrounded by tourists and my blonde hair, which is so easy to spot in the narrow streets of Rabat, is no longer distinguishable among the crowds of Americans, Swedes, and Germans.

I have been spending my time in two very different and equally incredible places. The first is the house where I am staying for the two to three nights that I will be in Marrakech. It is in the medina, not a five minute walk from the central square. The walk to the house is winding and quiet. The door is easy to spot as it nearly completely covered by a vast and beautiful vine of some kind that spreads tiny purple flowers on the ground beneath it. Upon reaching the door, the vine is the only clue as to what lies beyond. The door opens into a cool, tiled hallway which opens in a courtyard that feels like a personal rain forest. A giant tree is the dominating feature and it rises up the 3 stories and splays out onto the terrace. All of the rooms in the house are open to the air. A winding spiral staircase connects each floor and ends on the terrace, which is more of an extensive series of balconies. I woke up at 7:30 this morning and spent 2 hours there, reading and watching the line of shadow slowly retreat across the clay as the sun made its way into the sky. When I returned to my room, I found a small bird in my shower. After frantically flapping against the closed window, he fled to my dresser, obstinately refusing my help. I opened all the windows and left the room, giving him enough privacy to make his escape. I walked up to the terrace and watched as he winged his way out of my small window and fluttered about the tree, cleary wondering why on earth humans lock themselves into such small, dark closets to bathe.

When I'm not in my own little palace or wandering around the streets of Marrakech, I am in the Palais Bahia. It is a 19th century palace that housed the king and queen of Morocco and then the French colonizing force when they arrived. It has been turned into a national gallery and currently hosts an exhibition of Moroccan art. Part of my job while in Marrakech is to help disinstall the exhibition. Last night, I was in the palace from 8pm to midnight, alternately helping to take down and pack up paintings and marvel at the stars above the several beautifully tiled courtyards. One of the exhibits is housed in the old receiving room of the Moroccan king. The room is enourmous, with doors about two and a half times my height. For the past couple of months, it has housed a work of art of Alice and Wonderland proportions, meant to recreate for adults the sense of being a small child in a world created for grown-ups. The furniture in the room, which is set up as a monolithic bedroom, dwarfs even the tallest visitor. This morning, as I glanced around the room, I spotted the same species of bird that visited me this morning, perched on top of the giantic mattress sprawled on the ground, recently pulled off the even bigger bed. The appearance of the tiny bird, who I like to think of as my friend from this morning, as unlikely as that may be, lent an even greater sense of distortion to the space. I walked out of the doors, only to find myself in an expansive courtyard beneath an even more expansive and eternally blue sky. Sometimes it's nice to feel small.

With red clay, art work, palm trees, and love. Bisoux.