Three Times a Lady
Marrakesh & Agafay Desert, Morocco
L to the A to the D to the Y
Alert to my laaaadiesssss – time to pack your jean jackets and fly your asses over to Africa!
where my ladies at!?
Not able to leave Morocco without a proper lay-cay (ladies’ vacay), I called up two of my favorite laaaadiesssss and told them to meet me in the desert immediately.
The award for most spontaneous goes to Brandy Hatcher & Melissa Burke, two Chicago roll dawgs that love three things: stray cats, world travel, and nursing. And friendship pants. And soft pretzels. And kayaking.
We learned so many things this trip, not least of which that planning a Moroccan desert vacay two weeks before it happens is not impossible. I’d say we downright nailed it.
My taxi cab arrival to our predetermined meeting point (hotel #1 of 3) was less successful. After agreeing on a price before the ride started, my cab driver broke my heart our verbal agreement and tried to up the fare. Stopping short of my hotel, he started hassling me for more money, whereby I swiftly got my bags and my body out of the car. Then, he put my bags back in; I took my bags back out; and we did the hokey pokey and we turned ourselves around and thaaaaat’s whennnn he… let… me… go.
Just kidding. He threatened to drive me all the way back to my starting point, and I tried to defuse the situation by offering him jewelry. (Just some free bracelets I got from the pigeon guy in Milan.) Heeeee didn’t need to know that all my jewelry is under $20 because I either break em, lose em, or break em then lose em. Do you know how many bracelets have broken off my wrist and flung through the air at wedding receptions? Four. Four bracelets lost forever underneath banquet tables or dessert tables or DJ booths.
I either need to open my own banquet hall cleaning service to recoup any future losses…… or tone down my dance moves but let’s be serious here.
As soon as those two arrived (and I walked the rest of the way through town, surrounded by kids that now own very attractive pigeon man bracelets), I couldn’t stop smiling like a creep. As they described their flights…… as they sipped their welcome tea…… I lit’trally thought to myself, ‘stop smiling, you’re being a creep, you’re creeping them out’.
And this marks the beginning of a three-part story of friendship which, as they say, is the best kind of ship. (Not to be confused with brotato chips, the best kind of chip.)
PART ONE: 3 Ring Circus [lost in the Medina]
Marrakesh’s Medina, with its ancient walls, oversized gates and David Bowie’s Labyrinth(ine) alleys, is a sight to see. Rugs originating from the 14th century, some of the softest leather in the world, and anything else your consumer heart could want. Scarves. Spices. Ceramics. Slippers. Tourists trying to catch liters of Fanta with fishing poles. It’s a shopper’s (and fisherman’s) paradise, especially with an exchange rate of 10:1.
What the guidebooks don’t tell you is how many expertly-laid out tourist bear traps you’ll fall into. That’s where we come in! Three happenin’ gals ridin’ the blunder bus all over town. (It didn’t help matters that the Moroccan government canceled the daylight savings time change the morning it was supposed to happen and half the country was late for work and we were late for breakfast bread.)
i need you to bring me a pair of pliers and a towel
Not five minutes into the Medina…… a monkey was eating Brandy’s hair.
never mind, it’s too late
Oh, heyyyyy cutie! Where did youuuu come from? What’s your name? Are you enjoying your snack? We’re not paying for a picture and we’ve got places to be, so it’d be great if you could finish up. Thankyousomuch.
Walking through the Medina was like watching a ping pong tournament of colors and shapes and smells played out above, below, and on all sides of us. You’re disoriented; you don’t know where to look; and you’re a little hungry. It’s kinda like you’re drunk, but you’re not, but wait were we drunk I can’t remember?
maybe. hard to say.
It’s Moroccan slippers and fruit juice stands and ‘Hey, beautiful!’ and lanterns and caftans and argan oil and old men clipping their nose hairs with kitchen shears. It’s tables of nuts and dates and tagine containers and lamb carcasses and ‘Hey there! Holl-low! Holl-low sorry!’ and snake charmers and love potions and pop art and ‘Is it me you’re looking for?’. Bowls upon bowls and bread upon bread. Miles of carpet WATCH OUT FOR THE MOPED.
It’s eating every free sample offered, including that red spiky fruit thing and that street corner snail soup and that cashew nut log that still had the plastic on it. (Dare I say that nut log was STILL tasty with plastic!) It’s herbal remedies and handicrafts and a Muslim lady who jammed an iPhone 7 Plus into her hijab so she could double fist two ice creams.
Forget whatcha heard, these women can LIVE.
Besides overpaying for lit’trally everything (that’s a given) and getting lost 4x a day (which is fun until your legs are falling off and David Bowie’s taunting you from your hotel bed), my favorite Medina moments were of Brando and Burke…… navigating the madness, one henna attack and nostril shooter at a time.
When a man in thick eyeliner holds something up to your nose, plugs your other nostril and says, ‘INHALE’ what do you do? You inhale. Obviously. You do what you’re told, like a polite little soldier, while a eucalyptus mint laser beam shoots straight into your brain. Am I still alive? What just happened? Why did I do that? What was in there?
While Brandy & M. Burke cursed their decision making under pressure (and while their nasal passages cleared right up), the same guy started rubbing oils and lotions and potions and creams all over their arms. Rose oil and argan oil and argan crème and look! There’s saffron and chili and mint tea – WE MUST SMELL THEM. Moral of the story: watch out for the nigella seed nostril trap. And olive oil posing as argan oil (for one-third the price). And, of course, the classic run-a-the-mill henna attack.
I’ve never heard of someone getting attacked by henna…… let alone two people getting attacked in a synchronized henna con-job. It all started while my friends were buying juice. They were in the juiceeeee line, innocently buying their juiceeeee, and then WHAM. Half their bodies were painted reddish-brown and they looked like Easter eggs dipped in one too many colors.
i turn my back for one second…
How many times can two people say ‘no’? From the initial hand grabs to the intricate, ninja-fast hand jobs, those two henna women were on a mission to render services neither wanted nor washable. And what was I doing during all this?
Standing off to the side, taking pictures. Then Melissa asked me to hold her strawberry juice which dripped onto my hand so I licked my hand but it definitely wasn’t strawberry juice and it tasted vaguely metallic and wait a second did I just lick henna? Did Melissa’s hand rub off on mine and did I just EAT HENNA?
My friends were busy getting harassed & hoodwinked by two uber-aggressive street artists and I was trying my best to support them and console them and stay focused but oh my god I just ate henna and need to know if I’m dying.
I hear you, I see you, and I’m right there with you but quick sidebar…… I might be dying help me.
The rest of our Marrakesh holiday went swimmingly. We swam in a sea of fresh mint tea and rosé all day and we smoked shisha on every rooftop (to celebrate not dying after eating henna & plastic and snorting god knows what in those rolled-up handkerchiefs).
warning: Le Salama’s 2-for-1 happy hour wastes no time #pianofingers
we were not classy enough to be there #doublay
but we didn’t mind
We ate shawarma and falafel and roast chicken and fried pita; we got slaphappy in Cyber Park; and we walked all the way over to Majorelle Garden to admire the botanic gardens that took 40 years to build this Chinese woman wearing a UV sun visor that doubled as a welding mask. Oh, and we spent a full day hiking in the Atlas Mountains & traditional Berber villages with a tour guide named Potato. Or Potatoes. We never could figure out if his name was singular or plural, but thankfully he answered to both.
timing’s not our strong suit
except when it came to rooftop meatballs. we were never late.
classic potato(es)
PART TWO: 3 Sheets to the Wind [in a desert tent]
Going sober in October (at a surf camp in a mostly Muslim country) wasn’t hard at all. But now it was November and my friends were here soooooo
let’s get after it
Spending three days glamping in the desert was over the top in every way. Candelabras and infinity pools, cucumber salads on fine china, bathtubs in every tent. We did all the things (camel riding and quad biking and day hiking); we drank all the things (beer, wine and overpriced water); and we heard that Johnny Depp was staying in the luxury camp next door.
Every night, we enjoyed live entertainment throughout dinner (bongo drums, base guitars, and coconut shell clackers that were fun for the first 2 songs and then continued for 45 more minutes) before gathering ‘round the fire pit to make new friends, drink more wine and oh my god here come the clackers again.
i find that (WHAT!?) war drums pair nicely (HUH!??!) with red wine (I CANT HEAR YOU)
Agafay Desert Luxury Camp- you have my heart. You and your sunset camel rides and ATV escapades and mid-ATV Berber tea breaks, in the middle of nowhere, where we shot music videos and played dress up with a man with no teeth.
friendship pants on camels is like friendship: the next frontier
playing dress up
from this guy’s costume box in the middle of nowhere
i wasn’t trying to look like the pope (if the pope was a rapper). pure coincidence.
gotta stay hydrated for hikes in the hot sun… otherwise
heat exhaustion
And, finally, may I present the internet debut of the hot new rap single: Corazon
PART THREE: 3 Times a Lady [sitting naked on a bench]
Saying goodbye to bottomless chilled wine in a desert oasis was hard…… but we had places to be.
Namely Marrakesh, for one final adventure. One full day of shopping in the Medina so Brando & Burke could buy some last-minute souvenirs and I could buy…… weed outta some guy’s ball sack.
i know, but it happened
It all happened so fast. Not wanting to buy a tea pot or new area rug, I asked the vendor man if I could buy some of the pot he’d been smoking during our entire sales cycle…… to which he dug his hand deeeeeep into his pants, fished around, pulled out a playdoh-looking black ball of putty, chunked off a piece, looked both ways and inserted it directly into my bra.
i did not see that coming
Cool cool cool. So, now that we’ve got plans ball pot for later tonight, how should we fill our final afternoon?
One word: HAMMAM. Moroccans love their hammams. Picture a Turkish bath, with exfoliating black soap & loofah mittens, where you can either scrub yourself (traditional hammam) or pay a nice, old lady to scrub you (yes yes, that’s the one). Let’s all get naked, sit in a steam room, and take turns getting lathered, scrubbed, rinsed and shampooed!
The attendant was very thorough. Hand-rinsing each one of us as we stood in the middle of the room, completely na-ca-doe…… and scrubbing the living shit out of us, flaking off at least 3 layers of skin in these big, person-sized sheets that rolled nicely into flesh-colored skin twizzlers. (OK, eww. But you get my point.)
Sitting on a stone slab, receiving an extremely sensual shampooing while your friends lie naked behind you, is very funny. It’s equal parts relaxing and wonderful and so so weird. SO weird that I forgot the only rule of hammam which is: don’t touch your eyes.
I touched my eyes. What happens now?
Don’t you guys leave me. I miss you already.
taking long walks with you and eating bread with you…
riding all the things with you…
laughing as you eat snail soup and turn into beetlejuice
i’ll miss crushing you at cards and watching you pet every stray cat in town
but most of all, i’ll miss cuddling & falling asleep holding hands while a miniature woman (with a top hat and cane) tap dances in our bedroom wall. at least that’s what it sounded like…
For now, it’s back to Solo Susan. Eating 10 mezze plates by myself for dinner… and couchsurfing with complete strangers to balance out my budget.
well, mezze plates and…… roasted lamb from a hole in the ground
I ended my time in Marrakesh (the last two days) staying with this cool cat, Amir, who owns his own hair salon and styles various celebrities and instagram models that swing through town. You know, the instagram bloggers that wear makeup and look pretty and get paid to travel places…… not the B team bloggers that drink the last of their peanut butter/honey mix straight from the bottle.
I’m sure going to miss Morocco. The beautiful sunsets over the Atlantic. The fashion that’s all over the map. The cars that never stop. The tanneries where you can watch leather being processed and dyed by hand. And the unsolicited, genuine friendliness of the locals.
Warned of the locals by almost every friend who’d traveled there before me, I found the people of Morocco to be some of the nicest and warmest people on the planet. You’re bound to get a few pushy salesmen (and maybe a new arm tattoo), but in my experience, the Medina was filled with slow & sweet smiles – especially when I walked through alone.
Until next time, Maroc.
with your spices and slippers and colors
insane views of the desert… and not-so-private bathroom tents
DUCK LIPS
tanneries, their vats of ammonia & pigeon poop, and fresh mint so you don’t vom
the taller the pour, the closer to heaven the tastier the tea
getting the perfect shot
and casually fishing for fanta
you stay classy
i’m gonna hightail it to dubai on one of these bikes…
catch you later xoxo
