THE SOUL OF MAROC

I wrote much of this just a few hours before leaving Maroc, the name Moroccans give their ancient land. From the first moment of arriving, I felt its great welcome. I was asked am I tired? Am I hungry? How could my hosts help me feel better right in this moment, these first moments in Marrakech? It had not been a long flight from Madrid but the lines through immigration and customs made me both hungry and tired.

My hosts listened with ears that heard my needs and immediately began to address them as their guest in their beautiful country. And from that moment of arrival, they were constant in their desire to see my needs were addressed. I experienced many, many news things in Morocco and I have written about them in other blog posts.

My experiences in Morocco's South has made me believe that the desert, the great golden Sahara, has been a constant and guiding influence in the long history of Morocco and might just be its heart. The constant threat of danger formed a culture in which hospitality became the key to survival.

When I first pulled up Southern Morocco on Google Earth, I saw great swaths of mountains and plains (which I learned were called hamadas) slashed with stripes of verdant green. Southern Morocco's desert may be it's heart, but the life-giving rivers coming from the Atlas Mountains in the South's verdant and cultivated valleys are its blood, providing water for homes and crops in this otherwise seemingly inhospitable landscape.

But surely, it is the Moroccans themselves that are its soul. Moroccans, and particularly Amazigh Moroccans (who the English called Berbers) are very modest people. They are kind and thoughtful; they are clean and tidy, always ready to receive a guest as commanded by the Koran and the exigencies of an unforgiving desert. They are justifiably proud of the gifts their country can offer - the exotic adventures, the ancient kasbahs, the beautiful dunes of the desert, the stunning gorges cut by constant waters, the green and productive river valleys. But this pride does not make them arrogant. They are a humble and loving people. In writing this, I hope I do not offend their sense of modesty but how can I possibly explain why I think its people are the soul of Morocco without offering my readers a chance to meet some of the wonderful people I have met there?

For some, I have kept their names since they are businessmen and women and would love for my friends who might be traveling through Morocco to consider them for goods or services. For others, I have changed the name so that it might be less easy to identify them. For any offense, I beg apology.

As I was repacking and trying to cram my gifts into the one small suitcase I brought, my host Adrienne told me she hoped I wasn't 'disappointed' that we hadn't made it to Fez, one of the oldest and most historic of the Royal Cities. I was actually taken aback by the thought that I might be disappointed and took a few seconds to gather my thoughts about my stays in Boumalne Dades and areas further south. I finally settled on the truth of my visit which is even without tourist sites that surely must be listed in every guidebook known to the traveler, I had been given far more than memories and beautiful pictures to show my friends. I had given me the gift of getting to know its people, surely a gift far more valuable.

My last night in Boumalne, my hosts and I went from new friend to friend so I could say goodbye as would be proper in the desert where friendships mean a great deal. Almost all of these people had given me a small gift or a memory that is irreplaceable. Spending my last few hours seemed the courteous way to thank them for taking time to not only meet me, but to let me know they felt getting to know me was the most important thing they had to do whenever we spent time together.

Had my trip not been exactly the way it was, I would not have met Masu, my driver up and into the Tanghir Gorge (the subject of another blog post to come) whose smile is as as wide as the ocean and whose sense of humor exceeds the restrictions of the lack of common language. The three of us, Adrienne, Masu and I had a lively conversation all about the lack of common language and we laughed at our ignorance while acknowledging how much fun we were having together regardless. Masu reaffirmed my belief that lack of a common language is only a barrier if you NEED something but if your intent is to have a good time, to enjoy common experiences, common language is down the list of important ingredients.

Had my trip not been exactly the way it was, I would never have gotten to know Odmane, the general director of Xaluca Dades, the luxury hotel that was the site of my blog post HOT IN THE HAMMAN. When our overnight stay in the nomad encampment in the Sahara Desert was aborted due to an impending sandstorm, Odmane assisted us by making sure we had rooms in another Xaluca Hotel, Kasbah Hotel Tombouctou, outside of Merzouga and right under one of the Sahara's enormous collection of dunes, Erg Chebbi. Before the sandstorm hit, the hotel staff helped us hire camels and a camel guide to fulfill my deepest Moroccan wish - to sink my toes on the top of a sand dune in the Sahara.

Back in Boumalne on my last night in Marocco, we told Odmane of our experience riding our camels into the dunes to return to the hotel where the sandstorm rattled the doors on their hinges and sent sand drifting under the door, affirming our gratitude that we could still experience the desert but safely. Odmane, whose entire family had been in the Sahara tourism trade for generations, told of his first wild drive through a sandstorm, at 16-years-old, after the driver of the vehicle he was in refused to continue in the blinding storm. Feeling a heavy responsibility for his guest, he took over the wheel even though he was a very inexperienced driver, intent on finding a safe place in which he and his guest could weather the storm, only knowing he really was on the dirt road when he felt its washboards under his feet. From Odmane, I learned how deep runs a sense of responsibility in desert families for their guests.


Had my trip not been exactly the way it was, I would never have met Odman, the merchant, a lanky, good-looking Amazigh (Berber) who invites his customers to Moroccan 'tea' right outside the door of his shop, one of the many doors down one of the many narrow alleys that form Boumalne Dades. I would not have met his beautiful sister who brought us tea with just a bit of saffron, a luxury spice even rare and valuable in Marocco. From Odman and his sister, I learned that Moroccan merchants take an interest in their customers needs and are willing to spend whatever time is necessary to fulfill them. I learned that a transaction with a Moroccan merchant provides an opportunity that goes beyond the purchase into friendship.

 



Had my visit not been exactly the way it was, I would not have encountered a traditionally-raised woman, whom I shall call Fatima whose marriage had been arranged as it was at that time in Marocco at the very early age of 13. She lost the husband of her 4 children also very early and, without any education, she has managed to raise a family of professionals - a lawyer, two sons certified to work in the tourist trade (very important in Marocco), and a budding mathematician who was studying for her finals during my visits. Now, with all of her children only home for visits, she lives in her spotlessly clean house in the family's kasbah and grows fruit and vegetables in the family plot along the river. She is younger than me. Fatima's happiness, peace and strength are palpable. From her, I learned the Moroccan family relationships, especially her right to bring her children to live in her family's kasbah, mean men and women are supported by their extended family in whatever way is needed. An offshoot of this strong family relationship (to the extent family members are not denied housing) is that homelessness is practically unheard of in Marocco.

Had my visit not been exactly the way it was, I would never have met Aziz Bolouz , who is a sports trainer that offers his family's stunning Kasbah Assafar perched high above the Valley of Roses to groups of athletes wanting a special place to train. Aziz, a runner, takes them up and down the mountains and valleys of the High Atlas, knowing every nook and cranny. Aziz told me he has met so many different kinds of people he wanted to know how people come to believe what they believe so in addition to his study of sports training he took a degree in philosophy. The night we were guests in his family's kasbah was spent dancing and accompanying the two Asafari who sang traditional songs until I could no longer keep my eyes open at 2am.

Aziz and I understand each other's need to be more outside than inside. We both constantly check the sky and track the sun on the mountains' many canyons. I hope to put together an adventure hike in the High Atlas in 2017 with Aziz as the provider of tents and other support. From Aziz, I learned of secret places in the High Atlas and of the great and ever-changing beauty of the sweeping Valley of Roses below his kasbah. He also reinforced the multi-faceted character of the Amazigh, living both in the modern world yet respecting very old fashioned traditions of respect for nature and for hospitality.

These are the people that are the soul of Morocco. Strong, resilient, honest, trust-worthy and reliable. Proud of their heritage but humble by nature. Important and honorable characteristics. I'm sure I would have loved seeing the ancient university in Fez or the great palaces in the other royal cities, but if my trip had not been exactly the way it was would I have made friends like these? I think not and for that I feel very blessed indeed.

CAMEL RIDING IN THE SAHARA

Riding a camel is a lot like riding a mechanical bull.  I think. My time spent on a mechanical bull was pretty short and a long time ago after a few beers in a Country Western bar near Boulder CO in the 70s. But from what I can remember, sometimes it’s kind of fun but other times it is just plain terrifying. Nonetheless, after taking my one and only camel ride in the actual dunes of Erg Chebbi in the Moroccan Sahara, I still recommend camels as the best transportation vehicle for the monster dunes of the Sahara Desert.

For one thing, camels don’t take a lot of fuel to go many miles. For another, you don’t need to pack spare tires; their feet are leathery pads with two toes that spread out on the sand, easily overflowing a standard dinner plate. Unlike other four-footed animals, camels move both feet on the same side forward when they walk so riding one is like sitting astride an overturned kayak on a sometimes stormy sea. Camels have huge doe-shaped eyes with long lashes that either make you think they are the ‘soulful’ animals of Lonely Planet’s musings on the 'Desert of Dreams', or remind you of some cartoon. Camels seem to be a bit self-centered and stubborn to me, but they eventually follow the lead of the camel herder and provide the function they have provided for millennia – taking wanderers across the great expanse of the mother of all deserts – the Sahara.

When I headed to Morocco, I already knew I would miss the Royal Cities to the north, choosing instead the wide open barren spaces to the south. I have an addiction to wide open spaces having lived in the USA’s Desert Southwest for nearly 35 years. If the choice is between desert and city, I’ll most always opt for desert. And that is where I headed, the day after my plane landed in Marrakech.

My first stop was Boumalne Dades and Tanghir, the subject of another post. That far south in Morocco, even though Boumalne is in the Dades Valley, just south of the imposing High Atlas Mountains, the land is already dry and scrubby, looking not unlike my own desert, the Sonoran Desert, but with different vegetation. The contrast of the verdant and well-tended gardens along the rivers in the valleys coming down from the High Atlas to the scrubby hamada is striking. But then it seemed everywhere I looked I could spot incongruencies like this that added to the surprise of Morocco.

As my hosts and I traveled from Tanghir even further southeast into the desert, the hamada became even more sparse and empty. We saw camel herds and camel herders on the hills. My hosts pointed out what looked very much like the top of ancient kivas but turned out to be underground watering holes (think ‘rest stops’) for the Amazigh (Berbers) living their nomadic lives in this dry, inhospitable country. The further south we drove, the smaller the villages became; autos often replaced by all manner of wagons and carriages drawn by donkeys and horses.

Finally, Erg Chebbi, one of the two enormous dune systems of the Moroccan Sahara and looking just like it did in the 2005 movie Sahara, appeared. I could not take my eyes away. Here was the stuff of my travel dreams. I so wanted to stick my toes into the Sahara sands. I’ve climbed some pretty impressive dunes in my own Desert Southwest and I know what climbing mountains of sand can do for unused muscles. I just hoped the dunes weren’t quite as high as they looked from my window at the Kasbah Hotel Tombouctou, one of the beautiful Moroccan Xaluca Hotels.

This trip was supposed to end up with a 4WD ride up and over the dunes to a Amazigh encampment for two days but because of the real threat of a sandstorm (even the camel herder who sleeps with the camels in a small shack mentioned that sandstorms are the least favorite part of his job), an overnight stay in this beautiful hotel with a sunset camel ride and walk into the dunes was Plan B. Not a bad Plan B at all.

After settling in and having tea (you are always offered ‘tea’ here in Morocco and you should always accept – it’s just polite and the cookies are generally quite good), we met our camel herder in back of the hotel at the base of the Erg. I wasn’t too concerned about mounting the camel. The camel was cushed (lying down) and my camel was the smaller of the two. To mount a camel, you literally throw one leg over the saddle and pull yourself up onto it. The saddle has no stirrups but does offer a smallish ‘rod’ tied in the middle to the saddle directly behind the camel’s rather large head. This operates as your ‘saddle horn’ and believe me, you are going to use it as a drowning man hangs on to his life ring buoy.

The camel herder then shouts camel-type commands to the camel, the camel responds in kind (although it seemed my camel was saying “nope it’s late and I’m staying right here jerk”) and this continues until the camel herder wins. Or at least mine did.

Remember that little rod? It is going to keep you from tumbling over the camel’s head when the giant beast pushes off the ground with his back legs to stand up. Your entire body is suddenly vertical to the ground and your feet are desperately hunting for the afore-mentioned missing stirrups. But in the end, you are up in a pretty comfortable saddle feeling pretty good about not making a complete fool of yourself. Until you realize your legs are further apart than they ever were when you birthed your firstborn.

The camel's front end goes up a bit easier; this movement will bring the saddle parallel to the ground, a much more comfortable position. And then, your ‘ship of the desert’ (called so because of the rocking motion of your camel as it moves both legs on one side forward) begins its slow plod up and into the erg.

A camel going up into the dunes isn’t too bad. The camel’s giant dinner-plate feet are perfectly designed for walking in sand. I could feel my core muscles moving and reflected on how much more fun this was than pilates. Yet, once up a dune, the other side usually goes down. This means that occasionally a camel has to go down too. Once more I had the notion of impending tumbling over the camel’s head-except from a higher plane. I tightened my grip on the rod and gripped with my inner thighs, inwardly thanking my fitness trainer for those thigh strengthening exercises using one of those inflatable exercise balls.

After riding the camel for what was all too short a time, we were several dunes back into the Erg and ready to climb up to the tallest dune around for the sunset. Getting off a camel is pretty much the reverse of getting on one. Same feeling of insecurity, same sense of the imminent foolishness of tumbling over the camel’s head onto the soft, forgiving (thank god) sand.

Climbing your way up a dune entails a good amount of work. But once on top, we could see the massive Erg Chebbi with its continuous flow of dunes all the way to the horizon in three directions. I nearly cried. I had asked my host to leave time for me to give thanks to the Maker and closed my eyes so I could affect a graceful and grateful posture and listen to the sound of the sand constantly shifting around us.

Almost before I had enough time to express my gratitude, sand started providing me an unwanted microdermabrasion. Fortunately, my host had stopped in at a roadside ‘strip center’ in order for us to purchase the necessary length of cloth from which to make a Berber turban.

Following his instructions, I had wound my turban around my head, leaving a ‘tail’ I could tuck into my turban’s folds in case the sand got there before we got down from the dune. That ‘tail’ quickly found its way across my face.

There is something incredibly unique and mystical about sitting on top of a giant dune at the very beginning of a sandstorm. We stayed just a bit longer, watching the orange-red Sahara sun slide slowly down over the hamada to the west, until the camel herder and my host felt we really needed to leave because of the blowing sand. It is quite easy to lose your sense of direction in a sandstorm. But if you are ever provided an opportunity to safely experience the swirl of sand around you on a darkening dune before riding your camel back to civilization, it is an experience that I can truly say might just be once in a lifetime.

HOT IN THE HAMMAM

It's not easy getting virtuallly naked in front of a perfect stranger who doesn't speak the same language. Even if it is a professional massage therapist in a Moroccan hamman. Especiallly if you are with your girlfriend who also doesn't speak the language and there's two massage therapists. If one of them says anything to the other you are just sure it's going to be like "I hope my skin isn't this wrinkled when I'm her age." Or "Hmmmm.....she could lose a few kilos, heh."

But I love massages. I love saunas. So when I read about the Morrocan version of a Turkish bath, I couldn't wait to try it. The fanciest resort in town, Xaluca Hotel, offers the 'tourist' version for guests in a spa not unlike those in the resorts in my home town of Tucson. The moment you enter the spa, you feel its humid heat. It smells of rose water, the favorite scent of a region that grows roses for a living. My massage therapist gave me a quick tour of the spa then showed me to our dressing room.

In the dressing room, we stripped down to our undies and wrapped bath towells (that felt all too small) around us as one of the therapists came in to direct us further into the spa to a very warm room that reminded me of a sauna. We were invited to drop the towell and lay faceup on what looked like yoga mats on a vinyl-covered bed. My therapist deftly began smearing some kind of goo on my legs and tummy after which I was instructed to "Over". The goo-smearing continued on my bare back and legs.

After this short ritual we were instructed by the therapist that spoke the best English to "Rest. We be back." Adrienne and I 'rested' getting hotter and hotter in the steamy little room. We talked of our families and mutual friends while the heat of the room and our bodies warmed the goo into a liquid that our bodies began absorbing. It felt really warm and really good. I think if one were alone, one might be tempted to nap.

In about thirty minutes our therapists came back. Each had a big bucket and a black mitt. I had heard of the 'scrubbing' part of a hammam visit and was used to 'polishing' my skin with a loofa every once in awhile but had never experienced anything quite so rough. I began to feel sorry for the rough wood tables that undergo sandpapering in order to be made into a fine table. Under the scratchy pad, gobs of dead grey skin peeled from my body, the therapist constantly dipping her hand into her hot bucket to rinse her mitt. I concentrated on how beautiful the wood looks after all that buffing.

Adrienne, thank goodness, knew what to expect having been there before. She had warned me to bring dry panties because we would be 'getting wet'. But I still didn't anticipate the large bucket of hot water splashed over my mostly naked and prone body. "Over." Came the command. Hot water crashed down my back, spreading out over my exposed back and legs. Actually, it felt really good. I was being 'washed' and was enjoying being washed instead of washing myself.

"Sit." Hmmmm, wonder what's going to happen. Splash came the hot water, soaking my head. My therapist reached for some wonderfully smelling shampoo and proceeded to wash my hair and scalp. Splash, again the hot water. I felt like my dog must have felt when I washed her funny face. I also felt very, very clean.

After helping me with my towell, my therapist crooked her finger at me. I wasn't exactly sure that meant 'stay' or 'follow me' but in instant fear of being left in a very small towell half-naked, I followed her on her heals. She led me to a room not unlike the room of my massage therapist at home. Low lighting, good smells, soft music. This tme the music was a bit Morrocan-exotic. That was a nice change.

The rest of the massage was not much different from a Swedish massage in the States. There wasn't a head rest but I rolled my towell up in a 'U' and placed my face on it. It worked just fine. The massage therapist worked confidently over my body, draping my 'bits' with a fresh towell as needed. I relaxed, smelling the scent of rose water and feeling the tension I didn't even know I had flowing out of my body and into her capable hands.

When my therapist had finished, she told me to 'relax' and I took the opportunity to lay still for just a few more minutes before sitting up and finding a new barely big enough towell to cover my now oily body and underpants, still wet from the bath. My therapist must have been right outside because the minute she heard noises, she politely came in to the room, crooked her finger, and commanded me 'Come'.

Back to the dressing room where my friend Adrienne was waiting. Remember the dry underwear? At this point of the hammam experience, it was time to blot off the excess oil with more fresh towells, dress in dry, comfortable clothes and retire to the Xaluca Hotel terrace, high above the city, to enjoy the wonderful view of Boumalne Dades and have that refreshing glass of Morrocan rose'.

DRIVING ME MAD IN MOROCCO

After only three days in Morocco, I believe I have come to understand the Moroccan driver just a little. I firmly believe it is not that Moroccan drivers are necessarily agressive; rather I believe they are opportunitistic, seeing every little possible hole in the constant wave of pedestrians, donkey carts, horse-drawn buggies (called caleches), bicycles, motorbikes, other cars and delivery trucks all walking and driving fearlessly and directly through town with a number of Moroccan curses  and a constant stream of honking to alert all others that YOU have been the clever driver to have spotted that tiny hole in traffic first.

Now add the ever-present roundabouts and seeming lack of math ability (there is a speed limit but it is rarely posted and no one seems to pay attention to it) and you basically understand the traffic situation in Marrakesh. Frankly, driving in Marrakesh takes balls. I think that is why driving is almost solely done by male Morrocans. Not that women do not travel by vehicle - you see them in their lovely djellabas sitting side-saddle, confidently hanging on to their chosen gladiator with their backs very straight but completely relaxed on said gladiators' motorbikes. Meanwhile, you, the visitor to this madhouse, sit perhaps in the front seat and wonder why you let your life insurance lapse.

My hosts, Massine (his Amazigh name) and Adrienne, a friend relocated from my home town of Tucson, picked me up from the Marrakesh airport and the drive to 'have some lunch' was my very first adventure in Morocco. Then it was another adventurous drive to the middle of town and its ancient souk. I wonder whether these trips are somewhat preparatory for travelers for the initial souk adventure of having a writhing snake pushed in your face by the first snake charmer you might encounter.

By the time I passed the snake charmer, one of the first sights you might see at the entrance to the souk, perhaps my danger limit had been exceeded and I was just on autopilot. I didn't even blink, to the dissatisfaction of the snake's 'manager', who expected to extort a tip from me by 'protecting me' from having the snake wrap around my neck. Heck the snake wasn't even a viper; those - four of them including 2 cobras and 2 others that looked very much like my own native Diamondbacks - were undulating on the ground a few feet away to the beat of the snake charmers' drum and flute.

After walking around in the colorful souk, tempted by all the beautiful scarves and purses and spices and olives and...... it was once more time to board our BMW chariot and head to ' have a rest' before dinner. It seemed that only more gladiators had joined the melee as it was nearly sundown and locals, tourists and travelers alike were arriving at the entry of the souk for a Sunday night's entertainment.

The art of parking is very much part of the art of driving in Morocco. To park, one must first find a reltively empty hole in the line of cars lined up wherever cars are lined up but with an attendant wearing a yellow vest to signal that HE would be the protector of your car, helping you slide your car into the available spot after having everyone exit the passenger's side, and then colluding with street merchants to set up temporary shop right in back of your bumper in order to keep other drivers from damaging your vehicle. Then of course on your return and payment for his excellent service, your watcher (or his colleague) is there to help you squeeze out of your spot and merge with the line of traffic which he so gallantly stops with his very own body.

Believe me, this all works. The reason I know it works is because I am alive to pen this post - not only after this adventure but an even more challenging one up and over the Atlas Mountains. Have you ever been in a bumper car ride with some really challenging kids intent on passing everyone ahead of them all along misjudging the distance between, in front of and in back of the other cars? Think of this and you will almost have the picture of what happens on the National Highway from Marrakesh up and over the mountains to Ouarzazate.

Normally, I would reference the number but it does not show up on the two maps I managed to find. The thing is, this National Highway simply does not meet the standards of the American Association of State Highway and Transportation Officials in any way- you know, the folks who wrote the book on what you can and cannot build for the highways in the States. I'm sure the engineers from AASHTO could hardly wait to get out their pens and calculators if they saw the winding, narrow two-lane highway that carries most of the freight and tourists from busy Marrakesh to and from the verdant river valleys on the other side of the Atlas Mountains.

The first thing I noticed was the lack of decent shoulders (as in mostly none), then I noticed how far apart were the pullouts. I suppose the first time we came up behind a lumbering truck I remembered I hadn't seen anything like a passing lane. So when our driver decided he had tired of the scenery the back side of a delivery truck presented and began looking for that 'opportunity' to pull around it, I took careful notes, should I would ever need to do the same.

First, just like in States, if you are a careful (or at least smart) driver, you will have been observing oncoming traffic from the many twists and turns that provide you that view. Second, when you think you have an opportunity to do so, you pull slightly into oncoming traffic in order to cross-check your opinion that there is sufficient room to get around the truck before being driven off the road or possibly coming into contact with a vehicle bigger than you (the philosophy of chicken is to exhibit more bravado than your opponent). In those few seconds, it is also important to have checked for possible unknown curves or side roads from which an unexpected vehicle could pull into the lane traveling opposite of you.

Pulling out to check on your passing status seems to be a signal for the observant and cooperative truck driver in front of you to put on his left turn signal, affirming that you are free to pull around. I found that signal reassuring at times the mountainside on the other side or next to my seat in the front dipped immediately below my view. Our driver sometimes found it helpful to call other drivers rude Morrocan names in order to convince them they needed to slow down so he could maneuver the vehicle around or in between two trucks.

Another driving tip - it is useful to stay as close as possible to the posted speed limit unless you feel driving faster might help under the current road conditions. That, and calling the other drivers rude names, seem to assure safe passage on that tiny, twisty road. I also noted that having the passengers frequently and plaintively remind the driver to slow down or be careful around a curve does very little to change the driver's strategies.

One final tip. You might want to practice holding your breath before you attempt to drive or ride on Moroccan National Highway between Marakech and Ouarzazate. Driving that road for the first time is probably not the best time to find out holding your breath makes you pass out as you or your driver powers around that big truck in front of you.

A FEAST FOR MY EYES

Today I saw one of the most famous paintings in the entire world. Picasso's Guernica, his commissioned painting for the industrial Exhibition in Paris of 1937, depicts the carnage of a unprevoked bombing of the civilians of a town in the Basque region of Spain by the combined forces of Germany and Italy. The painting is huge; I doubt I have any uninterrupted wall space which could house this painting. It dominates the gallery of the Reina Sofia Museum in Madrid where it is displayed.

I am not really a student of art nor an artist myself. I can only tell you what I experience when I see a particular piece of art. I do not know anything about the tools every artist uses in order to elicit the emotion for which they are striving with their work. But I can tell you that Guernica makes me angry at those who would give reason for such art to be painted. Images have power and this image not only made me angry but it prompted me to want to know the circumstances behind its commissioning.

The painting was completed at a time Hitler was tightening his noose around 'undesireables' and the Spanish Civil War was in full swing. In order to shore up Franco's war efforts in Spain, Germany and Italy bombed the Basque town of Guerneca, beaking the previous rules of war. The civilian deaths were not collateral damage from the bombing but its intended mission. Picasso use of powerful images and symbols elicited horrow at such an event and drew attention to Spain's struggles.

As I reflected on this painting trying to put it into my own perspective, the closest thing to this image I could remember in my lifetime were the stark black and white photos coming back from the cameras of the photojournalists from New York Times and Life Magazine in the 1960s in the United States. These images of our boys dead and dying on the battlefield turned the tide of support against the Vietnam War. Images have power.

Yesterday, I spent several hours at the Prado, viewing paintings not only from Picasso but from such Spanish painters as Goya, Valeques, Murillo and El Greco. The Prado collection of Spanish masters is massive. It holds (and displays) so many Goya and Valeques, I was able to trace the evolution of their art. I could sense there was a profound shift in the type of art being commissioned - from religious subjects and portraits of the monarchs and cardinals to more secular subjects. I wondered just how historical events influenced art and of course, whether art had returned history's favor.

Frankly, I don't know if the Prado's collection contains much more than the paintings on the second floor as I took so much time here, it was time to close by the time I was ready to begin the first floor. But the floor I covered most thoroughly had already given me a glimpse into the history of Spain which I was eager to pursue at the Reina Sofia Museum today.

The Reina Sofie holds Spain's collection of 'Modern" art, including the core works of Picasso and of surrealist Dali. Like the Prado, its collection of Spainish artists' work was comprehensive. Even with my limited knowledge of art, I could see the progression of Picasso's styles fromThe Seated Harlequin to Guernica. I could see the growing confidence of Dali's work including the giant surrealist dream self-portrait 'The Great Masturbator'. I was also pleased to see artwork of non-Spaniards whose work I admire, like Diego Rivera, Alexander Calder and Mark Rothko.

I like surrealism and modern art so I particularly enjoyed the Reina Sofia, even though many of the films shown to explain how modern culture informs art and vice versa, were difficult for me to understand with my limited Spanish. But over all, the museum attempts to encompass more than painting and sculpture media for modern art to expand one's understanding of what exactly art might be were thought-provoking and interesting. My limited perusal of the Prado and my more thorough visit to Reina Sofia left me with a lot of questions about how the art in these two immensely popular museums (the line for tickets was still very long at 7pm, only 2 hours before Reina Sofia's closing) informed the culture of Spain and, of course, how Spain's culture informed the art.

Particularly in the Reina Sofia, I was very conscious of how my lack of knowledge of the history of Spain impeded my ability to fully appreciate the art within its galleries. Did subtle differences between decades even in the prodigious portraits of those in power indicate certain historical trends - such as the waning influence of the church and the increased acceptability of socialist ideals? I wnted to know more and walked away with a book on the History of Spain in the late 19th and 20th Centuries.

My biggest disappointment was the almost complete lack of female artists. Not even in the Reina Sofia would I see the work of female Spanish painters although Dora Marr's photography was represented. I find that deeply unsettling but don't know enough about Spanish culture to interpret the conditions under which this lack came about. I sincerely hope this does not represent an invisibility of female participation in all aspects of Spanish culture. Perhaps the book I am reading will help fill in these gaps.

I actually have one more day in Madrid on my way home and, armed with newly informed understandings of Spain in the last century, perhaps my trip to the last of the museums in Madrid's 'art triangle' will help me see the last pieces a little more clearly. I'll certainly be back to Madrid because after art there is also Madrid's music, architecture and history to explore!

A WALK IN THE PARK

I've been told by the at the lobby bar that Madrid is too hot. It was all of 32 degrees Celsius here yesterday, a very nice day by the standards of my desert home in Tucson. After flight delays, luggage retrieval, the inevitable confusion about sorting out local ground transportation in a country in which you do not know the language, I didn't get to my hotel until a little after noon.

My plan was to nap just a wee bit, having slept fitfully on the flight over, then visit the Parque El Buen Retiro (literally Park of the Pleasant Retreat), which must be about 2 square miles, to walk off my jet lag. I remember setting the alarm for 1 hour but woke up at 3:30, past the hottest part of the day. Thank goodness Madrid is a city that stays up late. Everything I wanted to visit stays open until 9 or 10 p.m. so my over-sleeping was perfect.

From the air, Madrid seems to be on somewhat of a plain, you know, the one the rain stays on. But as I began walking, I realised that the park was UP from my hotel. As I approached the city's largest park, soulful R&B, mostly B, came blasting my way. At first I thought it might be coming from the various cars on the road but the music, loud and consistent in decibels appeared to come from the Park. Following the music I walked all the way up to the Monument of Alfonso XII, a rather large lake with a many-columned amphitheater on one side. Strong, good-looking young Spanish boys, splashing and laughing, rowed small blue boats all over the lake. A larger excursion boat deftly lumbered its way among them like a graceful dowager with a much younger court.

The music, coming from large speakers on the steps in front of the columns, suddenly ceased abruptly. I will probably never know exactly why the music called me there but I snapped my way around the lake, taking many pictures of the green oasis and its local ducks and swans. Several small cafes around the lake tempted but this was my first night in Madrid and I was determined to see as much of the Park as possible on this night. How a city treats its outside spaces tells me a lot about the people of the place and this Park was telling me that Madrelenos are comfortable with the outdoors. Madrelenos are careful with their Park, proud of its deep and inviting shade and ancient trees. I saw very little litter or graffiti for so many people about.

I enjoy a city that commandeers so much valuable land for its main city park. Madrelenos were everywhere on the spacious grass lawns, visiting the exhibits in the Palacio de Velaquez and its sister building the Palacio de Cristal. Lovers, young and old alike, were entwined with the familiarity of love, embracing each other with their eyes, their legs, their arms. A young father kept a tender eye on his toddler as he attempted to perform crunches on the lawn. Small packs of young students wandered with their elbows entwined or sat on the grass talking and laughing as happy young people do.

Alfonso's monument is only one of the several public buildings in this Park and has I rounded the lake, I saw the beautiful brick Palacio de Valequez, with very clean marble steps and very old tiled frescos painted at the entry and along the base of the building. The Palacio currently hosts a retrospective art exhibit for Carlos Andre, a minimalist artist who sought to explore the essence of an object 'by employing industrial materials and processes that allow serial reproduction, eliminating the subjective trace that most artwork would refer exclusively to itself' (brochure). His stark, almost industrial, pieces were precise and engaging at the same time. I took many more pictures.

Conscious of the time, I sought out the Crystal Palace, a glass structure reminiscent of an enormous and beautiful greenhouse. As I approached, I was awarded with quite a surprise as a giant Berber tent had been set up inside the pavilion, brightly dyed cotton sheets moving in the light breeze. Inside the tent were Madrelenos, old and young, lounging on the comfortable cubes and rugs set up inside the enormous tent. Some were listening to an explanation of the exhibit on a TV screen; others were lounging, or talking animatedly with their little ones playing in this delightful space. The exhibit, called 'Tuiza', refers to an act of gathering, participating and constructing something with everyone's collaboration. In a very real sense, all visitors to Tuiza are 'performing', becoming part of the exhibit on how space can be designed to encourage hospitality and conversation among cultures. I stayed briefly, becoming part of the performance myself. As I left, I saw a young man performing handstands to impress his laughing lady love.

I continued around the small pond in front of the Palace. Without boats to discourage the wildlife, the pond teamed with ducks and swans, one Mallard so fat he wobbled along the edge of the pond. A large sunny rock protruding into the pond provided a comfortable roost for quite a few turtles. The Park, with its deep shade and ancient trees, truly does emit a wonderful peace and tranquility and is a well used space by a people who love their outdoor spaces.

As I walked down the hill toward the Btanical Gardens past attractive apartment blocks, I thought about what it must be like to live in such a city as Madrid. As densely populated as it is, its people have determined that outdoor spaces are important. Many of the apartments had lovingly tended balconies with potted greenery and flowers. I see the lure of the city such as Madrid. I'm sure Madrid has its ghettos and barrios but in this part of Madrid the attention to beauty is obvious. And lucky are the apartment dwellers whose tidy balconies overlook the Botanical Gardens!

The Garden is in transition right now-the roses have already flowered, the peonies on the wane. But the blossoms that remain are full of colour and beauty. This Garden not only displays florals also herbs and vegetables that might be found in the surrounding countryside. I didn't really expect this and was so pleased to be assaulted with the scent of not only roses but mint and dill and garlic. A sensuous feast for sure.

I wandered around the Garden, open in the summer in till 9 p.m., until a fit of coughing reminded me that the pollen count had to be very high in that verdant place. The wind had picked up and I could see a vague fog of dust and pollen in the remaining beams of the sun. Time for me to get back to my hotel for a bit of dinner and bed. As I left the Garden and approached the venerable Prado, my heart beat more quickly with the promise of tomorrow-an entire city block devoted to art. Beauty stirs my soul and my soul, having had a taste of beauty all afternoon, was yearning for more.

INTO THE LOOKING GLASS

“Carcasses of animals, their tails and feet and privates intact hang from hooks above the wooden tables where we sit, and from these unrecognizable animals, meat is carelessly hacked and placed on a brazier fanned with cardboard.” That’s an attention grabber right there. I’d been reading Barbara Grizzuti Harrison’s account of her 1991 visit through Morocco by car and was beginning to understand quite clearly that I had less than 48 hours before I, like Alice, would be jumping into the Looking Glass-at least a culinary one. Not that it was a new sensation; I often backpack into strange places – remote, secret, unfriendly to all but the most dedicated desert rat. But I’d never had my food hacked off an animal carcass to be thrown on a brazier right before my eyes – and nose.

Yeah, I watched Food, Inc. I pride myself on being careful where I acquire my food. I don’t like to think of eating meat that has been butchered from a cow that is so stuffed with high caloric ‘fatteners’ that it can no longer stand on its own four legs. But in just a few days really I will be fed from what we Westerners might think of as an inhumanely slaughtered animal. We Westerners are often far removed from the source of our food. Oh well. At least it will be local – very.

I have that feeling one gets when one knows the world will suddenly be very, very different. Fortunately, my transition to Morocco begins in cosmopolitan Madrid. I will visit the Prado, one of the most extensive and best art museums in Europe. I intend to find a few jazz clubs to introduce me to jazz with Spanish influences. I want to visit Madrid’s Chrystal Palace in Parque del Retiro and see what beautiful flowers grow there. I hope to visit the Mercado San Miguel, where the food is said to be ‘unlimited and top-notch.’ I will spend three lovely days in a luxury hotel in the right across from the Prado. It will be much like other cosmopolitan centers, expensive and rich in culture. The trick for enjoying these very civilized cities is to discover the unique richness that it offers. This takes quite a bit of listening and observing but I have no doubt I will find it.

Then, too few short hours after that visual, gastronomic and musical feast, I climb on a smallish airplane on the airline most popular with European college students, RyanAir, that only has room in the luggage racks for 20” suitcases, a privilege for which you have to pay. In just a couple of hours, my plane will land in Marrakesh Morocco, one of the four Imperial cities of the long line of Sultans, who have ruled Morocco for centuries. It is predicted to be blisteringly hot, hotter than even this desert rat is used to. And my hosts have no air conditioning.

Boumalne du Dades by Jerzy Strzeleck

Marrakesh is on the southern edge of the ‘civilized’ part of Morocco. Its famous souk (an impossible maze of shops with ‘streets’ that are often so narrow as to accommodate only two people abreast) will be full of mysterious offerings – snake charmers with their cobras, potion sellers, rug merchants, jewelers and thieves. After a few short days there, I will continue my journey up into the Atlas Mountains, a range that slashes Morocco in half from the north to south, to Boumalne, a small town in the verdant Dades Valley. I am hopeful from there I will get to visit Ouarzazate, the oasis gateway to the Sahara, and then maybe the fabled Saraha desert itself with its tall and turbaned Berbers and striking scenery.

I think a looking glass is a wonderful metaphor for the kind of travel I may be undertaking. Having visited Mexico and Southern China, I know that it is possible for everything to look at least similar but feel very, very different. That is exactly what travel is about – turning your notion of reality on its ear.

After all my reading, I am certain I will love beautiful Madrid with its gorgeous buildings, its international flare and its verdant parks. But Morocco? I admit I am apprehensive about the heat, the smells and other-worldliness I might find. I am perhaps even more apprehensive I will fall in love with the Sahara desert, Morocco’s colorful souks and mysterious medinas, its stalwart and faithful people, its exotic sensuousness. I may find myself feeling like a calorie-counter at a delectable smorgasbord – delighted by its succulent sweets but so very disappointed at having to sample so little and leave so much untouched. I am afraid mysterious Morocco will have me firmly in its grip and will lure me back to finish my sampling.