The London/Marrakech Express, Part Four

Was it all a dream?

I open my eyes and stare at the incredible hand-painted dome directly above my bed.

No. This is definitely not London.

We head downstairs for breakfast. La Sultana is composed of five exquisitely restored old riads (houses with interior gardens) that offer guests an Aladdin-esque journey of exploration. Each luxurious courtyard offers a passageway to another one equally magical.

(Looking into the dining courtyard, La Sultana)

Little birds chirp and flit between the date palms as we feast on sweet tangerines, Berber pancakes and copious cups of mint tea.

Exiting our hotel, we realize that it lies just 200 feet from the vibrant thoroughfare of the kasbah, but is so hidden in its diminutive alley that it's practically invisible.

(La Sultana Hotel)

Mere steps away are the Saadian Tombs which date back to the 16th century.

(Saadian Tombs)

The mosaic work, nearly 500 years old, still reverberates with color and energy.

(Mosaic detail, Saadian Tombs)

We pass through one of the nineteen gates that lead into the medina...

...and are greeted by the sight of Marrakech's most prominent Islamic landmark, the Koutoubia Mosque.

As luck has it, we are still in the shadow of the tower when one of the five daily calls to prayer rings out. The very ground seems to shake as a rising chorus of voices joins in from every direction. (To hear what a call to prayer sounds like, click HERE.)

A few more minutes walk and suddenly, the immense Djemaa el Fna is before us. This is the main square of Marrakech, and I've been filling Luca's head for months with visions of snake charmers, musicians, acrobats and more.

Before I can even blink, they arrive. Luca takes it in gamely.

On the far side of the square lies the entrance to the famed souk. As we weave our way in and out of the countless food stalls heaving with delicacies...

...an inner battle wages:

My left brain:

Remember, when bargaining, you have to play it cool. Just. Be. Cool.

My right brain:

But I'm hyperventilating! Look at all this amazing stuff!

My left brain:

Act like that and you'll pay double.

My right brain:

Ugh. You are so controlling.

The Divine Italian has no such issues.

The stalls are teeny-tiny and crammed with gorgeous wares.

Fancy a pair of handcrafted babouches?

Or perhaps a scarf for your shoulders, ladies? Gents, a foulard?

The vast amount of stalls is dizzying. Each is only a few yards wide and there are thousands of them.

An excellent reason to do more sit-ups. Or maybe not.

We lose all track of time and wander through the endless maze of alleys and residential back corridors. We are lost in the most delightful way.

At one point, I find myself being taught how to weave a rug.

At another, we find ourselves in the dyers' souk. Freshly-soaked skeins of wool hang in the sun to dry.

Bowls of powdered indigo, saffron and vermilion patiently await their turn in the vats. Matthew Williamson would be beside himself.

Out of the blue, a young man appears from inside a dyer's hut and expertly winds a scarf around and around Luca's head.

Centuries roll backward as he metamorphoses from a Hollywood kid...

...into Luca of Arabia.

Later, I miraculously locate the fossil stall where I bought a treasured ammonite bowl two years ago. The owner pretends to remember me and his genial flattery temporarily suspends my bargaining prowess.

I buy another bowl -- bigger and heavier than the previous one...

...and pretend not to hear Piero when he reminds me that my suitcase is already stuffed with purchases from London and am I expecting him to carry it? After some pestering, I indignantly answer, "Of course not!" (but secretly plan to plead my case the morning of departure).

Back at the hotel, we have an hour of "Each To His Own" time: Piero soaks in the hotel's hammam, I read my book and Luca is allowed some precious minutes on his Nintendo DS.

After dinner, we hop a cab to the legendary Mamounia Hotel. My parents stayed there in the 1960's and I've been aching to visit it my whole life -- I tried to book a room months ago, but December was completely sold out. Recently reopened after a lengthy 3-year renovation, I'm curious to see how Jacques Garcia has reinterpreted this classic grande dame and whether it has retained its essential "Mamounia-ness."

It's absolutely gorgeous and combines the sleek lines of French Art Deco with traditional Moroccan design and craftmanship.

I could do without the Gucci, Prada and Fendi boutiques in the lobby, though.

Unfortunately, my long-held plans to have a glass of champagne in the Churchill Bar are dashed when we are informed it has a no-child policy.

No matter. As we pad noiselessly over miles of sound-absorbing carpet...

...and wander through courtyards of sybaritic luxury...

...we realize we are more seekers than sitters anyway.

The London/Marrakech Express, Part Three

(Highgate, London, 2009)

December 24th

London. Morning. Cold everywhere. Cold up on Hampstead Heath, where it settles on the cheeks of children sledding on Parliament Hill. Cold in the noses of salesgirls arriving for their morning shift at Top Shop. Cold creeping into the collars of City businessmen; cold savagely freezing the fingers and toes of tourists standing in line for Madame Tussaud's. Cold all round, whirling and swirling into every crevice and corner of the frozen metropolis.

Inside The Gore Hotel, however, it is blissfully warm. Piero and Luca have ventured out on various errands and I am alone. I glance down at the pile of books I have accumulated so far and my signed copy (thank you, Hatchard's) of interior decorator/society fixture Nicholas Haslam's new memoir stares beseechingly up at me.

All right, Nicky. It's your turn today.

I decide to read it downstairs in the hotel's fabled Bar 190, which is to me one of London's best-kept secrets. In 1968, the Rolling Stones filmed "Beggar's Banquet" there and it still has the feeling of a decadent private members club, complete with Gothic details and worn-to-a-high-sheen leather furniture. (They even offer a "Rock 'n Roll Tea" with star-shaped cookies and Jack Daniel muffins.) I repair downstairs and find it for once gloriously empty.

As I settle myself into the lounging area in the rear known as "Cinderella's Carriage"...

...I spot the massive framed photographs of the Rolling Stones taken in this very room during the "Beggars Banquet" party...

...and wonder if the energy of Mr. Haslam himself has led me here. In 1964, he threw the band a legendary soirée and has been close friends with them ever since. I leaf through the book's index and sure enough, there are multiple entries for the Rolling Stones. Synchronicity is in the house.

December 25th

Christmas lunch was at Baglioni's (opposite Hyde Park and just around the corner from our hotel).

(photo via Baglioni's website)

It was a wonderful meal, made even better by the fact that we celebrated with good friends.

(Belinda and me)

(Piero and Belinda's husband, Morgan)

After gorging ourselves on turkey and stuffing and bread and soup and salad and pudding and espresso (everyone) and pasta with butter and cheese (Luca), we all surreptitiously undo the top buttons of our respective trousers/skirts and stagger back to our respective abodes.

That evening, la famiglia Giramonti, still in the depths of a carbohydrate haze, collapses into bed early. Predictably, at some point during the wee hours, a mass fidgeting of legs underneath our respective bedclothes makes it apparent that we are all wide awake. Luca comes up with a brilliant remedy for our sleeplessness: a game of midnight Scrabble.

Outside, the city is completely silent. The only sound for miles, it seems to us, are our whispers ("That's not a word"; "Yes, it IS") and the sound of tiles clacking onto the game board.

December 26th

Boxing Day. Our flight to Marrakech leaves at 3pm. I leave Piero and Luca asleep in bed and take a taxi to meet Belinda for an early morning walk along the Thames. The light is just coming up and the streets are empty. The slow cadence of our footsteps feels like physical meditation.

I find myself wishing that I had made it to St. Paul's Cathedral when all of a sudden, there it is, visible through a gap in two buildings. I gasp. It's too strange.

The light is so mystical and otherworldly that I almost feel like crying. We walk in silence.

On the flight to Marrakech, we block out the turbulence and the cramped seats by retreating into private dominions. We are in a netherworld at 32,000 feet.

Setting foot on the tarmac (and a new continent), however, reenergizes us immediately. Our North African adventure has officially begun.

After clearing customs, we are met by a tall elegant Moroccan named Hamza who chauffeurs us into the city proper. We drive under a walled archway that marks passage into the ancient medina and through the maze-like alleys (too narrow to be called streets) to our hotel, La Sultana. Once inside, we are led down hallways that redefine my definition of the word "exquisite."

After being ushered into a gorgeous courtyard, we are feted with glasses of mint tea and a tiered stand of sweet delicacies which Luca promptly devours. Apparently, the task of checking-in is deemed too taxing a duty for arriving guests. All paperwork is performed off-stage and when our glasses are drained, our room key is presented.

If this is a sign of the level of service here, I think to myself, I may never want to leave.

Our room is on the second floor overlooking the interior of one of the five courtyards in the hotel. It's called "Crocodile" (and Luca counts twenty-four of them) but it is the wooden dome over our bed that I can't stop looking at.

The bathroom is another revelation, resplendent with marble and Moroccan plasterwork, carved alcoves and towels strewn with rose petals.

We take the elevator to the roof garden and peer over the edge. Below us, a thrilling cacophony of sounds and shouts floats up to us. French and Arabic voices mingle with the thrum of mopeds, the clop of horse-drawn carriages and the intermittent screech of wheels.

We are here.