A Canadian at Liberty

Two of us were missing. We were going to have to leave them behind. Perhaps they were hopelessly lost in the maze of alleys that make up the Marrakech medina. Or maybe, like thousands of others, the erupting Icelandic volcano had cruelly interrupted their trip. That they would choose not to show up is unimaginable. Still, we had delayed our departure for more than an hour and we had to move on. So began the most memorable stretch of the Great Odyssey (so far). I awoke that morning at 5 a.m. It was a full two hours earlier than necessary, but I was far too excited to sleep. I hadn’t stopped thinking about it since the email from Omar popped onto my iPhone screen, confirming my spot on the excursion. Even if I had wanted to sleep a little longer, those damn chirping birds in the Dar Balthazar courtyard weren’t about to allow it. So, at 7 a.m. I ducked through the Hobbit-sized front door into the cobbled alleyway of Bab Doukkala, leaving behind yet another opulently decorated riad, w

Moroccan Spice Souk We were five travelers in this seaside village, brought together in the cozy second floor loft of a renovated almond warehouse by a common passion for great food and a desire to make a cultural connection with the place we were visiting. As we tucked into the first course, a warm, spicy courgette salad (salads are typically cooked in Morocco and bear little resemblance to the leafy greens that are on every menu back home) I wasn’t the only one who was left speechless at just how good this tasted. It wasn’t just because we had prepared the dish ourselves. Could this really be a salad ? Is there a way to eat vegetables and actually enjoy them? Perhaps I’d found the answer to increasing the amount of vegetables in my diet. Spices. Chicken Tagine with Olives Morocco’s rich food culture has developed over thousands of years and I feel lucky to have had the chance to experience and learn about it during my three weeks here. It’s not surprising that the Moroccans crea

Just a quick post to say thanks to everyone for their kind comments and encouragement. It's exciting to know that someone other than me is reading this blog! I'm just back in Marrakech after an amazing adventure camel trekking in the Sahara, and am headed for Fes tomorrow morning. Stay tuned - I should have a couple of new posts up in the next few days. Cheers, Craig

Essaouira - The White City The guidebooks call Marrakech the Red City. It’s an apt name, given the simmering intensity of Morocco’s southernmost Imperial City (and of course there’s the official red ochre palette that shades all the city’s buildings.) After Marrakech’s red, I was ready for Essaouira’s white and blue, and it couldn’t have felt more different. After a three-hour crossing of a bleak and rocky section of Moroccan desert, I’ve arrived in the White City, Essaouira , on Africa’s Atlantic coast. It’s a laid back fishing village, awash in white and blue, like an African version of the Greek post card villages that so many more of us are familiar with (without the hills to climb). It’s not just the colors that give it such a cool vibe. This is an artistic place, bursting with painters, writers, wood-carvers, and musicians, where the waves are owned by kite surfers and the less-energetic chill on patios to Ray Charles grooves blasted from tinny speakers. Before Altamont crus

Locals Selling Goat Hides in the Souk He was an elderly Moroccan gentlemen, quite distinguished looking but for the missing teeth, and wearing a silky cream and yellow coloured djellaba and skull cap. He smiled generously and said hello to me as I passed through the souk. As most do, he also asked where I was from. Thankfully when I said “Canada”, he didn’t burst into a rousing rendition of Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On (the teenaged food-stall tout did just that in the square last night – he was pretty good.) Beware, if you answer even the most innocuous question asked by a Moroccan in the souks, they will be stuck to you like duct tape. He tells me that the Berber market is in town today and that not many tourists know about it. The prices in the square are much too expensive he warns, as he tries to establish trust. Next, he shows me that his hands are yellow and explains, in French, how this comes from working in the tannery , but I suspect it is from saffron. He tells me th

“Take the train from Casablanca going south, blowing smoke rings from the corners of my mouth. Colored cottons hang in the air, charming cobras in the square. Striped djellabas we can wear at home”      - CSNY It’s been over 44 years since Graham Nash rode that train and wrote those lyrics about what he saw in Marrakech and not much has changed in the medina . In fact, with the exception of electricity and plumbing, I’m not sure that much has changed in hundreds of years. I am staying in a riad , a traditional Moroccan guesthouse, deep in the old city derb. The guests who were in the other two rooms have moved on and I currently have the entire place to myself, including the orange and lemon trees growing in the open central courtyard. It is a very welcome and peaceful oasis from the absolute chaos of the souks, which wind their way along hundreds of paths and alleyways through the medina in no discernible order. It’s a very good thing that alcohol is in short supply here, as

After 8 1/2 hours in the air and four transfers, I arrived in Madrid, Spain's cosmopolitan capital for one night. It was the ideal place to launch out on my odyssey as surely my basic, yet long lost competency in Spanish would return immediately and soon I'd be conversing with the locals over tapas and Rioja. Think again. With just a few hours to enjoy Madrid, I headed to Plaza Mayor, a 17th century gathering place in the historic centre of the city. While the square is now flooded with tourists sporting iPods and digital cameras, herders once drove enormous fighting bulls through the streets of the city to do battle with matadors on these cobblestones while earlier, accused heretics faced gruesome executions here during the Spanish Inquisition. Welcome to the Old World, where 'ancient' means something quite different than 'born before 1950.' Plaza Mayor, Madrid Two passions of the Madrileños are tapas (tasty appetizer-sized dishes) and bullfighting (for an