I traveled to Morocco a little over five years ago (make that SIX when I'm finally hitting publish). This post has been sitting in my drafts for such a long time, mostly unwritten, as I have been trying to muster the wherewithal to do it justice.

From a young age, I had an inexplicable fascination with Morocco—I couldn't say exactly why, but something about the fusion of French and Northern African cultures was fascinating to me. I watched Hitchcock's classic, "The Man Who Knew Too Much," at a young age and the intrigue of the plotline involving Morocco was one such source of my piqued interest. In my study of interior design, I have always loved textiles and particularly the craftsmanship and culture imbued in them. The prospect of visiting Morocco and witnessing firsthand the process of creating such textiles was thrilling. It was also exciting to consider that so many pieces are vintage wares and have their own years of histories and stories.

Indeed, the decorative arts of Morocco did not disappoint. I loved every aspect of zellij tilework, every cloistered gardened courtyard, and seeing the different types of textiles unique to the different geographic areas and regions of Morocco.

One of the reasons for which I was most excited about going to Morocco were the textiles. In this respect especially, this trip was a dream come true. When I was in college, I took many design and architecture-related classes as part of my major (home and family living with an interior design emphasis). One of the most difficult, challenging, and rewarding classes I took was my textiles class. I loved it so much, and I learned so much—there are still so many things I use on a daily basis (from knowledge about fiber content and the chemical properties of different fibers, to types of fabric, how they are constructed, and their tensile properties). My brief time in Morocco was fascinating in this regard. It was so amazing to see so many beautiful textiles firsthand, to see artisans and weavers at work, and to learn firsthand about the Moroccan textile industry and its history.

This post has felt a little daunting to write, because there is so much to know. I jotted down notes and sketches in my notebook during our trip, but my memory of the textile intricacies of which I learned have been dulled somewhat, simply by the time which has elapsed since then. Like many goods of artisan origins, there are regional and geographic variations and specialties—Morocco is no exception. In each of the places we visited, we saw different skills and arts on display. In Fez, we visited the famed leather tanneries of UNESCO World-Heritage-Site-renown. We also walked the streets of the medina and saw a man spinning cactus fiber (vegan silk!)! In the mountain regions of Chefchaouen, the textiles took on a more rustic quality with heavier wool fibers in rougher (but still stunning) weaves. We also took in the sights of a tile shop, with intricate shapes and colors meant for detailed zellij tilework.

The rug pictured above is one of the two rugs I purchased in Morocco. This rug was from a rug shop in the medina in Marrakesh. We flew in and out of Marrakesh for both directions of our trip. Upon our arrival in Morocco, we had a few hours to spend in Marrakesh before we boarded our overnight sleeper train for Tangier. We lugged our suitcases around with us and went to get a bite to eat in the medina. We had just crossed the Jemaa-el-Fna and followed the walkway into the opening of the medina. As we passed the first couple of shops, we noticed a young Moroccan man wearing, of all things, a UTAH JAZZ BASEBALL CAP! Tippe and I exchanged surprised looks, and we approached him and told him we had just traveled from Utah! As it turned out, he had spent some time during high school as an exchange student with a family in Texas. He fell in love with the Utah Jazz during his time in the states and it was a stroke of fate that we happened to run into him. He ran a clothing shop, and when he heard we were interested in looking at rugs, he told us his uncle owned a rug shop in the medina. He got a friend to cover the store for him and then he led us through several twists and turns to his uncle's shop—I could never have found the shop on my own. We entered and they took us to the back, where they served us mint tea in a sitting area. An international soccer match played on the tv and we chatted and enjoyed the tea. It was nice to have a place to sit and relax after a long stretch of traveling. After some pleasantries and after the conclusion of the soccer match, we stepped into the warehouse area bordering the sofa-and-tv-enclave where we had been. The walls were lined with towering stacks of thick wool rugs, folded and piled (no pun intended) high. The workers removed rug after rug from the stacks and laid them out on the ground, unfolding them in a layered living palimpsest of carpeting, edges and corners peeking through from the lower layers.

As they laid out more rugs, you would indicate which style you liked better, and they would choose the ensuing pieces based on the visual cues and similarities, narrowing in on styles you liked. There were many similar styles with this trellis-like design in black on a cream base. But when they unfurled the rug pictured above, I instantly loved it and it was unlike any of the others I saw. I wanted to buy it, but I wasn't prepared to buy it that night—we had just barely arrived and within hours would board an overnight train for Tangier, winding our way through the country as we visited different cities. It would be at least a week until we were back in Marrakesh and I would be ready to make my final purchases. I thanked the owner (our new friend's uncle) and his employees for giving us such a kind welcome and rolling out all the (red, as the saying goes, though not literally in this case) carpets for us!

I'll spare you the suspense and fast-forward to a week later when we visited our Jazz-fan-friend again and he took us back to his uncle's shop. His uncle knew that I had my heart set on one rug in particular, so he sneakily had his staff bury it in the piles so it would still be there when we came back! What luck! (And seller's intuition!) I was so happy to spend my hard-earned cash on this beautiful piece and it sits in my living room today and makes me happy every time I see it. This began a now-favorite tradition of buying local goods such as textiles or ceramics or candles when I travel—practical objects that carry their own stories and memories but serve very useful functions in my everyday life.

Every action film that has a scene in the medina has hit the nail on the head—it's so easy to get lost in these twists and turns. It's also utterly mesmerizing.

These photos, with their telltale blue backgrounds, are both from Chefchaouen. The more rustic wool textiles in the photo above remind me a lot of some of the ponchos and other woven items my Dad brought back from the Andes mountains when he went to Chile in 2000. They share something of the same mountain-region heartiness. I love that in two entirely different parts of the world, there is something of a resonance between the artisan wares which have been so influenced by their natural environs.

Walking through the marketplaces of Chefchaouen was a singular experience. The feel of the town changed dramatically based on the time of day. During the daytime hours, vendors are open for business, their wares spread and sprawling at the thresholds of the shops. A small plaza was flanked with rugs hung on plastered walls, the corners just barely flapping in the breeze. The canyons of the narrow streets and tall buildings reminded me so much of Siena. The sunlight caught the rug fibers at an oblique angle, adding further texture to these beautiful weavings. In the evening, the shops closed up for the day, with their wares packed tightly inside and the streets left feeling bare without so much movement and texture filling their echoing spaces.

These gorgeous (silk?) thread spools were also in Chefchaouen.

in Chefchaouen - a local textile maker's loom, paused in the midst of work.

The rugs in the photos immediately above and below are silk pieces for sale at the rug co-op in Fez. The colors and textures were absolutely gorgeous—though silk rugs are typically intended for display or wall-hangings, fiber properties being much more fragile as they are. In Fez, we had hired a local guide to take us around, which we organized through the place we stayed (originally we had booked fairly regular/low-budget accommodations at a local hostel—upon arrival, they informed us they were overbooked and did not have space for us. So the proprietors put us up at one of their nearby properties at no extra cost—the upgraded digs ended up being a very nice resort property, where they also connected us with a local guide. He showed us through the medina in Fez and could point out minute observations we would have been oblivious to otherwise. Fez was the only city where we did that but I loved the experience and it was a wonderful moment of cultural exchange in hearing our guide's experiences being raised there and his insight into some of the cultural traditions and customs, such as communal bread ovens, processing olives, and local industry like the leather tanneries). He recommended we visit the local rug co-op, as we were sure to get fair prices there for high-quality pieces—the prices at the co-op were set by the government and were more fair as there wasn't a bartering process in place. We also had the benefit of hearing from employees of the co-op how the rugs were made and seeing more behind the scenes.

above: cactus silk threads/fibers

vegan silk - the process of spinning cactus silk as seen in Fez

The small white parcel above is the rug I bought at the co-op in Fez—the red rug pictured below. It was truly impressive how tightly they wrapped it up—it was small enough (but still dense and heavy!) to fit into my carry-on suitcase, also pictured above. My larger wool rug from Marrakesh came home in a large duffel bag I had brought for the purpose—I was worried the rug would cause the duffel bag's zipper to burst, so I tracked down a hardware store and bought a roll of duct tape which I used to reinforce the seams and zipper of the duffel bag. I was nothing if not committed to bringing my rugs home in one piece! I was also careful during my trip not to purchase anything that exceeded the customs limit of $800 total (I declared my items and their value, but did not have to go through any additional steps upon arrival back in the States because my items did not exceed the $800 limit. I had planned this in advance and so I was very intentional with my purchases).

above and immediately below: wool rug from the Fez co-op

pashmina in a traditional Berber motif

The photos of the pashmina scarf above are one of my other favorite textiles from Morocco. I found several scarves in this style at the clothing shop of the man I mentioned earlier, who Tippe and I met because of his Utah Jazz baseball cap. I asked him about this style of pashmina, because the pattern was so different from the usual paisley pashminas I was used to seeing. He told me that this was a traditional Berber motif! I loved hearing that so much and I bought one of those scarves to memorialize another Moroccan textile tradition in my closet.

I don't have photographs in this post, but some other textiles I bought in Morocco were kilim pillowcovers—I gave some as gifts but kept one which I still need to buy an insert for and use! Kilim are a type of woven textile made from cactus silk. I loved the fact that we saw a man spinning cactus silk and then also saw the finished product in the form of kilim. I bought kilim pillowcovers, but there are also many styles of kilim rugs that are really beautiful. I also bought a Moroccan wedding blanket (visible in the background of this photo) which I use as a cover of sorts on my velvet armchair in my bedroom. The sequins on it are made from real silver and have the loveliest tinkling sound! I also got a couple smaller Moroccan wedding blankets which I gave as Christmas gifts to friends.

Around the time that I went to Morocco, I found a book on clearance called "Marrakesh by Design" that featured many traditional arts and crafts from Morocco (not just Marrakesh). I read the book in its entirety and in that way learned a lot about many different artisans whose work in traditional mediums is seen all over the country. Between this book and what I learned while on my trip, I felt as though I had experienced a masterclass of sorts in Moroccan textiles and tilework. I hope this post is helpful if you find yourself similarly drawn to the gorgeous wares of Moroccan artisans, and hopefully it helps illustrate the regional differences apparent in their work and specialties. I know I barely scratched the surface during my week visiting Morocco years ago, but it was a wonderful experience nonetheless and one that I will never forget.

I owe Liesl, one of my writing club pals, several posts in our writing group as I've been MIA since January. I am still working on those (I promise!), but my writing muscles feel a little tight so I'm warming up with some backlogged blogposts.

Being that I am prone to glossing over things (aren't we all?), I wanted to write a longer piece about some of our time in Morocco. Chefchaouen was one of my favorite places to visit, but like any trip, not without its share of excitement and the unexpected.

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Chefchaouen (pronunciation)—the name alone is magical, even though I still think I'm spelling it wrong. The whole city is painted varying shades of brilliant blue and we quickly decided it was the most photogenic town in all of Morocco—it was first painted blue in the 1930s by Jewish refugees; the color stuck and now is its most iconic feature.

I was surprised how much I was reminded of Siena and Provo—Chefchaouen is situated in the mountains, and the mountains looked identical to the Wasatch range in little P-town (you will see a photo reference farther down in this post). With its mountainous setting, the town itself has many inclines and stairs throughout; Siena likewise is a very hilly city with few cars driving in the historic center, and shares some architectural elements/features (friends familiar with Siena will probably note the resemblance I see in the photo above, aided by terra cotta roof tiles and some exposed brickwork peeking from behind the blue). 

These elements of familiarity, plus the small-town feel and fewer tourists made Chefchaouen an obvious favorite, despite my getting horrible food poisoning and some unexpected difficulties in getting there.

After a full day in Tangier, we got on our bus to Chefchaouen only to learn that the bus would not be going there, since in the driver's view there were not enough passengers going there to necessitate a stop. Cue my argument in heated elementary French with the driver for over 15 minutes—we paid for bus tickets to Chefchaouen, so they had to take us there! Plus, it was late at night and we couldn't make alternate arrangements. Thankfully a woman boarding the bus lived there and was trying to get home, so the missed stop would affect her, too. She didn't speak French, but spoke a little English so we talked with her, and she talked with the bus driver in their native Arabic and convinced him of the necessity of taking her home, and us to Chefchaouen, with our previously purchased tickets. (Quelle nightmare.)

We arrived in Chefchaouen and got off the bus with our luggage. The bus station was closed, and we then better understood some (but not all) of the drivers reluctance/refusal to stop there; he let us off on the curb just outside the station and we watched the bus drive away as we stood in the dark, deserted street. The Moroccan woman from the bus stood nearby; she was in her early 30s, wearing a hijab with her street clothes, and talking on the phone to her friend. Being that the bus station was closed, there were no cabs anywhere. Behind us were some darkened frames of buildings in various stages of construction, fenced off from the street, and we could hear a lone rooster crow every couple of minutes. All of us were seized by the same panic of what do we do?

Again, our Moroccan friend (I wish that I knew her name!) proved a lifesaver, when she asked if we knew how to get to our hostel. Clearly we did not, despite having looked up directions in advance—directions are little help when you have no way to orient yourselves in the new surroundings. She explained that her cabbie friend was coming to pick her up; even though it was after hours, she could ask him to give us a lift as well. Her friend arrived a few minutes later, just as we were starting to shiver in the cold night air, and we hit another snag—in the cab were two friends. They didn't realize that besides their friend were the three of us, plus our luggage.

These kind souls took pity on us and we all squeezed in as best we could—the woman from the bus sitting in her friend's lap in the front passenger seat, and the three of us with suitcases beneath our feet wedged neatly in back—did I mention Moroccan cabs are tiny?

The cab climbed up the hill on the outskirts of town, and we passed more darkened buildings and homes. As we drew in closer to the city center, the road got narrower and the architectural details grew older and more worn. The driver turned a tight corner and drove further uphill, pulling into a bend at the end of the street where a large gateway led into the maze-like medina of the city—every Moroccan city has a medina: a winding network of alleyways and streets, twisting and turning and utterly bewildering to any Westerner. 

Some men stood to the side near another doorway and the driver got out to talk with them. We had told them the name of our hostel, Riad Baraka, but none of them was familiar with its location, and addresses are less than helpful when navigating the medina. A couple of minutes later he came back to the car with one of the men, who knew the location of the hostel. We exchanged glances in the backseat; none of us were comfortable following a stranger to our hostel, but the chain of connections in this case (our bus friend's friend's friend) made the situation a little more palatable, besides which there were three of us (safety in numbers and some such).

We got out and situated our luggage for carrying it another distance. Mind you, by this point, we were all bone tired—we'd driven from Provo to Las Vegas, slept for a few hours on a friend's sofa, flown from Las Vegas to New York to Madrid to Marrakesh, spent a day traipsing around Marrakesh with our luggage, taken an overnight train to Tangier and slept somewhat, all day explored the coastal sites and the city of Tangier, and most recently made it successfully through the ordeal of our bus ride—it had been days since we'd had a truly restful night of sleep.

We followed our guide silently through the large gateway and around what seemed like endless bends and turns. There were no streetlights, but the moonlight reflected from the blue-painted ground and walls. A few minutes later, we reached the door of the hostel and buzzed the doorbell. We rifled through our pockets and wallets for spare dirhams to thank and tip our benevolent guide, and gratefully stumbled through the now-unlatched door.

We checked in, the lobby area still and quiet, and in our darkened room, the other tenants were already sleeping—just like the rest of the city. We quickly changed out of our traveling clothes and climbed into our beds, grateful that we'd gotten there despite all the hiccups in our well-laid plans.

In the morning, all was forgiven—we were immediately taken with Chefchaouen's charm. The shops sprawled on every corner with traditional wares (and workshops in the back with shuttling looms or hammering at metal or tiles) and the lively banter of bartering carried on the air to us as we walked past open doorways. The blue buildings and doors and other details never ceased to amaze, and tiny doorways would open onto beautiful courtyards and hidden gardens. We explored the town for a few days and the many mishaps of our incoming travel faded into the background, adding hidden layers to the memories of our time in Chefchaouen and Morocco.

 . . . . 

And, being the most photogenic town in Morocco, photos of course. If I had one recommendation for friends going to Morocco, it would be to go to Chefchaouen. Not only is it beautiful, but if you plan to buy traditional Moroccan goods, it is a great place to do so, as it is much less crowded and you can meet the craftsmen and see them at work!

 . . . . 

P.S. Another fun fact about Chefchaouen which I learned during the research stages: it is a sister city of Issaquah, Washington, which is where Amy & Brian got married (and is Brian's hometown)!

Welcome to another installment of Backlogged Travelogues by Liz! That's what I'd say if this were a television show as opposed to a blog (cue eyeroll). For context, this Morocco post includes a little map with our route marked therein.

We arrived in Tangier in the morning, following a ten-hour ride on an overnight train—a new experience for me and not necessarily my favorite, but we slept surprisingly soundly and came out unscathed. As far as efficiency in travel, this accomplished just what we'd hoped it would.

I was particularly interested in visiting Tangier, as it was the favorite Moroccan city of the writer Paul Bowles, whose non-fiction travel writing I've read and loved. Tangier is poised on the northern tip of Morocco, just across the Strait of Gibraltar from Spain. A ferry service runs between the two countries, so there is a noticeable influx of tourists in Tangier compared to some of the other cities we visited. The European influences are also evident in the architecture there. Tangier reminded me so much of Venice, with its bright white (and the occasional colored) plastered buildings, sea air, and winding alleyways.

When we arrived, we distanced ourselves from the train station and the proximally inflated taxi rates, then hired a driver to take us to Cap Spartel and Hercules' Grotto. Cap Spartel is the northwestern-most point in Morocco, and home to a lighthouse (above—isn't it beautiful? I love the resemblance to a minaret) which sits ashore where the Atlantic and Mediterranean meet. You can actually see the two bodies of water merging; the color difference is noticeable and really lovely. It was sooo windy but we walked out to the lighthouse and enjoyed the views before our eyes were burning from the wind and couldn't take any more. Hercules' Grotto is a national park of Morocco and inside the caves, a natural opening shaped like the African continent allows in sunlight and crashing waves from the ocean. It was surreal.

Back in Tangier (Tanger is the French spelling; all along I've used both interchangeably), we explored the city—tasting our way through the produce markets (where we bought the most amazing tangerines I have ever had) and climbing to the top of the kasbah, or highest point in the city. The bottom photo in one of the alleys shows two little girls who were walking hand in hand home from school and chasing each other through the winding passages. Their delighted laughter when they found one of their neighbors cats was contagious. I love the traditional metal lantern hanging above one of the doorways, too.

Any friends who want to go, I will definitely see it again when it opens here!

I also loved the vintage movie posters hanging in the theater—the punchy, graphic design is lovely, isn't it?

Our chance viewing of Le petit prince was even more fitting as I was reading Antoine de Saint Exupéry's memoir, "Wind, Sand and Stars" on our trip (review). This book is lovely. I'd love to track down a copy in French to experience more of Saint Exupéry's beautiful writing in his native language. (I posted one of my favorite quotes from the book here.)

Everyone says, "Don't go to Casablanca," and they have their reasons. But I had my reasons, too—namely that I love the eponymous film and I love Humphrey Bogart. We talked it over as travel buddies and seeing as it was also on Tippe's list, we decided to forego all the helpful advice and go to Casablanca anyway.

Casablanca was the most uniquely different of all the cities in Morocco we visited: it is a more modern, business-centric city. We walked along the shorefront edge to reach the Hassan II Mosque and observed all of the beachfront property development—construction sites destined to become high-rise hotels and resort shops.

Our lodgings were located on the outskirts of the medina, but when we arrived in the evening, we had a difficult time convincing any taxi driver to take us there—they all seemed pretty wary of the medina after dark. By day, you could see whitewashed walls with lush gardens of palm trees and bougainvillea, but the contrast was obvious—the medina was less populated by shops and pedestrians than in the other cities.

We found a great seafood restaurant for dinner after we arrived, and our Thanksgiving meal was had the following day at Rick's Cafe, à la Rick's Café Americain. The modern cafe borrowed decor and music from the film, though the site is not the original (most of the film was made on set in Hollywood). But the walls were decked with memorabilia and the film was playing on a screen upstairs (see top photo of me and Ingrid, complete with the roulette table and 22 black a.k.a. a benevolent gesture by Monsieur Rick). It made me so happy to make the trip to Casablanca as a dévotée and I will always remember our unconventional Thanksgiving dinner (complete with Schweppes au citron <3 ).

It was so fascinating, too, to see many aspects of the mosque and Muslim worship which parallel aspects of LDS theology and practice. Throughout our trip, we were privy to hearing the call to prayer several times a day, and seeing the mosques open up and fill with people going to pray. It was a special experience to see inside one of these beautiful buildings and recognize even more commonalities of belief.

The verdict: I'm glad we went to Casablanca. It was somewhat off the beaten path, but that aspect in itself gave a different perspective and context to the rest of our trip. And if you've never seen the film,  I will gladly watch it at any time (Play it again, Sam).