CASABLANCA - NOT THE MOVIE

Casablanca  in Spanish means White House.   Not the Pennsylvania Avenue White house, more excitingly Morocco’s business and industrial capital.    Of souks, lamb tajine and scary bearded looking men, quite disturbingly, all the houses in Casablanca seem to have pinkish and orange tone.   

Facing the Atlantic, Casablanca from the air as Ethihad banks left descending into Mohammed V Airport with early morning sunrise making the sand dunes of the Sahara dessert take on a reddish orangey hue.

Somehow Casablanca, because of its movie association of a love story set in a night club gambling den of Ricky’s bar , did not prepare me for  its Islamic sensibilities.  Walking around the city wearing a scarf around my head was necessary as we were visiting the  Hassan II Mosque.  Unveiled in 1993, the Mosque built on both land and reclaimed land from the Atlantic Ocean is that King Hussan believed that God’s throne is on the water so that those coming to pray, to praise the creator on firm soil, at the same time contemplate God’s sky and ocean. 

Hunger is creeping and having been promised a true Moroccan dinner, Café Maure is just around the corner.   It promises to be a true Moroccan meal with lamb tajine  and chicken cooked with pomegranate molasses.  Washing down this tasty tajine isn’t what one would expect.   Moroccan’s do not drink alcohol.  So although the tajine would’ve gone down well with a bordeau but on offer was a delightfully refreshing mint tea.  

Crushed mint is brewed along with a pot of  black tea and poured into glasses stuffed with fresh mint leaves.   

Chicken with Pomagrante Molasses

Chicken with pomegranate molasses was superb.  Grilled Chicken pieces swimming in a dark brownish red tart sauce,  mopped up with thickish unleavened bread.  Very messy, and alarmingly addictive – just could not get enough.  My stomach said no, but my brain kept egging me on for more. 

Carpet store in the Souk

Incidences occurs when you least expect it.   Living in a world of considerable freedom governed by democratic evolution and modernistic social customs, what I witnessed in the market of Marakesh did take my breath away.  For I used my own values, and compared it against the local customs.

The intricate walkways and paths within the souks were in itself like a maze.   Look left, and there was a tea merchant selling tea in gunny sacks, look right, and a shop with Tajine pots. It was teeming with people mostly bearded men, in their white tunic and women in burquas. The scene was colourful and mesmeric until I saw a beautiful Russian model, extremely fair complexion wearing a blue strapless gown, leaning against a mosaic door being photographed.   It was a photo shoot, seen a hundred times over in places like London, Paris or New York.  The backdrop was an archway leading to an Arabian tearoom.  Surrounding the model were makeup artists, stylists and a multitude of people fussing around.  To the photographers back, a huge crowd of young pre-pubescent boys encouraged by older men jeering at the model – whipped out their privates and started an activity usually done under blankets and giggling at the same time.   No adult put a stop to this.   The model posing sexily was unaware that her nude shoulders were causing emotional turmoil amongst these young boys. 

Realization within the photo shoot team quickly put the episode to rest as the model was whisked away to a secure place and the incident passed without confrontation. The crowd dispersed averting what could have been a very unpleasant outcome.

Beduoin Tent for the night

On the way to Rabat, although only a few hours away, it was more exciting to go the longer route to Fez  which would have  completed the Moroccan experience with one  night in the  Sahara dessert sleeping in a Bedouin tent 

complete with Camels.   The Bedouin toothless chief offered 1000 camels as exchange for my beautiful and exotic companion from Thailand.  When the proposal  was declined, the bargaining went as high as 50,000 camels.  My companion sighed, if only each camel were converted into Ferraris or Porches then there might have been a consideration, toothless or not.

Nothing prepared me for the pitch darkness with only the stars as my guide, and the errily wind gushing in the cold.  Before turning in with a  hot flask of almond mint tea I share with you the sights and sounds of the most astonishing place I am about to rest my head. As I roam the earth in search for breathtaking sites, I am humbled by the insignficance of me against the beauty of our planet.   Tonight with the wind howling, a small sand storm moving in,  the vastness of the desert, I am at one with nature.

THE MALE ORGAN

When science overrides nature in the form of IVF, GIFT, with a variety of ways to induce pregnancy,  barren women pay homage to clinics professing results. Assisted Reproduction Clinics has found ways to combat nature’s inability to multiply.   The need to reproduce is in everyone, at some point in his or her lives.  When what God intended failed; inadequacy, impotency, blame and sadness befalls these unlucky people.   Promises of  ZIFT, Surgical Sperm Recovery, Ovarian Stimulation and perhaps even the most off putting – Assisted Hatching, can cause great hope to those inflicted.   One such fertility clinic is Jetanin Assisted Reproduction Clinic in the city center of Bangkok. 

Rows of dolls and paper machè giraffes are paid homage to the spirit house in front of this very modern building.  It reflects the intense longing denied, and that this country, Thailand, is a mystical and spiritual nation.  Sometimes there are no reasons as to why certain things are and Thais generally do not question the wherefores.  

For those wishing to multiply their families, allow me to show you how the spiritual side sometimes outweighs science.

Five hundred meters to the east of this particular clinic, Chao Mae Tuptim or Goddess Tuptim shrine, situated quietly by Klong Sansaeb in the grounds of the Nai Lert Swiss Hotel, tells much of how Bangkokians feel about spiritual needs. The shrine dedicated to the Goddess is a female fertility spirit for granting wishes of barren women to conceive.   Its not that they don’t know “how to”, more to the point practice does not make perfect, and when assisted reproduction failed, what else is there to do?

Chao Mae Tuptim is the place to go.   

Although hidden from view, tucked away in the corner grounds by the canal, infertile women who are desperate to conceive, worship this shrine.  They bring along jasmine flowers, candles and joss sticks and pray.   The success stories are accounted by many and their offering upon returning to the shrine is to thank Goddess Tuptim by placing phallic symbols large and small in the grounds near to the shrine. Chao Mae Tuptim has been known to prefer phallic symbols although dolls have been left around the shrine representing the babies that were conceived as a result of the prayers.  Men also go there to pray for money as the phallic symbol also signifies financial prosperity

The grounds are scattered with penis symbols that come in many forms and sizes made from wood, stone or even plastic, decorated with ribbons and flowers.  Some are an inch long and some giant sizes as tall as 7 ft. and as many as 300 reside with the spirit.

Legend has it that there was once a woman who had trouble getting pregnant.  After trying all possible ways of conceiving, she finally went to the shrine to ask for Chao Mae Tuptim’s help.   Eventually she gave birth to a healthy baby boy and as a sign of gratitude, she offered a large wooden phallus to the goddess, others followed suit thus creating a tradition.

God's will, Man's determination or Spirtual intervention .......

                                                                       you decide!

The fight for life

COMING HOME

SPEEDBIRD RUNWAY L27  APPROACH 500FT 400FT   300FT  200FT 100FT  -  TOUCHDOWN

WELCOM TO HEATHROW LONDON, WELCOME HOME

Flying in to London Heathrow, nostalgia revisits as this time I enter the country as a visitor.  Previous journey’s have been on different conditions, as they were returning home trips.  

 Speedbird landed on runway no. L27  at what should be the crack of dawn but unfortunately its as dark as midnight.  Terminal 3 seems to have grown smaller or perhaps there are more people, distorting area awareness.  

Ravenous,  I know that the only meal worth enjoying in the UK is the English breakfast.   It was a toss up between a  motorway café truck driver’s nosh  (which I might add is terrific) or for the exclusive, expensive Piccadilly style.  I opt for Piccadilly as the best English breakfast can only be had  (besides my mother-in-law's) is at The Wolsely, and they open at 7:00am, unusually early for British time.  It offers everything you could wish for within an incredible setting in the heart of Piccadilly.

The assumption of this travel blog may be the result of my working in the industry of airlines or tour packages is a massive stretch from the truth.  Unfortunately, no such luck. Hundreds of thousands of miles have been crisscrossed, and it seems this is my destiny.  Time frame is always a question mark.  Some are fleeting visits, some require pitching tent for longer periods, and some whizz by without registering the cerebral cortex.

London has been home for me at different times of my life; as a small child, a teenager, a married woman and now it’s a place I go back for a good fix when life is a little off kilter.  

Drummed into my head that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, The Wolesley menu indeed fixed my cravings in ways you cannot imagine.  White tablecloth, white napkins, tea and coffee in silver pots, and plates of Wedgewood china with silver cutlery that has been shiningly polished.  Civilised.  This settles me because in  my world of fast speed internet, deadlines, tired looking sandwiches on the go, catching planes, meeting wonderful and not so wonderful people, I have little time to stop to smell the roses.  If I were my own therapist, this is what remedies my soul.

Green Park, London

No need to embelish what a great breakfast can do - my walk in Green Park does the next best thing.  Skipping & playing hopscotch through Green Park as a child, I feel young again just by being there.   The morning light coming through and spring is in the air.  Tulips just sprouting, and the nippy air keeps my jetlag at bay.

Tonight is reserved for something very special, so rest my head I will, jetlag demands it.



Having made it to the seventh year level of ballet, I have seen just about every production the Royal Ballet had to offer.  My excitement is even more pronounced when I knew that I would be seeing La Bayadere at the Royal Opera House.  It was performed in 1961 in Paris by Rudolf Nureyev, then with the Kirov Ballet but I was too young at the time.   Now my chance to totally absorb all  150 minutes choreographed by Natalia Makarova will be just magic.  And magic it was.

Weekend country house retreat requires being equipped with walking shoes and it only seems right to get kitted out at Harrods.  Two hours and finally we were out of  Knightsbridge heading north on the M1 in time for tea.  Coming home, feet up, BBC1 turned on with an episode of Cornonation Street, logs crackling in the fireplace and a cup of Brooks Bond, darkness enveloping the outside air and it is only 5pm, it cannot get better than this.

LOVE AND YOU SHALL BE FREE

I honor the divinity that resides within me.” 
― Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love

Benedictine Monks

The articulate historian journalist, Royce offered to take me on a Franche Comté tour, this being his territory.   Who can refuse on such an invite by an intellectual scholar.  His love of food, wine, cheese and women, in that order suits me perfectly.   From Andelot, we traveled to Besançon, the capital of Franche Comté, continued on to Salins les Bains, Dole and finally Champagnole.

Having doused on historical facts, sampled multitude wedges of cheese and sipped many gulps of Appellation Controlé, exchanged our love and friendship, it was time to say our goodbyes.  Clinking our glasses, reflecting on what might have been, we parted ways.  He left for Princeton to lecture on the Government of  Cardinal Richelieu and I accepted an invitation to  Paris to be at the men’s final at Roland Garros. At Charles de Gaul, we said our fond farewells.

For those who only watch sports from the living room, there is nothing to match that excitement, that center court electricity and that overall special exclusivity of an invitation by Longine.  They are the timekeeper and the official partner of the French Open since 2007.

Luncheon in Longine’s tent was an epicurean feast.  Fruit de Mer on ice, Salmon Cream Cheese and Dill Soufflé, Blanquette de Veau, Salad of Belgian endive, Chocolate tart.  This was the nearest I have been of feeling French.  It wasn’t just the food or wine, our hosts, but the ambience, the sport and just being in Paris.

On court, sitting two rows up from the front with the most beautiful Aishwarya Rai,  Longines Ambassador, the audible sounds of grunting by the players is their way to smack the ball with maximum effort and authority. The power felt in each swing draws extreme energy and with it seemingly more force.  With each volley, the grunts released the tension that almost becomes orgasmic.  My fellow seat-mate did not admire such sounds whereas I reveled in each audible shriek.

Nadal's victory at the French Open

The Spainard, Rafael Nadal won the most intense game, I did not realize we had been sitting for four straight hours squeezed in the small green plastic chairs, heart popping at every smash hit he made.  After such a long day, the retreat back to the George V with a Kir Royale at Le Bar set me off for the evening. 

Now for the serious trip down South, Air France drops me off at Nice.  The first night was at a boutique hotel for lovers, Hôtel 3.14 in Cannes. An unusual named hotel but each floor of the 3.14 corresponds to a universe representing one of the five continents. After much conundrum, it became apparent that Hôtel 3.14 is a Pi.  Most hotels leave a flower or a piece of chocolate on the pillow at night, but this was one of France’s Box of Delights.  Nestled among breath mints and mouth spray, there was an interesting battery charged device, ready to buzz at the flick of a switch. There also were stimulating lubricants of dubious nature, one packet for women, one for men. Pictorial sketches included in case creativity left the imagination.  I was being educated the French way, a giant leap from high-school to post-grad division. 

Morning light shimmering on the Cote d'Azure, aptly named because of its intense skyblue sea is breathtaking.

Cruising down the coastline, we were hosted to lunch at Eden Roc’s restaurant by the sea, brushing alongside Hollywood’s Brad Pitt, De Niro and Madonna.  They, preparing for the Cannes Film Festival, and me, just ogling as we sipped Sancerre and crunched on  Salad Niçoise.

The second night’s Box of Delights never got revealed as we were moved to the Hotel Majestic Barrier in  Cannes on Le Croissette.  Perhaps not as exclusive as Hotel du Cap Eden Roc but it had the old fashioned majestic ambience akin to the Edwardian era with its lobby nooks, scattered expensive leather chairs next to a magnificent bar.  First time, and there’s always a first time, I allowed an unknown swarthy olive skinned French speaking stud to buy me an aperitif.  Supremely efficient in his art form, every word spoken, every nuance sprung his secret occupation – Gigolo Suprème of La Cote D’Azur of the French Rivera.  The opposite equivalent to Asia’s Geisha, the European Gigolo cuts to the chase. And I was left in no doubt of his next move.

L'Assietee Provencal rue Quai Saint Pierre

Moving quickly onwards, my cravings for Moules Marinière had become a fixation and an obsession.  Everyone and anyone that encountered me was grilled on which restaurant served the best mussels and it came down to L’Assietee Provençal  capturing my attention and my stomach.   Al fresco dining with views out to the harbor, on the Quai Saint Pierre sipping my champagne as I await my order, basking in the sights and sounds, to my right was someone who looked like Bradley Cooper.   A moment’s excitement and then it was gone as my attention went to the arrival of the Moules Mariniere wafting its aroma as it  sat in front of me.  It could’ve been Brad Pitt or Daniel Craig, or any hunk for that matter, the stomach won over all urges.

Like a kid in a candy store, my eyes were popping out of its sockets to the enormity of the portion.  These French people eat a lot.  The shells glistening with wine and cream, every morsel tasted of simplicity mixed with quality equals sheer excellence. I mopped the creamy sauce with all the bread, sipped champagne, wondered out aloud, if this is heaven, God take me now!  Satiated, the possibility of my entré seemed over indulgent.  A twenty minute interval was needed.

“Un intervalle de vingt minutes s'il vous plait” fluttering my eyelashes.  Voila, he understood. 

Never in twenty-four years of abstinence from all nicotine indulgences did I slip up.  But the twenty minute interval opened up repressed addiction and I succumbed to a Gauloise, inhaling the fragrant smoke, mastering the technique of filtering it through the nose to get maximum aroma.  This is going to be a long, slow and delicious night.

My pillow token at the Majestic Brassiere was classy, a small box of chocolates, a hand written French love poem, and a fresh lavender bag to put under the pillow case enhancing sleep. 

Leaving the Majestic early morning in a convertible white Mercedes,  heading east destination Monte Carlo.  Jacques, the Monegasques guide at my pleasure is born and bred in Monte Carlo.  His family has been in Monaco for centuries. Approaching Monte Carlo on the Moyenne Corniche with Jacques at the wheels is one of the most beautiful highways in the world.    Jacques’ brother Sebastien, Deputy CEO for BNP Paribas, will be joining in the evening’s soiree at the  Casino.

Le Metropole

A little elegance will be required for this evening’s event so it was off to Le Metropole shopping center, home to over 80 boutiques specializing in luxury items. 

 A black Dior outfit with Manolo Blahnik heels and a Gucci clutch set me back a few thousand, but my womanly mind justifies these deficits and gains with equal calmness knowing my luck will be with me at the roulette table.

The Casino

Wish me luck.