Friday, November 30/2012

One nice thing about Cyprus is that there are true wine specials - half price, two for one, etc. Sampling the €3 specials. Actually one could pay much less - as little as €1 a litre for Spanish - but back to the specials. The best so far, and quite nice is a 2009 French merlot at €3 (£2.40, $4 CAD). Thumbs up. Take the wine away from government liquor stores and put it in the supermarkets where it belongs. (Only in Quebec!)

Notice on the back of a jar of peanut butter: this product may contain traces of nuts.

Wednesday, November 28/2012

The hotel has a collection of cats, well loved and well fed by many of the guests.By no means the thin cats of the square iin Marrakesh. Guests come bearing treats in little foil bags, a cat who seems (oddly) to be drinking out of the bird bath is actually consuming food there, and cats lie smugly between the legs of elderly guests basking in the sun on the loungers around the pool. Even the little library in the loounge is in support of needy cats (presumably not these ones), demanding a donation of two euros (£1.50, $2.65 CAD) per used paperback. There's continual tension between Cypriots, who take a pretty casual view of animal rights and needs and British ex-pats who adopt abandoned animals, write letters to the papers condemning abuse and neglect, and volunteer at charity shops supporting animal shelters. Here, the cats have won.

Tuesday, November 27/2012

The road in front of our flat is fairly busy - a dual carriageway - but the median is crowded with rose bushes full of thick bunches of pink roses. On the way to the greengrocers we see dates on the sidewalk and look up - at a giant date palm heavily laden with dates. It's quite common in cyprus to find trees - orange, lemon, palm - planted mid-sidewalk. Must be a nightmare for people in wheelchairs or even pushing baby buggies. Usually they're planted and even tended by people living nearby. Nearer to us there's an olive tree overhanging the pavement, but most of the olives are still green.

Monday, November 26/2012

Happily lazy start. We're back in the land of endless sunshine and many of our fellow guests are on sun loungers around the pool. We make two forays out, one toward Upper Paphos for bread, with a stop at the greengrocer's for fresh grapefruit and oranges and a lemon, as well as a cauliflower and some carrots. then, in the afternoon, down to Kato (Lower) Paphos to Papantonio's supermarket for the other things.

 The waterfront is, as it was last night, curiously unbusy. Not many tourists about, and the prices seem a bit high, although there is some competition over the price of a pint - bottoms at €1.50. There`s also a new feature - an Englishwoman of early retirement age has replaced the local employees and family members soliciting business from the pavement. Very refined as she points out the virtues of the morning tea and scone at €3 (£2.40 or $4 CAD). An interesting comment on both lack of tourist business and financial difficulties

Sunday, November 25/2012

Up at 3:20 a.m., thanks to having been switched by Thomas Cook to the EasyJet flight. Actually probably not two hours sleep, as I wake in the night to the sounds of "there is a town in north Ontario." No, not still dreaming. BBC World TV is showing a presentation on oxycontin use on northern reserves, particularly in Fort Hope. As I watch, Sioux Lookout hospital appears, with Dr Dooley commenting on newborn babies in withdrawal. Quite amazing to find this playing in the middle of the night in Gatwick.

Taxi to Gatwick at 4:00. It's only a ten minute drive to the airport, but we want to be early in case there's any difficulty over the switch from Thomas Cook to EasyJet or the seat reservations. there isn't so we're early. Easyjet only allows one piece of carry-on luggage each, so my handbag has to go inside y fairly small carry-on while the leather bag with the netbook and Kobo (just big enough to hold the two) goes in J's carry-on. The readjustment involves my threading my woollen cardigan inside my winter jacket. Obviously all the other passengers have made similar arrangements - filled their pockets and worn their hats. Once in the plane the decompression is like the fat lady taking off her girdle as the overhead compartments overflow and the narrow seats are overfilled.

J and I have booked aisle seats opposite each other as we tend to do when the seats are in banks of three, and we've brought a lunch - bread and humus, cheese, and raw veggies. The seats beside me are occupied by a small family - teenage boy, mother and not-quite-two-year-old. They make a creditable but not very effective effort at stowing their bits and pieces (they've brought a pillow and small blankets as well as the more obvious items). It's a good flight, though. Both kids sleep for muchof it and there are no spills - all one could ask for really. Land in sunshine and warmth. There's a Canadian Hercules on the tarmac, interestingly. Canadian forces based in Afghanistan come here for R&R.

Transfer to the Paphiessa. We've got a one bedroom apartment with a bit of charm - if a distinct shortage of sitting room outlets and lighting. Up the outside staircase with bouganvillea blossoms brushing off on my hair. It's a lovely little place. The front landing overlooks the swimming pool and there's a balcony accessible from the bedroom but running in front of the sitting room windows with comfortable seating and a sunny south prospect. Not much closet space but a nice little living-dining room and a kitchen with microwave and toaster as well as the standard two burners.

Not too much exploration time, though, as we're off to the sports pub for the final F1 race of the season. It's a race that sees Lewis Hamilton with pole position for his final race with McLaren. The excitement, though, stems from the fact that Red Bull's Vettel has a 13 point lead over Ferrari's Alonso, meaning either could win the world championship. Odds are obviously with Vettel, but this changes almost immediately the race begins, when his car is hit and damaged. He fights his way back, though, in a rainy race that couldn't have been closer, decided only in the final lap of the season, as Vettel's sixth place finish makes him the youngest ever three time world champion.

As Pepys would say, and so to bed.

Saturday, November 24/2012

Ibis Gatwick. The hotel exists, like many others, to serve Gatwick airport. Itès not fancy but it is clean and extremely well designed for the purpose - and its basic rate is cheap, though everything additional, from breakfast to wifi, is pricey. But really not much else is necessary. They provide double bed with duvet, flat screen TV, sparkly clean loo with shower, kettle with cups and instant coffee and tea. There's also a Tesco Express five minutes walk away with yoghurt, fruit, cheese, sandwiches, etc. And a pub not far away. We're out early to stock up for the day, as the promised rain is setting in. The real fear is that the heavy rains will worsen flooding in the south of England - and there are also wind warnings for tonight and early tomorrow that could affect flights.

Friday, November 23/2012

Last breakfast. The food at the hotel has taken on a certain sameness and the flies become an increasing irritant, so that the sight of a browned fleck on the morning pancake produces an involuntary shooing wave. The jam jar has a large chip missing from the rim - but how long will it be before nostalgia sets in for the best homemade apricot jam we've ever had, full of sweet, golden chunks.

Quick final trip to the artisan centre. The building itself is quite striking inside, with Islamic tiles and stucco lace reminiscent of Alhambra Palace in Granada. Through Bab Doukkala, our nearest gate in the wall. There is often a beggar at the gate, but beggars here are fairly passive. Is this a cultural tradition or are there penalties for aggressive begging? There is quuite a police presence today, and soldiers as well, J points out. And the air is almost thick with pollution, maybe because it's the end of the week.

Pack up and check out by noon, which leaves us two hours lobby time before the taxi J has arranged (50 dhirams rather than the more common 100 - both sums more than it would be if the meter were turned out, which it never is). As we're leaving the lad from Stockton-on-Tees says his goodbyes and we find out the reason for the heavy police and military presence. The king is in the city. He attended Koutoubis Mosque this orning, the one everyone uses as a landmark. Which was a little unfortunate for our friend and his brother, who had intended to go there but couldn't. The king's presence meant that other worshippers were allowed in by invitation only.

We're at the airport in plenty of time. Exchange our remaining 120 dirhams - quite a production. Do I have a receipt for the money? Eventuallly I find that I do. Ten euros in exchange, plus an extra three and a half dh in change. But first I fill out an information form and my passport is pput through a scanner and two large duplicate recedipt forms are produced, one of which I sig. More or less the same amount of paperwork required for a marriage licence. The nice young man doesn't actually have a ten euro note, but he does have a twenty, so I hand over two five euro notes as well as the Moroccan currency. This leaves us with 10 dh in coin, but we're not at the square any more. The only thing it would buy is a single rather dry looking croissant, so we don't bother. And after going through security it's euros only.

There are two queues for the scanner in security, separated by gender. J's little bottle of water is no problem - we're not in the EU here - but the woman hesitates over my tea bags in their foil bag. Thé, I say. She repeats it but checks. Thé it is - no problem. It`s a long wait, as the BA flight is late in and threfore late leaving, but the airport is new and clean and eventually we`re underway. The plane is full and we`ve booked aisle seats opposite each other. J is sitting next to a Scottish couple who live just outside Brighton and they chat happily for most of the flight. Collect our suitcases and head for the bus stops. A small typed otice points out that the times are wrong, but the ones I got after much searching of the internet are OK and the H3 bus arrives and delivers us to the Ibis Gatwick just before midnight.

Thursday, November 22/2012

Last day in what used to be called the rose city, from the reddish buildings. Visit the artisan centre. Its a wonderful spot in the old city because it combines many of the local arts and crafts and it's possible in some cases to watch the people at work - weaving carpets, painting on wood, making sandals or doing metalwork. There is jewellery and paintings - a bit production line for tourists in some cases but also a place where the craftsmen can work in peaceful surroundings and the visitors can watch and shop without any hassle or pressure. A relief after the souks. One shop features argan oil. Originally the nuts were processed through the digestive tract of the goat and retrieved from the feces - does make one wonder who first had the idea and why. Now the pressing is done mechanically and itès possible to buy first cold press oil used for cooking or oil prized for the skin and the hair.

Last meal in the square as well. The water sellers are asking to have their photos taken -  for a price. Don't think they actually sell much, if any, water these days, and appearing in a red suit with a decorated pointed hat probably does deserve some reward. The mussel stands look attractive but we want one last lamb tagine. We also want to try pastilla, a Moroccan specialty as a starter. All right but not to be added to the repertoire, even though it sounds a bit odd. Actually it is a bit odd, but Rolf, a German man staying at the hotel, has said we should taste it and we do. It's chicken cooked inside pastry - about six inches in diameter. The unusual bit is that it hasn't quite made up its mind whether it's a sweet or a savoury, as the pastry is dusted with sugar and cinnamon and the filling includes almonds as well as chicken. We split one as a starter. All right, but not to be added to the repertoire, and served at the sort of tepid temperature that is less than ideal for chicken. Actually, a number of Moroccan offerings seem odd - like the apple juice with milk (which we haven't tried). But the tagine that follows is excellent, and sizzling hot, with the lamb and olives and vegetables still bubbling when the conical lids are lifted.

There are restaurants nearby that specialise in rooftop terraces for the view "panoramique." But there is an advantage to our view as well, on the edge of the crowd and more a part of it, watching the women with long coats as brightly coloured as saris or the teenage boys showing off their acrobatics. A bit more subject to the sales pitches though, ranging from children selling small packs of tissues to the man who offers J an exquisite picture made, rather sadly, from butterfly wings. He would  give us a good price, but price, unfortunately, isn't the problem.

Wednesday, November 21/2012

Our lobby is a busy place, busy mainly with Moroccan men - drinking mint tea steeped in little silver teapots with high lids (apparently best when poured from a height), transacting business in the morning or cheering football matches in the evening. The bar does a steady business as a "dry" bar - though we're happy to have a bottle of Famous Grouse in the room for a wee dram in the evening.  Usually, but by no means always, the men are in western dress. The jellaba may be worn coat-like on top of trousers or, like the man ahead of us at breakfast, simply over bare legs with slippered feet. J makes friends with a darkish-skinned Moslem lad from Stockton-on-Tees, here in Morocco for the first time on a week's holiday along with his brother, eager to enjoy the hammam and the tour to the mountains. They're a reminder that those who appear to us to be locals may well not be.

The water sellers are in evidence at the square tonight, wearing their traditional red garb and pointed hats. They're hung about with brass cups and carry the water in leather bags, slung over the shoulder. Apparently the brass cups are for Moslems only and, in the (seemingly unlikely) event that a non-Moslem wishes to have a drink it will be provided in a white cup. Actually there's no sign of anyone buying water from them. Probably they make a living these days by charging tourists for photo ops. They certainly add colour to a busy scene.

Tuesday, November 20/2012

One of the pleasures of the square, Jemaa al Fna, is that there are more locals than tourists and they are a continuation of a long tradition. In the earliest days the square was a place of execution, and its name means Assembly of the Dead. But for many years, certainly well over a hundred, as Edith Wharton refers to it in In Morocco (1917) it has been a gathering place for local people, not only for buying and selling but also for entertainment - storytelling, acrobatics, snake charming, etc. Traditionally it was also a centre for services, so scribes and purveyors of herbal remedies flourished. Tooth pulling is still on offer, and Lyndsay, a Yorkshire woman spending a couple of days in Marrakesh at the end of a biking holiday in the Atlas Mountains, recounts having encountered a toothpuller complete with tray of sample teeth removed from the afflicted.

It's a particular pleasure to walk through the square and see a circle of perhaps fifty men and boys surrounding a storyteller who can keep them enthralled with words alone, electronic devices left in pockets. Janet and Joe and I walk down through the medina to the square in the mid-afternoon, past the shoe shiners and the horse-drawn caleches. The men are just setting up the food stalls for the evening and the fruit stalls are flowing in the late sun - figs, dates, nuts and apricots all as beautiful as they are sweet but all, unfortunately, visited by flies.Janet admires the pointed slippers and the caftans. Many of the shops are high in tourist appeal, but there are also sellers who have staked out small bits of pavement and are selling cigarette packs from an open carton or bars of soap.

We stop at our previous restaurant for lamb tagines, seated outside where we can watch the throng in the gathering dark. The young boys toss their little blue lit whirlygigs up against the darkening sky and steam rises above the lights from the food stall. There's a steady low drumbeat and a hum of energy. On the pavement the little lanterns glow red and blue and gold.

Monday, November 19/2012

A happy surprise this morning.Others have written of the beauty of the nearby Atlas Mountains but so far, other than in our descent, we had failed to sight them. The culprit appears to have been pollution, which is pretty dire. Maybe here, as  in Athens, things are a bit better after a weekend Still a little dim in our photography efforts, although I have done some violence to J's original (taken from our hotel balcony) in an attempt to bring out the contrast, but definitely there, in the near distance beyond the Koutoubia Mosque. Janet, an Englishwoman from the Midlands, who is here for a week's Vitamin D, is of on a side tour to the mountains today, so we'll look forward to her impressions.

We walk west of our hotel along Mohammed V - have to be careful navigating as streets are seldom labelled, they often meet at odd angles,and names may be similar (for example there is also a Mohammed  VI and the two streets intersect). Our goal is the bureau de tourisme and we eventually find it, though the first policeman we ask says that he's on loan or exchange from Agadir, but his colleague will know - as he does. the office is nicely designed but almost empty; no sign of brochures, etc. The man in charge is happy to give  us a fairly decent map, though. Easier to find than the tourist office, not that we were looking, is the Canadian immigration office. The red maple leaf on its sign is visible a block away. It purports to offer services for students and would-be immigrants but we don't check it out, in part because the office itself is on the fifth floor. Spot an interesting building on the way back with Middle Eastern looking wooden balconies at the top above the usual clay-coloured facing.

Even in the streets outside the medina, carts pulled by horses or donkeys share the roadway with buses, cars and trucks. Within the medina they're joined by caleches and bikes, motor and otherwise. The donkey carts are used for deliveries and general movement of goods or building supplies, and also serve as temporary beds when empty - it's not unusual to see a worker having a kip in a cart by the side of the road.

Drop in to the store next to the hotel. As everywhere else, it is subject to flies, but here there are also small birds, sparrow-sized flying in through the open doors and perching on the pasta in open bins or on the chopping block where the meat is cut. the hotel and shops are, if anything, overstaffed, but hygiene is simply not a concern. I find myself thinking that any place that served food at home would lose its licence for similar neglect,  when I remember our regular coffee shop in the summer of 2011 when the air conditioning was non-functional and the door stood open all summer.

Sunday, November 18/2012

Rainy morning, though if internet weather can be believed this should be the only rain of our stay. At breakfast J watches as a young girl at the buffet drops a piece of cake on the floor, goes to replace it on the plate, hesitates, and finally puts it on the counter next to the plate. From whence it is retrieved by a water and replaced on the plate. So the tongs placed beside the baskets of bread and plates of cake are incomplete guarantees of hygiene. And we remember in Cairo seeing a man with an enormous tray of bread drop a loaf on the road, pick it up and return it to the tray, and carry on with his deliveries. J has another of the "pancakes" - which we have discovered are not exactly pancakes. They're not made from batter but are white squares of a phyllo-like pastry unfolded by the girl and cooked briefly, one at a time, on a small griddle.

By noon it clears and we walk a bit in the opposite direction from the medina, past a walled cemetery and the Gendarmerie Royale. One forgets that this is a kingdom. Much less African looking here - with the standard international shops and a McDonald's. J, ever the economist, checks its prices. Difficult to knkow what to make of the Big Mac Index here, as a Big Mac is fifty percent more than a lamb tagine in the medina. So who would prefer it? The streets here show the French influence - broad avenues and enormous squares. some intersections have police but they leave pedestrians to their fate, operating in chatty pairs and only responding to the occasional motoring infraction. The lanes in the medina are reminiscent of Paris as well, but only in the pervasive smell of urine.

We are reading at night a book downloaded onto the Kobo, Edith Wharton's In Morocco, an account of a journey made to Morocco in 1917 - a trip made more difficult by German submarines in the Atlantic, the division of the country into Spanish and French zones, and the combination of early motorcars and primitive dirt roads. The author laments the lack of existence of a guide book, but she is well informed and has a good eye for detail and her work makes fascinating reading.  Much of her description of Jamaa el Fna, the big square, still applies today, as she talks of the crowds surrounding dancers and snake charmers.  A little earlier we had wondered if there had been an original purpose for the niches in the walls within the medina, cavities a little bigger than a person. The question of purpose remains unanswered, but Wharton does refer to "mad negroes standing stark naked in niches of the walls and pouring down Sudanese incantations upon the fascinated crowd." Shelter for the odd beggar today seems rather dull by comparison.

Saturday, November 17/2012

Today our wandering in the shops has an objective, though not one that we achieve. We're looking for a small immersion coil. Marrakesh would seem like a probable place to find one, and at first our difficulty is in describing it. However, we get quite good at explaining in French what we want, just not good at locating one. We have hopes of the small shops outside the souk, but far more of them have electronic than electrical goods. In the end, people who understand that it would fit inside a glass, make water boil, be like a kettle without the outside casing, and be handy for making instant coffee don't know where we might find one. Though many of them would be happy to console us with other goods we might purchase.

We wander recklessly through the souk, losing ourselves quite thoroughly and inspecting both the touristy parts and the depths where tourists are nowhere to be seen. Unlike the souks in Istanbul and Damascus, there don't really seem to be sectors, so shops selling leather or fabric may alternate with those carrying ceramic tagines or sweets. At one point the only non-locals seem to be an older couple in sunhats who look as if they know where they're going. They do, and disappear into a dwelling in a tiny lane in the farther northern reaches of the souk. A Berber man tells us he can show us where the big square is - it's just after the tanneries. However, the "after" turns out to be historical rather than geographical. We're not up for a tour of the tanneries and he's offended - "then give me something." We part with a little annoyance on both sides. But between the orientation provided by the sun and the odd helpful direction we find our way back to Jamaa el Fna and the snake charmers.

Friday, November 16/2012

Friday, the Moslem holy day, and there are some signs of it. There seem to be mostly tourists at breakfast, when yesterday there were more businessmen. And quite a few of the small shops are closed, though by no meansall. We're finding new ways through the maze of the medina, guided at times by the tallest of the mosques. It's a good landmark from a distance and highly visible from the square next to it, but tends to disappear in the streets and lanes of the middle distance.

The most direct route starts through a market near the western wall. Really less a market than a lane lined witih the tiniest of shops and restaurants, catering almost entirely to locals. Children's toys - including little blonde plastic dolls reminiscent of the celluloid ones of my distant childhood and looking not at all like Moroccan babies. Vegetables - potatoes, radishes, aubergines and greens - on mats on the ground. Barber shops only gig enough to encompass the one or two chairs. Round loaves of bread and heaps of brightly coloured spices, as well as dates and figs - all wonderful to look at but unfortunately subject to the ubiquitous flies. As are the wares of the tiny butcher shops featuring three or four chickens or part of a lamb carcass.

The larger streets are home to electronics shops, more substantial restaurants or pizzarias, pharmacies, etc. At night the square seems more full, with more young families, perhaps enjoying a free day. Fathers seem as affectionate as mothers, and as happy to cuddle little daughters as sons.

Some very small children sell goods - such as packs of tissues - to tourists. A few hang out around the restaurants, less beggars than opportunists - happy no doubt to receive a coin or a sweet  should it happen. Restaurant staff send them on their way, but gently, as they also discourage the hopeful cats. The square is again full of performers - musicians and acrobats collect small crowds of admirers. There are snake charmers and belly dancers - their encircling audiences no doubt a fruitful source for pickpockets who can count on distracted subjects and an easy escape in the dark. The dark is also a good backdrop for some of the wares on sale - displays of little metal lanterns with candles flickering behind coloured glass panes ranged on the pavement, or the little fluttering blue lighted whirligigs that young boys launch into the indigo sky and gather as they flutter down.

Thursday, November 15/2012

Breakfast buffet in the restaurant. it's a sunny room with a similar view to that from our room. It's not at all bad - quite Middle East cum North African. Baguettes, croissants, plain cake - the last cooked as you wait. There also seems to be a runny cooked cereal of some sort - we don't sample to find out what. And it's not entirely carbohydrate as it seems at first glance. There's also yoghurt, hard boiled eggs, and little triangles of cream cheese. The coffee is good, though the "juice" is, presumably, the usual sugar water and  again we don't try it. the semi-dried olives are excellent and there are also plates of cut tomatoes and cucumbers.

The wifi in the lobby is excellent, but doesn't begin to reach to our second floor room (room numbering on the European system - ground floor is zero). We check the weather and email. Make efforts to get a decent map on the playbook but its GPS is not up to the challenge, and it's hard finding the ciry area to centre in on. Then we spot a fellow tourist at the desk with a map. Where did he get it? Right here. Unlike most third world hotels, reception does indeed dispense small maps, showing our location and the adjoining medina. Very nice.

The medina proves to be quite a bit bigger than the map would suggest. There are also far more roads in the real life version, no two of them parallel. To say nothing of the tiny lanes. It's a maze. Cautiously, we circle outside the wall, then enter by one of the gates (babs - we recognise the Arabic word from Damascus' geography). There's a little triangular park near a very tall mosque. It's lovely and shady with plenty of benches for resting. The triangle is surrounded by horse drawn caleches, the drivers touting for tourist business, and points, at the apex, into Jamaa el Fna,the famous square at the heart of the medina.
The square is huge and irregular, a little like a fairground when it`s not fair day. Which is not to say that it`s empty. It`s swarming with people and with cars and motorbikes crisscrossing at random angles, managing always to miss the people. Plenty of stalls selling fresh squeezed juice and clusters of watchers around performances, human and monkey, but you know that the square is in waiting for its true life, which begins at dusk. Radiating from the north of Jamaa el Fna are the souks, the markets selling to tourists and locals alike, though there are far more locals than tourists in evidence. there are the souvenirs - costume jewellery and tooled leather; the practical, appealing mainly to locals with things like children`s clothing and plastic basins; the semi-practical, like brilliantly coloured tagines (lovely but fragile and heavy as souvenirs). then there are the completely bizarre - as when one rounds a corner and is confronted with a heap of sheep`s heads. They`re a local delicacy but these are as yet unskilled, with eyes accusing.

Back in the evening for a meal. Dusk by six and the square now lit by flowing lamps from the food stalls erected every night.there`s a hum now and more performance art - boys doing handsprings and small crowds where it`s impossible to see the centre. The food stalls are surrounded by inward facing benches, and they`re busy places, some more so than others. There are dozens of them, all known simply by number - 32, for example, is famous for its lamb sausages. We go to one of the small restaurants rimming the square, though. There it's possible to get "le menu" - the equivalent of the prix fixe. And, more importantly, to face toward rather than away from the square and the street theatre.
We each order salad rather than "normal" (read plain?) omelets as starters and, surprisingly, our salads are different, though not billed differently. One is a tomato, cucumber and coriander plate - very refreshing - and the other an odd mixture of rice, potato, carrot, tomato and beetroot in a salad cream on top of lettuce leaves. A bit odd but OK. J orders the lamb couscos and I the lamb tagine. (We know we're right in guessing the "lamp" is what we're after as the French is listed as "mouton"). They're both good, though we agree that the tagine is slightly better, served in the little tagine casserole with conical lid in which it was cooked, the lamb butter soft and covered with potatoes, green beans, tomato and olives, the juices all preserved by the sealed dish. The couscous is also served with vegetables - courgettes, carrot, and marrow all arranged in a pyramid over the couscous and lamb with a bowl of cooking juices on the side. As usual we share both, as well as the small round loaf of bread - delicious with the juices. Dessert is a small pastry - almond and rosewater - with sweet mint tea, our little silver teapots full of mint sprigs. There's no hurry and the restaurant is busy but not crowded. quite a lot of tourists but locals as well and no wonder. The meal is delicious and the bill for the two of us comes to 95 dirham (€8.55, $10.55 CAD, £6.85)

Wednesday, November 14/2012

We're off early by tube to King's Cross. Then train to Gatwick in time for a fair bit of hanging about before the British Air flight to Marrakesh. The plane is pretty full but we're lucky - seats A and C near the back, with an empty seat between us. Well, some good planning but also luck. Acquire a bottle of Famous Grouse from the onboard duty free in anticipation of Moslem abstemiousness

We left Gatwick to fly over an irregular patchwork of greens. Morocco from the air is sepia monochrome - texture but almost entirely mud coloured. Only as we begin the sesent to Marrakesh are there symetrical green plantations in evidence. And the city itself seems almost entirely clay coloured brick. Short transfer to our hotel, past palm trees and rose bushes. We're on the edge of the medina, just outside the walls of the old city. Beneath our tiny balcony there is endless traffic, pedestrian as well as vehicular. Men, mostly in western dress but some, mainly older, in flowing jellabas. Women, mostly wearing the hijab but some, mainly younger, without. Women as well as men on motorscooters. Taxis plying their trade. Bicycles weaving between private cars. A bus station opposite. Curiously, the dual carriageway separating us from the medina has a pedestrian walk light monitoring one road, while those crossing the other, equally busy, side take their chances. No accidents as we watch. Is this like Krakow, where a critical mass of people gathers before attempting the crossing, or like Beirut, where red lights mean little but catching the eye of the drivers ensures safe passage. Tomorrow we'll explore.

Tonight we do check out the supermarket next door to the hotel. We'd known that there was a shop, but this is considerably more - like the Magasin Général in Tunisia, but better. It has everything from avocados to washing machines, children's clothing to yoghurt. There's also a small attached bakery, and the shoppers, happily, seem to be entirely local. We now have bottled water, as well as bills smaller than the 100 and 200 dirham notes dispensed by the airport cashpoint. Though the bills are as dirty as Egyptian money, the fifties as limp as used tissues and less clean.

Tuesday, November 13/2012

Our last day in London. It's also Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights and Shanthi has kindly invited us to tea. She has taken the day off work, visited inlaws and gone to the temple and now we get to share in the lighting of the Diwali candles and in the meal, made festive with rose petals strewn across the tablecloth. It's Jean and Joe and I, along with Shanthi. Priya is still at work but will be back later as will her boyfriend. Lovely meal with shanthiès homemade springrolls  and butter cake.
Then back to pack and set an alarm.

Monday, November 12/2012

Errand day, as our two weeks comes all too quickly to an end. So small bits of shopping and internet housekeeping re the changes occasioned by Thomas Cook's defection - rebooking of transfer, etc. Still plays unseen and exhibitions unviewed. Where does the time go? Last vegan buffet with quite a nice wine. Consolation - this is one place we'll always come back to.

Sunday, November 11/2012

Remembrance Day. Our worthy plans for joining her majesty at the cenotaph at eleven end when we wake late enough it's no longer possible. My poppy has only just survived to the 11th, being a fragile British paper version, closer to true poppy colour than the vibrant Canadian ones, but less resilient. We met a young English girl selling poppies at Notting Hill tube station who recognised J's poppy as Canadian. She's engaged to a Canadian whom she met when they were both serving in their respective forces in Afghanistan. They're to be married New Year's Eve in Edinburgh and will then be moving to Kingston.
Have a slow wander down Oxford Street before meeting Kristen and her boyfriend Chris for lunch. The intended restaurant is closed but Prix Fixe (actually their name) next door provides a good alternative. Kristen still working as a social worker and Chris back at uni doing a master's. They're looking at going to Canada in the spring after  Kristen's work visa here runs out. Meanwhile K has concentrated on seeing as much of Europe (and even North Africa) as she can manage while within short flight distance - Budapest, Malaga, Berlin, Marrakesh, Istanbul, Athens, etc.

Saturday, November 10/2011

The family run hotel where we stay is cosy. the original fourteen foot high ceilings with moldings and plaster decorations and a ten foot high window. The furniture is mismatched but period, interesting and solid wood. The plumbing is less happily period. New shower with plenty of hot water and good pressure, but a temperamental toilet. Makes flushing feel like a primitive psychological conditioning experiment. The sort where a chicken being fed random pellets of food repeats the behaviour in which it was engaging when the pellet arrived, hoping for the best. Thus we form theories based on the success of the last flush - jiggle first and then hold it down firmly - that are rapidly proven dubious.

Friday, November 9/2012

Fly Thomas Cook has called and left a voice mail to the effect that our flight to Paphos on November 25 has been cancelled. Call back and they're happy (much happier than we) to rebook us on Easyjet at 7:15 - more than two hours earlier than the TC flight. Not really a great deal to be done - and none of it the fault of the pleasant Nicola. TC seems on its last legs. Actually it's amazing they got us on the UK phone. We could easily have been in Morocco and never got the message.

In the evening we meet up with Alexander and Flora at the Colossi Grill near Sadler's Wells Theatre. The Greek Cypriot staff know A&F well and are happy to recommend their best. A meze selection for starters (and whitebait for A). Then souvlaki for A and F and lamb kleftiko for J and me - beautifully succulent on the bone. Noisy and cheerful and we do get to chat a little - politics, economics, families, food.

Thursday, November 8/2012

Our original intention was to queue for same day release tickets for Alan Bennett's new play, People. That would mean being at the National Theatre by eight and leaving here by seven. It's a good day for it, because there's a matinee as well as the evening performance, so twice the chance of getting a ticket. But at six a.m. we rethink - not because we're reluctant to leave the nest warmth of the bed (though we are) but because Alexander has asked if we fancy going to a funky little venue on the southbank to see his younger brother Roddy in an inaugural gig  with his new band, Quorn. If we leave now to get tickets for People, and go to the matinee before an evening concert, it will make too crowded a day. So we hope that we can catch a performance when we're back in London in April. Already we've missed a bit of performance art. J reports having read of a scuffle breaking out between two patrons at a performance of People. One, an elderly American and the other a rather large Brit - the issue being the lack of room to accommodate them in adjoining seats. Apparently audience members were forced to intervene when the dispute became physical, though some had at first hesitated, thinking they might be witnessing a part of the evening's scripted drama.

A trip in the afternoon to see an exhibit of Marilyn Monroe's media portraits at the National Portrait Gallery. The 50th anniversary of her death. She was the same age as the queen - very sad.

Tonight we see some planned performance art. It takes a bit of doing to find the Nursery Theatre. Arch 61 off Great Suffolk Road is a bit vague as an address, and we get quite close before discovering, with the help of two kind girls with GPS, the rather grotty lane following the railway arches.
It's a little cavern - funky, seating about forty on a miscellany of furniture from comfortable armchairs to a bench that's more sawhorse. The band is called Quorn - happily, Alexander discovers, because they fell heir to a quantity of black T-shirts inscribed with the name (and as it is a town in the north as well as a brand name, they're safe from litigation). It's not all band. There's a five woman modern dance group who begin with a shadow performance behind the white paper screen and continue with a number of presentations, many of them quite witty and some actually based on current (as in today's) news items. The band provides minimalist accompaniment and the whole performance is clever, often very funny, and pleasantly intimate in the small, informal space. A off immediately afterward as he has five pianos to tune tomorrow morning.

Wednesday, November 7/2012

Lovely day for a walk and we wander along the south bank fro Waterloo Station to the Tate Modern. There is currently no installation in the great hall, but we go to an exhibit on the human figure. One huge painting, Sabra and Shatila, by Iraqi artist Dia al-Azzawi, portrays the 1982 massacre in camps in Beirut  of Palestinian refugees by Lebanese Christian Phalangists. It's horrific, not in its initial effect but as realisation of its import grows. A little reminiscent of Picasso's Guernica. Jean Genet also visited the same camps after the massacre and spoke of the "thick white smell of death."

Back to Indian Veg - this time with airplane sized bottles of wine, for which the restaurant cheerfully provides wine glasses.

Tuesday, November 6/2012

Tube to Wimbledon - no need to change - and then train to Thames Ditton. Jenny has Emma's girls. Jasmine (four in January) chats with us until she's off to nursery school. Leila (one and a half) plays a bit, but has a cold and falls asleep with her head on J's shoulder.Doug is back for lunch and we stay until Jenny is leaving to collect Jasmine. busy, but lots of chat in between.

Monday, November 5/2012

Plan to go to the Saatchi Gallery for a photography exhibit but when we arrive the gallery is closed for a private event of some description. so plan B - the serendipitous takes over. We notice an advertisement for an exhibit at the Science Museum - on the work of Dr Alan Turing. Turing was responsible for much of the breaking of the wartime Enigma code. there are three of the original Enigma machines on display, as well as the Pilot Ace computer, for which Turing wrote the specs in 1945. The computer was completed in 1950 and is massive - about ten feet by four, with dozens of little light up circuit lamps - and probably less computing power than the mini tablet in my handbag. Turing was a pioneer in the world of computers but came to a sad end, committing suicide after legally imposed efforts to change his sexuality by female hormone treatment intended to reduce libido and reverse homosexuality. A sad waste of a great mind.

Guy Fawkes Day. Most fireworks seem to have been on the weekend. there are some parks with displays tonight but we don't go. We do go to the Indian Veg for dinner though. It's a quirky little restaurant in Chapel Market near Angel tube station. An amazing little place that's always busy, clearly attracts regulars, and can always squeeze in a couple of extra people. Open seven days a week from noon until 11:30, it serves a vegan buffet for  £4.95, always with delicious hot dishes, salads, rice, dhal and side bits, like chapatis and balti mix. They don't have a licence, but are happy to have you bring your own wine or even a tin of lager if  you prefer, available from a supermarket round the corner. Delicious.

Sunday, November 4/2012

Wake ten minutes before the mobile alarm, which has been set for six. There`s a tiny bit of rain but we layer up and take the umbrellas - off to see the beginning of the Brighton to London run, the worldès oldest motoring event, begun 116 years ago. All 500 cars are pre-1905 and a few of them pass us on Bayswater Road as we walk to Hyde Park in the pre-dawn, their small frames and spluttering cylinders seeming very vulnerable in the mercifully thin early Sunday traffic, the rear lights mere pricks of red in the headlights of a double-decker bus.

Gathering in the park, they look considerably jauntier, brightly painted and decorated with brass. there's a huge variety, no two alike. the largest are four cylinders and the smallest one we see is little more than a tricycle, raising the question of the point at which a vehicle is declared a car. A happy variety of drivers and passengers as well, some in period dress and others, more prudently, in waterproofs. It will be a cold run for those without rain gear as the rain is heavier now and few cars are closed in. Some of the unprotected woolly clothes must be sodden before their owners reach the start line. And Brighton, sixty some miles away, is a three hour journey for these cars. but everyone is cheerful, repacking the wicker trunks, checking the engines, enjoying a last cup of coffee. A steam engine billows a fog at us and some cars get push starts.

There are some famous drivers here, we know, mingling in with the others. Racing great Sir Stirling Moss is driving with his wife in a 1903 car that has done the run thirty-five times, and Nick Mason, drummer for Pink Floyd , is driving a 1901 five litre Panhard. Mason has driven in the run every year since 1985 and says his passion for cars predates his inolvement with music. Motoring rugs covered with pastic, rain dripping from broad-brimmed leather hats, tiny squeeze bulb horns tooting and they're off. And we back by tube from Hyde Park corner to dry off ourselves.
Motorsport not over for the ay, as noon brings coverage of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix - a close race with a surprise Raikkonen win.

Overheard at Waterloo Station: You don't get it - the police want ME.

Saturday, November 3/2012

To our Starbucks office in the morning for filter coffees and internet. J with the Saturday Guardian and I with the Playbook, on which I download a London map. Not everyone buys as much as a filter coffee. The man at the little table next to us has no coffee at all but is sustained by a packet of chocolate covered digestive biscuits - currently on special offer next door at Sainsbury's for  £1.

In the afternoon we go down to Regent Street to see the cars on exhibit before tomorrow's annual London to Brighton car run. They're wonderful - dating from the earliest years of the 20th century (all before 1905). Brass headlamps gleaming like little hurricane lanterns and old-fashioned bicycle style horns. Most of them are open-topped and all of them full of personality - many with names like Annabel and Edwin. Some are accompanied by drivers in period costume and a woman in an old style scarf-tied motoring hat retrieves some food from a wicker basket fixed to the side of her car. Most seem to be two cylinder; sometimes, astonishingly, only one. Six point five is a typical horsepower.

Back up to Oxford Street to take the tube to Camden Town. On the pavement a large sign proclaims that America is Ending - according to God. No shortage of apocalyptic vision here and plenty of people to receive it - almost too crowded to walk. As it is on Camden High Street, though it's a little less crazy  heading down to Lidl and the charity shops than following the young people in the other direction, toward Camden Market.

A bus from Camden High Street to Kilburn High Road and an early meal at Roses. We've gone intending to have fish and chips, which are always excellent here, with golden breaded fillets extending over the rim of generously sized plates. But when we sit down, the man at the next table is being served a succulent lamb kleftiko and J can't resist ordering the same. So I go with the fish and chips and we share both dishes. Two veg and roast potatoes with the lamb, and nothing that has seen the inside of a freezer. We share a portion of cheesecake for dessert for a total of  £13 (€16 or $20.50 CAD - Canadians note that includes tax). Roses has quite a varied menu, most of which they can produce on any given occasion, and their dinners would feed two people of modest appetite. IJ once sent his compliments to the chef, who had cooked perfectly an enormous fish fillet of varying thickness.

 Midway between Hallowe'en and Guy Fawkes Day and costume occasionally evident: a young woman on the tube in pink dress with full skirt and ballet shoes with platform soles and pink-streaked hair, as well as a man in red cape on the street corner waving his sword.

Home in time for special TV programs celebrating the life and work of Eric Sykes. Though I loved watching his comedies in the 60's (black and white), I'm ashamed to realise that he ony died this year and not long ago - aged 89 and performing almost to the end despite profound deafness and, in the end, complete blindness. A master of facial expression and timing and his work as impressive now as it was sixty years ago - the writing as timeless as the acting. The last film in which he appeared was, to the delight of his grandchildren, one of the Harry Potters.

Friday, November 2/2012

Back along Queensway. Scarves, mugs, and souvenirs for sale outside the shops. Luggage on display, phone unlocking,  currency exchanges. fish pedicures  £10. And the restaurants. The bronze coloured chickens hanging in the window of The New Fortune Cookie. The same ones as last year? My favourite sign reads Brazilian Buffet by Kilo - modern cuisine at its best. This in a warren of shops and cafés with signs in Polish, Arabic and Russian. The hair stylist advertises cuts at  £7 under the name of Polscy Fryzjerzy. Odds are the sign was designed by a Russian, as the first word should be "Polski" but the Russian alphabet lacks a k. Café Albroush promises traditional Sudanese food and Sam's Gold & Silver offers to sell, buy and repair, just across from the Psychic Mews.

Outside, the Catholic church, Our Lady Queen of Heaven, requests that rubbish not be dumped behind its iron railings, as well as giving Brazilian Mass times. And on the other side of the road caftans from the middle east are on offer near London's Only Ice Rink and Bowl. J has picked up a Metro at the tube station as I potter along the road and he takes it across the Bayswater Road to a bench in Hyde Park to read. I join him, passing the little black three wheeled truck selling coffee on the sidewalk - "not just coffee it's London's finest." The sign says "not for profit" and indeed the café Americano is only  £1.

In the afternoon out to West Harrow to see Jean and enjoy a delicious mutton curry. Time for a visit before Shanthi arrives to share the meal and get caught up. then Priya joins us after her evening class - delighted because she has just sold a  £1000 Calvin Klein watch at her part time job, and made her November quota on the second day.

Thursday, November 1/2012

Down to Trafalgar Square to do the banking. On the other side of the square Canada House has not yet reopened. When? Three months or maybe a year, we're told by a man unlocking the door. Can he really have said "when the high commissioner comes back"? Must have misheard. In front of the National Gallery there's a poppy blitz on, with a pipe band, a Harley Davidson and three double-decker buses - one of them a routemaster, boarded a few minutes earlier by Prince Charles when the convoy stopped at St James's Palace on its fundraising run.
Up to Kilburn High Road in the evening for dinner. Our regular pub and its regular specials - seafood basket (me) and cottage pie (J). Two for  £6.49.

Wednesday, October 31/2012

 Back in London, at the Baron's Hotel, just off Queensway, and out rediscovering the percolating street from the first tube station down by Hyde Park to our corner by the flower market where a black man sways as he plays Mancini on the trombone.  There are two pubs and more restaurants than we can easily count -  several each of Asian (Chinese and Indian), Lebanese, Russian, Brazilian - as well as a steakhouse and a contingent of at least six of the usual fast food chains. Sadly, the Tesco around the corner is gone. surprisingly, too, as it was always crowded with long queues of locals taking their  fruit and vegetables, pastries and bottles of wine, to the multiple checkouts.