Essaouira
Day 10
It was time to move on once again. Our riad arranged transport for us. We didn’t want fuss or muss & the idea of squeezing into a Grand Taxi or bus & transferring to another in Agadir was really, really unappealing. So we booked one just for us. Not cheap since it was a one way 4 ½ hour drive. 110€ - was the quote Mustapha told me . . .
We said our goodbyes to Mustapha & the staff at Jnane Ines & we left around 9:30am. It was a straight run to Agadir where the driver had to check in at the main taxi terminal. This was busy & pretty grimy. From there we went up the coast through coastal Agadir – passing the royal palace on the ocean.
The highway north is only two lanes & it winds itself past all of the beach vacation-type areas that stretched north from the city. It was Sunday, so they all were busy with the weekenders. We were treated to some wonderful vistas as the sea met the coast - from wide sandy beaches to high rocky bluffs & low cliffs dotted with anglers flexing their long rods to cast into the surf below. Somehow, we thought that we had left the mountains behind us – but this was certainly not the case. After it leaves the coast, the road ducks inland & up. And it keeps going up & down for much of the drive. It’s the High Atlas eroding into the Atlantic. Seemingly endless miles of argan-spotted hills swept by as did numerous nameless villages & hamlets . We were getting tired of driving but the countryside was gorgeous nonetheless.
It was time to move on once again. Our riad arranged transport for us. We didn’t want fuss or muss & the idea of squeezing into a Grand Taxi or bus & transferring to another in Agadir was really, really unappealing. So we booked one just for us. Not cheap since it was a one way 4 ½ hour drive. 110€ - was the quote Mustapha told me . . .
We said our goodbyes to Mustapha & the staff at Jnane Ines & we left around 9:30am. It was a straight run to Agadir where the driver had to check in at the main taxi terminal. This was busy & pretty grimy. From there we went up the coast through coastal Agadir – passing the royal palace on the ocean.
The highway north is only two lanes & it winds itself past all of the beach vacation-type areas that stretched north from the city. It was Sunday, so they all were busy with the weekenders. We were treated to some wonderful vistas as the sea met the coast - from wide sandy beaches to high rocky bluffs & low cliffs dotted with anglers flexing their long rods to cast into the surf below. Somehow, we thought that we had left the mountains behind us – but this was certainly not the case. After it leaves the coast, the road ducks inland & up. And it keeps going up & down for much of the drive. It’s the High Atlas eroding into the Atlantic. Seemingly endless miles of argan-spotted hills swept by as did numerous nameless villages & hamlets . We were getting tired of driving but the countryside was gorgeous nonetheless.
The Atlantic coast & Argan hills
And then . . .
Somewhere in the vicinity of Lake Tinsekht, I spotted them! YES! Goats in trees. I asked the driver to stop & he backed up & we bailed out of the car with our cameras. I had read about this before the trip & we had kept a vigilant eye on the fields while we were driving in argan country. We had seen millions of trees. We had seen thousands of goats. But this was the only time that we saw the two together. We had also seen dozens & dozens of argan oil vendors who set up shop on the highway at the end of their lane to sell liters of oil. We had been warned not to stop because the purity of the oil was a question with unlicensed producers. Anyways, back to the REAL excitement - goats in trees . . .
The taxi driver thought we were crazy. The shepherd wandered over wondering why people were taking pictures of his mangy herd. After I said bonjour & handed him 20dhs, he walked away very pleased. We got our pictures & some fly bites. Everybody was happy.
Somewhere in the vicinity of Lake Tinsekht, I spotted them! YES! Goats in trees. I asked the driver to stop & he backed up & we bailed out of the car with our cameras. I had read about this before the trip & we had kept a vigilant eye on the fields while we were driving in argan country. We had seen millions of trees. We had seen thousands of goats. But this was the only time that we saw the two together. We had also seen dozens & dozens of argan oil vendors who set up shop on the highway at the end of their lane to sell liters of oil. We had been warned not to stop because the purity of the oil was a question with unlicensed producers. Anyways, back to the REAL excitement - goats in trees . . .
The taxi driver thought we were crazy. The shepherd wandered over wondering why people were taking pictures of his mangy herd. After I said bonjour & handed him 20dhs, he walked away very pleased. We got our pictures & some fly bites. Everybody was happy.
Goats in trees
The only other stop we made was at an argan co-op for a washroom break & to buy a few more sprays as gifts. They also had some of the most garish pottery we had ever seen. It was another gloriously sunny day with the same 30Cish temps that we had had since Marrakech. Never too hot & never too cold – just right for holidays.
We reached Essaouira in the early afternoon. The driver had some difficulty finding our hotel which was just inside one of the medina’s gates. The one with the Orson Wells memorial. We had a bit of a misunderstanding with the driver at the end. I thought Mustapha had told me 110€ but the driver insisted that it was 130€. Hmmm. He got his money but no tip. I don’t know if I was right or wrong but it was not a happy ending to the peaceful drive. But at least it was our last drive . . .
Needless to say we were happy to turn ourselves over to the welcoming staff at the Madada Mogadar which is actually on the 2nd floor & shares a street entrance with the Riad Mumtaz Mahal in an alley 2 doors inside the gate. Within five minutes we had dropped our luggage in our main floor room & we were ushered up to the terrace for coffee & to fill out the usual Moroccan hotel forms. Whew. We had done it. We had survived our trip to the High/Anti-Atlas & the desert. We had seen a wide swath of the southern part of Morocco & finally we had also seen goats in trees. Essaouira was now our base for 4 nights until we jetted back to Paris & our final weekend.
Hunger pangs were gnawing so we hit the street to find some eats. Way down a street – as opposed to an alley - near a north gate we stopped in a small local - as in non-tourist shop & I had a 15dh kefta sandwich with fries & my wife had the cheese sandwich for 12dh. It was small but the bread . . . ohhh . . . real French bread. The bread in this cheap & noisy restaurant - some Arabic Idol-like program was blaring on the TV – was better than any bread we had had on this trip! It was fresh. The crust was chewy. Wow.
We stepped out into the street after this delectable & cheap lunch & I was lighting a cigarette when a man came up & asked in French for a light. Then he flashed me a big chunk of Moroccan black hash that he had secreted in his hand. Hmmm. Non, merci. We had been in the town for less than an hour & I had a drug offer in broad daylight in the middle of a street. This certainly wasn’t Taroudant anymore.
The streets were filled with tourists & hawkers doing the dance. Lots of both with a healthy mix of locals shopping for dinner ingredients. A very laid back mini version of Marrakech. I breathed a sigh of relief & we went back to the Masada to unpack & unwind.
Of course, the first decision was upon us in no time: Dinner. We had a lot of choices again. And no, we didn’t want Moroccan. In fact I didn’t eat a brochette again for the whole time I was in Essaouira. We chose an Italian place called Ristorante Sylvestro. Good on TA. Recommended by our hotel girl. Reserved. Done. It was now time for a pre-dinner drink!
Dusk was just approaching as we left the hotel. I easily navigated us through the squares/gates/alleys that put us there in 10 minutes. It is on one of the ‘major’ cross streets of the medina. And it is Italian. Sylvestro is the owner & he cooks with a helper & helps his server as well – note the singular ‘server’ here for future reference. We were seated downstairs – which is actually upstairs just not up –upstairs. The menu is varied Italian pastas meats & seafood . . . yes, seafood appeared once more on the menu. In the Atlases seafood does not exist. And I ordered a bottle of Italian red wine – yes, Italian . . . another real treat. In every other restaurant along the way if I ordered anything but Moroccan wine, they were out of it. This was getting good.
And good it was. I had a calamari pasta appetizer & my spouse had the Parma ham. So, so good. I know holidays tend to exaggerate your appreciation of a meals – in both directions - good & bad – but it was good. We were served by the sole waitress but Sylvestro stopped by for a brief bonjour at some point as well. I think he said he was from Milano originally. You can also dine up-upstairs in the open air – but with zero view. The mains were mixed – her pasta was ‘the best’ – my veal scaloppini was good but not great.
We wandered the spooky alleys of Essaouira back to our hotel.
Needless to say we were happy to turn ourselves over to the welcoming staff at the Madada Mogadar which is actually on the 2nd floor & shares a street entrance with the Riad Mumtaz Mahal in an alley 2 doors inside the gate. Within five minutes we had dropped our luggage in our main floor room & we were ushered up to the terrace for coffee & to fill out the usual Moroccan hotel forms. Whew. We had done it. We had survived our trip to the High/Anti-Atlas & the desert. We had seen a wide swath of the southern part of Morocco & finally we had also seen goats in trees. Essaouira was now our base for 4 nights until we jetted back to Paris & our final weekend.
Hunger pangs were gnawing so we hit the street to find some eats. Way down a street – as opposed to an alley - near a north gate we stopped in a small local - as in non-tourist shop & I had a 15dh kefta sandwich with fries & my wife had the cheese sandwich for 12dh. It was small but the bread . . . ohhh . . . real French bread. The bread in this cheap & noisy restaurant - some Arabic Idol-like program was blaring on the TV – was better than any bread we had had on this trip! It was fresh. The crust was chewy. Wow.
We stepped out into the street after this delectable & cheap lunch & I was lighting a cigarette when a man came up & asked in French for a light. Then he flashed me a big chunk of Moroccan black hash that he had secreted in his hand. Hmmm. Non, merci. We had been in the town for less than an hour & I had a drug offer in broad daylight in the middle of a street. This certainly wasn’t Taroudant anymore.
The streets were filled with tourists & hawkers doing the dance. Lots of both with a healthy mix of locals shopping for dinner ingredients. A very laid back mini version of Marrakech. I breathed a sigh of relief & we went back to the Masada to unpack & unwind.
Of course, the first decision was upon us in no time: Dinner. We had a lot of choices again. And no, we didn’t want Moroccan. In fact I didn’t eat a brochette again for the whole time I was in Essaouira. We chose an Italian place called Ristorante Sylvestro. Good on TA. Recommended by our hotel girl. Reserved. Done. It was now time for a pre-dinner drink!
Dusk was just approaching as we left the hotel. I easily navigated us through the squares/gates/alleys that put us there in 10 minutes. It is on one of the ‘major’ cross streets of the medina. And it is Italian. Sylvestro is the owner & he cooks with a helper & helps his server as well – note the singular ‘server’ here for future reference. We were seated downstairs – which is actually upstairs just not up –upstairs. The menu is varied Italian pastas meats & seafood . . . yes, seafood appeared once more on the menu. In the Atlases seafood does not exist. And I ordered a bottle of Italian red wine – yes, Italian . . . another real treat. In every other restaurant along the way if I ordered anything but Moroccan wine, they were out of it. This was getting good.
And good it was. I had a calamari pasta appetizer & my spouse had the Parma ham. So, so good. I know holidays tend to exaggerate your appreciation of a meals – in both directions - good & bad – but it was good. We were served by the sole waitress but Sylvestro stopped by for a brief bonjour at some point as well. I think he said he was from Milano originally. You can also dine up-upstairs in the open air – but with zero view. The mains were mixed – her pasta was ‘the best’ – my veal scaloppini was good but not great.
We wandered the spooky alleys of Essaouira back to our hotel.
Day 11
I should tell you a bit about our hotel, Madada Mogadar. Mogador is the old Portuguese name for Essaouira (which is a mutation of the Arabic as-Ṣawīra). The Madada comes from the owner’s name Christine Dadda. She told us that she was Monaco-born & a flight attendant with Air France for many years. Fourteen years ago she bought the property that makes up the hotel. She has slowly built the business which includes the restaurant next door – La Table – which is managed by her brother & it includes a cooking class next door called L’Atelier. She is currently working out plans for a pool & riding property just outside of town. Certainly an entrepreneur.
The Madada has some suites on the main floor with reception – actually the 2nd floor above the street – and more upstairs circled around the hotel’s veranda that overlooks the sea & the beach. The veranda is a great spot for breakfast or drinks etc. Be forewarned that the local bee populations have figured this out as well. Our suite was on the main lobby level – one of 3 that have a small private veranda with a sea view. There are 2 large friendly resident cats that come & go as they please. The older gray one has learned to knock on our door – yes, knock – not scratch – to gain access to the outside via our veranda that is attached to the city walls & its crenellations. She meows loudly on our veranda to be readmitted. Christine told us that this one adopted the hotel one day & has never left. Très cute.
You will notice I dipped into partial French. For all intents & purposes, Essaouira is a French vacation resort. There is a direct Air Maroc flight to Orly 3 days per week to feed the hotels & resorts around the town. Yes, some English vacationers slip in as well as other nationalities, but the vast majority of foreign bodies here are French & the businesses & vendors all default to French with English as a backup. Once again we got the: Where are you from? Canada. Montreal? response from dozens of them. If you speak to them in English you get: London? Menus are in French although they sometimes will have a modestly-used English one as well. I also heard German, Spanish & Italian speakers roaming around, not to forget the lady in the cooking class from Russia that I am about to talk about. She & her husband had driven down from Spain in a rental car.
Now about the L’Atelier cooking class . . . We decided that it might be fun to try one. I cook well so I didn’t really need a lesson & we had resisted classes up to this point on all of our trips, dismissing them as too . . . I don’t know . . . too something. But . . . since we were in Essaouira for several days, we felt that we could spare the time. They are held twice daily in a purpose-built kitchen that adjoins the restaurant on the street level. We had chosen chicken pastilla as the main dish with a pepper/tomato appetizer & because we were the first to book, that is what our whole group cooked. It is run by Mona, whose mother is the head chef at Marrakech’s hoity-toity Mamounia Hotel. The English translation was handled by the personable Allison an English expat who came & stayed. So we chopped & we diced & we cooked etc for 3 hours or so. There were 5 of us in total but I was the only man so of course, I became the butt of all of the jokes. Hey, I play that role well. There was an English couple from Paris (he observed but didn’t cook), a note-taking serious woman from France, the very pleasant woman from the Urals in Russia & my wife & I as participants. Pastilla is a very involved dish which is made with pigeon or chicken & it is wrapped in a phyllo-type pastry which was – thankfully – premade. While it was cooking, we took a walk to the souk with Allison for a visit to a spice shop. I found it interesting that he had individual popular spice blends for the common Moroccan dishes: chicken or meat brochette, chicken, meat or fish tagines etc. I guess that is why a lot of them tasted the same from place to place. We also found out the simple method to test the quality of saffron: one strand + wet finger + white paper = a bright yellow color. Muddy brown yellow is the cheap stuff – from Iran of course - wink, wink. The merchant got some business as the English couple from Paris bought a bunch of the blends & some of the perfume bars. We went back to La Table to eat our creations. After all the work, I found the pastille a bit too savory for my taste but it was an enjoyable day.
I should tell you a bit about our hotel, Madada Mogadar. Mogador is the old Portuguese name for Essaouira (which is a mutation of the Arabic as-Ṣawīra). The Madada comes from the owner’s name Christine Dadda. She told us that she was Monaco-born & a flight attendant with Air France for many years. Fourteen years ago she bought the property that makes up the hotel. She has slowly built the business which includes the restaurant next door – La Table – which is managed by her brother & it includes a cooking class next door called L’Atelier. She is currently working out plans for a pool & riding property just outside of town. Certainly an entrepreneur.
The Madada has some suites on the main floor with reception – actually the 2nd floor above the street – and more upstairs circled around the hotel’s veranda that overlooks the sea & the beach. The veranda is a great spot for breakfast or drinks etc. Be forewarned that the local bee populations have figured this out as well. Our suite was on the main lobby level – one of 3 that have a small private veranda with a sea view. There are 2 large friendly resident cats that come & go as they please. The older gray one has learned to knock on our door – yes, knock – not scratch – to gain access to the outside via our veranda that is attached to the city walls & its crenellations. She meows loudly on our veranda to be readmitted. Christine told us that this one adopted the hotel one day & has never left. Très cute.
You will notice I dipped into partial French. For all intents & purposes, Essaouira is a French vacation resort. There is a direct Air Maroc flight to Orly 3 days per week to feed the hotels & resorts around the town. Yes, some English vacationers slip in as well as other nationalities, but the vast majority of foreign bodies here are French & the businesses & vendors all default to French with English as a backup. Once again we got the: Where are you from? Canada. Montreal? response from dozens of them. If you speak to them in English you get: London? Menus are in French although they sometimes will have a modestly-used English one as well. I also heard German, Spanish & Italian speakers roaming around, not to forget the lady in the cooking class from Russia that I am about to talk about. She & her husband had driven down from Spain in a rental car.
Now about the L’Atelier cooking class . . . We decided that it might be fun to try one. I cook well so I didn’t really need a lesson & we had resisted classes up to this point on all of our trips, dismissing them as too . . . I don’t know . . . too something. But . . . since we were in Essaouira for several days, we felt that we could spare the time. They are held twice daily in a purpose-built kitchen that adjoins the restaurant on the street level. We had chosen chicken pastilla as the main dish with a pepper/tomato appetizer & because we were the first to book, that is what our whole group cooked. It is run by Mona, whose mother is the head chef at Marrakech’s hoity-toity Mamounia Hotel. The English translation was handled by the personable Allison an English expat who came & stayed. So we chopped & we diced & we cooked etc for 3 hours or so. There were 5 of us in total but I was the only man so of course, I became the butt of all of the jokes. Hey, I play that role well. There was an English couple from Paris (he observed but didn’t cook), a note-taking serious woman from France, the very pleasant woman from the Urals in Russia & my wife & I as participants. Pastilla is a very involved dish which is made with pigeon or chicken & it is wrapped in a phyllo-type pastry which was – thankfully – premade. While it was cooking, we took a walk to the souk with Allison for a visit to a spice shop. I found it interesting that he had individual popular spice blends for the common Moroccan dishes: chicken or meat brochette, chicken, meat or fish tagines etc. I guess that is why a lot of them tasted the same from place to place. We also found out the simple method to test the quality of saffron: one strand + wet finger + white paper = a bright yellow color. Muddy brown yellow is the cheap stuff – from Iran of course - wink, wink. The merchant got some business as the English couple from Paris bought a bunch of the blends & some of the perfume bars. We went back to La Table to eat our creations. After all the work, I found the pastille a bit too savory for my taste but it was an enjoyable day.
It was time to get out in the sunshine. We meandered to the fishing port, which lies in front of the walled town – so only a 5 minute saunter from our hotel. We wanted to see the famous blue boats etc. It is important to remember that this is a working port. To the fisherman, boat crews, haulers & all and sundry, we are tourists & we are irritating. We get in the way & we take pictures – which is annoying at the best of times to Moroccans. But . . . we got our pictures. There is a dry dock with ongoing ship repairs, a number of large trawlers & a huge contingent of the smaller blue boats – rising & falling with the waves. It is bustling with activity with the deckhands & fisherman all in action & boats coming & going. Some of the small boat fisherman lay their catch out to sell to daily shoppers. The fish of the day was literally what was on display with some interesting things like the spiny crabs & strangely mottled yellow & brown moray eels laid out on tarps. And not to forget the multitude of skyrats – seagulls – spiraling above & squawking loudly for whatever scraps that they could grab. Let’s just say that the smell was . . . powerful.
Tired from the day’s exertions, we stopped for a coffee in one of the outdoor cafes that cluster in the open square at the entrance to the town. This is also bank machine central for Essaouira. Then it was back to the hotel to sort out dinner. We chose Taros Cafe & Bar, which is just inside the walls next to the square. It seemed to be a happening spot for dinner & drinks – they advertised a full bar & live entertainment. As with many other restaurants, it was up several flights of stairs with a large outdoor patio boasting large propane heaters for the cooler nights. They had a patio even higher up that boasted a sea view - since it was over the height of the walls - but this also meant that it got cool winds directly from the Americas so only the foolhardy chose that high spot & they didn’t last long. The thugs at the door – bouncers – should have dissuaded us but we made the trek up the stairs to the patio. We were seated & ignored. Yes, the service was truly lousy. We found that service in Morocco in general is very laidback - to put it nicely – but this spot was really, really slow. Our section was worked by 2 servers who were always running – but always running to a different table it seemed. A couple beside us – an upscale yuppie duo from France by the look – were menu’d, served, fed & finished – all far more rapidly than us despite their later arrival. Of course, they had the other waiter. A live band played reggae music but thankfully not too loud as is usually the case. Anyways, the grub was good – simple salads, GOOD French bread & filet steaks that were cooked perfectly. The menu was touting a package meal with dessert – like most restaurants in Morocco – but you can go a la carte if you wish as we did. I ordered a bottle of French wine but they were out of it – but who wasn’t? Only Sylvestro had delivered with his Italian wine to give us a break from a monotony of Moroccan wines – which had proven decent & cheap but not world class. I must admit that I didn’t sample any expensive Moroccan plonk so there might be quality wines that I missed out on. So Taros was good food but not a place to return to. I was glad that we didn’t have coffee or dessert because we would have had to be there until closing to get it. And by the way, we paid with Visa at the table which had proven common throughout Morocco. The price never included the tip which is paid in cash at your discretion.
After we finally finished up, we walked a few eerie alleys & then closed the night with the last of our duty free liquor on our patio overlooking the darkened sea with the surf crashing in the distance.
After we finally finished up, we walked a few eerie alleys & then closed the night with the last of our duty free liquor on our patio overlooking the darkened sea with the surf crashing in the distance.
The spooky alleys of Essaouira
Day 12
This was a day for exploring Essaouira. And haggling for stuff as well. Old Essaouira is actually a small village. The town & the outer walls were built in the waning years of the 18th century. The sea is to the west & the north, the newer Essaouira is found to the east, the port & parking is to the southwest & the beach is to the south. As a tourist, you will spend most of your time within the walls unless the beach is your draw to the area. The souk is roughly in the middle of the medina with butcher shops, spice stores, house wares, clothing etc – all of the things for daily life with a few cafes blended in. The tourist goods are sprinkled all around but centered on several main ‘streets’ & the street that runs along the north ramparts. Car traffic is not allowed & even official vehicles don’t penetrate beyond the 2nd gates which makes it a great place to walk around. Motor scooters aren’t as numerous as in Marrakech so your biggest danger is the multitude of push/pull cart guys who ferry luggage & trade goods around the town. Riads & hotels are scattered throughout with most restaurants sticking to the ‘streets’ vs the alleys. In other words, it is a hodge-podge but it is hard to be lost for long since it is so small & contained.
Shopping isn’t as good as Marrakech. At least that is what my wife told me accusingly on many occasions. There was less variety of goods & more of the same ole . . . the same ole carpet stores, wood shops, sandal shops etc etc. The shop keepers weren’t as aggressive as Marrakech & the prices started much lower – therefore the haggled price was not as deeply discounted. It was still fun to dance with them but don’t expect massive price drops. But you should always TRY. One thing that we did run into is that the first customer of the day often got the best price as the merchant wanted a sale to start the day with good luck. Or maybe that is just what they told us . . .
And so that was our morning. Wandering & haggling. I accompanied my wife shopping – an activity I normally have to be dragged kicking & screaming to – but I became the ‘closer’ who finalized the price. It gave me something to do. I did draw the line at sandal shopping – every man has his limits.
This was a day for exploring Essaouira. And haggling for stuff as well. Old Essaouira is actually a small village. The town & the outer walls were built in the waning years of the 18th century. The sea is to the west & the north, the newer Essaouira is found to the east, the port & parking is to the southwest & the beach is to the south. As a tourist, you will spend most of your time within the walls unless the beach is your draw to the area. The souk is roughly in the middle of the medina with butcher shops, spice stores, house wares, clothing etc – all of the things for daily life with a few cafes blended in. The tourist goods are sprinkled all around but centered on several main ‘streets’ & the street that runs along the north ramparts. Car traffic is not allowed & even official vehicles don’t penetrate beyond the 2nd gates which makes it a great place to walk around. Motor scooters aren’t as numerous as in Marrakech so your biggest danger is the multitude of push/pull cart guys who ferry luggage & trade goods around the town. Riads & hotels are scattered throughout with most restaurants sticking to the ‘streets’ vs the alleys. In other words, it is a hodge-podge but it is hard to be lost for long since it is so small & contained.
Shopping isn’t as good as Marrakech. At least that is what my wife told me accusingly on many occasions. There was less variety of goods & more of the same ole . . . the same ole carpet stores, wood shops, sandal shops etc etc. The shop keepers weren’t as aggressive as Marrakech & the prices started much lower – therefore the haggled price was not as deeply discounted. It was still fun to dance with them but don’t expect massive price drops. But you should always TRY. One thing that we did run into is that the first customer of the day often got the best price as the merchant wanted a sale to start the day with good luck. Or maybe that is just what they told us . . .
And so that was our morning. Wandering & haggling. I accompanied my wife shopping – an activity I normally have to be dragged kicking & screaming to – but I became the ‘closer’ who finalized the price. It gave me something to do. I did draw the line at sandal shopping – every man has his limits.
Wandering in the souk
In the afternoon we wandered down to the beach to touch the Atlantic & to look for a beach restaurant. The water was cold of course & the affordable restaurants were at the other end so we didn't venture down all the way. We doubled back into the medina & went to the fast food local place again. This proved once again that it is never as good the 2nd time. Still OK, but our delight at French bread was diminishing because everybody had good bread here in Essaouira.
I spent the rest of the afternoon lounging & my wife did a little photo shooting & exploring shops.
I spent the rest of the afternoon lounging & my wife did a little photo shooting & exploring shops.
Essaouira's curving beach
For dinner, we reserved at La Table – the hotel’s restaurant. It sports a laidback staff, a very pleasant environment with a unique menu of seafood & steak. I had an octopus starter & steak & my wife had Iberico ham & a spiny crab dish. Mine was great but the crab was a little mushier than expected & the ham was a little on the too-thick-cut side of things as far as smoked ham goes. I know fussy, fussy. Very good bread again & I finally got a bottle of French wine. We got chatting to the couple next to us – they were that rare breed in Morocco - Americans - from Houston on a small tour of Morocco & they had broken free for dinner. We also noticed an English woman traveling solo from our hotel who we had talked with over breakfast that morning. We invited her over for a drink. A lawyer from London, she had bussed in from Marrakech after visiting the city & going to an ‘amazing’ yoga spa in the High Atlas for a few days. Another very nice evening.
Day 13
This was another lazy day similar to Day 12. A low fog bank was drifting in despite the sunshine when we got active after breakfast so we aimed towards the port again. This certainly played well for some atmospheric blue boat photos with a disappearing soft mist in the distance.
This was another lazy day similar to Day 12. A low fog bank was drifting in despite the sunshine when we got active after breakfast so we aimed towards the port again. This certainly played well for some atmospheric blue boat photos with a disappearing soft mist in the distance.
Then it was more browsing & shopping & wandering the medina. By this point, we didn't even need the map to find our way around. We went back to the ramparts shops to buy some inexpensive wooden boxes having found a vendor there with the best quality & price the day earlier. Since it was lunchtime we picked a nearby restaurant that offered a sea view – Le Rencontre – and we climbed the numerous flights of stairs up. The view was quite nice & their pizza was actually very good.
I should touch on the weather. Since arriving in Essaouira we had had sunshine & high 20C temps every day & this continued for our entire stay. And we had no wind. The locals we talked to remarked how lucky we were because usually the wind from the ocean is constant & quite annoying to many. I am sure that the beach surf crowd was not pleased since we had only seen windsurfers on the day that we arrived & not since. Their pain was our gain – for once.
Another afternoon of relaxation followed & my wife took the opportunity to go shop without me. She found that the vendors were more aggressive when she was alone & it was harder to get to the bottom line. Well, at least I knew that I was good for something. It is very safe in Essaouira so she didn’t feel the slightest bit uncomfortable alone. I should also note that dress on the street is very casual & the adherence to coverage that is important in many Muslim communities is not an issue here. So you can see burkas next to miniskirts on the street.
For dinner, we went back to Syvestros. I know, I know what you are thinking . . . about my statement about never going back . . . well . . . we shouldn’t have. We were seated up-upstairs at our request & this proved to be a fatal error in judgment. They were very busy & it took forever for the waitress to get around to climbing the 2 flights of winding stairs to get to those of us on this level. We watched table after table get stunted service with only one diner’s plate arriving at a time. Everybody was eating out of sync because it took so long for the next plate to arrive. Sylvestro & the waitress were hustling & they were also doing a lot of apologizing. Unfortunate. Our meal arrived in the same fashion with 5 minutes or so between her plate & mine. Sylvestro is a victim of success by the look of it. Sylvestro, if you read this: Hire some serving staff or close the top floor or your reputation will be as flat as your pizzas.
We went back to the Madada after another spooky walk & opened the last bottle of my stash wine for a nightcap.
Another afternoon of relaxation followed & my wife took the opportunity to go shop without me. She found that the vendors were more aggressive when she was alone & it was harder to get to the bottom line. Well, at least I knew that I was good for something. It is very safe in Essaouira so she didn’t feel the slightest bit uncomfortable alone. I should also note that dress on the street is very casual & the adherence to coverage that is important in many Muslim communities is not an issue here. So you can see burkas next to miniskirts on the street.
For dinner, we went back to Syvestros. I know, I know what you are thinking . . . about my statement about never going back . . . well . . . we shouldn’t have. We were seated up-upstairs at our request & this proved to be a fatal error in judgment. They were very busy & it took forever for the waitress to get around to climbing the 2 flights of winding stairs to get to those of us on this level. We watched table after table get stunted service with only one diner’s plate arriving at a time. Everybody was eating out of sync because it took so long for the next plate to arrive. Sylvestro & the waitress were hustling & they were also doing a lot of apologizing. Unfortunate. Our meal arrived in the same fashion with 5 minutes or so between her plate & mine. Sylvestro is a victim of success by the look of it. Sylvestro, if you read this: Hire some serving staff or close the top floor or your reputation will be as flat as your pizzas.
We went back to the Madada after another spooky walk & opened the last bottle of my stash wine for a nightcap.
Riad Mumtaz
Day 14
Departure day. This was it. We were leaving on an Air Maroc flight to Paris/ Orly – just after 6pm.
It is always a bittersweet time of a vacation. In one way, you have had enough. Enough travel. Enough hotels – no matter how luxurious they may be, it is still a hotel & not home. Enough strange foods, restaurants, abominable toilets – the list goes on & on. You miss your family, your pets, your friends, your own bed. Your stuff. But at the same time, you are sorry that it will end. The discovery of new places is intoxicating. Meeting wonderful people whose lives are so different from yours & yet not so different after all. I know that my pulse quickens when I buckle in at the start of an open un-driven road with unknown wonders lurking just around the next corner. But . . . it must end.
But then we were stopping in Paris for a quick holiday at the end of our holiday. We had been to Paris before on a several occasions & so it wasn’t an unknown destination. It was comfortable & it had become our favorite city abroad. And with a late flight, we had lots of time to wrap-up last minute shopping, so we packed roughly after breakfast to see how much space we had left to jam in more gifts. We were OK - we had a few square inches of space left. Would we be overweight? Yeah, probably but at this point, we didn't care that much.
We hit the street running. Sandals for her. A lantern for them. A small box for me. I was able to employ my sale’s closing skills to great effect as we visited all of the key vendors that we had singled out for this last minute splurge. It was now or never. This is my price or I walk . . . forever. It worked very well. And then it was back to the hotel to ram it all in so we could check out on time at noon.
We accomplished our task & rolled our cases out & into the watchful eye of the hotel staff. Food was the next imperative. We walked for 20 minutes in circles checking out a few places & we finally gave up & just chose one. It really didn't matter at this point; it was just fill for the void. We settled on Restaurant Les Portes, right near the 2nd gate. The woman that came out of the back to seat us didn’t speak English or French. The menu was the typical Moroccan fare, so we ordered cheap meat & lemon chicken tagines despite this communication roadblock. Two minutes later, the manager hustled in with apologies. The tagines weren't bad at all iirc.
My wife wanted to do just a bit more shopping to kill time while I chilled in the Madada’s public places. I settled with the hotel, organized the Paris paperwork & surfed on my iPad as my mind started to go into travel mode. I travel a lot for business & I am very good at it. My colleagues are often amazed at the speed & efficiency of my trips. I focus & I do it. This means that I am very punctual. To a fault, of course, if the truth be known. I am early for everything. I guess it is in my genes as both my parents were the same.Now my wife isn’t bad. She humors my obsession with punctuality & she is typically ready at the appointed hour. But I swear she also likes to toy with me at these times. Anyways . . . she got back early this time & I was grateful. The hotel had arranged a driver who had arranged a push cart guy to ferry our bags to the van. I was surprised to find out that the airport was south of Essaouira & we had passed it unknowingly on our drive in. So it was through the dune area that surrounds the town & past some lonely dusty cheap vacation hotels & condos to the très petit aéroport d'Essaouira. I had to stay in French since we were going to Paris. Check in was a breeze with next to no line since there was only one flight. One bag clocked in at 19.7kg & the other was 23.5kg. The Air Maroc woman didn't care. With Easyjet that would have been 64€.We filled out the Moroccan exit docs & talked with the official who was really friendly asking about our time & what we enjoyed. Of course, the suspicious side of me said it was a good profiling interview but maybe he was just being nice. We grabbed some cheap duty free including a bottle of rum for 7.50€! That was cheaper than a bar drink in Paris . . .
To make a long story short, the plane was late. The lounge filled with annoyed & annoying vacationers from France. Kids wailed & ran around as people argued & laughed & fidgeted with their carry-on. You know the scene. A corner of the lounge beside the eating area was deemed a smoking area. Who knows? No signs allowed or forbid it & no one cared. Oddly, the airport officials let some of the politer kids with their parents out on the tarmac to watch the flight taxi in when it finally arrived about an hour late. That wouldn’t happen in security wrought North America. The flight was relatively cloudy for much of the way but sometime after leaving Morocco’s coast, I did make out parts of undulating Andalusia below & later the Gironde estuary as France disappeared into twilight. And then we broke through the clouds over Paris & I spied the Eiffel Tower glittering amongst the lights of Paris.
And that brought a smile to both of us.
Departure day. This was it. We were leaving on an Air Maroc flight to Paris/ Orly – just after 6pm.
It is always a bittersweet time of a vacation. In one way, you have had enough. Enough travel. Enough hotels – no matter how luxurious they may be, it is still a hotel & not home. Enough strange foods, restaurants, abominable toilets – the list goes on & on. You miss your family, your pets, your friends, your own bed. Your stuff. But at the same time, you are sorry that it will end. The discovery of new places is intoxicating. Meeting wonderful people whose lives are so different from yours & yet not so different after all. I know that my pulse quickens when I buckle in at the start of an open un-driven road with unknown wonders lurking just around the next corner. But . . . it must end.
But then we were stopping in Paris for a quick holiday at the end of our holiday. We had been to Paris before on a several occasions & so it wasn’t an unknown destination. It was comfortable & it had become our favorite city abroad. And with a late flight, we had lots of time to wrap-up last minute shopping, so we packed roughly after breakfast to see how much space we had left to jam in more gifts. We were OK - we had a few square inches of space left. Would we be overweight? Yeah, probably but at this point, we didn't care that much.
We hit the street running. Sandals for her. A lantern for them. A small box for me. I was able to employ my sale’s closing skills to great effect as we visited all of the key vendors that we had singled out for this last minute splurge. It was now or never. This is my price or I walk . . . forever. It worked very well. And then it was back to the hotel to ram it all in so we could check out on time at noon.
We accomplished our task & rolled our cases out & into the watchful eye of the hotel staff. Food was the next imperative. We walked for 20 minutes in circles checking out a few places & we finally gave up & just chose one. It really didn't matter at this point; it was just fill for the void. We settled on Restaurant Les Portes, right near the 2nd gate. The woman that came out of the back to seat us didn’t speak English or French. The menu was the typical Moroccan fare, so we ordered cheap meat & lemon chicken tagines despite this communication roadblock. Two minutes later, the manager hustled in with apologies. The tagines weren't bad at all iirc.
My wife wanted to do just a bit more shopping to kill time while I chilled in the Madada’s public places. I settled with the hotel, organized the Paris paperwork & surfed on my iPad as my mind started to go into travel mode. I travel a lot for business & I am very good at it. My colleagues are often amazed at the speed & efficiency of my trips. I focus & I do it. This means that I am very punctual. To a fault, of course, if the truth be known. I am early for everything. I guess it is in my genes as both my parents were the same.Now my wife isn’t bad. She humors my obsession with punctuality & she is typically ready at the appointed hour. But I swear she also likes to toy with me at these times. Anyways . . . she got back early this time & I was grateful. The hotel had arranged a driver who had arranged a push cart guy to ferry our bags to the van. I was surprised to find out that the airport was south of Essaouira & we had passed it unknowingly on our drive in. So it was through the dune area that surrounds the town & past some lonely dusty cheap vacation hotels & condos to the très petit aéroport d'Essaouira. I had to stay in French since we were going to Paris. Check in was a breeze with next to no line since there was only one flight. One bag clocked in at 19.7kg & the other was 23.5kg. The Air Maroc woman didn't care. With Easyjet that would have been 64€.We filled out the Moroccan exit docs & talked with the official who was really friendly asking about our time & what we enjoyed. Of course, the suspicious side of me said it was a good profiling interview but maybe he was just being nice. We grabbed some cheap duty free including a bottle of rum for 7.50€! That was cheaper than a bar drink in Paris . . .
To make a long story short, the plane was late. The lounge filled with annoyed & annoying vacationers from France. Kids wailed & ran around as people argued & laughed & fidgeted with their carry-on. You know the scene. A corner of the lounge beside the eating area was deemed a smoking area. Who knows? No signs allowed or forbid it & no one cared. Oddly, the airport officials let some of the politer kids with their parents out on the tarmac to watch the flight taxi in when it finally arrived about an hour late. That wouldn’t happen in security wrought North America. The flight was relatively cloudy for much of the way but sometime after leaving Morocco’s coast, I did make out parts of undulating Andalusia below & later the Gironde estuary as France disappeared into twilight. And then we broke through the clouds over Paris & I spied the Eiffel Tower glittering amongst the lights of Paris.
And that brought a smile to both of us.