Glacial Change

Last September (this is how far behind I am in writing blog posts) - last September, I was in Banff National Park in the Canadian Rockies. I’ve said it before: I am a child of the West. I feel most at peace among the mountains, the forests, the vast empty spaces that make you feel tiny and expansive at the same time. 

Ready for adventure, we set forth one day to see the Columbia Icefield, a massive expanse of cold that straddles a triple continental divide. When we got there, I was reminded of the fact that I don’t actually like the cold. Plus stark white expanses are not exactly photographable, at least not by amateurs. So this story turns out not to about the icefield, but about what we learned of glaciers along the way. 

(If it sounds like an icefield would be the same thing as a glacier, you’re not far off: an icefield is basically a bigger and more permanent glacier.)

The jewels of Banff are not so much the mountains - remarkable though they are - but the brilliant lakes that stretch between them. (Don’t worry, I’m getting to the glaciers). The lakes are a stunning, surreal aquamarine color:

But such snapshots don't do these lakes justice. They are beautiful. 

Turns out these are all glacier-fed lakes, and it is the minerals and debris deposited by the glaciers that cause the lakes to reflect sunlight in such a way that all we see is this narrow but spectacular sliver of the color spectrum. (In other words, it’s science.)

So why are glaciers depositing minerals and debris into innocent mountain lakes? Because glaciers, contrary to my preconceived notions (I won’t assume anything about yours), are always moving. In fact, the very definition of a glacier requires constant movement. I guess I assumed that the cliche “glacial change” meant, well, that things weren’t really changing. But glaciers can change rapidly. I mean, relatively speaking.

So that got me thinking about what kinds of change could be considered “glacial.” Like slow, constant evolution or progress towards an outcome, the intermediate steps of which aren’t really visible, but then one day you wake up and - holy cow! That lake is BLUE!

Not quite the same, but it made me think of how we woke up one morning in Banff (and mind you, this was in late September), and the season had changed from fall:

to winter:

Just like that. Except not really because the seasons are a continuum, and we build up to the next one even if we aren’t noticing the subtle signs.

New Year's is kind of like that, too: an arbitrary holiday we use to demarcate and distinguish the slow buildup of days from the past to the future, when we will be surprised by how things have changed when we weren't looking. Happy new year, by the way.

So I’m going through my own sort of glacial change right now. I’m about half way through my first pregnancy, and after months of feeling almost nothing and worrying that I’d forget I’m pregnant and start downing stiff drinks like I’m an ad exec in 1962, I can now feel the baby kick (often too much so) at all hours of the day and night. That is, over the course of five months, I’ve grown a frickin' human being in my belly - albeit in severely miniature form - without any daily awareness of what’s going on in there. 

Nine months is a long time. I can imagine myself, come late April, being ripped from my complacent, work-focused daily existence to the sudden realization: O. M. G. It’s a BABY! And just like that, the world will look completely different. 

Fall in(to) Cambridge

Cambridge is made for fall. From the university campuses to the tree-lined streets, fall in Cambridge means two months of bright blue skies and flaming leaves set off against the red bricks of school buildings and sidewalks. I first came to Cambridge fifteen years ago as a freshman in college, only to find that fall in New England was a fundamentally different concept than fall in Portland.

First, a New England fall is sunny. In Portland, on the other hand, the rain starts around October 1 and doesn't let up until sometime in May. 

Second, thanks to the clear skies, the leaves in Cambridge crunch. If you grew up outside the Pacific Northwest, I assure you - you underestimate the miracle of crunchy leaves. All through my childhood, fall just meant decomposing piles of sodden brown leaves beaten down by weeks of rain. You didn't rake leaves as much as push them into sad little piles that vaguely resembled something scatological. 

Third, because fall is a true shoulder season here - a distinct change from what came before, but not so sudden that you just want to hide indoors - there are super-special fall festivities, annual traditions keyed to the gradual shift in season. These traditions make the fall for me. After the difficulty of moving back across the country and starting a new job this summer, fall in Cambridge was like a warm and fuzzy welcome mat. Year after year, these are my favorite (free) fall traditions:

Portland Sidetrips: To the Coast

Don't get your hopes up: The Oregon Coast will never be
this sunny for you. 

The first thing you should know about Oregon's western edge (and this is true even in the height of summer) is that it is the “coast” – not the “beach,” the “shore,” or the “sea.” You do not lay on a beach blanket or play in the surf. Instead, you admire the raw beauty of the coastline before heading indoors for some clam chowder.

The second thing you should know is that the entire shoreline is public - there is no such thing as a private beach in Oregon. You are entitled to wander wherever, whenever, you want. This also means that there are state parks up and down the coast where you can rent a yurt or cabin right next to the beach for $30 a night (b.y.o.bedding). 

The third thing you should know is that the coast is easy-peasy - just a day trip away from Portland (though I recommend a full weekend). If you head due west from Portland on Highway 26, you dead end into the coastal highway, Highway 101, in just under 1.5 hours. But where to go from there? Here are the highlights, from north to south.

Armchair-travel-plus: Finding Japan in Portland

I was laying in bed last night contemplating my mortality. If yesterday had been my last day, it was singularly unremarkable. Death is inevitable, and as they say - you can't take it with you. That leaves me with today. This is why I travel: to gather experiences to make today something different, something new. And in between trips, I try to see home through the eyes of a traveler.

Cherry blossoms at Waterfront Park

Which brings me to cherry blossoms, that symbol of the fleeting beauty of life. The Japanese cherry trees along the northern end of Waterfront Park bloomed in full glory this year, in a rare week of spring sunshine in Portland. There was actual hanami, festive picnicking under the trees by young people and families. It was a tiny sliver of Japan in Portland.

When we came back from Japan last fall, I went through withdrawal and started seeking out bits and pieces of Japan in our immediate surroundings. Some was pure armchair travel - like my marathon of Japanese movies. Some was already well-known to us - like our favorite izakaya and conveyor-belt sushi (see list below). Others were more subtle, like the cherry blossoms.

Embracing the Obvious

Driving east on our way to Boston, we detoured briefly to Yellowstone - that quintessential national park teeming with families and RVs, where campsites are packed in tent-to-tent and the lodges are booked up a year in advance. We entered the park through the popular northern gate, making our first experience in Yellowstone the hordes of families at Mammoth Hot Springs - like Disneyland, but with steam vents.

Like many of our generation and temperament, I disdain the obvious. I do not follow well-trod paths; I like to feel original, to have "real" experiences when I travel (by which I mean, experiences not clogged up with other tourists). In an ideal world, I like my trips to be just un-mainstream enough to provide me with decent anecdotes for yuppie dinner parties. Yellowstone is as mainstream as it gets. 

But here's the rub: places are usually popular for a reason. Sometimes the collective does know best - consider, for example, crowd sourcing and (more often than not) juries. What Yellowstone lacks in obscurity, it makes up for with super-amazingness.

How to Spend a Saturday in Downtown Portland

Let's say you're passing through town only briefly - for business, for a friend's wedding, as a pitstop between San Francisco and Seattle - and you only have a day to learn the lay of Portland's land. What do you do?

Welcome to PDX (says the White Stag)

My short answer: Waterfront Park and the Saturday Market, Portland's living room, Powell’s, some good food, and – time permitting – walking around the Pearl. Allow me to elaborate.

First, you should eat something. 

This is, after all, what one does in Portland.

Downtown has a number of “hot” as well as classic Portland restaurants. For breakfast, consider Bijou Cafe (132 SW 3rd Ave; no website), an early entrant on the Portland breakfast scene that serves excellent, largely local, largely organic breakfast and brunch dishes. Two other classic Portland restaurants serve consistently high quality brunches and lunches: the Veritable Quandry (with delightful patio seating; reservations recommended) and the Heathman (very classic Portland; reservations probably smart).

For “new” Portland (read: longer wait and no reservations), try Kenny and Zuke’s, a more industrial space with New York deli-style plates (they smoke and cure their own meats – including fabulous pastrami – and their bagels are above average). And the famous/infamous Tasty n' Sons, the unofficial King of Portland's popular brunch scene with the two-hour waits to prove it, has recently opened a second outpost right downtown, the aptly named Tasty n' Alder (it's on Alder).

Do do that voodoo that you do so well.

Or, if you really like lines, there’s always the downtown outlet of Voodoo Doughnuts. Now, I love a good doughnut – but I refuse to stand in line for more than 5 minutes for one. But Voodoo Doughnuts has rapidly become a Portland institution, and standing in line at the downtown store has become something of a Portland institution as well. So I leave the decision to you.

Templed Out?

In Europe, it is easy to get churched out.  I have few distinct memories of cathedrals; there's just a cold, gray haze of feeling vaguely impressed.  Heading to Japan, we were warned of a similar experience, particularly in Kyoto, of becoming templed out.

I have to say, it didn't happen to me.

I am sure it is possible. Temples (Buddhist) and shrines (Shinto) are everywhere - and I do mean everywhere: tucked between old buildings in historic districts, hidden in the midst of rows of shops, at the end of every street. Markets have their own shrines; city corners and country roads have little Jizo buddhas. Torii gates are omnipresent.

It's interesting, when you consider that Japan is not a particularly religious nation. But despite the sheer quantity, my interest never waned. 

For one thing, shrines and temples in Japan are interactive experiences - even for outsiders. Take my favorite temple experience, Todai-ji, which sits in a giant park alongside other shrines and temples in the center of Nara: like an amusement park for the soul.  Tame deer approach looking for treats and pause, like zen masters, to be petted. The deer, messengers of the gods, defy cynicism: they are simply too, well, endearing.

Todai-ji itself is ginormous, built to house a ginormous bronze statue of Buddha. 

A Perfect Day: Krakow, August 2011

It's been nine months, but I really have to post something about Krakow. In reality, our time in Krakow was split up over three or four days, but in my head, we had one perfect day in Krakow. That perfect day went something like this:

From the train station, our short walk to the old town takes us across the planty for the first time. The planty is a park (yes, the plant-y is a park) that encircles the old town where the city's medieval walls once stood. Shade trees line tidy paths; locals watch passersby from the green benches. There is always something to see in the planty. 

Today it is several hundred young scouts from around Poland, looking homogeneous in their militaristic green and beige uniforms and knee-high socks. It's the 50th anniversary of the country's scouting program, and the President is in town for the occasion. Scout leaders try to corral the kids into scraggly lines while the marching band warms up and the flag bearers smugly congregate in front. I can't help but feel like the towheaded youth are about to storm the castle.

From the planty, it's a quick jaunt through the old town to Market Square, the heart of Krakow. We have timed this perfectly. Only during certain summer months, on certain days, between certain hours can you climb the city watch tower next to St. Mary's Basilica. With even greater temporal precision, we emerge at the top of the tower right before 11 a.m. On the hour, the trumpeter on duty (finishing his 24-hour shift) emerges from his little office and circles the wood-beamed room to play the city's famous hejnał four times - once in each direction.

So there we are on a beautiful summer morning, looking out over Krakow's old town and the bustling Market Square, and right next to us is one of Krakow's (and Poland's) greatest symbols, playing the same short melody that has been played here every hour, every day, for centuries. Awesome.

Munich and the Biergarten Time Warp

Thinking about Munich makes me hungry. I suspect this is because all I did with my three days in Munich was eat (and drink).

Sausage. Pretzels. Beer. Repeat. Oh, Munich! How I miss you!

Virtualeinmarkt in August

Trust me, it could happen to you. You think you're going to explore Munich's old town, tour a palace or two - but you never make it past the Viktualeinmarkt. It's a warm August afternoon, the communal tables under the chestnut trees are packed with ruddy-faced men in lederhosen and friends catching up over a shared pretzel, the cold beer makes time slow down and imparts an instant nostalgic glow: next thing you know, it's dusk.

In the midst of the English Garden

You think you're just going to check out Munich's giant English Garden (think Central Park), with its naked sunbathers and babbling brooks, but instead you wile away another afternoon at one of the park's renowned beer gardens. August midday, the famous Chinesischer Turm seems painfully hot and dusty; much more pleasant is the Seehaus, with shaded tables directly on the shore of the Kleinhesseloher See. 

You have every intent of taking a day trip from Munich, but on your way to the train station, you're side-tracked by Augustiner, the largest beer garden in Munich. 

In the courtyard of the Ratshaus

You plan to watch the daily dance of the glockenspiel at the Neues Rathaus (the "new" town hall), but the sea of packed tourists in the Marienplatz rattles you - and instead you veer left, into the courtyard of the town hall for a beer at the Ratskellar. 

You mean to step inside the giant red Frauenkirche cathedral, but the terrace seating of Andechser am Dom is just too dreamy. 

(OK, so these last two are not technically beer gardens - you can't opt to bring in your own food, and it's not self-serve - but MAN. We liked Andescher am Dom so much, we had dinner there twice. Plus I really like Andechs beer.)

Yes, there are museums and palaces in Munich that one might visit. We did spend a morning in the neighborhood just east of the river, poking through shops on Sedanstrasse - but my memory of this is pretty hazy, probably due to sausage-and-pretzel withdrawal. 

Yet despite my unbalanced approach to site-seeing in Munich, I do not think I went wrong. Beer gardens have it all: superior people watching; quality beer; self-serve sausages, sauerkraut, and big doughy pretzels; some sun, some shade, some gentle communing with nature; and absolutely no pretension. What's not to love?

(I recently came across this site, a wiki of Munich beer gardens, which seems worthy of a plug. So many gartens, so little time.)

Utrecht Journal: Learning to Travel Solo

This is a story about making myself proud.  

I was convinced, after pathetic days spent alone in London and Amsterdam pre-law school, that I do not travel well by myself.  This has cramped my traveling style in the years since, and also made me feel bad about myself.  But after the partial success of my Morocco challenges, I decided it was time to try again.  My self-imposed challenge: a day-trip to Utrecht, solo.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

8:58 a.m., Utrecht Central Station: Half-hour train ride passed too quickly in whirl of anxiety, both general and specific.  Stumbling onto train platform amidst flow of passengers, uncertain what to do first - go straight to the museum? Find a cafe for second breakfast?  On escalator up to the station hall, notice the lights above create a cool effect in the escalator shaft. Hesitate as escalator comes to an end.  Step back onto down-escalator while digging camera from backpack.  Spend 10 minutes riding escalator back and forth, taking pointless pictures of the light.

Note the yellow train, which I heart.

9:22 a.m., Utrecht Central Station (still): Pointless escalator picture-taking is oddly liberating.  Understand that I should head straight to the city center to find an atmospheric cafe full of university students.  Thinking what I really want is a "misto" at the Starbucks in the unremarkable train station.  Realize the power of choice is entirely in my hands.  

Portland or Den Haag?

In recent months, Jeff has made no secret of his growing love affair with The Hague - a sentiment, it should be noted, that is so unusual amongst the expat set that it draws suspicion bordering on outright hostility.  This state of affairs has led me to adopt a line of argument that can be roughly paraphrased as "Portland-is-just-like-The-Hague-only-not-in-Europe."

There is actually quite a bit of truth to this argument.  Both are gray-weather cities full of white people who like to think they are more liberal than they actually are, where bicyclists have privileged status and pot smoking is (more or less) tolerated.  In the spirit of my Dutch vs. Danish musings (albeit without the fun alliteration), I present Round 2: Portland or Den Haag?

What To Do on Your Seventh Trip to Paris

On my fourth trip to Paris (back in college), I kind of hit a rut. I had seen all the main sites, I had visited all the famous museums. I had gone back to my favorite spots multiple times (though Sacre Couer never grows old). I had even taken the metro all the way out to La Défense and had an icecream cone under the towering monstrosity of an arch. I was - I hate to admit it - bored of Paris.

But then something wonderful happened: I dug another layer down and started rediscovering the city I thought I had so thoroughly "done." (I am indebted to my Irish aunts and the Rue Oberkampf for helping me over the hump back in January 2007.) Thus I can happily report that my seventh trip to Paris a few weeks ago was my best ever.

Of course the glorious spring weather didn't hurt. But since I'm a sucker for novelty, much of my pleasure was derived from seeing new sides of the same city. To wit:

Touring the Netherlands: The Golden Oldies

We've hit peak tourist season in the Netherlands (late spring is an excellent time to travel here), and Jeff and I are just racking up the Dutch Golden Oldies. Keeping in mind that I live a G-rated life, what do you think of when I say "Holland"? Yup, we've pretty much done it.

Exhibit 1: Tulips

For about three weeks at the end of April, the fields from Leiden to Amsterdam were strips of bright color, so fragrant you could smell them through train windows (especially the hyacinths). Along the roadsides, impotent field owners' signs pleaded unsuccessfully with the hordes of tourists, "PLEASE Do Not Walk in the Flower Beds."

Sixty years ago, the mayor of a small town and the major bulb exporters in the region had the brilliant idea of distilling the beauty of the bulb fields into a major garden exposition: draw tourists, market products, spread a little flower love. Thus the Keukenhof was born.

The History of Morocco in 7 Days

According to all travel guides, travel articles, and everyone in and out of Morocco we talked to about visiting Morocco, there are two primary activities that tourists in Morocco are expected - nay, required - to enjoy: eating, and shopping. Given that we had bad luck with the former, and very little interest in the latter, we suffered a certain unguided confusion: how could we experience Morocco in a way that revolved around neither couscous nor soukhs?

I was reminded of Alain de Botton's essay "On Curiosity", and how he struggled as a tourist in Madrid to appreciate the bland architectural statistics recited by his guide book. Set down the book, he says, and follow your own curiosity: a botanist might look at a national park and wonder how many species of linchen grow on a mountain side; a philosopher (like de Botton) might look at a church and ask "Why do we worship God?"

As an armchair historian, my questions tend more along the lines of "Who were the Saadi sultans? And why were their tombs covered up?" These questions proved hard to answer, however, because cities and countries are - most inconveniently - not arranged chronologically.

But with the aid of retrospection and Wikipedia, I can magically re-order our trip to tell the history of Morocco in 7 days (with, fair warning, full literary and romantic license):

Romans: While the Phoenicians and the Carthaginians also made an appearance in ancient Morocco, the Romans left the best ruins. Volubilis, about an hour outside Fez, was the capital of one of the farthest flung provinces of the Roman Empire, Mauretania Tingitana. The city remains largely intact today, a maze of stone foundations and tall columns spread at the foot of green mountains and facing a broad plain. Fading mosaic floors gather puddles after rain storms; tall grass and wildflowers crowd stone steps.

The Roman presence (and the Phoenician and Carthaginian) demonstrates how Morocco is in many ways Mediterranean - in look, in feel, and in economic ties.

Idrissid Dynasty: Sometime in the 700s, a man showed up in Volubilis, claimed to be descended from Mohammed, and set about establishing the first Moroccan dynasty. He (Idris I) founded Fez in 789, and his son (Idris II) built it up as the capital of the new kingdom.

Peeking inside the
Kairouyine Mosque

Fez was from the start a crossroads of peoples and cultures: local Berbers, Arabs from Spain and Tunisia, Jews and Christians. In 859, a wealthy educated woman founded the University of Al-Karaouine, which might be the oldest university in the world (though it was not technically called a "university" until 1947, so go figure).

Since non-Muslims cannot enter the university, its adjoining (and ginormous) mosque, the tomb of Idris II, or many other Islamic sites, so we had to content ourselves with quick glances and stealth photography.

Almoravid Dynasty: The history of Morocco is in many ways a tug-of-war between the North (with its links to the Mediterranean world) and the South (with its trans-Saharan trading routes and their silk, gold, and slave wealth). After 1000, the balance shifted south, where Yusuf ibn Tashfin created a new capital, Marrakesh, for his new Berber dynasty, the Almoravids. By 1070, the Almoravids controlled territory stretching from south of the Sahara all the way to Spain and Portugal (map).

Where Fez is white and stony, Marrakesh is pink and adobe; where the Fez medina is relatively small and compact (most of its population today lives in the new part of town), Marrakesh's is sprawling and largely unnavigable to outsiders. People (tourists) seem to like either one or the other, but not both (though this seems largely dependent on the quality of the riad they stayed in and the aggressiveness of the street vendors they encountered).

What makes Marrakesh particularly unique is its main square: the Djemaa al Fna.  Ever consistent in our priorities, we ignored the street performers, dancing monkeys, snake charmers, and often cheesy musicians for the makeshift food stalls that fill the square every night with bright lights and white steam.

A sample Djemaa al Fna menu, in three installments: (1) Small bowl of snails in salty broth, ladled from a giant cauldron. (5 dirhams, or about 60 cents). (2) Spicy little sausages from one of the popular sausage stands, where the patrons crowd benches around the grill and hand back cooled food to be reheated. (Plate of sausages with flat bread and dipping sauce, 35 dirhams, or about $4.50.) (3) Intensely spiced tea served from a giant copper vat and a dense dessert of something like unsweetened cocoa and cloves - for me, the tea stole the show. (2 teas and 2 desserts should cost only 10 dirhams.)

Merinid dynasty: While the Merinids were (I am told) Berbers from the south, they returned the capital to Fez around 1248.

Water Clock, sans "clock"

My vision of Fez as a city of great medieval learning is largely based on the legend of the water clock (c. 1300s): based on the flow of water behind the scenes, every hour a ball would drop through a window into one of the twelve copper bowls resting on the carved wooden beams below. Unfortunately (for us), the bowls and mechanism were removed in 2004 to be reconstructed. I'm not sure why it's taking seven years, but I like the idea that no one today is quite sure how it ever worked. Very Da Vinci-esque.

The courtyard of the Bou Inania medersa

The water clock sits across the street from the Bou Inania medersa and mosque, yet another institution of higher learning in Fez, also built during Merinid rule. Recently restored, the medersa is one of the few Islamic sites in Fez open to non-Muslim tourists.

Fez is renowned for its intricate plaster work; the tiles and carved cedar wood aren't too shabby, either. What Morocco lacks in representational art it makes up for in spades with Alhambra-esque palaces and religious centers.

Saadi dynasty: By the 1500s, the power pendulum was swinging south again, where the Saadi sultans ruled Morocco from Marrakesh. Among other accomplishments, at a time when Europe was first flexing its colonial muscle, the Saadis successfully kicked the Portuguese off the Moroccan coast.

Many of the Saadi kings, their families and servants are buried in the (creatively named) Saadian tombs, at the south end of the Marrakesh medina. What makes these tombs so intriguing for tourists is the fact that the next guy to come to power so thoroughly walled up and hid away these ornate tombs (the better to help the people forget about former dynasties), no one remembered they were there (no outsiders, at least) until they were disclosed by aerial photographs taken in 1917. That "next guy" was none other than the infamous Moulay Ismail.

Courtyard with tombs of servants and disfavored cousins

Moulay Ismail: There is no shortage of legends about Moulay Ismail ibn Sharif, an early member (1672-1727) of the still-ruling Alaouite dynasty. Known for his "war and woman", Moulay Ismail relied on an army of loyal black slaves, his infamous Black Guard, to control an often fractious country. Story goes he gave them women and then raised their sons within the Guard's ranks until his personal army grew from 15,000 to 150,000. Meanwhile, he's reported to have had hundreds of wives and 1000 children (or, at the very least, 889). Busy man.

Just one row of the royal stables

Everything about Moulay Ismail was oversized, so it's no surprise he decided to designate a new capital, Meknes, and fill it with oversized public works. Slave labor built massive walls, massive graineries, massive stables, and massive mosques, all out of stone, mud, and straw. The cavernous galleries of the graineries could hold enough wheat to feed the entire city through lengthy sieges; they are still naturally kept cool by the impossibly thick walls and the underground wells from which water was channeled through the building. Outside, the royal stables are in a more advanced state of ruin, endless rows of stone arches fronting a man-made lake built to water the Sultan's 12,000 horses.

The mausoleum of Moulay Ismail in Meknes is actually open to non-Muslim visitors, yet it was inexplicably closed the day we were there. Instead we wandered through the underground complex next door, allegedly a prison for Christian hostages, or perhaps just another storage area for grain. More empty cavernous rooms, more infinite series of arches.

Although not a gentle or enlightened ruler, Moulay Ismail did succeed in repelling multiple Ottoman incursions and in kicking out the Europeans every time they tried to get a foothold along the coast. But why this constant struggle for control of Morocco? Let us pause to consider the trans-Saharan trade routes.

Ksour: Winding up through the Atlas mountains from the south, the lucrative trans-Saharan trade routes pop out near Marrakesh - but first they must pass through countless Berber ksour in the mountains (ksar in the singular), each demanding tribute. Fortified towns made out of mud, straw, and bits of wood, the striking red ksour have entered our collective imagination largely thanks to one in particular: Ait ben Haddou, used as a movie set for countless Hollywood productions, from Lawrence of Arabia to Gladiator and The Mummy.

But despite what Gladiator would have you believe, ksour like Ait ben Haddou might not date back to Roman times. UNESCO only suggests they may have been around in the seventeenth century. The historical difficulty? The construction method used for ksour is not durable, and repairs are needed after every rain storm. According to our guide (though I remain a bit skeptical), Berber villages built in the traditional manner must be reconstructed almost from scratch every five years. But the rapid deterioration of these enclaves could help explain their inherent romance, as they are almost always in a state of half-ruin.

Trade with Europe: From Marrakesh, the goods from the trade routes were transferred to the coast for shipment to Europe. Due west from Marrakesh is the port of Essaouira, a primary port for the country for (give or take) two centuries.

The Phoenicians were here, as were the Romans; the Portuguese tried to build a castle on the site in the early 1500s but were soon kicked out by the Saadis. The French gained a foothold in the area in the 1600s, and Mohammed III hired French engineers to design the city's dramatic fortifications and harbor walls (made famous in modern times by the opening scene of Orson Welles' Othello). Essaouira was the site of military battles and diplomatic relations, a symbol perhaps of Morocco's love-hate relationship with Europe.

This is no gentle beach-y coast: this is a rough-hewn, rocky harbor, home to a contingent of sea-battered fishing vessels. Though crawling these days with European tourists (the nearby airport at Agadir is heavily serviced by the discount European airlines), the old medina is ruggedly beautiful, its white-washed houses with their bright blue doors a relief from the incessant pink of Marrakesh. Waves crash, seagulls cry, and the sun's heat is broken by the constant sea wind.

Colonialism: From kicking the Portuguese out of Essaouira in 1510 through the "First Moroccan Crisis" of 1905-1906 (which, despite its name, was in fact a European crisis sparked by the rivalry between France and Germany for control over Morocco), Morocco valiantly fought off European efforts to colonize and control it for four hundred years. But after the Second Moroccan Crisis of 1911 (something about Germany establishing an outpost in Agadir and the French responding by exerting more control over Essaouira?), Morocco was forced to sign the Treaty of Fez in 1912. While it didn't lose its sovereignty per se, the country was termed a protectorate and divided between French and Spanish control.

The Moroccans never took well to French rule, and after World War II their demands for independence grew. After Mohammed V openly supported the independence movement against the French administration, the French exiled him and his family to Madagascar in 1953. (Boo.)

The French were aided in this move by the very powerful Glaoui family, whose vast control over the south was threatened by the continued presence of the northern Alouite dynasty (and the nationalist movement). Among the Glaoui holdings: the Telouet ksar, guarding one of the key mountain passes leading to Marrakesh. The Glaoui family had built three successive castles at the same strategic point, abandoning the old as they fell into advanced states of disintegration. The most recent was built only a hundred years ago and was inhabited until the 1950s - but it's now also a ruin.

A functional stronghold, the abandoned Telouet ksar consists mostly of bare rooms and narrow stair wells, like this:

But all of a sudden you come across this:

And this:

And this:

I'm not sure if the whole place was ever this elaborate, or if the greatest decoration was saved for these harem rooms. At any rate, the family fled to France when King Mohammed V returned triumphant to Morocco in 1956, having negotiated independence from France and Spain. In the story of Morocco, the North won again.

Modern Morocco: Morocco is still a constitutional monarchy, with an emphasis on the monarchy bit. But the new king, Mohammed VI, is reportedly forward-thinking and has announced constitutional reforms after the recent Arab revolutions. Still, it's hard to get a finger on the real sentiments of Moroccans when a formal portrait of the King is ubiquitous in every public space, from train stations to the carts of street vendors. This is not (yet) a fully open society.

But while outsiders continue to romanticize Morocco's past (erhem), most of the country lives in modern apartment blocks and villas in modern cities, like Casablanca, Rabat, and the Ville Nouvelle of Fez. Modern Moroccans do not aspire to live in the medinas beloved of the tourists, but in pretty villas in tree-lined suburbs bordered by broad boulevards. Meanwhile, Morocco's permanence as a romantic tourist destination has helped spawned trendy clubs, high-end spas and shopping districts frequented by rich outsiders and upwardly mobile locals alike.

I did not get to see this Morocco (more accurately, I did not choose to, in our limited time). The closest I got was the Majorelle Garden, a small botanical park made famous by Yves St. Laurent, whose ashes are scattered here. As a tourist destination, the garden was a disappointment: so crowded with yammering tourists that there was not an inch of solitude in the surprisingly small space. Yet Yves St. Laurent's vision of bright colors and lush abundance is a happy and optimistic note on which to end our superficial tour of Moroccan history.