Turned on by Klimt
Back in Marrakech, we’re continuing our quick comparison of Fez and Marrakech, and it’s funny to do so with so little data. We’re not even sure what criteria we should be using. Here’s the view from the terrace in Marrakech.
Below is another view from a terrace in Fez.
If the goal is a place to enjoy a mojito on a hot summer’s night, I think Fez wins this contest, but is that any way to choose a place to live?
Marrakech has been loudly touted as a design capital of the country. This might be true, but the primary thing that is designed here is the riad. Therefore, unless you’re invited into the private homes of the Moroccan elite and expats, you’re not likely to see much more of this design than you can reading Elle Decor. Chic restaurants like Café du Livre and Kechmara exist, but they’re hardly ubiquitous.
In each city, we’ve taken petit taxis, which are generally Renaults. Here in Marrakech you see the petit taxi parked next to a grand taxi, which is always a 30 year-old Mercedes. It’s normal to take a petit taxi within town and a grand taxi between cities. When I commented to someone that a petit taxi would be fine for the two of us as they’re newer and more reliably air-conditioned, I was told that it is actually the law that you take a grand taxi between towns, as it guarantees greater employment for the drivers. The taxis in Fez all use their meters, which eliminates the small stress of bargaining each time you get in a cab in Marrakech.
We’re leaning towards a move to Fez (though probably more for financial reasons than any other) and we’re both nervous about telling Hamoud. Hamoud has been lobbying for us to stay here in Marrakech, and he’s certainly made life here easier.
For example, yesterday we went to open a bank account. He called a friend of a friend, so that when we arrived, we were whisked right past the long line of people opening accounts to meet with the banker right away. To open a join account requires a government stamp. No, you can’t simply sign something at the bank saying you want a joint account; you need to go to a government agency and have them notarize a form saying that you want a joint account. Hamoud was able to take us there quickly, again circumventing lines, and convinced the bureaucrat to fill out the form on the spot even thought it was 4:00, the office closed at 4:30 and the form would take four minutes to fill out. Left to our own devices, we would never have known how to convince the guy to do his job when he felt like stopping a half hour early. Without Hamoud by our side, we could easily have spent a day and a half opening a bank account.
Instead, we had plenty of time for a café au lait and the Herald Tribune overlooking the Place. Watching the world go by from that vantage point involves a steady stream of generally polite beggars, and packs of slightly less polite boys hawking trinkets. Today’s paper had a large article about Gustav Klimt. In addition to the news that the piece (stolen by the Nazis 70-odd years ago and recently repatriated) sold at auction for $135 million, there was a story about a large retrospective of his work in Madrid. The piece featured a photo of one of his drawings of a nude, and a boy trying to sell us wooden snakes was quite interested in it. He returned a few minutes later with two other boys to show them. While it was certainly amusing to see these boys so titillated, it made us wonder what art – or lack thereof - these kids are being exposed to.
Below is another view from a terrace in Fez.
If the goal is a place to enjoy a mojito on a hot summer’s night, I think Fez wins this contest, but is that any way to choose a place to live?
Marrakech has been loudly touted as a design capital of the country. This might be true, but the primary thing that is designed here is the riad. Therefore, unless you’re invited into the private homes of the Moroccan elite and expats, you’re not likely to see much more of this design than you can reading Elle Decor. Chic restaurants like Café du Livre and Kechmara exist, but they’re hardly ubiquitous.
In each city, we’ve taken petit taxis, which are generally Renaults. Here in Marrakech you see the petit taxi parked next to a grand taxi, which is always a 30 year-old Mercedes. It’s normal to take a petit taxi within town and a grand taxi between cities. When I commented to someone that a petit taxi would be fine for the two of us as they’re newer and more reliably air-conditioned, I was told that it is actually the law that you take a grand taxi between towns, as it guarantees greater employment for the drivers. The taxis in Fez all use their meters, which eliminates the small stress of bargaining each time you get in a cab in Marrakech.
We’re leaning towards a move to Fez (though probably more for financial reasons than any other) and we’re both nervous about telling Hamoud. Hamoud has been lobbying for us to stay here in Marrakech, and he’s certainly made life here easier.
For example, yesterday we went to open a bank account. He called a friend of a friend, so that when we arrived, we were whisked right past the long line of people opening accounts to meet with the banker right away. To open a join account requires a government stamp. No, you can’t simply sign something at the bank saying you want a joint account; you need to go to a government agency and have them notarize a form saying that you want a joint account. Hamoud was able to take us there quickly, again circumventing lines, and convinced the bureaucrat to fill out the form on the spot even thought it was 4:00, the office closed at 4:30 and the form would take four minutes to fill out. Left to our own devices, we would never have known how to convince the guy to do his job when he felt like stopping a half hour early. Without Hamoud by our side, we could easily have spent a day and a half opening a bank account.
Instead, we had plenty of time for a café au lait and the Herald Tribune overlooking the Place. Watching the world go by from that vantage point involves a steady stream of generally polite beggars, and packs of slightly less polite boys hawking trinkets. Today’s paper had a large article about Gustav Klimt. In addition to the news that the piece (stolen by the Nazis 70-odd years ago and recently repatriated) sold at auction for $135 million, there was a story about a large retrospective of his work in Madrid. The piece featured a photo of one of his drawings of a nude, and a boy trying to sell us wooden snakes was quite interested in it. He returned a few minutes later with two other boys to show them. While it was certainly amusing to see these boys so titillated, it made us wonder what art – or lack thereof - these kids are being exposed to.
posted by The Dowe-Sandes at
12:12 PM
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