Beth Arnold

Jours of Our Lives: 39) MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

by Beth Arnold

An ongoing series about uprooting our lives in America and moving to France. For what's happened before, see previous Jours of Our Lives entries here .

 

CLEAR LIGHT BURST open the sky, illuminating clues of Henri Matisse hidden in the muddle of Tangier. We stood on the periphery of the Grand Socco looking up and down for the way to the Grand Hotel Villa de France, where the Matisses had stayed and Henri had glimpsed scenes that matched his artistic vision. Jim was armed with a book of the paintings, and I carried my Morocco guide and map. We looked every bit the awkward rube tourists, but most Moroccans don’t know much, if anything, about the artist whose lush paintings have etched the colors and forms of their country in the minds of art-lovers throughout the world. A couple of guides, real or faux, approached us, but we convincingly declined. I don’t engage in conversation with hustlers unless it feels safe and right. In any case, we wanted to be on our own.

 

Le Rifain assis by Henri Matisse (1869 - 1954). Oil on canvas, 200 x 160 cm. In the collection of the Barnes Foundation. (via Wikipedia)

Letter From Paris: Summer in The City 2011, No. 8

by Beth Arnold

I realize that many of the scenes I've been most attracted to this summer are of inviting places where people can sit, enjoy the fresh air, and read...

It wouldn't necessarily be quiet here in the Jardin de Tuileries with scads of people walking by, but there is still a certain serenity to being by the water under a sunny sky.  Being lost in a good book is a pathway to transcendence, this through a written page.

Letter From Paris: Summer in The City 2011, No. 7

 

A Parisian mermaid in the sky...

Swimming up to the window and peeping in. 

What did she find?

Jours of Our Lives: 38) THE PORT OF TANGIER

by Beth Arnold

An ongoing series about uprooting our lives in America and moving to France. For what's happened before, see previous Jours of Our Lives entries here.

OUR FIRST IMPRESSION of Tangier was of a big city with a big-city feel, though that changed. We checked into another incredible hotel, the El Minzah, an elegant jewel with a touch of shabby chic. Our room had a terrace with a spectacular view to the sea. The downstairs piano bar, with its cozy banquettes, was a wartime favorite of Allied bigwigs and various spies, and is said to have been the inspiration for Sam’s “Café Americain” in Casablanca. Whether that’s true or not, I could definitely see Humphrey Bogart holding forth there. The El Minzah so utterly evoked romantic visions of what a colonial hotel should be that we hardly wanted to leave it.

The Port of Tangier conjures up images of mystery and intrigue, of spies having secret signals and hushed conversations, of men slinking through the night like worn but agile tomcats, and of old gay men coming from the West to find solace and pleasure in their select young parallels. It is a city of and for men. I felt this nowhere else in Morocco, but these cafés told the tale. They are full of men huddled together in conversation, sipping their hot and sugary mint-infused tea, dragging on smokes, staring into the streets, their lives, their worlds. What do they see? So many of these men need work.

Unlike in France, women are almost completely nonexistent in Tangier café life. The only female we saw in one was a random European who must have been either very brave or very foolish. I’m a fearless traveler, but either I didn’t have the courage or I had the good sense to skip this experience. I didn’t feel unsafe, but the scene was a little creepy and didn’t suit me. (If you want to debate the point that the whole of Morocco has this culture, I will agree theoretically, but Tangier is vastly different. It doesn’t slide neatly into a Moroccan pigeon hole.)

Window at Tangier by Henri Matisse 1912 - The Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts, Moscow. (via Wikipedia)

Letter From Paris: Summer in The City 2011, No. 6

After a great afternoon in L'Orangerie, the Lone Wolf and I stepped outside to a billowy blue sky and day.  It was a moment that made us happy to be alive and to be in Paris.  We strolled along the high side of the garden by the Seine, looking down on the Tuileries and the basin with the rue de Rivoli and its grand buildings on the other side.

A perfect spot to sit and read, to watch the Tuileries garden grow.  To see Paris in all its glory.

 

Photo by Beth Arnold

 

---Beth Arnold in Paris

Letter From Paris: Summer in The City 2011, No. 5

At the Fête des Tuileries ...

From 28 June to 24 August, this popular funfair is open on the Tuileries gardens in Paris for two months of carnival rides, cotton candy, and games. Want to come?  Better hurry.

This Sun King is a ride that swings back and forth like a pendulum before going all the way around.  Losing your stomach is the thrill.  It's called "Over The Rainbow," which is something we all want in one way or another.  We want to find our own pots of gold on the other side, whatever they may be.

You can see the rooftops of the Rue de Rivoli behind it.

 

Photo by Beth Arnold

 

---Beth Arnold in Paris

Jours of Our Lives: 37) ON THE ROAD

By Beth Arnold

An ongoing series about uprooting our lives in America and moving to France. For what's happened before, see previous Jours of Our Lives entries here.

 

AS AZIZ DROVE us out into the Moroccan countryside, we saw many sheep with their herders; newborn lambs; donkeys carrying riders or gigantic water bottles, packages, God knows what. We stopped for cows to cross the road. Sometimes their front legs were tied together so they wouldn’t wander too far away. I felt sorry for the hobbled animals. There were no fences anywhere.

The land was covered in verdant green grass that looked woven like the carpets, with neon orange flowers as their embellishment. Omar said that in two weeks time red poppies and blooms of blue and white would add to the vibrant landscape. Vineyards spread over plains, and men and women hoed the vines with their own steam. The plethora of satellite dishes that topped every house and building—no matter how primitive—seemed out of place.

Letter From Paris: Summer in The City 2011, No. 4

FRENCH TOMATOES

At a lovely summer dinner on the rue de Seine...

 The red, yellow, and green tomatoes with a drizzle of olive oil were not just beautiful but delicous. 

Letter From Paris: Summer in The City 2011, No. 3

Our summer in Paris has been cool and our August rainy.  So was this day as we were wandering from Paris Plages up to the Pompidou.

So Salvador Dali.

Jours of Our Lives: 36) WOVEN VOICES

by Beth Arnold

An ongoing series about uprooting our lives in America and moving to France. For what's happened before, see previous Jours of Our Lives entries here.

 

I OPENED THE sliding glass door of our swish room in the Palais Jamais, which once was the palatial home of a grand vizier to the sultan. This posh hotel, an oasis in the Moroccan landscape, is one of my favorite places to stay in the world. As I stepped onto the terrace, the sun was up and shining, the air cool. I looked down upon the hotel’s manicured Andalusian gardens and sapphire pool and, beyond, to the ancient medina that sprawled across the panorama. Its warren of path-sized streets and buildings bloomed with the minarets of scads of mosques. We knew they were there but not in such numbers.

The morning call of prayers had been our crowing rooster that someone was up, while dawn   still had the good sense to hold back. I slid back into bed while Jim showered. Within minutes,  a flock of petite birds were hopping into our room, flitting up on chairs and the foot of my bed. No doubt they had breakfasted on the plates of nuts, fruit, cookies, and crumbs of croissants in the elegant Palais many times before, but no luck with us. Our stash was covered, though the brave little birds added to my curious morning sensation that some people unwittingly refer to as cheerfulness; or in this case, perhaps it was the dizzy delight of waking as a sultaness.