Scrubbing down in Morocco
Mary Murphy
January 11, 2016
It’s been a long time since anyone scrubbed me down and washed me. The last time was most likely during a hospital stay in Cherry
It’s been a long time since anyone scrubbed me down and washed me. The last time was most likely during a hospital stay in Cherry
The doors we open and close each day decide the lives we live. So said Flora Whittemore, an American woman who lived till 103 and
After the hustle that was the souks of Marrakesh, it was a refreshing change to wander about the souks in the medina in Essaouira where
I’d be hard pushed to choose between a day by the sea or a day at the races. So any day that I can have
The Man Who Knew Too Much, Hitchcock’s 1956 thriller, with Doris Day and Jimmy Stewart opens in Marrakesh. Ten years later, in 1966, Our Man in Marrakesh aka Bang!
The High Atlas are something special. Yes, the valleys and the rivers are spectacular and the scenery is jaw-dropping, but it’s the Berber villages that
I wouldn’t think twice about eating from a market stall in Dublin or Budapest or London or anywhere in Europe, but move me to another
I need to learn how to say no. A firm, authoritative, no. One that brooks no argument. It doesn’t need an exclamation mark. Or any
I can sit for hours and watch the world go by, blatantly staring at the teeming masses that flow back and forth as I sit
