Les filles a Marrakech

To my betrothed,

Den… I imagine by now, you have forgotten all about your adoring soeurs and have fully integrated yourself into the New Haven young social scene. I can hardly blame you as we did indeed stop all correspondence with you over the past month. You should know, I took no pleasure in this separation and am quite eager to reconnect with you. I recently saw a picture of you doing keg stands at a Yale-Harvard tailgate and I must say ma cherie, you are looking thin as a rail. Keep up the good work.

More than a few exciting adventures have come and gone since we last spoke … For now, I will give you a few highlights of Tara and Dede's trip to Marrakech.

-Les belles filles Tara and Dede arrive and overlap with my father for a night. Pops is in his absolute prime (after a week of running around this town, he feels a strong affinity with the city and a sense of camaraderie with the locals… He's made all sorts of Marrakshi friends, including the intoxicated homeless men who live on our corner who join him in his daily jogs, every overly eager North African tour guide, my French b-f's extended family, etc).

-We all head to Pascal’s restaurant for dinner. I feel guilty as that particular evening the restaurant played some super-duper major rugby match on a big screen TV, in front of like 40 dudes drinking beer and cheering. I wondered if my friends were ticked off as they flew across the world to sit in another sports bar. I vowed to make the rest of their trip more "authentic."

-The next day we left for the somewhat touristy but totally charming and lovely coastal town of Essouria. The sun was out and we spent the day playing at the beach. Dede and I “swam” in the freezing cold Atlantic. That night, we met up with some friends who happened to be visiting at the same time. We all went to dinner at a Spanish restaurant that boasted the BEST Obama drink specials in town (the cocktail list included the “Pina Obama,” the “Barack Mojito,” the “Obama Whiskey,” and more). I suppose in a moment of patriotism, we felt the need to try at least a few of each drink, and all I can say is that that evening, we were tremendous supporters of our next pres, and paid for it very dearly the next day.

-Back to Marrakech. Shortly after arriving home, Tara notices that her suitcase has gone missing. We slowly come to the realization that my apartment has been robbed and the vandal had taken off with one prized piece of loot… Tara’s bag. My neighbor comes over and admits that the previous day she allowed some “workers” to enter from her house onto the roof and they were able to enter into our apartment and rob us. She watched most of this happen. We asked if in the future, she could just not let in sketchy workers to our rooftop and furthermore, if she sees them robbing us, could she possibly alert someone. Many thanks. Anyway, poor, poor Tara was without any clothes for the rest of the week. Tara, I continue to be on vigilant watch for a well-dressed vendor in the Medina selling H&M blouses and skinny jeans. I will avenge this offense.

-Later that week, we headed out to the Ourika Valley where there is a really cool (and as it turns out slightly more treacherous then I had imagined) hike to these beautiful waterfalls. We ate hot lamb tagines and oranges with cinnamon and fresh mint tea at a café on next to the river. I completely wiped out on our hike and banged up my knee. Our tour guide fell madly in love with young Megan and they actually held hands for most of the hike. It was weird.

-I will wrap this up, dear Den, as I know your attention span is short and I probably lost you back with the Obama specials. SO: We spent quite a bit of time in the souks, attempting somewhat unsuccessfully to haggle with the merchants. Dede and Tara bought tons of cool stuff. A man asked for Dede’s hand in marriage in exchange for ONE DIRHAM (that’s like 10 cents). We considered the option but ultimately passed. We saw belly dancers and drank champagne and ate more tagine. We spent one long night in a total hole in the wall Moroccan bar and danced with some local “ladies” who taught us how to shake our hips (I SHUDDER thinking of how totally adept at this I thought I was at the time).

-Les belles filles left us and Marrakech has really not been quite the same since.

Lots of love to you St Denis,
Julia Jones