Series by Aaron Huey.

Interiors and Exteriors of madman Ludwig II’s Neuschwanstein and Lindenhof Castles in Bavaria.  Yes, these places exist.

]]> http://pambristow.com/2010/02/bavarian-dream/feed/ 0 http://pambristow.com/2009/09/empty-schells-forlorn-images-by-isaac-schell/ http://pambristow.com/2009/09/empty-schells-forlorn-images-by-isaac-schell/#comments Sat, 19 Sep 2009 17:11:57 +0000 Pam Bristow http://pambristow.com/?p=4248

I can so relate to these pics by West Philly-based photographer Isaac Schell. My favorites are the storefront churches, making the best of it.

I love Central America.  I’ve traveled through Honduras, El Salvador, Costa Rica, and parts of Nicaragua for weeks at a time, mesmerized by these half-Spaniards /  half-Indians that carry some of the same DNA I do.  There is something so magically forgotten about this little pocket of the world that is right under our noses.

My maternal family has a long history in Central America… My Uncle was Secretary of State in Honduras as well as the Honduran Ambassador to the UN, and is the current head Magistrate of the Central American International Court.  My Grandmother was the reigning Miss Central America before her death.  So I am always interested in exploring new parts of this little strip of land that connects the massive Americas, and me to a piece of my ancestry.

I’m currently desperate to check out Antigua (no not the island!), the former Guatemalan capital located just west of Guatemala City. Founded by Spanish conquistadors on March 10, 1543, Antigua retains many of the brilliant colonial architectural gems that qualify it as a premier UNESCO World Heritage Site.  And then there are the chicken buses – basically American school buses driven south from the US that are now privately owned and decorated according to the driver’s tastes – usually with the name of his current girlfriend blasted across the top of the windshield.  They run between the country’s Mayan villages, often crammed full of people, farm goods, and yes, chickens.

The best time to go has to be Semana Santa or Holy Week  - Antigua hosts the Western Hemisphere’s largest Lent and Easter celebrations, with elaborate processions that make their way through the streets.  The pics say it all…

Just returned from the legendary 127 Sale… a recap of the adventure HERE & pics after the jump…

Read my new article for the Huffington Post HERE.

Check out of Hotel Tangerina after obsessing over the coolest wall clock / calendar I have ever seen.  Head to station to catch express to Casablanca.  Haggle with taxi driver about the fare.  He wants to charge us a 50dh flat fee (illegal) and we want him to use the meter.  He reluctantly agrees and the ride is 18dh. Almost miss train but make it by the skin of our teeth after Cristina puts the guy who tried to cut her in line in his place (the wonders of cueing are lost on most Moroccans.)

Lucky to have private cabin this time although the A/C is on the blink.  Spread out across three seats and try to catnap.  Five hour ride goes by in a flash.  Arrive in what appears to be a depressing, dilapidated city, full of smog and pollution – and not a horse or donkey in sight for the first time in over a week.

Hail taxi and jump into masterpiece of improvisation. Every part of the car was either made of, held together by, or leaning on stuff that doesn’t belong in cars… like plastic plumbing pipes, straw floor mats, and empty soap boxes.  Head to our hotel, JM Suites, which we are thrilled to find in an upscale part of town. Almost faint when we pass a Lanvin boutique… and a l’Artisan Parfumeur!  Modern hotel and (kind of) modern city are a welcome sight after the past week of dusty (though fabulous) African towns.  Check in and plop onto bed in air conditioned / flat-screen having room.  Decide to have tea at the cafe across the street and then dinner at the über-glamorous / tourist-trappy Rick’s.  Totally surprised / impressed by the progressive vibe throughout the city and happy to see jean wearing women in the cafes alongside their men.  Same density of headscarves but chicer sunglasses.

Dive along the Casablanca waterfront, past the magnificent Hassan II mosque to dinner at the straight-out-of-Casablanca-the-movie restaurant.   Start off with fave new cocktail, the Martini Blanc, in a gorgeous glass.  Piano player keys out perfect 30’s classic standards.  Indulge in ridiculously delicious crab salad and sole dinner with a French white.  Deliriously happy.

Milked wine and Wi-Fi’d our brains out for three hours with the first working connection since we landed in Morocco. Both totally astonished at how much we’re enjoying this town that everyone told us to avoid.

Take lovely late night petit taxi ride back to the hotel, watch about an hour of hilarious / depressing Moroccan fashion TV before passing out on finely pressed linens.  I love my new little city.

Wake up in Fez and go downstairs to tell the riad host that we’re headed to Tangier a day early. She tells me we have to pay for the duration of the stay because they “turned down other potential guests.” I look around at the half-empty riad and she reads my mind. (I forget haggling is a sport even in the most sophisticated of settings here) We agree on 1/3 of the unpaid night after some good natured back-and-forth…

We’re getting dangerously close to our budget limit now that we’re hitting the tail end of our trip. Think about how to cut back.  Decide all food must go.  Shopping and cocktails should be fine.

Train it to Tangier on what have become our beloved first class cabins.  Meet a young American woman and her parents.  She is living in Madrid and has recently lived in Fez for six months with her husband while she was getting her PhD in Moroccan history at Harvard.  We chat for hours about Moroccan culture, she gives us some more great words to throw at assertive Arab men, and tells us our hotel in Tangier is her absolute favorite.

Change trains at Sidi Kacem and are now in cabin with eighty-something-ish woman in fabulous Chanel seersucker suit and oversize Celine glasses.  She strikes up a conversation with us and tells us in a dreamy drawly French voice that she’s from Tangier but she worked for Chanel in New York for thirty years.  We decide we love her.

Head to back of train, open rear door, and sit on steps with feet hanging out in the open air. Minutes later Chanel appears and tells us to turn around and face the sea.  We see the most incredible streak of blue to our left. Amazing to see ocean after so much time inland by desert. Tangier, she reminds us, is where the Mediterranean meets the Atlantic at the northernmost tip of Africa.  Although we already know this, when she describes it, it sounds like sex.  Debate asking her to repeat herself so I can hear it again.

Arrive in Tangier to the usual dearth of maniacally eager taxi drivers.  Settle on ridiculously inflated fare – too tired to argue – and make our way to the Hotel Tangerina.  Drive by the long strand of beach dotted with ramshakle beach clubs and faded discotheques.  Pass a group of camels resting in the sand – presumably a tourist photo op enterprise, but still amazingly exotic.

After ton of hairpin twists and turns we arrive at our little hotel, perched on the very top of the hill overlooking the whole of the city.  Walk in and fall in love.  Immaculately styled to a Humphrey Bogart-by-the-sea tee, it’s absolutely the perfect setting for this little gem of a town. Our room overlooks the city walls which drop down to the glorious Med.

Head upstairs to rooftop terrace.  It’s stunning.  From there we can see across the Strait of Gibraltar to Spain and all around the edge of the continent.

Have a mint tea and launch into full-blown photo shoot on the roof.  When we’re exhauseted, head down to the Petit Socco (square) and check out the fab deco Cinema Rif. Pass tons of magnificent French colonial buildings and balconied windows.  Stroll around and then head back to La Tangerina.

It’s now completely dark out with the moon shining on the African coast and the two oceans meeting in front of us.  Meet awesome Canadian couple celebrating their one year anniversary  - he is Indian, she Pakistani – both Muslim.  They grab a seat with us on our oversized daybed overlooking the water and bring a box of pastries to share.  Talk until 3:30 am about everything under the sun… God, religion, politics, and marriage.  It’s another amazing human connection in this wild country.  Since we’re trying to save our cash, Cristina runs down to fetch a bottle of water from our room and arrives back with two glasses… “Champagne Dahhhling???” she slurs… we crack up cause we’re almost broke.

After four hours of chatting, stumble downstairs to catch a few hours of sleep before 10 am express to Casablanca…

Have leisurely lie-in and wake up at our beautiful riad at 9ish.  After fab traditional Moroccan breakfast head into ancient Fez.  The oldest living medieval city in the world, the Fez’s medina is a completely indecipherable labyrinth of covered passageways that make you feel like you’re walking around during the time of Mohammed.  Turn down a slew of over-eager would-be guides (we were warned that even native Moroccans have a hard time navigating these alleyways) and decide to go it alone.  Stumble into spectacular 14th century Koranic school adjacent one of the over 90 mosques in the old city.

Head deeper into the Medina and find amazing strands of tiny colored glass beads we decide to turn into necklaces.  A little boy (10 or 11) attached himself to us and announces he will be our guide for the day.  I shoo him off at first but he’s persistent. We decide we like his energy and let him be our little navigator.  I think of my son Aidan back home – the same age – trying to escort tourists to make some cash for his family. Resolve to bring him back here and teach him a life lesson.  Our guide makes his way around like only a kid who grew up running around these souks could.  We’re snapping photos nonstop – this place is amazing! Then I notice something even more incredible. Out of the corner of my eye I see Cristina taking a photo of an old woman coming around a bend.  As she snaps the picture I see our little Mustafa tuck a coin in her hand. Then I notice he’s been doing this the entire way, pulling coins out of his pocket and handing them out to the people we photograph.  My heart dies.

Stop at a small cafe and we buy Mustafa a soda and kick our feet up for a while.  Love this Moroccan pace.  He’s fascinated by our cell phones and I let him play the bubble wrap popping game on my iPhone.  The older men huddle around to watch and cheer him on.

Mustafa takes us to see the old caravan house where in the 1300’s Berber craftsmen coming down from the Atlas mountains, would bed their camels and spend a few nights in town selling their wares. The building is now an impeccably restored museum.  Mustafa translates the exhibit and we see a plaque highlighting a UNESCO resolution that gave me goose bumps (check out the pic.)

After a quick visit to the silver and brass souks we ask Mustafa for a lunch recommendation.  He lights up and tells us to follow him.  He takes us really deep into the back alleys – past butcher’s stalls selling camel heads, produce stands, and sardine purveyors – to a tiny spot called Zorhra where we proceed to have one of the most amazing meals to date.  We feed Mustafa till he can’t move.  He decides he wants to take some pictures with us and we indulge him.  He tells us about his 79 year old father, his sisters, and an uncle in Marseille.  He asks us how to pronounce a bunch of words in English and explaines that he learned Arabic and French in school and Spanish and English from the tourists.  I ask him why he’s not in school today.  He says it’s closed.  I tell him I dont believe him and he giggles. He blows our minds.

After lunch decide its time to head back and ask Mustafa to lead us out of the souks.  I kiss him goodbye three times in the traditional Moroccan way and hand him 100 dirham which should feed his family for a month, although he’ll probably give half of it away.  He disappears as quickly as he showed up and I get a little knot in my throat knowing we’ll never see him again.

When we get back to the riad we have a glass of wine in the courtyard and ask our waiter what “Mustafa” means in Arabic.  He says it’s the name of the Prophet… The other name of Mohammed. We decide we have a new standard for the men in our lives and a barometer for all future decisions… “What would Mustafa do?”

Freshen up back at hotel and go to the Palais Jamais for a cocktail.  It’s dark now and we take a ride around the perimeter of the city walls which are all lit up against the black sky. Catch belly-dancing performance in awesome dining room.  Head over to Riad Fez to check out the scene there but it’s closed.  Have no idea where we are – lost in a very quiet are of the Medina.  Old non-English speaking man with a staff and an uncanny resemblance to Moses asks us where we’re going in Arabic.  We give him the name of our hotel and he escorts us all the way back on foot.

Back in the hotel courtyard we recap the day on lounge chairs under the moon. Consider taking leaving for Tangier a day early to get to the coast and maybe take a day trip acroos the Strait of Gibraltar to Spain.  Try to call the hotel in Tangier to book an extra night but there’s no answer.  I try a few times and get frustrated.  Cristina says to stop trying.  About ten minutes later a huge flock of birds (again) flies over our heads squawking.  She says “try now”.  They answer and have the exact room we want available for the extra night.

Head up to bed.  Barricade selves in non-haunted room half.  Door of armoire creaks open slowly by itself.  We crack up and pass out.

Wake up to breakfast on the terrace and Chris getting us packed ready to go.  Sad to be saying goodbye to our little home in Marrakech and our new friends, but excited to make our way to Fez. He warns us that Fez is much more conservative than Marrakech…  While Marrakeck is a true African city, Fez is a wholly Arabic and very Islamic.

Hurry through breakfast and as I say goodbye to our little rooftop, a huge flock of storks lift of the palace walls and start circling over our heads, yelling and squawking.  We decide they’re saying goodbye back.  Whip out cameras and start taking photos – bye bye “House of Storks”.

Chris arranges out car and we say our farewells.  He assures us that if we need anything at all for the rest of our time in Morocco, we can call him.

Arrive at station and board train for seven hour ride to Fez.  Again train is ultra comfortable and we’re unfazed by the long trip.  After about an hour into the trip I stroll to the back of the car.  Since we are in the last car, the view is just the track speeding away from us.  I open the side door and sit down on the steps with my legs hanging out.  Everything feels so peaceful.  Cristina joins me.  Nostalgic African air gets to our heads and we start talking about the metaphors between the train ride, our trip, and our lives.  How you get so distracted with everyone and everything else back home. And how, like with the cameras that have been attached to our faces this entire trip, it’s important to take time to see the world though your own lens.  Hours pass with feet dangling out of train while zipping through countryside as we indulge in saccharin contemplation.

Arrive at Fez on time and after the usual harassment by the local taxi drivers our driver from the riad shows up.  After about a fifteen minute drive from the train we’re deposited in our hotel in a desolate quarter of the town.  We’re immediately uncomfortable.  It’s slightly run down and our room, though spacious, feels a little rickety.  Christina thinks she hears a donkey.  We decide we can’t stay there and call Chris in Marrkech and ask what to do.  Within ten minutes he has new accommodation booked and a porter at the front door to collect us and take us to our new riad.  After some awkward negotiating we settle on a one night cancellation fee.

Arrive at Riad Sheherezad.  It’s incredible – with a magnificent tiled courtyard and stunning swimming pool surrounded by African palms.  Our room is dark and mysterious – perfect for the mood of this city.  We’re told the Medina is unlit and dangerous for women at night so we head into the Ville Nouvelle for dinner. Hassled by young Fassi boys at every turn.  Wander around the strange little city for an hour before settling on a restaurant someone on the train recommended.  Dinner is fab. We’re dead tired and getting a little cranky from the nonstop day.

Go to taxi stand and try to hail cab.  There is ZERO English spoken in this city and no one has any idea what we’re talking about.  By now my French is back in full swing and I explain the directions to six cabbies in a row.  They all say they have never heard of this place.  After an hour of this we decide we need a better plan.  Take a time-out on a park bench next to some gossiping Arab ladies and hatch a plan – write out the name of the hotel in bog bold letters and remember that Cristina took a photo of the front door sign.  Use the writing / photo visual aids, which prove to be a successful combo. Within 20 minutes are safely back home.

Arrive to a beautifully candlelit courtyard and the sound of a mandolin being played.  We order a tea and plop down on the lounges.  We’re now overtired and delirious.  I become obsessed with taking the perfect picture of the room key against the blue tile floor.  After about 300 attempts Cristina bursts into hysterics behind me.  She snaps a picture of me bent over like a lunatic in my djellaba looking like I lost something.  She shows me the picture and we dye laughing.

Realize we need sleep and head upstairs.  After deciding half the room is haunted we barricade ourselves in the other half.  Crawl into bed, still laughing about me and the key.