let us talk of beautiful things

It is art that elevates us.


In a world where people are intent on using their hands to destroy and to hurt, I am grateful for the beauty that hands can create.

Calçada by Alexandre Farto, a.k.a. "Vhils". Cobblestone tribute to Fado singer Amália Rodrigues.

istanbul

I am deeply saddened by the attacks on Istanbul's Atatürk Airport, and I am left without words. It just seems to go on and on and on... Everywhere, around the world. Too many places, too many people hurt. Istanbul is a part of me— how many times have I passed through that airport, stood at the very spot near the taxi queue, had a coffee at Nero while waiting to pick Pedro up when he was still living in Lisbon... There is nothing I can say to make sense of any of it, nothing that change things, nothing that can comfort. There are sick people in this world, people who are hellbent on destruction, people who do not need a single breath wasted on discussing them. The world is a beautiful place, full of beautiful people, who far outnumber the bad— even if it doesn't seem like it. Peace, love, and kindness.

beer, clams, and cartoons

The simple pleasures in life!

beautiful tacky

On a sticky afternoon while wandering around the Cais de Sodré area, the idea of cool, cucumbery gin and tonics seemed like just the thing. We headed to the Pensão Amor, a brothel turned kitschy bar, decorated in all the things one would expect from such a place: leopard prints, velvet, lots of red, sequined burlesque bra tops, and naughty figurines. It's pretty awesome (and much quieter in the afternoon than at night), but what really impresses me are the fantastic illustrations on the walls of the stairwell:



I'm crazy about the brushy linework, colour combinations and typography— it's something I'd like to somehow incorporate into my own work someday. Just look at that cotton candy pink, magenta, turquoise and green:



After we had enjoyed our drinks and were ready to face the fading sun, we stumbled upon this brilliant poster on a wall nearby:



Had this poster not been behind glass, it would have made its way back to Rabat in my handbag and onto the wall opposite my front door. Look at the teeth! The stubble! The layering of leaves!

a marcha é liiiiiiiiiiinda!

The Marchas Populares are a key feature of Saint Anthony's Night— a noisy parade of dancers and musicians donning Wonderlandesque costumes that somehow represent the different neighbourhoods of Lisbon, which are competing for the "best march". Each neighbourhood has its own song, choreography, and props, which elicit cries of "A MARCHA É LIIIIIIIIIINDAAA!" (the march is gorgeous!) from their supporters. As you can see below, Campolide decided to celebrate its prison, in a most fabulous and rather bizarre way:



Bairro Alto went with a clockwork theme for some reason, and Benfica seemed to be saying something about... pedestrianization?



It was awesome festival of glitter, tinsel, and all things shiny. There was even a dancing aqueduct and a parade of actual brides and grooms!

into the night

a sidewalk feast on saint anthony's night

Pedro has been telling me about the madness and wonder that is Saint Anthony's night for years, but we haven't been able to experience it together until now (well June 12th, to be exact). I think I expected something along the lines of a block party with a lot more sardines, and something about basil plants? Little did I know that Lisbon's heart would be transformed into a torrent of food, drink, parades and wonderfully tacky music that would last for days, with people squeezing into every available space to eat, drink, and dance. I'm still not entirely sure what the basil plants have to do with it all, but there were countless stands of neatly potted bushes for sale, and people wearing curly green wigs that were meant to resemble the basil. Sardine hats, sponsored by the local beer company Sagres, were being sported too (as you can see above).



It was decided between Pedro and friends that heading to the Graça neighbourhood for food would be the best strategic move, as the likelihood of finding a space to sit while eating was greater. P and I claimed a slice of sidewalk while Pedro and Pedro battled the crowd for beer, grilled sardines, and pork. We made a fine table out of a backpack, and got down to business:



Between the grilled sardines, the morcela, and the accordion-filled Pimba music blasting through the streets, I felt a lightness bubbling up inside me that I hadn't known in quite some time...



...and it was only the beginning of the night!

to lisbon

This has felt like the fastest year of my life. I really cannot believe it was a year ago that Pedro and I packed up our belongings and looked toward our new life in Morocco with such optimism and excitement, unaware of the challenges that were awaiting us. As I have previously and so briefly mentioned, it was a difficult year— one that had me fighting hard against giving up and quitting my job. In the end however, my efforts seem to have paid off, as the feedback I received from many of my students was some of the most touching and rewarding in my teaching career.

When the last bell finally rang, I locked up the class room I had transformed from a drab, dusty, and cluttered mess into a bright, orderly space with colourful murals (which I hope will inspire my students' creativity). I walked home, and packed my bags for Lisbon.



Lisbon, the city that glows even on the greyest of days, where white limestone-cobbled pavements and tiled facades play catch with the Atlantic light— where I can indulge in the most exquisite of greasy pork sandwiches or fine seafood and beautiful wines— where I can wear what I want, walk where I want, and look at whomever I want in the eye.



I can chomp on a pork steak and sip green wine while sketching a man on a paper table cloth. I can hold my husband's hand and give him a kiss in public.



I can be me.

zween

Yesterday I had the pleasure of having my hand redrawn with henna by a friend of the lovely lady M who keeps my classroom as spotless as it will ever get (I prefer to think of myself as a bit of a mad scientist in my room, with paints and projects and experiments all over— rather than admit that I clutter). When M saw the abstract result of the henna attack I suffered at the Oudaïa recently (which I worked hard to scrub off), she proudly showed me her beautifully stained hands and feet, and told me her friend was coming to school this weekend for the barbecue we were having— she would give me a much better henna experience. I couldn't resist the opportunity.

We sat on a picnic bench in the shade of a tree, different sized syringes of paste laid out in the sun. I selected an ornate design from the group of images that she had saved on her phone, but then asked her to create what she would like to. When she was finished, I showed it off to the ladies who gave their approval with a delighted "zween"— the word for pretty in Darija.

As you can see, the difference between the previous "design" and this one are massive— it's marvellous! I kept the henna paste on for about eight hours, flicking it with diluted lemon juice as I was instructed (typing my end of the year reports with one hand), hoping for a nice burnt sienna stain. When I scraped off the dried crust, it left behind a bright orange pattern, which I was told would darken over time. Here's how it looked this morning:



It seems as though the back of my hand is not as receptive to staining as my fingers are, though I like the gradient effect that happens as the design moves from my wrist to fingertips. Next time I'd like to have both palms done— I bet it would be zween!

better than peanut butter

I love peanut butter. I don't mean that mass-produced high-fructose corn syrupy paste that dominates supermarket shelves. I'm talking about real peanut butter— the unsweetened crunchy kind that tastes like peanuts. I'm a bit of a snob about it. As good peanut butter can be a challenge to find in some countries, I normally resort to making my own. Now that I have a fantastic nut guy around the corner from me (sometimes it's possible to catch a marvellous whiff of roasting cashews on the wind), I have begun my search for a nice food processor. However...

One afternoon while exploring Apia, a little artisanal goods shop known for its argan oil cosmetics and honey, I came upon this:



Amlou: roasted almonds, argan oil and honey— one of the most perfect marriages of flavour ever known to humankind! The nuttiness of the argan oil blends so smoothly with the almonds, and with just the right touch of honey, the amlou is delicately sweet. It's wonderful on toast, pancakes, and bananas. In fact, it was this amlou/banana combination that powered us through The Big Day and our trip to the Ifrane area.



Until I moved to Morocco, I had never seen or heard of amlou—I suspect this is because culinary argan oil might not be easy to come by on the outside. If you happen upon a jar amlou, or the ingredients to make it yourself, you must try it. Your breakfasts and afternoon snacks will never be the same!