Luci put a large colorful folded pipe on the table.

  • Rape is a strong medicine. This is not a coke line in the toilet.  There is a need for meditation, you’ll cough, you’ll sneak, you’ll need privacy. We will do it after breakfast.
But we didn’t do it.

Because the terrace with a panoramic view of the mountains and the lazily rising sun began to enter procession of trays brought in by two waiters.
A thermos with coffee, a thermos with hot milk. 
A large silver pitcher of Moroccan (over)sugared mint tea.
A tray of cute saucers with marmalades, traditionally of orange, fig, and strawberry. 
Thick, dark honey.
Olive oil.  And a mountain of funny scraped butter.
Hard-boiled eggs. Next to the sugar bowl filled over the banks.

  • How do they work every day after so much sugar?  – asked Luci after the first sip from the minimalist white cup.  I didn’t answer because I’m already chewing on a pancake from another tray. 

Next to all of it, probably especially for us, freshly baked bread, sliced ​​in such a way that you only have to fill up it with butter and jam and eat.

  • Do the ladies want anything else?- asked Jozef, the manager.

 I was about to open my mouth with a smile saying: ‘kindly thanks to you’, but Luci overtook me.

  • I would like to have an omelet.
  • Two? – asked Jozef smiling towards me.

 I smiled and nodded.

  • Shall I also bring your orange juice?
  • Yes Yes!  Luci clapped her hands.
We eat calmly, as if we had the whole day, constantly shaking our heads from side to side and smiling at the views. 
It’s phenomenal. 

Atlas is not a random name for these mountains. I can see it right away.
This is a real atlas of fossils.
Overview of heights.
Mountain Encyclopedia.

Just behind the hectares of olive orchards surrounding the palace resort, right after the steppe plain is crossed, valance of mounds extends.  Slightly greenish, more trapezoidal, with gentle endings on all sides and flat tops.  They are so uniform in shape and identical in height that I could believe that someone formed them with a muffin sheet turned over side by side, in a row.  Cupcakes.  Three plates in the west.  The further south and north, the landscape changes. 

It is easiest for me to look West now, because from The East the Saharan Sun has already climbed and switched to heating.

Plain-unusual sponge cake behind the cupcakes.
There are villages.
There are paths and rivers.

What’s behind them?

There are mountains that I already know from Fuerteventura.
They are their cousins.
Sleepy Sphinxes, lying on the edges of theirs Saharan cuvette.
Only their giant front paws were visible, only those large plump toes.
Heads buried between theirs knees – better not to wake them up. It is better that they do not get up, because what is a symbol of beauty protrudes from behind them.
You can barely see it.
It barely protrudes above the sphinxes.
Just a thousand meters.
White and bare.
Cold and hard.
Concise from root, jagged at the top with wind.
It doesn’t need to be introduced here.
Her Majesty:

The Atlas Crown

That would be from The South.
And by noon I’ll probably be sitting here, on this castle tower with a view.  Luci is probably getting to the airport by now.  It was a painless parting.

  • Do you want my omelet? I asked her when Jozef brought plates.
  •  And you don’t want to?
  • I want.  I want to give you.

 She smiled and took my plate.

  • If you don’t write anything in three days, I send the police here.

  • Remember that you are complete, you do not need anyone to be happy. It was my golden advice for her, after our last night’s chat over the Bordeaux.
  • And you remember that you can be happy with someone.  Don’t shut up.
  •  I love you.
  • I love you.
  • March in Switzerland with Romain and Sabina? Consider this. I like this idea. I said, but she doesn’t replied, and walk towards the taxi.

I know that our paths will connect again soon.  If not there, somewhere without them.

I look West.  The West is a horizon.

In the foreground the last of the cupcake mounds is clearly bitten.
Almost gone.
And at first I am curious,
but after a while I get nervous (!) because I am thinking about intervening in this… phenomenon. And it is not for archaeological reasons – no one explores or discovers anything.

They steal there!

This is the peak of insolence and greed!

It’s a sign of ignorance and stupidity!

This is the embodiment of evil. For what? Why do you need these rocks? What will you decorate with them?
What do you do after with this selfish ‘ornament’?
How does it feel destroying, with conceit, this recently virgin landscape?

I curse you for plundering innocence. (!)
I curse you for disturbing the peace of hundreds of thousands of kilometers, years and lives. (!)
I curse you not into stone, which is a dormant life, I curse you into nothingness, only it will surround you. (!)

I move my eyes like a telescope. 

After the horizon. 
Smooth, almost flat terrain. 
As with the castle, the view extends almost to the neighboring kingdom…

It’s not desert. It’s nice.  Pleasantly.  The whole plain dotted with greenery.  A bit of view is obscured by the tips of the pines – the tallest inhabitants of the palace garden.  I notice that one of them I can personally say hello, so not paying attention to the south tower, I cross diagonally the sky courtyard, sky bar doesnt represents well its majesty.  I’m already west.  Here I remember where I am.  As if I just woke up from a fairy tale.  I stroke the pine tree and smile at the blue, empty swimming pools, the tennis-table tennis table and the aquamarine bar.  This is exactly how I imagine this color.  But I’ve never seen such a style.  Is he arabic?  Moroccan?  Barbarjski?  For me it’s alladine!  For me it appeared like a snap of fingers.  With a roof, wavy like a flying carpet.  With ornaments rolled up like a genie mustache.  Hanging from fairy tale lanterns.

It’s not desert.

It’s nice. 
The whole plain dotted with greenery. 
A bit of view is obscured by the tips of the pines – the tallest inhabitants of the palace garden.

I notice that one of them I can personally say ‘hello’, so not paying attention to the south tower, I cross diagonally the sky courtyard – sky bar doesn’t represents well its majesty. 

I’m already West. 
Here I remember where I am. 
As if I just woke up from a fairy tale. 
I stroke the pine tree and smile at the blue, empty swimming pools, the tennis-table and the aquamarine bar. This is exactly how I imagine this color! But I’ve never seen such a style. Is it Arabic? Moroccan? Berbers? For me it’s Alladines! For me it appeared like a snap of fingers. 
With a corrugated roof like a flying carpet. Ornaments rolled up like a genie mustache. Fairytale lanterns hanging under the roof.

And I could stay here for a long time, but now curiosity is on the zenith scale, almost like the sun, burning my neck. I go North, gazing at the twin tower, guarding the left entrance to the castle, hosting the restaurant where we had dinner yesterday after the trip.

The closer I get to the north tower, the more the horizon begins to wave and pile up in cones.
But not so pyramidal.
Nor those of Toblerone, which recently came to me straight with Romain, straight from Switzerland.
These here are wild wavy. 
So smoothly formed before Nature. 
As if for dessert, created from the sweet that remained after forming the rest of the Atlas.
From the first minute here they constantly catch my attention with their sympathy. 
As if they were saying: eat me, eat me, with your eyes …
But only for dessert. 
Because mine before them. 
I can proudly name them like that. 
My soles already liked them. 
First trip. 
First love. 
The road leads through three tiny concrete villages.  I would call them settlements. 
Several families. Happy people living in the shade of olive groves, eating pomegranate fruit hanging from time to time from leafless shrubs. Water flows from above. It’s not a river.  This is watercourse. Residents made it a concrete channel. It can be heard rumbling with its truthfulness, still telling the undistributed story of the source. 
Here a goat, there a sheep. And dogs. 
And birds. 
As if they were chirping about us. 
As if all were interested in our presence. If they could, they would ask a lot of questions. But they just comment, opening their beaks in a singing curiosity.

And we are walking. Our guide, a local hunk, as Luci called him, with a very shameful smile and emotional blushes, shows us the way with his hand and a grunt, because despite his knowledge of two languages ​​and our eight or more, we don’t know any spoken words. We are constantly giving ourselves the most beautiful language – the language of smiles.

The wavy path leading from the castle, through the foothills, Earl Salah escorts us in his jeep and then drives away waving the words: he knows what to do.

So we follow him.

No fear. Into the unknown.

Time and time again, to admire the full panorama.

Time and again chatting locally Salam!  or overseas Bonjour!

So peaceful here in this olive grove. It’s so friendly here. How gentle. Such air, which draws in together with the view.  Such views that there is no shortage of air.

On the way back, the last settlement is Hussain’s home

He invites us with his hand inside, through concrete corridors, blinking blue doors and windows. Small woven stools and a table are already waiting in the courtyard. Mom brings a tray with a huge and silver-glowing jug of steaming sugar tea. And she disappears.

Dad comes and proudly greets us with a French speech and a handshake.  His heart is clear. Hussain pours from the height into the first crystal glass and pours it back into the pitcher. That’s how the taste mixes with sugar. Now it starts with real pouring. In the meantime, the youngest daughter runs in and kisses everyone on the cheek at Dad’s order. Until the last, fifth, uncle comes from the tray. The eldest of the clan.

I am touched by such a party. I would love to sing them so much, but the voice is lost somewhere. Covered with sugar from tea.

When we leave the olive grove to the wavy path leading to the castle, the sun has already disappeared behind the snowy mountains. Now only the shades of pink and purple in the sky are mixed like from a Marrakesh bazaar.
Hussain bows to us at the castle gate, which opens before us like an automatic.

  • Dinner will be waiting for the ladies in half an hour in the restaurant.  I invite you now to the bar, please choose drinks.
  • Bordeux?  Why not? Smiles Luci.
  • I can’t believe I’m drinking my favorite French wine at the Marocco castle! – with sparks in her eyes knocking on my glass Luci.  Sipping in small sips we talk about what happiness is, what gives it to us and who takes it.

The sky above the mountains is becoming more purple. When it turns the color of our wine, we descend from the sky terrace to the restaurant. A restaurant open and served by a crew of at least four people treating us like wealthy princesses.

In the middle of the restaurant, there is a round for ten people. Candles. More glasses and more wine.

In a moment it comes on the table, like a Cinderella’s carriage, bulky and enormous, I have never seen a larger one, clay, painted in local patterns. A vase. Probably our peer, also speaking to us only with the language of a smile, is pouring steaming soup.  And we fill our small clay bowls several times, guessing what’s the second dish.

 Spaghetti.  I didn’t expect that.

 And for dessert a fruit platter, which Luci takes to the room.

  • Good night princess.
  • Good night.

And in the morning? 

And in the morning I don’t know what makes me more happy,
whether the carpets of green grass in January,
or a million colorful roses in the garden, although blooming, have not yet woken up.

Princesses do not start the yoga day.

They wrap themselves in a shawl and climb the stairs to the towers to greet the kingdom before the sun itself greets it. Such privileges prevail here.

The wolf has come. 

His eyes are bluer than all shades of blue around. 
And it’s so big and so white that it could easily pull the sledge from the Snow Queen himself.

But he is not a slave here. He’s here on vacation, just like I lay out on white leather cushions and peeks as I pour myself a fourth cup of coffee since breakfast and take off my fourth layer of clothing from the morning, remaining in a light blouse.

The sun is passing its zenith.  I put a turban made of my scarf.

I’m going for a walk in the countryside.

Today I am the only guest of this resort that can host six hundred people.

I go for a walk, but I turn to my tower. And I return to the room, not exposing the curtain, wrapping myself around at night again, slipping under the giant quilt of the royal lodge.

sitting area of my royal apartment
sitting area of my royal apartment

Lying, I breathe deeply thinking of Marrachech. 

About this six million crowd to which I got off the tourist bus two days ago.  Carrying in my backpack the most beautiful dress from my Godmother, waiting for her premiere in Africa. I dreamed of a session among these colorful flowers in large blue pots by the blue shutters. And stairs.

That’s how I imagined Marrakech.

Nothing could be more wrong. 

Marrakech is the color of faded brick. 
In the color of unwanted pink. 
In the color of forgotten orange. 
In the color of an old punch.

 In color: what am I doing here?

And all those memories that are not too intense in taste and sound, Marrakech will represent one for me.

Jemaa el-Fnaa

Médina bazaar is large and full.

For me, it is a metaphor for the life of a pale pink man. 

There is too much of everything. 

Despite the fact that we will never use or sell most of what we have,
we still add.
We add.
We add.
We add.
Even if it doesn’t fit anymore – we add.
We arrange. We add.
We rearrange. We add.
We decorate. We add.
We vacuuming. We add.
We wipe. We add.
We wash. We add.
We open. We add.
We’re closing. We add.

Always add something more.
Like there is never enough.

That’s sick! Isn’t is?
What is this for?

Couldn’t it be easier?

A moment of reflection and I end up in hell.

A moment to remember the stories of people who got lost here and had to pay for help in getting out.

A moment of inattention and I’m in hell.

Hammers breaking like in the forge of Hephaestus louder and closer. 
Iron tones getting closer. 
Fewer and fewer faces.

You won’t find anything feminine here.

It’s getting hotter,
getting darker,
getting tighter,
getting stuffier,
it’s getting hotter.

 Smoke and stink.

Like you fell under a train. 
Like you’re in a cauldron. 

And when you turn around
someone is always replacing your path
do not turn back there
although there are no official signs
there is one-way traffic.

You fall into the trap. 


We are led to this by glamor. 
Glamor pushes us in a mess. 
Glamor drives us a vicious circle – the more you have under you, the more you have on your mind.  The more things you want to have, the more worries you get.  And dirt.
Each object, even the smallest, is another eye for a heavy chain whose anchor pulls you to the bottom.  To hell of chaos.

 The less you have, the better you sleep.

I have never slept better than when I was in absolute celibacy, including vows of silence.
Rejection of any material value gives you a pass to unlock true spiritual value.
Slimming.  Relieves.  Detaches.

But you can’t understand or appreciate it until you experience it.

You can’t read wisdom from books.

Wisdom is read by itself.

First, however, you need to prepare a place for it, cleansing yourself of dirt, breaking free from chaos, relieving from materialistic mess, oxygenating. 

Opening your eyes closing your eyes. 

Opening the heart closing the mouth. 

Opening the soul, closing the ears.

Can something happen more beautiful today than this peace, when all I have to do is breathe and when I want, I can look at butterflies slowly flying over hundreds of roses sticking out of the rosemary maze?
Can anything more beautiful happen to me today than lying on thick, red carpets spread out over green grass, rolling from pillow to pillow, catching it on my left, on my right ear the rays of the sun serving me the African temperature?
Can anything happen to me today more beautiful than dancing under the stars, surrounded by enormous bonfires around and in the rhythms of Arabic, sensual music?

Sure it can!

That’s her!

It is thanks to her that I am here today.

A year after our last meeting, she invited me to a castle party.

She’s coming to me already.

She’ll be here soon.


Endless warm thanks for Salah for love and hospitality.
For Jozef and rest of Castle Crew.
For Hussain and his Family.
For Kristine.
For Romain.
For Luci.
For Julia.
Love and Light.

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