De Wallen

One of the oldest parts of the city is now perhaps what most would consider the sleaziest. The neighborhood of De Wallen around the Oulde Krek is now known as Rossebuurt, the Red Light District.

Prostitutes here are tax-payers. While there is still a street trade, the majority of sex is purchased from a window display.

While there are women who work in the windows at all hours, the district gets really crazy at night. Roving bands of bachelors and tourist couples giggling at the site of it all.

Yes, I find it really disturbing and wrong that women are displayed as wares, but in reality, there will always be prostitution no matter the laws and it's much safter for them to be in a store-front.

There's a big concentration of sex shops, bars, peepshows, and slightly sketchy coffee shops in the neighborhood as well. The police here are more like peacekeepers, and they don't carry guns but they wear bright yellow vests. People selling hard drugs set up shop on the bridges openly in the red light district- it's one of the few things that are illegal, but it's tolerated. A Dutch friend of mine said of the police, "You could take a piss on an officer's leg and he'd just fall over."

The locals that I've spoken with are pretty much over all this, as they have seen and done it all as teenagers, and most of them lead pretty sweet and quiet lives.

During the day, the neighborhood is quiet. The day-shift prostitutes are generally sitting in their windows, reading or doing crossword puzzles in their underwear, occasionally getting up to tap on their windows to beacon a passer-by to come in.

One thing I did observe with much chagrin was the high concentration of tourist in sweatpants and trainers. Really, sweatpants? This isn't Walmart. Even growing up in Maine, you would have been shamed if you were wearing sweatpants outside of the gym. Paris might be close by, but clearly, not influential in this regard.

One of the things that I did want to buy but didn't was an antique tile. Some of them were so detailed and beautiful.

There's a great shopping neighborhood called De 9 Straatjes (nine streets) that has a wealth of cutesy boutiques and antique shops. It reminded me of what Soho used to be before all the giant chain retailers took over. One of my beefs with New York is how quickly it filled up with mall stores when it used to be full of unique small businesses that are now lost and gone forever.

St Nicholas, the French rule-era Catholic church. All the other churches in Amsterdam are Calvinist austere, but not St Nicks!

I was almost a little sad to have to return to Paris (woe is me). It's nice that it's just a few hours away on the TGV.

January in Paris

It was a dreary month, but not a bad one at all. Although I hear that the best is yet to come in February, weather-wise. Still, I was grateful to have a total of two somewhat sunny days, and a pretty snowfall to shake things up. While it doesn't get as bitingly cold as the Northeast US, it was nice to get some cozy sweaters out and layer on the knitwear. The days are getting noticeably longer and I'm itching to get out.

Two things that got Parisians going: The winter Soldes and King Cakes. The Soldes were impressively crowded and hectic as people scrambled for discounted everything:

While I don't know any hard facts, it seems like they are more shopping-mad here than they are in New York. While I see it as a way to depart with money in exchange to fill a need, Parisians shop for sport and for the fun of it.

The naked mannequins abound.

But some of the clothed ones left me unimpressed.

This swimsuit in the windows at Galleries Lafayette left me a bit awe-struck. Once you see a lumpy and bloated Native American on a swimsuit, it can not be unseen. Just try.

Despite questionable tastes of the window-dressers, the interior of GL is one of my favorites. A huge, stained-glass dome tops the main room, making it a lighter and airier place than most department behemoths.

I feel like it is a pretty appropriate shrine to fashion, and while I have yet found anyone who might actually help me in there, it's become one of my favorite Soldes haunts for potions and lotions and really nice bedding, along with the usual clothes and handbags and really chic accessoires.

All of January, the post-holiday diet is wrecked by the Galette des Rois glut. Traditionally, they are supposed to be for the epiphany, but some reckless soul deemed them fit for all Janvier long.

The only other King Cake I have made or tasted was that of the New Orleans style. It's a little much. It's basically buttery brioche stuffed with cheesecake filling, with sugar glaze and colored sugar on top. My teeth ache just thinking of it. It's fantastic. But alas, like all great things found in America, it is a bastardized version twisted and retold until it is unrecognized from its original form.

(picture ganked from Jeff Schrier)

I tried my hand at making a traditional French one using this recipe. It was excellent. In France, it is puff pastry filled with almond frangipane or marzipan. They aren't as law-suit happy here as they are in the states, so it is still okay to put a bean or a tinker toy in the cake for someone to be deemed king or queen for the day.

Some bakeries had gaudy candied-fruit topped versions, which is as close to the New Orleans version as I could find.

Any chance I'm anywhere near my favorite pastry place, I can't resist trying one of everything.

It made the month seem a little bit sunnier.

Furnishing my Future Palace

I had no real intention on purchasing and lugging around beautiful large-scale handmade rugs. Being a migrant with no real home makes it difficult to buy home furnishings. I'm loathe to buy as much as a tea pot without having to seriously consider the consequences of having to pack it up and ship it eventually. But alas, I am a sucker for beautiful artwork.

There were lots of places in Marrakech that had rugs, and Fes had its fair share as well. One place in particular caught my eye- Coin Berbère. The shop, a bit more enclosed than the rest, was filled with treasures. Amazing things. Antique things. Pottery and Jewelry and carved panels and weavings. I would have gladly paid admission just to look...it was a treasure trove. Not too many souk stands get a nice write up in the New York Times either.

The owner, Mohammed (oh, everyone other guy we met shared the name) motioned for us to follow across the street and up a narrow staircase. There, a room, bursting with color.

I knew this was the man I would be buying carpets from. It's just narrowing them down that's the problem.

We talked dyes, we talked tribes, we talked spinning, we talked sheep. Each Berber tribe has their own distinctive style and pattern and palate. Indigo, saffron, flowers, cochineal, roots, and henna are all used to make the amazing colors. Everything is handspun, hand woven, by Berber women, working for a pittance, with the skills passed on through the generations. It is much more than a mere floor covering.

Mohammed patiently pulled out the ones that fit the criteria. Not too huge, not small. Nothing with sparkles or too much knotting. No silk. No pressure.

I loved this embroidered one.

But they were all amazing, one-of-a-kind works of art.

Some of them reminded me of Gee's Bend quilts.

Mohammed had the habit of unfurling the rug dramatically, while simultaneously hushing everyone in the room.

I kind of fell for this slightly shabby antique:

But the more intricate ones called to me as well.

This one he called the "Berber Picasso":

It was enormous, but I wanted it. He says it sells for $40,000 at ABC Carpet in New York. Having shopped for rugs there, I believe it.

The idea of buying a house and decorating completely with furnishings and rugs from this store started playing out in my mind.

But remember, no pressure. He said, "Think about it. Discuss it. Come back when you are ready." Which no one else in Morocco has ever said, ever.

And come back we did. After browsing more rugs around town, I could honestly said he had the best of the best, and he had handpicked the finest out there. And we brought friends with us as well. And the friends also had no intention to buy, yet they went home with three of them.

I showed Mohammed the pictures I had taken of the ones we liked best. He pulled them out of the piles, put them on the floor, and sent his brother to fetch some mint tea.

I found out I was terrible at haggling. It was just too much pressure. Plus, the price he was asking, I thought it was more than fair for the amount of work that went into it. So count me out when it comes to negotiating something handmade.

"Close your eyes, open your heart, and take this rug home with you" Mohammed commanded.

Several cups of tea and bathroom breaks later, I went home with the above carpet. It's amazing. Now that it's home, I'm even more in love with it. It's my colors, all wool- natural grays and browns and mauves that were dyed with poppies and then left out in the sun to age and fade.

This one was purchased as well. It's much larger than the mauve one, with a sturdier cotton warp and it's mind blowing to have this currently in my apartment:

The colors...the patterns...

Our friend went home with the "brother" of the colorful one. It's the same pattern, but more negative space.

Which, if I wasn't so afraid of spilling wine, I would have grabbed that one too.

Everyone went home happy. Mohammed rolled up the rugs snug as a bug in a rug, wrapped them up with plastic and tape, and we were even able to put this in our hiking backpack for the plane ride home. He does ship as well, but it was going to cost way too much and take weeks (and I am just in love with La Poste in so many ways right now) so we opted to carry it out.

If you are ever in Fes, do yourself a favor. Buy a rug from this man.

Coin Berbère 67 Talaa Kebira (in the Haddadine quarter of the Fez medina) (212) 35-63-69-46.