The Visa Diaries

Have you ever bought a rug in an Arabian souk? I can tell you that it is a wholly different experience from buying one in Ikea or Pottery Barn. Here is how it happened for me:

I was wandering though the narrow crooked alleys of the souk (relieved to have found it amidst the rest of the narrow crooked alleys of the old city, because outside the souk I kept getting harassed by touts, but inside the souk, although there are aggressive salespeople, nobody seems to follow me down the street), and a kindly man hanging out the door of a textile shop asks me if I want to see them weaving the silk upstairs. “Ok” I say, and follow him up 6 small flights of stairs, to the rooftop room, where indeed there are two men working an old-fashioned loom. “Vegetable silk” he tell me it is, though I don’t really know what that is. The man is not pushy at all, and seems more to be showing me around than trying to sell me anything. He takes me out onto the roof and shows me by the roofs the five things he says every Arab neighborhood has: a bakery (you can see the chimney), a Koranic school for the kids, a public toilet, a hammam (with its domed roof), and a mosque (with a tower and minaret). The view across the rooftops of Marrakech is forested by spindly antennae, round satellite dishes, and golden minarets. All has a hot, lazy and charming feel about it.

We go back inside, back down the stairs, passing stacks and stacks of textiles and rugs on every level. I stop to look at some here or there, and finally, as if begrudgingly, he says he’ll take me to the showroom.

There are three American-looking college students already in the showroom when I arrive. It turns out they are form California. They have cups of tea at their feet, and all look utterly worked. The guy in charge of the showroom is younger than the first man, and has a friendly but persistent air. “You want that rug then? What is your best price for it?” he is saying to one of the Californians, who has his head in his hands. The guy doesn’t look up, but mumbles, “I’m thinking. I’m not sure I can afford it.” He looks totally broken. I sit at the other end of the room from them.

There is a young boy in the showroom to do all the heavy lifting. He shifts stacks of carpets and blankets to get to the one the boss wants to show me, unfurling it, holding it up, laying it down on the floor. Repeating till there is a stack on the floor. Then it is a process of elimination. “La” he teaches me, means “no” in Arabic. “Wa-ha” means “yes.” Go back through the stack they have laid down, telling the boy yes or no, which ones I like. That way he gets to know my taste, and goes for several more rounds, bringing more of what I like, unfurling it, laying it down, go through process of elimination. “La. La. La. Wa-ha.” It is getting intense. Somewhere during this process, the three Californians leave. Then, the boss draws the curtain across the door, and I feel like prey that has been dragged back to a cave for the final kill.

“Do I want some mint tea?” Yes maybe that would be nice, but I am conscious of incurring too much debt. Plus the tea is very sugary and I am trying not to eat too much sugar. Best to stay sharp for the impending negotiation. I refuse the tea.

We winnow it down. Apparently I like the true, old Moroccan, “primitive” designs – I keep rejecting the more ornate, more patterned rugs in favor of very  minimalist ones, that seem to have the elemental power of a Rothko or Motherwell. A few of them take my breath away when they are laid out.

Finally it is down to four. “You want all four? I give you a good deal for four,” he tell me. No, I don’t want four! I never wanted four, cannot afford four, have nowhere to put four. It is like one of those card tricks where the “magician” has been controlling the process, so in the end you happen to “choose” the card he wanted you to take all along. In this case, he may not care which rug (or rugs) I choose, but he has carefully controlled the process so that it is now impossible for me not to buy. The pressure is on.

I try to say, “Let me think about it and I will come back tomorrow,” but that’s not allowed here. “Come on,” he says, “I have shown you so many carpets. Hundreds of carpets, I have gotten special stock for you.” And, “It is not my prices that are expensive, it is your taste that is expensive. You like the old ones.” I have a splitting headache. I cannot look up at him, and am reduced to the same rocking, mumbling mess as those poor chaps from California.

There is really no getting away, so all I can do is bargain. If I refuse to pay what they want, I think in a brainflash, I will get away. So I stick to my final offer for two of them, half of what he originally proposed. In the end I do not get away – they grumble and groan (”I make no profit on this sale, you know!”) but agree to my price. I make him include shipping, and think that I’ve gotten a pretty good deal.

Although of course, it is his job to make me think that I’ve gotten a good deal. I wander back into the souk in a daze. “Come by for tea tomorrow if you are around!” he shouts cheerfully after me.

We’ll see how I feel when they arrive back in New Haven in three weeks…

(sorry no picture today…)

Long story… have come to Marrakech to experience different type of shopping (of course culture sights, etc etc as well) but find myself in slow cyber cafe with foreign keyboard. Will tell all when back on ethernet soon…

Speaking of modern glopats, I am off to Marrakech for 4 days, a last get-a-way before back-to-school and back-to-living-in-my-studio.

I am flying the bright orange beacon of cheap city breaks across Europe, easyJet. Despite the fact that nobody I know has ever flown anywhere for the £19 that they always seem to advertise, despite the fact that the trek out to Stansted often takes as long as the flight itself, easyJet is still a symbol of freedom and open cultural frontiers. It is one of the things that makes living in London a boon, because it means you can get out of London, and get almost anywhere, from Milan to Marrakech, from Riga to Rome, often for less than the cost of a big night out in London.

Although of coarse I am going for the culture, the ambience, the sights and the desert air, of coarse there is also meant to be an amazing souk, full of magic lanterns and flying carpets, presumably. So, I suppose that since I am there, I may have to go check it out. wink wink.

My glamorous and well-travelled friend Mak (one of the original Robert Palmer girls!) wagers in on what my purchases will be:

Stay tuned here to find out… Wheeeeeee!

Back to me and the bubbles at Hydro Healing. It was a lovely treat. I mean, how could it not be lovely to enter a calm, candle-lit, aroma-therapied, plush terry-towelled zone? How could it not be lovely to have a massage on a hydro-cushion (house specialty – you stay on your back the whole time and they sort of work their hands underneath you…) How could it not be lovely to have a facial with a special “suction-wand” that feels like fish kisses as it gently stimulates the circulation in your face? It couldn’t not be lovely.

It was lovely. I have to say though, that for some reason spa visits often disappoint. Maybe it is because there is so much anticipation leading up to them. So much promise of metamorphosis and transformation. Not only their own marketing materials, but every page of magazine editorial ever dedicated to the hot stone therapy at Canyon Ranch, or the thai herb milk bath at Parrot Key, are all building this massively high, unreachable promise for spas, that they will somehow make you feel like a model-princess with her own tropical island and staff of 200.

I didn’t feel like a model-princess after my visit. The massage was divine, and the fish kisses interesting, but unfortunately the towel under my neck during the facial wasn’t all that comfortable, and I think I fell asleep a bit, and so after the facial, all the relaxation form the massage seemed to have been for nought. Alas, the problems I have, no?

Anyway, truly the best part of the experience for me is the delicious REN products that they use and sell there.

I could eat REN, so much do I love their fruity whipped yumminess. Literally, I believe it would be ok for me to eat these products, as they are all natural. However, it s not only that REN, smell great and feel great that sends me into such a frenzy. Nor event that they claim to work great (lots of scientific research on natural ingredients sourced from all over the globe, don’t cha know). Its mainly that they *look* great. This is truly a brand created by typography and packaging, which as a designer, is truly the way to my heart.

The packaging is a perfect blend of cool modernist layout, with slightly quirky, softer typeface. The pumps have a satisfying feel about them, slightly space-age but not overly so, squeezing out ample amounts of the fruity whipped yumminess inside. REN has just gotten the equation right, hitting the perfect blend of science and nature for the modern glopat.

That last post was bollocks. I’d like to take back the statement that I had a bad day. In fact, it was was a really shit-hot day. I went for an informational interview in the morning (not looking for a job now, as I am still in the middle of my MFA, but am currently pressing palms and kissing babies as I will surely will be looking for a job next spring). What I thought was going to be a brief chat with one of the founders of hot marketing strategy agency Naked, ended up lasting for six hours! Not only did I meet lovely Ivan, who was off-the-scales in both “smart” and “kind” categories, but he also introduced me round for chats with Matt, Nick, and MT – all of whom were switched on, up to interesting things, and sharp as can be. Naked people are nice!

Why so glum then, 5 hours later, when I come to post? Well, unfortunately while I was swanning around Naked, I was meant to be working on another freelance project, for which I had a meeting to present concepts that afternoon. I didn’t get as much done as I should have, and so, while the presentation wasn’t bad, it wasn’t all gushing praise either. So the air went out of my mood like a leaky helium balloon.

The question is: why do I let a fantabulous morning full of positive energy be overshadowed by an afternoon of mediocre energy? Presented with two scenarios – feel great about A or feel shite about B- why would I choose that later? As my sweet and very positive boyf pointed out, that is just bollocks. So, in an effort to join to camp of the mentally healthy, rather than the willfully self-torturing, I am hereby revising my report about Friday: I had a brilliant day.

To celebrate my brilliant day, Saturday I had a little treat at Hydro Healing, a new spa that’s opened up in the neighborhood with all water based therapies. More on that later… gurgle gurgle.

I just had a hard day day. One of those that in the end will be good, illuminating, insightful, etc. When you hear ‘constructive criticism’, stuff you know is good for you, even though it doesn’t feel so good. I’m sure I’ll turn it around, blah blah blah. But hard, and emotionally draining. I am not woman enough to process it, not able to take it in stride and maintain perspective, right now.

On my way home I stopped at the local and had a:

pint of Hoegaarden. Then I got a big juicy chocolate muffin from the cafe next door. Gross, I know. Totally gross. Now I’m off to take a nap.

As I’ve mentioned, I am living on Portobello Road. Despite having been long ago “discovered”, despite the fact that it has gentrified to the point where the odor of fresh minted bills wafting from the pockets of resident Swiss bankers is now much stronger than the traditional smell of ganja, despite all this Portobello Road remains an active, happening, charming place. And of coarse, one with abundant shopping opportunities. The street market is the heart of the neighborhood, and the reason it has managed to resist as much of the blandification process as it has. (Also the trustafarians, who like to keep it slightly ratty as a lifestyle choice, but that is another story.)

Every Saturday, the world descends on Portobello – tourists of all shapes and accents mill from the Notting Hill Gate tube stop, through the antique stalls, through the fruit and vegetable stalls, toward the clothing and knick-knack stalls toward the Ladbroke Grove end of the street, getting solicited by head massagers and street performers along the way. For me street markets are like eating pie – despite seeming sweet and appealing to begin with, they soon reach saturation point when I want to run screaming from them. And of course can’t, because they are so damn crowded. So, despite having the market on my doorstep, I don’t often go shopping in it.

However, when I need a cheap and trendy treat, there is no better place. Recently this was the case with these sunglasses:

which I have also noticed Almost Girl Julie Frederickson wearing on several of her posts. I am the first to admit that I am not on the bleeding edge of fashion trends, and embarrassingly enough, I first clocked these shades on Victoria Beckham during all the World Cup coverage of the WAGS (wives and girlfriends, of course) fashion capers. Slightly ridiculous, but in the most of-the-moment 60s redux way, they seemed like the perfect candidates for a quick accessory fling, but not something to blow the child-support check on. (Not having a child, and hence not receiving any child support checks, is only all the more reason.)

Mine cost all of £6. They are slightly wonky, and have no nice monogram logo on the sides. But they do claim to cut out the ultraviolet rays, are surprisingly nice to wear because the lenses are so big that they cut out most of the peripheral light. I alternate them with my $200 pair of Armani aviator-esque shades, and lately the market ones have been getting more play time. Maybe its summertime, but a cheap rip-ff off Posh Spice’s latest bug-eyed silliness feels just the thing.

In case it is not obvious (oops – haven’t done the “about me” section yet) I am an American in London. I lived here for several years, then repatriated last September to do an MFA back in the good ol’ US of A, at Yale. But I am back in London for the summer, and living on fantastic Portobello Road, yes, two doors down from *that* famous blue door where Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts got it on the movie that made this neighborhood the icon of gentrified bohemianism that it is.

So, somewhat ironic that I take the first flight out of my country after term is over, only to go shopping in American Apparel in Notting Hill. Never-the-less, as recently noted on Adventures of an Urban Socialite, there is nothing like the pleasure of a fantastic, basic tee-shirt, especially on a lazy summer day. Wandering down through the market yesterday to my favorite coffee shop (Coffee Plant, fyi) it was one of those breathtaking days when even the most dour, cynical souls must practically skip down the street will delight in being alive – sunny, clear, not too hot, and just fresh and luscious. Now, Coffee Plant just happens to be next door to American Apparel, and on such a day, an American Apparel tee is all you want. Basically, they are straight out of the 70s, bright block colors, terry cloth, and all – even down to the less-than-subtle insinuations of child-porn and misdemeanor in the back of the family’s ‘wood’ paneled station wagon.

The beautiful thing about a beautiful day is that they are timeless – you could be thirteen or thirty. Or rather, if you are thirty, a fresh beautiful day feels the same as it did when you were thirteen. Summer vacation, lawn sprinklers, ice cream trucks and all. American Apparel’s slightly slutty ingenue next door feel is exactly the thing – it allows you to dress up your adult sexuality in the guise of budding, blushing adolescent nubiousness. In American Apparel you are the naughty babysitter, inviting boys over and smoking in the basement while she’d supposed to be watching the kids, or saucy counter girl at the local ice cream shop, serving more than scoops.

Ah, those were the days. Of course, I had to buy a couple small reminders of them – one in lilac, and one in pea green.

As I mentioned at the beginning, the point of this all it to understand better what I am looking for when I intone the words, “I’ll take it,” and hand over the credit card. Each time, it is with the wholehearted belief that sauntering down the street in that pair of boots, lazing by the sea in that bikini, or slinging that handbag over my shoulder with a casual flick of the hair, life will look different. I will feel different – more glamorous, more carefree. With just a little more of that ol’ je ne sais pas quoi.

So what is it that switches in an instant – gazing into an awkward mirror in a tiny fitting room – and convinces me that whatever-it-is is *just* what I need? How can I enter a store convinced that I am “just looking”, and then leave convinced I have found the Holy Grail? How does a thing, and bit of cloth or leather or whatever, become the ticket to je-ne-sais-pas-quoi-ville?

That’s what this investigation is about, and so far I haven’t been very systematic about this. In an attempt to be a little more organized, I’ve just put up some categories on the side, of the types of things that I buy. Each time I talk about something that isn’t in one of those categories, I’ll add a new category. Then I can go back and see if there are any commonalities between reasons for buying the same type of thing. Ie, each time I buy a new lipstick, or a new pair of sunglasses, am I always looking for roughly the same thing?

I’m also going to start a rating system for what emotional high I got from the purchase. This is retail therapy after all, so I must be about the emotional and psychological effects of the things. Again, I guess this system will grow from what I learn from each purchase, but I’ll start with this (fille din for the purchases I’ve already talked about) and see how it goes. Any comments/ feedback welcome!

So back to me and the bulk food bins at Fresh & Wild… After inhaling some of the farm-fresh whole grain dust, wandering through the gnarly-yet-strangely-appealing cheese section with its rustic eau de la vache, and feeling the fresh mist of the produce sprinklers dewing on my face, I did eventually feel my strength and sanity enough returned that I could face the non-organic world again. I will say though, that for me the health food store is one of my favorite refuges from the harshness of the modern world, a place I go to avoid reaching the stage where I curl up in the fetal position in the middle of the Oxford Circus tube station.

Health food shops have gone through a renaissance in the past 10 years. I remember going to the local one with my Mom, back in the 80s in Connecticut, where I grew up. It had the same lumpy produce and natural cosmetics as the Fresh & Wilds and Whole Foods of today, but the experience was completely different. That health food store (I don’t know if it even had any other name) was in a barely converted storefront in a strip mall, where the fluorescent lights and panel board ceiling somewhat detracted form the ‘natural’ vibe.

Today’s stores are all natural light, rough wood fixtures, and perky staff trained to tell you about the subtle differences between their 20 types of extra virgin olive oil. They have juicing counters and on-site chair massages. The cosmetics have gone from fruit-based concoctions of dubious efficacy to divine-smelling elixirs of organic-farmed essential oils. The gourmet whole food cafes are a place to see and be seen, the bulletin boards a place to spot well-branded yoga centers and nutrition councilors.

More telling, the clientele have gone from sad hippies mourning the loss of 60s utopianism, to young urban trendies happy to get their utopian fix in the form of an organic Fair-trade decaf soya latte on a sunday morning. Much more practical.

In fact, all I bought on my visit to Fresh & Wild was an Innocent smoothie, a real bargain at £1.89 (only about $20 at the current exchange rate). These smoothies may be small, but somehow in their cute, baby-bottled 250ml of pressed fruit they manage to pack in the all the emotional benefits of a health food store: feelings of supportive, wholesome simplicity, and yes… youthful innocence.

I mean, having my mood lifted by a bottle of juice? Obviously a sign of having regressed to about age 10. The age of innocence in a bottle… what jaded city dweller couldn’t use a sip of that?