Last week we took our first family vacation since Luca was born (not counting trips back to New York City and Utah). We decided to go to Marrakesh, Morocco which is only two hours away from Barcelona by plane, but a bazillion eons away in terms of culture and atmosphere.

This trip will be marked in my memory by my decision to carry all my money and credit cards in a giant pot mitt. “How did this happen?” you may ask. Well, I’ll tell you. Just as we were heading out the door to the airport, I decided to change bags, however, I noticed that the new bag didn’t have any small pockets in which I could carry my money. Wildly casting about the room, my gaze alit on a black pot mitt which was for some reason, sitting on a chair in my bedroom. It occurred to me that no one would think that there was anything of worth inside a pot mitt so it was the perfect thing to carry my valuables in. Unfortunately, it did not occur to me that I would have to remove my money from time to time, and that pulling an enormous quilted pot mitt out of your backpack every time you need to pay for something is not, perhaps, the most subtle way to avoid drawing attention to yourself and your belongings. After the first day, I just gave my money to Alex to hold in his more conventional money belt.

We stayed at the Hotel du Tresor where there was wonderful staff yummy cake for breakfast on a beautiful roof-top terrace and, as you can see, atmospheric decor.

We tried to take turns picking things to do. I would generally choose something involving food or attractive footwear (those Moroccans really know how to make a good slipper)  and Nico would choose jewelry shopping. Needless to say, this wasn’t exactly expected, especially since Nico has never shown any interest in jewelry before. Unfortunately, Nico struck up a conversation with a woman wearing numerous golden bangles on the airplane. Somewhere along the way she mentioned to him that in Morocco, even children wear jewelry.  Thus, as soon as we got to Marrakesh, Nico became obsessed with jewelry and he begged to be allowed to buy a ring. Not to wear, mind you. But rather as “treasure.” There are a lot of jewelry stores in Marrakesh (say, every five feet) which means we spent a lot of time gazing in fancy display cases and fending off aggressive salespeople who didn’t seem to notice that their mark was only five-years old and most likely, not carrying much in the way of cash.