The chap who painted "Kalaat M'Gouna Valley of Roses" on the tin shutter barely lit by a dangling bulb near our bus drop-off, knew exactly what he was doing. Though we arrived in the middle of the night, it was clear that few locals spoke French let alone English. Yet, there it was, "Valley of Roses" in English. Courting the hearts of every American female raised on Disney and Valentine's. No matter how often I hear "Valentine's is so commercial" or "Disney is so sexist", mention roses to such a gal and she turns into putty even if she doth protest the rose. Give her a bouquet and you'll never have to wonder the difference between happy and slaphappy.
The town was a rest-stop rather than a destination for us, once I read that ad however,
Valley of Roses?? I have to come back. (I'm sure you can surmise why... )
Nary a petal on the ground or scent in the air (it was autumn), our senses were still aflutter. The sienna dusk against abandoned casbahs, the succulent air of wild fruit trees, the freshly made doughnuts at our riad (we all know which won my
heart), all charming us to reconsider our plans.
Unfortunately, he was dealing with two list-obsessed Americans. Our
everlasting obsession had us heading towards the Ksar of Aït-Ben-Haddou, then onwards. Which was fine by me, because life would be interminably boring if I crossed off everything on my lists.
Length of Stay
Two days
Docking Index
Five anchors, I know, I know not again. But a rose isn't a rose until it blooms. (I'm on the verge of writing a poem at nine in the morning -- I need to get on with my life.)
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