Marrakesh, Morocco: and a tale of playing with fire

Someone recently told me that a study was done comparing non risk takers with risk takers. The non risk takers played it safe, of course. 

Meanwhile, the risk takers played with fire.  Of course.

But here's the thing.....guess how many times the play-it-safers failed a year?  

Twice.

Guess how many times the risk takers failed a year?  

Twice.

I don't know about you but I am throwing my lot in with the risk takers.....

and playing with a little fire.  

What do you think...........? Are you joining me?

Fire breather at Peacock Pavilions.

Marrakesh: and a tale of M.Montague {or an almost new me}

It’s my birthday this week and perhaps it was then so many days ago when it all started.  The day I was born in Egypt, in Cairo, in a hospital near the Nile.  I was born to parents who weren’t Egyptian but who were travelers and adventurers and do-gooders.  And Egypt seemed as good a place as any other to settle down. 

We moved from Egypt to Tunisia, spending our summers in Iran.  We eventually would wind up in New York with a container filled with my parents’ strange loot from all the places that they had been. 

Our home didn’t look like the homes of any of the neighbors.  And my parents didn’t look like the parents of any of the other children.  My father worked in Africa and persisted in wearing a khaki safari suit regardless of where he was.  Meanwhile, my mother breezed about in caftans – her dark hair and brows a marked contrast to the blond soccer moms. 

In my house, there were ethnic foods and ethnic friends and endless talks of programs to reduce poverty in far flung places. 

That’s the way I grew up.  And perhaps, really, nothing has much changed. 

As an adult, I hit the road and moved and then moved again.  From Washington to Senegal , from Bangladesh to Nepal , and from Namibia to Morocco.  And it was here in Marrakesh that I settled down, as much a nomad can, and built Peacock Pavilions in an olive grove – my very own bohemian enclave filled with my own curious loot.  I started this blog to chronicle my small tales, and I opened my shop to showcase my tribal treasures.  And because that wasn’t enough, I founded Project Soar – a social experiment in doing good.  I was my parent’s daughter after all and I had married a man as crazy as I was. 

It’s all grown organically, without rationale or a plan- everything scattered here and there on the web.  But now….now a little order.  My new site, M. Montague, that houses everything in one spot – my blog, my hotel, my shop, my nonprofit.  A place for all the things that I am up to -- my fascinations, my travels, my obsessions, my products.  A place for modern nomads everywhere. 

Come visit.

Marrakech, Morocco: and a tale of Moroccan caftans

Oh, you can take your short short.  And you can take your backless.  You can take your slit cut up to  here.  Or your transparent this and transparent that.  Or the one with the cut outs.  And the spaghetti straps (or perhaps the strapless).   And, it goes without saying the tight, the very tight, the very very tight.  

Yes, you can take all of those.  Every one.  Alone or in combination.  And yes, you're sexy, so sexy. So undeniably sexy.

Or you can take a caftan....A Moroccan caftan.  A beautiful Moroccan caftan.....

A different definition of sexy.  Yes?  

PS Which one is your favorite?  

Images from L'Officiel.