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It’s been quite some time since I’ve written–three years to be exact. Lots has happened: a pandemic, an insurrection, several deaths of friends and family, chaos and unrest, moral deterioration and unbridled hatred, confusion.

But none of that is what I want to write about today. I have just returned from an amazing three-week tour of Morocco. And the most phenomenal experience–besides the whole trip itself–was celebrating the 100th anniversary of the La Mamounia Hotel with finger sandwiches and macarons in the Salon de The’.

Marrakesh is called the Red City due to the warm, rosy hue of the original buildings manufactured from local mud burnt by the desert sun. It is also referred to as the Daughter of The Desert, somehow considered feminine. The city is timeless and legendary, much like Lady Sylvia Ashley herself.

A mere ninety-nine years have passed since Sylvia Hawkes vacationed in Morocco with her friend and fellow actress, Dorothy Field, as guests of the Duke and Duchess of Sutherland. At twenty years of age, it was her first excursion outside of England. La Mamounia–which means “safe haven” in Arabic–had only been open a year when she was a guest in 1924. How could she have possibly guessed that the new, dazzlingly modern Art Deco-Arabic architecture would survive an entire century in ageless resplendence?

The hotel has entertained many notable figures of the 20th century including the Fairbanks’ close friend, Charlie Chaplin; “Le General”, Charles de Gaulle; and U.S. president, Franklin D. Roosevelt. One of the bars has even been named after frequent guest and British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill.

In the second half of the century, other luminaries such as Kirk Douglas, Omar Sharif, and Nelson Mandela sought solace in its luxurious rooms. Alfred Hitchcock’s The Man Who Knew Too Much was filmed at the hotel in 1956 with James Stewart and Doris Day. It was from this movie that the classic song, Que Sera Sera originated. Ex-Beetle Paul McCartney also wrote a song in his suit in 1973.

And I almost wasn’t allowed in. The hotel’s policy is to welcome outside visitors daily between 11:00 and 4:00. Only guests and those with reservations are able to enjoy the safe haven at any other time. Not knowing this, we had dolled up in our finest frocks after a full day of guided sightseeing–all to places Silky had also visited a century ago–and arrived by dusty cab at 4:30. It was only the quick thinking and fast action of my friend and travel companion that saved the day.

As I stood crestfallen in the heat by the arched and fortified entrance, she called the front desk and made us a reservation at Le Salon de The’. After a few miscommunications and dropped calls, the security guard confirmed our reservation and reluctantly allowed us through. We crossed into another world, a sumptuous tropical paradise like Shangri La. There was no dust, no crowds, traffic or honking horns, no offending odors–just lush green lawns spotted with banana trees and flower laden gardens, birdsong and the rustling of palm fronds in a gentle, fragrant breeze.

It was a palace and just as beautiful as El Bahia. As grand as the Saadian Tombs, as majestic as the Kotoubia minaret. The two-storey-high ceilings were carved and painted, every column was decorated, with slivers of tiles set into intricate mosaics, every lamp garnished with colored glass. The pastry cart looked like a jewelry case out of Cartier’s.

We were seated at a cozy table with plushly upholstered armchairs in the corner of the salon. There was only one other table of patrons across the room. We tucked into our three-tiered tea stand of small crustless sandwiches, pastry confections fit for a queen and garishly colored macarons in pistachio and raspberry-rose flavors. It was heaven. It was my birthday and New Years rolled into one and drizzled with creme fraisch.

Afterwards we strolled all of the public rooms and I tried to spy the more permanent features that might be original, ignoring the draperies and furniture. I found a lovely pastel-toned, stylized mural along one hallway that ended in a very deco-like curve. It was most certainly commissioned at the time of construction or shortly thereafter. Then we headed outside onto the grounds, enjoying towering, white hollyhocks and sunset-colored hibiscus flowers. The evening sun cast the elongated shadows of trees across the lawn in the olive grove. The glorious day was coming to a close.

It gave me that same melancholy feeling I’ve experienced in England, Nassau, and Manhattan. The wistful sense that we’ve almost reached each other–me trailing just behind–only for her to disappear around a corner, just out of my grasp. Like the gossamer threads of a dream upon waking. All these decades since traveling and researching, writing and editing her life story, I am still following in Silky’s footsteps, across time. I guess I always will.