Safe Space Check-in & Life with Plants (So Far)

In January, I mentioned wanting to make an effort with my living space which, if you recall, looked like this:

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I’ve been making slow steps here and there (and hitting you over the head with it), and as of several days ago, looked more like this:

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So, marginally neater. Most surfaces are still covered with paper clutter (my specialty), but I’m not stressed. It’s a marathon, not a sprint, right?

In clearing and tidying one space at a time, I’m reminded of another (tiny) issue: it looks a bit devoid of personality. Of course, it’s evident someone lives here. But who?

To perk up my apartment, I’m finally starting to invest in some indoor plants.

Apparently I’m not alone in this. The New York Times recently published this article about how millennials are filling their homes and workspaces with plants.

Until recently, I’ve only really owned a leggy dracaena plant (in the top photo) that I bought my second year of university. (I briefly had a baby aloe plant, but the lack of all-day sunlight – and no window sills – resulted in its unfortunate demise.)

The plant used to reside at my mom’s house. She had the space, the right type of light, and she’s got a super-green thumb. Then I moved, and she told me it was time to claim my friend.

Travel’s been the main reason for not having more plants. I didn’t want to wander off somewhere for two or three weeks and leave them to die from a basic lack of attention.

But since I can’t afford to go very far and my leafy companion looks bit lonely, I figured I’d try again.

I’d fully intended to start slowly – doing lots of research to make sure I got plants that were hardy, relatively low-maintenance, etc.

But one evening, my friend Renee offered me one of her spider plant babies — already a solid size with decent roots — and I happily accepted.

After I’d gotten it home and placed it in a jar of water, I briefly panicked. I had soil, but no small planters with drainage.

Enter YouTube. This enterprising green-thumbed spider plant owner was super-helpful and informative, and by the next night, voilà:

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I call my plant Val (for the cheesy Valentine Day-themed tumbler I bought from Dollarama to keep her in).

She seems to be doing well – she’s sprouted two leaves. So far, I’m doing something right.

Of course, this has now sparked a bit of an obsession.

Three weeks after bringing home my spider plant, I went browsing with a friend at Home Depot to get some ideas for other types of plants …

And against my better judgement, walked out with a lemon button fern.imag1601824270745.jpg

Now, some people say ferns are easy to care for; others say they’re among the fussiest houseplants around.

I’m doing my homework and trying my best, but let me put it this way: I don’t think I’m winning the fight to keep my fronded friend – dubbed “Vern the Fern” – alive. Vern currently doesn’t resemble the photo you see here.

Amid all of this, I’d been on the lookout for a plant that I thought was cute, but turns out to be one of the plants to own, according to Instagram and plant lovers: the pilea peperomioides, a.k.a. the Chinese money plant, missionary plant, pancake plant, etc.

When I started researching pileas, online information suggested that one’s best bet was to get a baby plant from another pilea owner, as trying to buy one can apparently cost you $30.

Thirty. Dollars. It’s like the Cabbage Patch Kid of plants.

However, one of the Facebook groups I’d joined had been (and still is) on pilea watch. The first time someone posted a sighting of baby pileas at Canadian Tire – for a fraction of the standard price – word got out and they were gone in almost no time.

The second time there was a sighting, I marched myself to the store the following afternoon and got one of the last three plants.

imag1611-1978273529.jpgFor now, I’m the proud owner of a baby pilea. About two weeks after bringing it home, bugs started emerging, so – thanks to some Facebook advice – I dumped out the soil, washed the plant and roots as well as I could, and re-potted it.

This is what it currently looks like. I’m watching it closely to make sure (a) it’s bug-free and (b) it lives. Keep your fingers crossed.

I’m currently on a break from plant collecting to make sure I can handle caring for my leafy new charges.

It’ll be a while before I successfully create my own private Wakanda – and I’m not aiming to own hundreds of plants – but I think I’m on my way to making my abode a little more homey.

 

 

The Final Stretch in Marrakech

morocco-march-2009-541Saturday, March 28.

Call it a case of last day lethargy, but I don’t really have a lot planned, nor do I want to. I’m tired, actually.

We saw the Djemaa el-Fna the night before, and I’m on the fence about returning. The only two things of interest to me today is (a) visiting the Majorelle Gardens and (b) trying to get in touch with my friend from work, who’s supposed to be in Marrakech with her fiancé for a family function. It would be nice to see them before I return home.

Home. That’s the other thing on my mind.

It’s not the destination that’s making me anxious. It’s the journey to the airport. How in the sweet hell I’m going to get from Marrakech to Casablanca? I haven’t even begun to steel myself for the long, god-awful flight itinerary back to Toronto. 

Before leaving for that morning’s outing, I see Will in the front lobby and explain my dilemma, which he offers to help me with. He phones around until he finds someone who thinks he can take me in a private van for 900 DH (currently about $127 CAD). He’s just awaiting confirmation.

It’s friggin’ steep. But not a choice I’m turning down at this point since my only other options are :

(a) missing the group dinner, taking the 9 p.m. train out of Marrakech, and sleeping on the floor of the Casablanca train station or airport overnight, or

(b) taking the 5 a.m. train Sunday morning , arriving at the airport around 8:30 a.m., and risk missing my flight. 

I also use Will’s laptop to try contacting my friend. She hasn’t been on Facebook for a few days now (duh – would YOU be?) so I’m unsure of what to do. At a tour-mate’s suggestion, I leave an e-mail, plus messages on her wall (and her fiancé’s as well) and hope for the best.

After, a group of us – consisting of Alex, Nikki, Grace, Amelia, Liz, Nonnie, Colin and myself – decide to start our day by walking over to the Majorelle Gardens.

Unlike last night, today feels MUCH cooler, and it’s slightly windy. I’m wearing my sandals, thinking it would be warm – but my toes are freezing.

After about 30 – 40 minutes (including a couple of stops), we finally reach the gardens.

Backstory: The gardens wemorocco-march-2009-559re designed by a French expatriate artist, Jacques Majorelle, in the 1920s, when Morocco was still a French protectorate.

The garden was opened to the public in 1947, and in 1980, the late Yves Saint-Laurent and an associate took over ownership.

(You can also visit the official Web site here for more information on Majorelle and the gardens.)

It’s really hard to guess how lush it is from the outer wall of the complex. From the minute we enter, there’s lush greenery – palms, flowers and plants – everywhere … especially cacti and other types of succulent plants.

Also everywhere: the shade of bold, blue paint used on the various structures in the garden – like doors, clay pots and the base of some fountains – named Majorelle blue, after the artist. 

morocco-march-2009-549There’s also a memorial to YSL in the gardens. (When he died, he apparently had his ashes scattered here.)

The little tile plaque leaning against the base of the memorial’s pillar says “silence” in English/French and Arabic.

We’ve only been in the gardens about 10 minutes when it starts raining. Again. Luckily I was smart enough to bring my trusty baby blue rainjacket.

Strangely enough, despite us folks getting wet, the rain seems to make everything in the gardens look even prettier.

Upon leaving, we split up. Nikki, Amelia, Alex, Grace and Colin all opt for heading down to the market straightaway. Nonnie and I take a taxi back to the hotel so we can change into warmer clothes and drier shoes.

Back at the hotel waiting for Nonnie, Will fills me in on the private taxi situation. Essentially the 900 DH offer has evaporated, and another offer – for 1,500 DH (about $210 CAD) – has taken its place. I’m incredulous, and a bit discouraged at the prospect of forking over THAT much money. He’s also checked for other options by plane and train. None. He says he’ll keep trying.

Nonnie and I set out by foot to the Djemaa el Fna. Of course, it’s NOW stopped raining and has gotten warmer than when we arrived a half-hour earlier.

morocco-march-2009-5771We also get lost when we get really close to the square. 

Somehow we end up around the outer wall and have to take the scenic route (by which I mean travelling alongside huge, high metal roadway guardrails, on strips of concrete one could barely call a pedestrian sidewalk) until we hit the Koutoubia Mosque (pictured at right).

The mosque is the largest in Marrakech. The minaret is said to have been used as the model for the Giralda in Seville, which I visited almost two years ago.

By the time we reach the square, all I can think about is my rumbling, empty stomach. Forget the market! We end up going to one of the rootop restaurants overlooking the square.

morocco-march-2009-580The service is slow, but I don’t mind.  While we wait, we watch the tourists, the snake charmers and other performers below.

After lunch, we return to ground level. We pass by one of the street performers, watching briefly. Wandering towards the entrance to the souks, Nonnie’s accosted within seconds. She’s looking for a little trolley to transport all the things she’s bought, but no dice.

Minutes later, we run into the others inside the souks. Nikki and Grace are sealing the deal on some jewellery they’ve bought; poor Alex has unfortunately been accosted by a local guy, leaving her quite fed up with the Marrakech experience; and I think in sometime in the space of the seven minutes we’ve been here, Nonnie manages to barter for yet another pair of shoes.

As for myself, I end up buying a pair of cushion covers. I get Nonnie’s assessment before I start the bartering process. While not entirely happy with the price, I at least hold my ground, raising my price in increments. It’s better than past barters I’ve made.

The group elects to meet near the post office ’round 3:30 p.m. to plan their next move. I opt to break away and hang out near the Koutoubia Mosque in hopes my friend and her fiance receive my Facebook message and can meet me.

I give it a half-hour before giving up. As I’m crossng the street, I see the others, who I thought had left at least 20 minutes earlier.

The girls hop in a cab; Colin, Nonnie and I venture down the street and discover a cyberpark. No, not wi-fi. I’m talking internet kiosks set up around the park grounds for public use. Call me weird, but I’ve never seen anything like it back home.

We do eventually find an internet centre, where Nonnie logs on to arrange her accommodation in southern Spain for the next day. I check my Facebook and – as luck has it – catch up with my friend’s fiancé via Facebook Chat. Turns out they’ve had a busy morning, checking out of the really shady riad they booked and finding a safer, less dodgy one. So sadly, our paths do not cross. 

We grab a taxi to the train station near our hotel so Nonnie and Colin can book their tickets for Tangier.

When we return to the hotel, I find out the issue with the private transfer has been resolved – Will manages to find someone who can take me to Marrakesh for 1,000 DH. Relieved, I chill in my room, relaxing into the pillows on my bed as I watch the back half of an American  movie with subtitles.

By the time we assemble in the hotel bar before dinner, it starts raining AGAIN. And it’s a downpour.

Will can’t find any petit taxis for us to hire, so he’s forced to arrange a minivan with the shadiest, most difficult driver we’ve come across in the two weeks we’ve been here.

Not only does he make us pay 200 DH upfront, he kicks up the HUGEST stink when we ask him (even with translation help from Alex) if we can stop off at an off-license place – near the restaurant, no less! – to buy some alcohol along with us for our meal.

Granted, he warns us (though not very nicely) that it’s closed, and it is -by the time he manoeuvres through traffic. But on top of his ridiculous behaviour, he demands another 20 DH. (What?)

We get our revenge in the end. As we’re piling out of the van, a middle-aged guy walks up to the driver’s side of the van and starts talking to him, probably about hiring his services.

We just turn and walk away from the van.

(To anyone thinking of travelling in Marrakech: If  you have to hire a van service and can’t avoid using Sté Transport Tahanaout, at least steer clear of a driver called Haj Lahcen. Yes, I’m calling him out, because he’s an ASSHOLE and he had the gall to give us his business cards … as IF.) 

morocco-march-2009-585Once out of the rain, the restaurant we’re at for our goodbye group dinner is quite nice, if more French-influenced than Moroccan.

I pore over the menu and order one last harira for the road (I can only eat about half of it), along with some pasta.

We make a gelati stop after dinner for the younger half of the group  and say our final goodbyes to Sally, Cathy and Nonnie, who head back to the hotel.

The rest of us walk down to this restaurant/bar, Comptoir Darna, for a drink. It’s pretty upscale compared to where we’ve been so far. I suddenly feel grossly underdressed. And the prices for drinks seem to match.

morocco-march-2009-588We stand, clustered close to the bar, and stay long enough to see the establishment’s other big draw – its bellydancers.

I don’t know what impresses me more – the fact these women can get their to hips gyrate while standing on the backs of armchairs, never mind on solid ground …

Or the loud, syncopated clapping of the male staff members in time to the music. (The similarity in rhythm to flamenco music strikes me. I wouldn’t be surprised if the two styles are distant cousins.)

We walk back to the hotel, spending some of our remaining time together just hanging in the darkened lobby.

THIS is when Colin finally decides to whip out the whiskey he’s kept closed during the trip, for a goodbye swig.

I wish my mates a final goodbye in the elevator ride up to our rooms, and begin the task of packing just before midnight. 

I finish packing just after 1 a.m., grabbing about an hour and 15 minutes “sleep” before changing and leaving my hotel room for the last time …

Plantwatch 2009, Week 6

Hey, folks.

It’s been a long while since I last posted anything about my Flaming Katy, given to me as a present for my birthday in late January.

Since the last post, which had a photo of a sagging Katy, I was determined not to let it die – especially after finding out the thing was covered with aphids.

And I damned if I was going to let the aphids win.

I found something to battle the bugs – my mother said it was a “green” product – and finally re-potted it in an attempt to save it from root-rot (on February 14).

Of course, it kind of lost a few leaves in the process, so, um … it presently looks like this: 

miscellaneous-021But hey, now.

Before some of you plant lovers and plantcare aficianados start tsk-ing, booing and hissing, I would just like say, on my own behalf, that I have been TRYING. No, really.

I check it to make sure no aphids have returned. I water it, too.

I mean, it’s not COMPLETELY naked. It’s been growing new leaves, so that’s a good indicator it’s not going to plant heaven …

And, look – it’s standing a tad straighter these days. Is that the attitude of a plant that’s going to die? 

I may not be the greenest of thumbs … but one thing I am NOT is a plant killer.

And this plant’s a fighter.

Katy WILL win.