Green Oasis

June 14, 2013 0

Our place in Casablanca, Morocco – the countdown begins.

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#TGIF does not apply today: I’ve a weekend of cramming ahead of me, and neither Sydney’s weather schizophrenia nor my pristine island-hopping, sunny road-tripping Instagram homies show any sign of abating. Though, I’ll admit, I’ve been guilty of this crime against deskbound boredom, my flight to Paris at the end of June couldn’t be more welcome – never mind the things that need to be done before I go.

It’s going to be a long few weeks.

In the lead up, as always, it’s the Google Images and Lonely Planet Forums that keep you sane. You plan your days to the minute knowing full well that something completely different will happen altogether. But the champagne picnic with fruit salads and heart-shaped hand gestures and token baguettes and exorbitant quantities of flowers is going to happen. It is. I swear. Your most searched terms involve ‘hidden gems’, ‘secret spots’, ‘live like a local’, and other such private embarrassments in the name of swanning around your destination like a salt-and-pepper pro. And most of all, you memorise every corner of your

As I rambled on at length during my South-East Asian work travels, your crash pad can really make or break your trip – which is not to say that gold leaf and 2000 thread count Egyptian sheets are the go (why, yes, you’re out eating food and Instagram-ing all day), but the perfect weighted medium of aesthetic perfection and economic viability can work wonders (particularly if it’s a personal holiday). So, when my Casablanca Wimdu host sent across these stunning shots of my last stop in my upcoming Europe-Africa trip, it would be a cardinal sin to leave them unpublished. In all my time dragging my suitcases into rental properties, which I often prefer to hotels, this is by far the most most beautifully executed conglomerate of every incarnation of paradise you could ask for. Poolside, Summer blooms, white walls, bright colours, affordability, homeliness, modernism, luxury and local culture.

Not to mention, Cristina is the sweetest host you could ask for – and I’m not even there yet.

The extent to which my head is whirring with location editorial ideas right now is probably unhealthy.

Thank God it’s Friday.

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