Tag Archives: cat

The Little Street of Unbearable Cuteness

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Late in the afternoon of our first full day in Tokyo, having seen how big and modern Tokyo can be, we headed to a small district that retains much of the texture of pre-WWII Tokyo–smaller houses, narrower streets, no high rises. And its own pedestrian shopping street.

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It is . . . the Little Street of Unbearable Cuteness. And a notable feature of this street is . . . cats!

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On the signs . . . cats!

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Prominent among the merchandise . . . cats!

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On the rooftops . . . cats!

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In the windows . . . cats!

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Wait a minute! Let’s look at that last one again!

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Is that, “No cat, no life”?

And yet, and yet, we saw no live cats on the Little Street of Unbearable Cuteness.

Fes – shops

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Of course a person could hardly stay out of the shops in the medina if she tried. (I say “she” here because Mr. I-Hate-Shopping, a.k.a. Dan, did not seem to share this problem.) Everything was interesting, desirable, and infinitely photogenic. I’ll let the pictures speak for themselves.

Herbs and essences

Spices and herbs

Olives and pickles

Chickens and eggs. (So *that’s* where all the crowing was coming from!)

Camel’s head and other meats

Hand-loomed fabrics

The loom in the back of the shop, where some of the fabrics were made

Musical instruments

Antiques and odd objects. Cat not for sale.

Yes, of course, rugs. Beautiful rugs in a beautiful space. What’s a medina without rug stores?

Fes – Ryad Salama

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Our experience in Fes, though short, was so dense that I hardly know where to begin. Probably the easiest thing is to begin with our “home” in Fes, the peaceful Ryad Salama.

The cat is a real cat–one of Fes’s many charming feline inhabitants–and not part of the signpost.

Ryad Salama is a “ryad” or “riad” converted into a bed & breakfast, and run by the charmant Michel Trezzy. A ryad is a large structure oriented around an interior courtyard. This one offers six rooms and a suite; our room, the Amandine, had a king-size bed, a sitting area, and a private balcony overlooking the courtyard and pool area. Lovely! Here are pictures of the door to our balcony and the rug in the sitting area (made of “cactus silk, a fiber spun from a variety of agave cactus, this rug inspired us to purchase a rug made of the same fiber in the same soft colors).

 

Here are views of the courtyard and pool from our peaceful balcony.

   

I should add that the food here–both French and Moroccan menus are offered–was very good. As was the Moroccan wine.

 

Gwenny

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Russian blue cat on a black chair. This is a color photograph, not black-and-white; and it is not a negative.

Gwenny has thick, plush fur of a uniform dark gray color with a shiny silver undercoat that under a direct light highlights her outline (and makes petting her feel like sinking your fingers into butter). Gwenny weighs eight pounds. She is eighteen years old and can still teleport like a kitten when the mood strikes her. Which is not now.

Cat in sink

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Amber is a peaches-and-cream Maine coon cat. Like all cats, he takes himself seriously. And characteristically of male Maine coons, he is completely lovable and goofy–in short, hard to take seriously. Here he rests in a sink half his size–which, in case you’re wondering, is 23 pounds (the cat, not the sink)–wondering what I’m doing with that little flashing box.

Atavistic

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As I sit at the kitchen table going over the program for Worldcon 67 (Anticipation 2009), the sky darkens. And then really darkens. Rain pours so heavily it drowns out the sound of the waterfall. Flowers are subjugated into down-facing humiliation, and I marvel that they have evolved to stand such a beating.

Thunder roars.

Amber, who has been napping at the edge of the rug, looks up in alarm. As the thunder strikes again, he scrambles, terrified, to his feet.

Amber the cat

Amber, the world's silliest, most doglike cat

I try to soothe him. “It’s okay, Kitty. It’s all right.”

But Amber is not to be soothed. He knows that whatever this is, is horrible. He slinks from the room, keeping as low to the floor as he can. Later, I find him hiding on a chair pushed far under the dining room table. He won’t let me touch him.

Thunder

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A thunderstorm is passing overhead. A flash of lightning, mostly obscured by the trees is closely followed by a loud crack and a persistent roll of thunder. Amber, who the moment before had been sleeping by my side, is instantly alert. His head jerks up. His eyes are wide; his pupils, dark. His ears antenna in all directions. The sound passes. Amber rests his head on his paws again.

I suddenly understand that wherever we get this fear of lightning and thunder from, it’s very deep and very ancient.