My Friend Anna

by Rachel DeLoache Williams

  The bill came to $236.24, which, once again, I paid.

  After lunch, Anna asked the front desk for a tour. We saw a sampling of the hotel’s twenty-eight bedrooms, from suites to Berber tents, each decorated in a unique style blending traditional Moroccan furnishings with antiques from all over the world. We passed by the turquoise swimming pool—the property’s centerpiece—and, at Anna’s urging, we strolled through the fragrant, manicured gardens to see the two tennis courts located within the greenery. I couldn’t tell if Anna was acting interested just for fun, if she was doing research for her foundation, or if she was sincerely curious. She toyed with the idea of making a reservation for the following week, but dropped the discussion when I reminded her that I was leaving for France.

  Back in Marrakech, we went directly from our excursion to Dar Yacout, a restaurant situated within a former medieval home, where we began the evening with a glass of wine on the roof. Beneath a cobalt-blue sky, Gnawa musicians in bright-red costumes sat cross-legged on a rug, playing their instruments for a crowd of appreciative listeners, many of whom took photos and videos, like Anna, Jesse, and I did. We were exuberant. Anna, especially, looked joyful—maybe the most relaxed I’d seen her during the whole trip. She and Jesse had struck up a nice rapport, each making comments and jokes to make the other laugh. All three of us, in fact, were getting along very well. Once that silly drama from the first night passed, it had been smooth sailing.

  Dinner at Dar Yacout was a drawn-out and heavy affair, a luxurious five-course feast, with huge serving sizes and plenty of wine. We sat in a salon, tucked within a cushioned booth, with a view of the courtyard and tables scattered with rose petals all around us. The meal went on for ages. It was the type of rich food in the type of cozy place that makes you feel almost too relaxed to remain in public. Once we finally finished, we decided to relocate to the courtyard for tea before calling it a night. I can’t remember anything we talked about, but I do recall laughing about the day and feeling glad that we’d gotten to cover so much ground: driving through the Atlas Mountains, seeing Kasbah Tamadot, and now eating in this over-the-top restaurant. The vacation hadn’t been quite what I expected. We had fewer activities planned than I had imagined, and we were working without almost any structure. But looking back on it now, I felt lucky to be there, a jillion miles from home, and filled with gratitude to Anna for having invited me.

  It was late when we got back to La Mamounia. We entered through the hotel’s main lobby and immediately two managers stepped forward. They pulled Anna aside, and she sat down to make a call while Jesse and I lingered awkwardly nearby. At first neither Jesse nor I paid the situation much mind, but as we stood there, the hotel employees around us were growing visibly flustered. Jesse began to talk with one of them. I couldn’t hear their conversation, but Jesse later told me that someone had been fired because of the trouble with our villa’s payment.

  After about a minute, Anna, who was out of earshot but appeared to be speaking clipped phrases into her cell phone, began walking through the lobby in the direction of our riad. Jesse and I followed. So did the two managers, who, once inside our villa, stopped ominously at the edge of our living room. I offered them chairs, but they declined. Anna sat in front of them, intensely focused. I excused myself and went to bed, acutely embarrassed and sure there was nothing I could do anyway.

  The next day was when it all went wrong. A panicked morning that turned into the perfect storm. The hotel managers in the living room, demanding a card. Me, caving to the pressure and giving them mine. When I packed my bags and climbed into bed that night, I was hoping to leave before Anna got up.

  But the next morning, she woke up when I did. She floated behind me like a sleepwalker while I gathered the last of my belongings. Trying to put some distance between us, I rolled my suitcase into the living room and went out into the courtyard, where Adid brought a plate of fruit and some coffee. Soon, Jesse emerged from his room, groggy and shirtless, and the three of us sat around the table, Anna with her legs crossed, tugging at a hangnail with her teeth, while Jesse was perched over his phone. No one said much. Like kids after a stay at summer camp that had lasted just a little too long, we were ready to go.

  “Don’t have any fun without me,” I said to Anna and Jesse, as I passed my suitcase to the driver in front of our riad.

  Jesse hugged me. I hugged Anna.

  “Thank you so much,” I said to her.

  Goodbyes were exchanged, and I climbed into the back seat. Looking out at Anna and Jesse, I made a sad face showing how sorry I was to leave. In truth, I was relieved to be saying goodbye after the chaotic and stressful billing situation that had occurred—but I was also grateful to Anna for inviting me on such a lavish vacation. I had enjoyed a lot of the trip: the luxurious riad, the incredible meals, the private guides. It was an extremely generous gift, and I viewed it as such.

  At this point I thought that Anna would pay the hotel bill when she checked out—and, worst-case scenario, if the charge on my personal card were to stay there (without a credit for the same amount, as the hotel promised), Anna would repay me the following week when she wired reimbursement for the flights and expenses from outside the hotel. This was not an arrangement I had agreed to in advance, but considering the way things had played out, it felt as though I had no choice but to go along with it. Sure, I was annoyed by Anna’s cavalier disregard for logistics, but this is just how she was. How she had always been. A rich girl disconnected from the mundane stressors of monthly billing cycles; who’d gone on an expensive vacation and not told her parents; who’d blown through her allowance and been forced to stall for time; who’d backed herself into a corner but could easily sort things out. And I trusted that she would. I believed in her.

  Chapter 8

  Reprieve

  * * *

  Eager to leave Anna and the riad behind, I arrived at the airport early, checked in, and flew through security. I used my downtime to write two postcards (featuring pictures of camels in the desert), mementos from Morocco: one to Nick and one to my parents. They were handwritten highlight reels: “Hello, isn’t this card cute? I love you, see you soon.” Neither included any mention of Anna. Lacking postage stamps, I slid the postcards into the book I was reading (White Teeth, by Zadie Smith) and went on my way.

  I had taken two whole weeks off from my job at V.F., a record for me, since vacation days were scarce and there was rarely a good time to be away from the office. (Print magazines operate on a relentless cycle.) It had felt like a stroke of luck to find this window in mid-May. I would go from Morocco to Nice, where I planned to rent a car and drive through Provence, before meeting colleagues for the Annie Leibovitz opening in Arles.

  * * *

  When I touched down in Nice, I switched on my cell phone and immediately received a text from Anna. It was the day that she and Jesse had originally planned to return to New York. I say “planned” because Anna had kept her itinerary flexible by design, booking only one-way flights to Morocco so that her return travel could be decided at a later date. (I’ll deal with return flights later, she had texted.) She eventually chose to extend her trip by a few days to stay at Kasbah Tamadot, the resort that we’d visited earlier in the week. Jesse, who was relying on Anna for his flight home, was along for the ride. It was from the Atlas Mountains that Anna was texting me.

  I’m catching up on emails now, will forward you your confirmation as soon as I get it, she assured me. She then told me that, before she left La Mamounia, the tall manager had stopped by our riad one more time.

  I gave him your contact he said he’d like to email a thank you note, Anna said.

  I puzzled over this statement for a good two minutes before her next text arrived.

  Will you rather have the whole total wired to your chase [bank account] and you decide what you want to take off your amex? That way you can email them directly with all instructions?

  The question didn’t make sense. Email who with instructions?
Of course I wanted Anna to wire the money to my checking account. Was it even possible to wire money directly to American Express? Yes, maybe, but the idea confused me. I’d already sent her my bank account details, along with an itemization of expenses.

  Yes, whole bill wired to chase is best thank you so much, I replied. I’ll just apply it separately to the Amex.

  She seemed to understand. That way you can decide what works best for you and also get all points, she reasoned, incentivizing the transaction with her mention of Amex reward points. Another text quickly followed: Thanks again for stepping in, greatly appreciated!

  It was then I understood that Anna intended to apply the full hotel bill to my account, to add it to the total she owed me from expenses we incurred outside the hotel. I wasn’t sure how that would work—I didn’t think it was actually possible. How had she left La Mamounia? And how did she check into another hotel?

  I sent three texts in rapid fire:

  I don’t know if the whole bill will go through.

  You’re welcome, thank YOU for the trip.

  Just hoping we can get the wire etc. sorted today because I’m nervous about my cards not working for the weekend. Sorry to be a bother.

  It seemed like a foregone conclusion that the entire hotel bill would be on my credit card. We were both already gone from La Mamounia, but I trusted Anna to reimburse me as she’d promised. What else could I do?

  I’ll wire you 70,000 [USD], that way everything’s covered, she wrote.

  That was more money than I made in a year.

  Thank you so much, Anna, I replied.

  Minutes later she copied me on an email to the hotel:

  . . . following up on my last email. Can you please send me the total bill and the summary of all charges that have been put on Rachel’s card. Appreciate your assistance - Rachel was nice enough to provide you her card but it’s my responsibility to make sure all parties are covered. Looking forward [to] receiving it before the EOD today. Thanks, AD

  * * *

  Even though I’d never been to the South of France before, it felt familiar and welcoming. My aunt Jennie—my mom’s oldest sister, a world traveler and fellow Francophile—had given me recommendations that I’d dutifully recorded and mapped out. I’d picked a route, booked a rental car in advance and lodging for each night, and loosely planned for each day, leaving ample room to wander.

  I settled into a small guest room at Hôtel Nice Beau Rivage, which was simple but lovely, and in a great location—only a block from the sea, and a short walk from the city’s charming old town. Since I had only one evening and morning scheduled in Nice, I rested briefly after my arrival before setting out to explore. The narrow roads were lined with colorful storefronts, drenched in the yellow of the warm evening sun. I carried a camera around my neck and with it a sense of purpose: taking pictures was an activity that I could do alone, which encouraged me to take in and engage with my surroundings.

  Over the course of the day, Anna kept in touch via text message. During the night, she sent an update on the wire transfer: I’ve initiated everything today, will forward you the FedRef [Federal Reference Number, used for tracking wire transfers] as soon as they email it to me. Hope you’re having fun.

  The next day was the third Saturday in May, a market day. The sky was clear blue and the air was cool in the shade. I left the hotel early to revisit the Old Town for breakfast and to explore the open-air antique market in Place Garibaldi. I admired the furniture and bric-a-brac, content to collect photos in lieu of things.

  My time in France was quickly becoming the opposite of my time in Morocco: modest lodgings and full cultural immersion replaced the decadence of La Mamounia and the lack of meaningful exploration. Marrakech was already feeling far away and long ago.

  As checkout time approached, I made my way back to the hotel through the Promenade du Paillon, a park that separated the newer parts of Nice from the historic Old Town.

  Along the walkway, geysers erupted at seemingly random intervals: spouts of water that shot upward, sometimes high, sometimes low. Drenched children dashed through and around the fountains, testing their bravery and trilling with laughter.

  * * *

  The wire with my reimbursement had been initiated, Anna said; I only needed to wait. But at the front desk of Hôtel Nice Beau Rivage, I was abruptly reminded of my financial strain. American Express had raised my limit just enough for me to safely leave Morocco, but when I tried to use my credit card in Nice, it wouldn’t go through. Fortunately, the day prior had been a Condé Nast payday, so I’d received two weeks’ salary via direct deposit into my checking account, as usual. I used it to pay for the hotel.

  I collected my suitcase from the front desk and went outside for a taxi. I sent a text to Anna: Hi Anna - my Amex isn’t working, I have enough cash for the weekend but hoping the wire can be processed on Monday so I’m able to make a payment to Amex. Pause. I hope you guys are off riding donkeys.

  It shall be credited on Monday first half of the day, she replied. A relief.

  I took a taxi to pick up my rental car. I’d never driven a car abroad before, but I tried not to overthink it. At least in France they drove on the same side of the street as in the US.

  Driving was calming and intuitive, and I made good time to Aix-en-Provence, where I spent the first part of my day just wandering around. Then I drove ten minutes north to Paul Cézanne’s art studio, Atelier des Lauves, where I was excited to see the light, landscapes, and vignettes that inspired a painter I’d admired since childhood. The furniture in his studio was pushed to the perimeter, where it supported still-life subjects: skulls, bowls, fruit, and canvases, arranged in familiar tableaux. It was a pleasant but odd experience to “see behind the curtain” of his paintings—Cézanne’s studio felt almost quaint compared with the artistic magnitude of his work.

  Afterward, I drove another twenty minutes north to Château La Coste, where I traipsed along winding paths, toured two art exhibitions, and rambled through a sculpture garden. The grounds were modern and imposing after the more subdued elegance of Cézanne’s atelier.

  I arrived at Lourmarin just before dinner, pausing as I neared the walled village to photograph fields of poppies set afire by the afternoon sun. A man named Adam, about my age, checked me in for a two-night stay at Le Moulin de Lourmarin, an olive oil mill from the eighteenth century that had been converted to a boutique hotel.

  Early the next morning, I walked a short way to the Cimetière de Lourmarin, taking photographs as I passed through town. The outing felt appropriate for a Sunday morning, and I went through the motions with a certain spiritualism, thinking of Patti Smith and her pilgrimages to sacred old places. I circled the small cemetery twice before finding Albert Camus’s austere grave, set within a small plot of fading daffodils.

  * * *

  At ten o’clock the next morning, my phone buzzed with a text from Anna.

  Hope you are good, she said. Will make sure the wire gets settled today. Like clockwork, she chimed in with an update before I’d even asked.

  Thanks you thanks you, I replied.

  I departed Lourmarin for a day packed with activities. I perused a market in Lauris, marveled at the views of Bonnieux, toured a monastery in Gordes, retraced Aunt Jennie’s footsteps in Venasque (where she’d once rented a house), and at last arrived in Villeneuve-lès-Avignon. My hotel for the night was the fanciest I’d booked: Le Prieuré, a Relais & Châteaux property that had been converted from an old priory. I’d made the reservation through a discount website for less than $200.

  It was heavenly. Ancient, ivy-covered stone walls, turquoise shutters, large windows with white trim, and, best of all, a cottage garden, perfect in its overgrowth. After a walk through the medieval town, I went to the hotel’s restaurant for dinner. My table was outside on a terrace facing the garden, so I watched its blooms and branches like a show. Birdsongs mixed with the murmur of neighboring conversations. Sunlight turned the scenery from a bright y
ellow-green to gold. I was spellbound, and deeply glad to be there. The past few days had marked the first real vacation I’d ever taken alone, and it was drawing to a close. Even though I was staying in France for the rest of the week, I’d be with colleagues. As I sipped Côtes du Rhône between bites of cheese, I felt pleased with the decisions I’d made and the sights I’d seen, and proud of my self-sufficiency.

  The day ended just as it began—with a series of text messages from Anna.

  One: Hey.

  Two: All good?

  Three: Let me know once you see the wire from your side. Hope it didn’t cause you too much trouble this weekend.

  I checked my bank account. Nothing. Hi hi! Haven’t seen it yet. Maybe tomorrow. I’m good!! Not too much trouble thank you, just using my debit card but I’m at my last 1k. Meep. You guys leaving tomorrow?

  Yes trying to get a helicopter to go straight to Casablanca and not have to sit in a car for 4h.

  Whoa, I replied.

  Getting to know local cops to get the permits haha.

  jeez girl. you a mover and a shaker.

  The next morning, I returned my rental car in Avignon. My colleague Kathryn and her husband, Mark, were picking me up in their car later that afternoon so that we could ride together to Arles, where we would share a large Airbnb. While I waited for them, I visited the Pont d’Avignon and then walked into Avignon’s centre-ville, or town center, where I spent a few hours roaming.

  Anna texted that afternoon, but only to complain again about Neff. Neff had bragged on Twitter about having heard Tha Carter V—an unreleased Lil Wayne album that had come into the hands of Martin Shkreli, who shared some of the tracks with Anna, who in turn played them for Neff.