Sipping pastis poolside at Club Med Marrakech, where the sun’s relentless and the kids are screaming joyfully in the distance. A week here with the family, and this place—charming, manicured, a touch surreal—has me thinking of Baudelaire’s La Vie Antérieure, that dreamlike nostalgia for a lost golden age. Except here, it’s not lost; it’s packaged, all-inclusive, for the French petite bourgeoisie to lap up like a well-chilled rosé. Why does Club Med endure? It’s the French Dream distilled: a microcosm of grandeur, a temporary escape from the slow, grinding collapse of the everyday. Everyone’s here—boomers reminiscing over Gauloises-soaked summers, young athletes chasing Instagram glory, families wrangling toddlers. Yet, there’s an odd egalitarianism. The basic package gets you the same buffet, the same trapeze lessons, the same open bar as the guy in the Lacoste polo. No VIP nonsense, just a leveled playing field of leisure. Kids swarm the Mini Club, defying France’s birthrate slump with shrieks and sunscreen. Grandparents, parents, teens—they mingle in a harmony born of cultural uniformity, a shared understanding of what “vacation” means. The staff, mostly GOs from former colonies, glide through with smiles and service so seamless you almost forget the historical baggage. Almost. Club Med isn’t just a resort; it’s a time machine to a France that never quite was, but one we keep chasing. Between the couscous and the cocktails, you can feel the weight of nostalgia—and the lightness of pretending, just for a week, that the decline never happened.
