Bike Adventures in das schöne Deutschland

Our spirits soared as we pedaled out of my Bucharest classroom on that perfect Friday afternoon (Good Friday is not a holiday here in Romania; the Easter Sunday Resurrection is considered so vastly more important, that a holiday on Friday is not necessary), dodging the afternoon rush-hour traffic on the ring road, sometimes pedaling easily, sometimes wobbling under the unaccustomed weight of the panniers, but quickly and surely accustoming our city legs into their new roles. We thrilled at the preposterous prospect of wheeling our bikes right into the airport, and checking the saddlebags and bikes as our luggage. Well, that’s exactly what we did, except for a comedy of errors that involved Lufthansa personnel bagging and taping the bikes, and then us unbagging them again to remove the front wheels so they would fit into the oversize luggage security X-ray machine and then reassembling them, rebagging them, and re-taping them. My front wheel caused endless beeping by the terrorist sensor—there must have been some miscellaneous horrid stuff I picked up on the tire outside one of the environmentally suspicious industrial sites we had just ridden past. But with only minutes to spare, we were air-borne. We found first-hand that it’s no longer as easy to travel with a bike as it used to be. New rules by all the airlines as of this past November even slap a fare onto each bike now. But let’s think positive—a bit of money down the corporate drain is not going to spoil this adventure!

We collected them easily at the Frankfurt airport, made the proper adjustments (air into the tires, realigned the handlebars with the handy-dandy bike tool, etc.) and headed for the Flughafen Bahnhof for the train to Schifferstadt, where old friend Judy (Janzen) and Eugen Berkel waited for us. A further steep learning curve involved unraveling some the mysteries of the fabulous German trains system, mastering the negotiation of long escalators with loaded bicycles, and realizing that German train doors do not open by themselves as you wait, bike at the ready, to transfer out of your rail car to the train at the next platform. No indeed. There’s a button you need to push yourself. He/she who hesitates is lost, or at least, is taken to the next station where all hope of meeting your finely coordinated rail connection is now gone. Our new opportunity to explore Mainz, for that is where we by default now found ourselves, introduced us to the wonderful bicycle-friendly German system of bike trails that go right through every city and village, over every hill and dale, and along every river, vineyard and forest glade. Our visit to Judy and Eugen had to be postponed for a day, but that schedule adjustment enabled us to hear a couple of their sons in musical action. First, there was an impromptu tuba performance at home by Karl and in the evening, we heard Mattias play the horn in the orchestra at an Easter concert in Baden Baden. How wonderful to catch up on old friendships!


Easter Sunday saw us leaving the train at Saarbrücken to begin our fabulous 7-day biking trek that took us down the Saar River valley, then the Mosel River valley, a bit of the Rhine River and lastly, another bit of the Main River. In total we pedaled about 300 mostly pristine kilometers through pastures, forests, postcard-perfect villages, vineyards and more vineyards, over countless bridges, past river castles, and through proudly preserved medieval towns. A Zimmerfrei (pension) or inn was always exactly where and when we needed it, as was the frequent Biergarten and Weinstube. The huge complimentary or inclusive breakfast always gleaned enough sandwiches for picnics in perfect places along the riverbank several times a day. This thriftiness, of course, freed us to unleash a bit of extravagance upon the evening meal, and those Germans do know how to cook!

Our route: We followed the Saar River beginning at Saarbrücken, up to where it empties into the Mosel at Konz, then down the Mosel River, through the Roman city of Trier, through Cochem, and up to Koblenz where the Mosel empties into the Rhine. Instantly tiring of the big city, we pedaled north along the Rhine, up to Neuwied, then realized we needed to get within striking distance of Frankfurt’s airport, so we trained to Würzburg, and spent one last day following the Main River until we found our last perfect village, Mühlbach, across from Karlstadt.

What was the best part? Well, it could have been the pretty, pretty scenery, or maybe watching the springtime trees get greener every day. Was it the pink, white or yellow blossoms or the spring flowers everywhere or saying hello to the river swans at every turn? Maybe it was the German Gemütlichkeit in a Weinstube with new friends, improving our German in leaps and bounds because few people away from the cities speak English. (Isn’t it funny, how we as adults and teachers, who with professional discretion dispense praise and affirmation every day, can still bristle with juvenile pride when an astonished German adult wants to know where we learned to speak German so well? And it was more than once that we were able to explain the whole Menno Simons thing.) Maybe it was the really little things, like the pact between Millie and me that when one of us went ‘ding ding ding’ three times on the bike bell for no reason at all, the other’s bell would answer. Or was it the great feeling of independence and freedom from possessions, when it takes only about 45 seconds to pack in the morning, because that’s all you brought along. Poetically speaking, even Schubert the composer asserted himself daily. Every little brook we encountered would elicit the tune “In einem Bächlein helle”; and incidentally, the Ziffern for a fragment of that tune, need to be sung just to remember the combination of our bike lock! And it’s virtually impossible to wander through this idyllic perfection and not sing his “Das Wandern ist des Müllers Lust, das Wandern!” To say nothing of the wonderful home-grown white wines produced in every village, or the church bells tolling up and down the valleys, or the smell of the spring blossoms, or the lusty singing of the birds all along the way!

This was no great trek of discovery. Rather, it was a sentimental journey down a path that we knew existed here. It was a journey of affirmation—that we still had the wherewithal to muscle the 300+ kilometers of fresh air and peace, that this gentle world of tradition could coexist with the other known world of German engineering and efficiency, and perhaps most importantly, that when traveling, the journey is still much more important than the destination (which was, by design, quite lacking in this holiday).

Somewhere along the Mosel River


Ah, relax a bit longer!






Elz Castle




Spring finery









Afternoon "Weinprobe": from left, 'Lieb', 'Trocken', 'Halbtrocken', and 'Lieb'













Laundry day!

What?! No escalator??



Mistletoe in tree




Roman Gate, Trier




















Ed attempting to read Latin on Roman era signpost




Karlstadt: Last stop before Frankfurt airport

Morocco!

Overview:
"Morocco" lasted one glorious week in February. We returned tired but inspired. Where are the words to describe it? We have gorged our senses on astonishingly exotic landscape unfolding every imaginable colour, on architectural wonders in imperial cities, on medinas where only time seems to have stopped, on as many dripping oranges as we can eat, on drums and lutes and reed-playing snake charmers, on the undulating rhythm of the million people in the cities and the alien stillness of the desert night. We have cheered for the pop-up guides who appeared on scooters just as we wondered how we would ever find our way out of streets with no names, and we have fended them off, having learned to second-guess those who were in the employ of merchants who “just happen” to be plying their trades in establishments fronting as historical wonders. We have been two of a thousand tourists and we have been the only game in town. We have paid too much and we have paid too little. We have substituted our rented Dacia for a camel. We have given away our gloves to a gypsy woman huddled in the cold with her baby on her back. We have marveled at the absence of tractors and at the beauty of the perfectly ploughed fields, compliments of man and mule. But what surfaces most in our reflection is our glimpse into a culture and that reaches deep beyond our understanding, which bears further reflection and reading and thought. We have met a people so unusual to our world. Our place smells like camel leather and Berber carpets. Our senses continue to be enhanced.

How to plan a trip:
The conversation went like this:
Rick: We’re thinking of Africa in the February break. Wanna come?
Ed: Sure! Why not?
Rick: OK!

We’ll not speculate on the dialogue that ensued among the adventurers before or after that! But let it be known that Ed and Millie, Rick and Carolyn turned out to be an excellent mix, and here is the running record to prove it. Before that, some background information:

The travelers:
Ed is the driver. He is the sole driver of the rented Dacia, as this is how we decide to see Morocco. He can hug a mountain pass and maneuver through swarming medinas. This is because Ed loves a challenge, the harder the better. But he also loves to stop often, which is important on a car trip. Ed knows lots of stuff. He is also perpetually positive.

Rick is the navigator. He can read any map in any language and find most hotels, even when there are no signs. Sometimes the hotel doesn’t exist, and then he finds us a different one. But then, he’s a sports guy, so he’s accustomed to switching strategies in the middle of the game. Rick asks great questions that intensify dinner conversation.





Carolyn is the artist. She finds beauty in every little thing. She can find colours and patterns in places most people wouldn’t think to look. Carolyn has a huge heart for people and their circumstances, and she presses you to think about the state of the world. She is a humanist and an environmentalist.







Millie is the writer of this blog. She tries her best to deliver an objective account, but you’ll hear her home-grown slant soon enough. Millie is getting good at finding the humour in most situations, although the others would say that she didn’t find it in Midelt. Millie is also good at counting money.





The boys are in the front.
The girls are in the back.
Perfect.

A Roof Overhead:
Our habitats range from Ryads to wannabe-swanky hotels to low-slung lodgings that melt into the desert landscape. A Ryad is a traditional Moroccan house or palace with an interior garden, and from what we could gather, the owners of most are well-heeled citizens. The one pictured above has been in this family for generations and is in the bowels of Meknes. Finding it gave new meaning to the word “lost”. It was well worth the search! Millie’s favourite digs were the desert accommodations near Erfoud. The rooms at The Amazir in Todra Gorge were lovely and boasted heating apparatus. Other proprietors insisting “But it’s not cold!” hadn’t really “washed” with us on that 0 Celsius Wednesday night. However, we may as well have believed that, sooner than believing that the heaters would work. So, for twice the price, we were just as cold.

The Food:

Moroccan fare is some of the tastiest the world has to offer. This has everything to do with the spices and the cilantro. Cumin, turmeric, coriander, saffron, chiles, ginger, cinnamon, paprika and assorted dried spice mixtures combine with lamb, beef or chicken stews smothered with apricots, raisins, prunes and onions in any combination. These are served in earthenware tagines with couscous or rice. Vegetable dishes are plentiful and scrumptious. Nuts show up in all sorts of unexpected places. Moroccan sweets are rich with cinnamon, almond, and fruit vanillas rolled into filo dough, then soaked in honey. Breakfast came to be known as “breadfast”, which we ate in copious quantities because it was there! The coffee was pretty good, but then, we’re pretty picky!

The Tea culture:
The drinking of the popular mint tea is traditional, and is an important gesture to friends, family and prospective carpet buyers. Moroccan silver teapots have long, curved pouring spouts that allow the tea to be poured evenly into tiny glasses from a height. Apparently this also gives the tea the right amount of bubbles. We acquired quite a taste for the stuff, although it was generally too sweet for one of us.

The Guide:
There is one on every corner. Some are obvious, some are disguised. Without fail, all are persistent and unrelenting fellows, claiming to have your best interests at heart. They can keep up with you without distraction. All of them seem to be called Abdul. As we learned the “hard way”, the network is astonishing. All guides are linked to their gurus who may own anything from leather shops, jewelry outfits or, what else ----- the legendary carpet shop. Even the tall black-clad man who claimed NOT to be a guide, but in whose presence other guides scurried away, deposited us on the steps of his leather-selling friend. He got his money, eventually. We manage to slip out from some, but others seem too good to be true and we walk away with bundles of stuff, both merchant and buyer assured that he is the “winner’.


Bargaining:
We had read about bargaining, and were determined to use this natural method of price negotiating to our best advantage. Here is what we read: “Never pay attention to initial prices. Set your mind on how much you are willing to pay and then go back to negotiate the prices of the articles.” Rick Steves says, “The price tag is only an excuse to argue.” Well then, if this isn’t the mission statement of every vehicle consumer in Steinbach, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle! I know this system, I can do it!!

Indeed, we did catch our stride in this business and, like a good golf swing, you know when you’ve hit it “just right”. Everyone is smiling. However, unlike the boys, the girls found themselves “pushing the envelope’ more than once, much to the chagrin of all parties. Here is one example:

How not to do it:
Millie: How much are you asking for that?
Merchant: 100 dirham
Millie: Oh well, then. (starts walking away)
Merchant: (following her) Ma’am, what you want to pay?
Millie: No, that’s ok, you wouldn’t sell it for what I want to pay.
Merchant: Ma’am, really ma’am, what is your best price?
Millie: My best price is 30 dirham.
Merchant: 80
Millie: I’m sorry. (putting on her indifferent face, as per Rick Steves…)
Merchant: What is your best price, ma’am?
Millie: Sir, it hasn’t changed. My best price is 30 dirham.
Merchant: 60
Millie: (new ploy) Sorry, my friend is waiting, I really have to go.
Merchant: Ok, 50 durham. Best price, very lowest price, ma’am. What you pay?
Millie: 30 dirham
Merchant: Ma’am. This is not how you do it!
Millie: What?
Merchant: You say 30, I say 80. Then you say 50, and I say 70. Then you say 60 and I say OK!! Then you buy it!!
Millie: Ah…. But you asked me for my best price!
Merchant: Yes, your best price… what can you pay?
Millie: 30 dirham
Merchant: OK.

You can bet that he still made a profit, and would likely have sold the same item to a local for less than what I paid. Our lowest hour in the bargaining game took place in Midelt, where we were taken to “Papa’s” carpet shop after the fine meal that is described later in this blog. After the usual tea and games, the price is agreed and a wad of cash handed over to some miscellaneous sidekick (introduced as a brother) who “counts” the money while sidekick #2 and Papa distract us with other things. There is a commotion as the “brother” arrives to inform Papa that we have given him 250D short of the final price. Millie nails the sting instantly, and is horrified to see Ed reopen his wallet to provide the missing amount. “Ed!” she says, “ This is a scam. Put your money away.” She is stung, not so much by being accused of dishonesty than of stupidity. Millie can count money! She counted that wad at least 6 times. She picks up the carpet and walks out. No one follows her. Now Millie has to walk back in. The others are fixed to the floor, speechless, as Papa acts out a hairy fit, flapping his tunic back and front in an attempt to prove no money is stashed away. The two sidekicks have disappeared, as has their commission. Millie now adopts her best no-nonsense tone and thunders, “ED!! WALK!!” This unglues feet and tongues and produces the original fellow who had served us at the restaurant. He adopts a comforting tone, having provided Carolyn with a deal of her own, not yet paid for. Carolyn has found her tongue and declares that she cannot leave her money at such a dishonest establishment. We all walk. No one follows us. The parking lot is smothered with Moroccans, all claiming to have been the guardians of our Dacia while we were gone. We shoo them away. Back in the car, we recount the chain of events. Twenty times, deconstruct, reconstruct…. Millie feels awful while the others praise her swift assessment of the con. It doesn’t help. It shouldn’t have turned out this way.

What we learned:
1. Everyone in Morocco is on commission. “Of course I know that restaurant, I own it! Follow me!” really means, “ I’m next in line to take you, o gullible one, to your final destination.”
2. The “final destination” is usually a carpet shop.
3. Always count the money INTO the merchant’s hand.
4. Haggling is not the same as arguing. You can’t argue with a merchant. But you can smile and walk away. He has met you a million times.

The Sights and Sounds of Morocco: February 17-25, 2007

Meknes: A beautiful sunset and warm weather pulls us into this imperial city where we stay at out first Ryad. Here, Abdul’s father, trained in the art of Apothecary, refers to the book that has stood the test of time in this ancient trade.






Fez :
1. The Ceramic Factory

Abdul’s “connection” happens to be the owner of the famous ceramics factory in Fez. We are ushered through the whole plant, which reeks of diesel fuel and coughs up rooms full of men in an assembly line that ends in the show room. How can we resist?










2. The Carpet Factory
We are not happy to be hurried through the medina, which is calling for us to stop, look, smell and taste at every turn. But Abdul is on a mission that becomes all-too-clear as we are shepherded into his carpet buddy’s establishment. This time there is a tour of the carpet factory to be had. This sounds exciting, so off we go to an upper room where two beautiful young girls sit at a loom. We are left alone with them, and now I’m nervous. They are skittish and extend their sore, cloth-bound hands, for money. Our uneasiness turns to dismay. Later I reflect on being the one who felt trapped in that room; I was the one who wanted to get out of there. How ironic. We can’t possibly look at carpets, and our guide detects that we are at the end of our day. His day however, is still ripe with opportunity, so he sees to it that we quickly get back to our Hotel Ibis. We pay him well and are refreshed with Moroccan beer and quiet dialogue.

3. We walk kms in search of the restaurant that promises fine fare, but not before a naïve detour on the heels of a guide who says he will take us there. We glower at him in front of his friend’s lean-to sandwich stop, and leave him as he insists that the olives are much better here!

Midelt:
We leave the city behind and drive into bright sunshine and lovely countryside that changes into the rolling hills preceding the Atlas Mountains. Dozens of merchants wave us in the direction of their roadside stands bearing fossil artifacts and soapstone carvings. We stop to peruse, and we buy. The restaurant of choice offers up the kind of vegetable dishes that we have been reading and dreaming about. Magnificent. After Midelt, the scenery modifies to desert-like foothills, riddled with lush oases. It’s precarious driving through the bicycle crowded villages, but the roads are excellent.












Erfoud:
The tone of this city is different. It doesn’t appear to be large, and the streets are crammed with people. Carolyn and I are confounded by the burka clad women with children in tow who are sporting modern clothes and baseball caps. And why shouldn’t they be? Again I am faced with my immature knowledge of this country and its people.

After a nondescript stay in a bus-swamped “fancy” hotel, we turn our Dacia toward the dunes. 1½ hours later, we are driving IN the desert! We bump along past 2000 little French Renaults. Yes, that’s right. 2000 little Renaults, draped with their owners and various other things, are waiting for something. We learn that these cars are part of a massive philanthropic club that drives out from France every year in cars filled with school supplies. Although it’s hard to tell, this “event” doubles as a race!

The Desert:We find our mud-baked accommodations in the shadow of the dunes, a spectacular spot, even though the cool dark rooms are not exactly a relief. (The temperature is hovering around 10 C.) After the traditional sweet mint tea in tiny glasses, we are offered a tour of the village. Our antennas go up!! Our host does not argue over our preference to go for a walk in the dunes. We don our warm clothes and RUN to the dunes. A little rain has hardened them just enough so that we don’t sink too much. We run in the dunes, high up on the ridges, we roll down and make sand angels. We take a hundred pictures and have a fine picnic of figs and crackers and cheese. It is blissful, like kids without a care.
After a walk to the neighbouring village, we drag our happy selves back to our rooms. There was no déjà vu in this day. Oh wait, yes there was. We have raised our acquisitions by one small carpet each.

Camel Rides:


A camel ride feels pretty much the way it looks.







The Desert Tour: This tour near Erfoud goes like this:
- a sturdy SUV with a burly Arab driver
- the lake where the flamingoes are
-a Ghana village still entirely inhabited by Ghanese black people who stem from the slaves brought to this area in the 1800s. This took on a strange sensation as we witnessed busloads of tourists being entertained by musicians from the village.
- a school in session; one room, many students at bare tables trying to look busy, a few books; it is very quiet as an anthropologist doubling as teacher provides us with information
- a mine where archaic methods are employed. It’s freezing cold. Some of the men are in sandals, some are barefoot. From a black hole many meters down, pails bearing liberitine deposits are being sent up. It’s a gruesome sight and we respect their gestures scolding the camera.
- a military compound where a few civilian inhabitants peek around corners.
- fossil collecting in the Black Desert. Carolyn is in her glory.
- The Village: By now there is no need to inform the reader of the motive behind this final stop. Rick and Carolyn buy another one. Now the car is full.

Todra Gorge The sunshine pours into this most beautiful valley as we trek kms along its winding road. We stop to watch mountain climbers, and Rick and Carolyn feel every move. We are inspired to clamber up the hillside where we discover caves and sheepcotes. A gypsy woman, baby on her back, motions to our gloves and Carolyn gladly parts with hers.



The Valley of the Kasbahs
More rare sights await our gasps and cameras as we come across imposing castle-like dwellings from a former era. We picnic in the shade of perfect ruins in a bee-loud glade of almond trees.

Ait Benhaddou

We practice this word until we all get it right, because we want to remember this one for sure. Rick has once more navigated us perfectly and we find ourselves situated across the river from an ancient village. At the Hotel Dar Mouna, a fire is crackling, the incense is just right, the people are hip, there is a happy dog and the smells from the kitchen are divine. We’d be crazy to look any further. A wind kicks up, rattling the windows as we snuggle up to the fire waiting for our delectable meal. We have wine and the atmosphere is just right for tonight’s conversation which, inspired by Rick, is about favourite folk singers. Our reminiscences are dominated by Gordie Lightfoot. Carolyn is gagging while Rick and Millie are in their glory, spinning forth “every song that driver knew”! Ed plays go-between. We sleep like logs.

Good thing too, because by 6:30 a.m. we are participating in the sunrise over the Kasbahs across the river. A donkey ride takes us to the old village where there is hardly a stir, although it is still inhabited. We are quite alone is a place that we know throbs with tourists in the summer months.

Tizi-n-Tichka:
We brace ourselves to drive over the Atlas Mountains. (Well, Millie braces herself!) This is wayyyyyy up there and conversation is minimal as Ed deftly negotiates hairpin curves on the OUTSIDE edge of cruelly narrow roads. But all grinds to a halt as we settle in for a long afternoon’s wait behind an overturned fuel truck. How that that truck didn’t fall right off the mountain is one big topic for discussion among the travelers emerging from all manner of vehicle, including those same little French Renaults that are never going to win the race now! The other topic is the party atmosphere that this incident has produced. Full picnics appear, replete with rice being cooked on hotplates, tables with tablecloths and cutlery!! The corks are popping. Carolyn invites herself for a glass of wine at the pop-up bar down the road. Millie isn’t far behind. After all, we’re not driving and they are!!! Best not to let them drink it all.

Marrakech:
The countryside is now flatter, and knuckles relax as we come off the mountain. A sign dictates “Medina”, and we have our hotel picked out. Will we never learn? As the streets get narrow, then narrower and narrowest, Ed finds himself driving in people-soup. At the end of our journey, we are still experiencing “firsts”! One long choking sound is emanating from the back seat, as Carolyn and Millie barely take time to breathe between gasps. Now we do not conference about the pop-up guide, but gratefully follow the scooter that he seems to have randomly hopped on in the mess. There is a parking lot but no room, so Abdul motions the boys out of their seats and indicates that they follow him while a different Abdul gets behind the wheel. Carolyn and Millie have not found their tongues, so all they do is ogle as the car is wedged into a tight spot as the boys disappear with Abdul #1. They think that they’ve been left there to “watch the car’, but they’re not really sure. Now it’s 20 minutes. Our Ryad of choice was supposedly just down the street. The cell phone does not connect to our men. Now 30 minutes have dragged by. 40 minutes. 41, 42, 43, tick-tick-tick…. Now the car is the least of our concerns as we envisage Ed and Rick surely being held at gunpoint, stripped and pleading to be restored to their unsuspecting wives. Carolyn decries having let Rick out with all their worldly possessions in one rucksack. In some twisted attempt to stave off encroaching panic, the girls further entertain themselves with 100 true stories of abandonment. One last attempt on the cell is successful and our worry is replaced with that deja vu mix of relief and fury from when we were parents and our kids got home at 2 in the morning! The boys are quick to relay their 5 mile hike to find a hotel….something about it being Friday and tomorrow is market day. Our nonexistent Ryad has morphed into a sleaze bag called Hotel Grande. Not. We do have a lovely supper though, and a grande walk in the market square at night.

El Jadide:
We exit easily out of Marrakech and head for the coast. The countdown is on. We comment continually on the endless miles of lush, green fields, the donkey-driven ploughs, women bent over baskets, and the general health of the countryside. We overnight in Palais Andalow, the former palatial residence of some former sovereign. Our host is a crisp, little man with little time for small talk, although there seems to be nothing going on in his establishment, including cleaning. There are bird’s nests in the light fixtures. Still, we feast our eyes on the incredible tile work and Carolyn takes another round of great photos. A walk to the pier finds us in an excellent restaurant where our meals are unique to this trip – sea bass, paella, fine wine. Back at the palace, we sleep in a bed that could serve as a small room.

Breakfast does not measure up to last night’s meal, but then we remember where we are. It’s Nescafe and Tang. Remember Tang? One package serves one youth group? Good try. We pack up and head for our last lungful of Atlantic air on the pier bearing massive wooden boats.

The excellent highway returns us to Casablanca through rich red fields and the greenest vegetation yet. It’s an easy ride to the Mohammed V airport, and an easy entry in spite of all our rocks and pottery collections. Ed and Rick toast to the front seat one more time. Carolyn and Millie admire the shoes in the shop, but mostly they admire the fact that they got theirs for 1/3 the price.


















Additional photos: