a bum in munich

Most of my time in Munich was spent wandering around, opting again to live the local unemployed life rather than the usual guidebook recommendations. Outfitted with Andy’s bike (too big even for him, a few inches taller than me), I made use of the city’s myriad bicycle lanes. I must have been a sight, peddling furiously and coasting in thirty-second intervals, unable to peddle while seated. In fact, coming to a stop meant either finding a lamppost to lean on or hopping off the seat while maneuvering the bike to an angle so that I didn’t damage that fun area where my legs come together. Still, it beat walking.

The English Garden (a park bigger than New York’s Central Park) was great: full of sunbathers even on a weekday afternoon, dotted with biergartens where, besides a pint of hefeweizen, the smallest pour you could get is a liter (the 17 year-olds at an adjacent table were outdrinking me with theirs). There’s even a section of river running where with an artificial wave for surfing practice. Then there are all of the community gardens throughout Germany—I love them. Not only are they much larger than the dinky plots I’m familiar with on the east coast of the US, but most are accessorized with glorified shacks, a grill, and beers kept cold in a fridge. In case you opt out of the fridge option, there’s usually a biergarten within a few hundred meters. My favorite more-or-less natural beauty site, though, was that of the Nymphenburg castle (more of a palace, really). The surrounding hundreds of acres of gardens were nothing short of enchanting. I was only able to peer through the locked fence of the botanical garden; actually visiting it may have made me cry. As if mocking our highly urbanized way of life in the big cities back home, there were a few apartments just beside the botanical garden—of course they had their personal ‘secret’ garden plots hidden behind a wooden fence. I strolled about the area, cursing to myself in awe, asking out loud whom I’d have to kill to live out here.

Beer and food were obvious priorities—Andy and I went through lots of pints at his place (I didn’t take notes, but it was hard to go wrong with anything). I made it a point to cook at least a couple of times. Germans love white asparagus (spargel), and it’s reflected in their spring markets. One night we just grilled (salad on the side, thank you), and another night I went a little further, with four different salads, a roasted organic chicken (€10/kg!?!), and fresh hollandaise to accompany a pile of white asparagus I prepared. All in Yanni and _GermanAndi’s beautiful house, in a great kitchen, on the patio of their fragrant garden.

I managed to squeeze in a daytrip to Salzburg, where I finally let loose the tourist in me—visiting museums, riding funiculars, and even snapping a picture of baby Mozart in a cradle in his mummified house (it was too cheesy to skip). The views from the old fortress were amazing. Here, on a fortune based on salt (a basis, in turn, for the town’s name), an empire would withstand Roman conquest in large part due to its strategic perch on a steep hill overlooking town. I even managed to enjoy a great meal at an otherwise touristy-looking restaurant by the funicular. On my way back to the station, I bought a beer to drink on the train ride back to Munich (more for the novelty of it than anything else), but was really just too stuffed from lunch—so much for novelties.

My last act in Munich was to be a fancy meal out. I asked my newly acquired German friends, and after much deliberation, the conclusion was that I should head for Tantris. So I peddled coasted peddled coasted my way to the restaurant, anticipating my first truly fancy meal since I was in Morocco (at ten times the price, of course). I don’t even have to admit (those who know me probably know this regardless) that I was very afraid of a letdown. I ate a brilliant seven course lunch, forcing myself to think in dollars rather than euros so as not to jolt the food back out of my belly. I subsequently beached myself on a grassy patch amongst the hordes at the English Garden. There I pondered the meaning of life before heading home to pack and mentally prepare for the transition to speaking yet another (not so) foreign language.

München

I hit the ground running in Munich. First things first, Andy and I split a couple of sausages upon my arrival at the train station. With my eight hour meat-fast finally over, we went on to bigger and better things, tasting through several of Germany’s finest brews back at Andy’s flat. Not to underdo the evening, we met up later with a few of Andy’s friends and colleagues at a smoky, crowded bar, complete with attitude-ridden servers. _EnglishAndy showed up just in time for the second round and, living up to my English stereotypes, made it his mission to keep each of our pints optimistically half-full. It wouldn’t have been so bad had we called it a night at a reasonable hour, but of course we crawled from pub to pub, prioritizing morning headaches over good night’s sleeps.

We had a huge day ahead of us, so it wasn’t a huge surprise that we overslept, waking only as _GermanAndi was waiting at our door. It was the classic late-for-school moment, and we played the parts, fumbling in our respective hazes, packing painkillers for the excursion. We piled into Andi’s beautifully-restored 1971 Alfa Romeo coupe, and met with his girlfriend for a typical Bavarian breakfast, complete with spongy floating sausages and pretzels. Breakfast was good. The rest, however, was a picturesque dream of a day.

We took the Alfa to an old-timers’ rally and spent some time gawking at the remarkable rides—some weird, some cute, and some downright sexy. Andy and I ventured into the fairgrounds, taking a look at a rather typical Bavarian carnival—rides that make you puke, food that makes you balloon. We stepped into a mini-me version of the huge beer tents that line the grounds for Oktoberfest. Fish on a stick (not that processed thing we call a fish stick back home—a real trout grilled on a stick), ham hocks, and crispy pork roulades—the foodstuffs of Atkins dieters. And of course their antitheses: liter-sized mugs of beer. Still full from breakfast, I still had to try some of the local spaetzle-and-cheese (beats the Kraft version), and another version prepared with ham and kraut (needed a little more ‘stuff’ mixed in).

After finding Andi, we were on the road, doing a grand tour of Munich’s surroundings. He showed us some of his favorite (for their fun-to-drive windy country road feel) shortcuts that he’s been known to push to the limit (his dad works for BMW and he has a friend who tests their prototypes). Part of me is disappointed I didn’t take notes as to the names of the places we visited, but the rest of me does/didn’t feel it necessary in the least. Regardless, we motored by just-blooming trees and fields aglow with yellow rapeseed flowers (their harvested oil is used as a sustainable energy source). Everything about the day was wonderful, down to the perfect weather.

It was great to see some of the things you just don’t see anywhere else. On the lakeshore, by a grassy patch brimming with sunbathers, we visited a biergarten alive with clientele who obviously know how to relish a beautiful Sunday afternoon. Not to be taken as a culture of beer-drinking idiots, there are lots of popular alternatives to straight beer—you can drink a thirst-quenching mix of sparkling water and apple juice (any juice, really), or, if you still want a lighter bit of EtOH, that can be had as a sweet mix of hefeweizen (an unfiltered wheat beer) and lemonade.

As it was Sunday, Andi and Andy thought it would be nice to visit a beautiful old Monastery with a beautiful baroquely (my spell-checker says that’s a word) decked-out church. The main draw of this hilltop Monastery, at least on this afternoon, is its (drum roll) biergarten. We sampled the beers and gorged ourselves on cured meat and cheese products (stemming from another cultural tradition here that’s best translated as bread time). The monks also make schnapps, of which we sampled four, in the form of nips that Andy (Andi was driving) and I took turns emptying. Full and buzzing, we finally headed home.

blood sausage and hot chocolate

Getting to Lyon took a long time. I left Fes at 9am, and after the train rides to Casa, the flight to Lyon, and the bus rides into town, I didn’t arrive to Karoline’s place until 10:30pm. It was still an action-packed day. Among its highlights was a verbal tiff between two girls upon disembarking the plane, made more interesting by the fact it played out over my lap. Lows included the discovery that my SIM card (so that I could use my phone in France to call my host) was nowhere to be found, and my profuse sweating in the heat of the terminal while trying to finagle my luggage to appear (through magic) as though it wasn’t indeed 5kg over the limit.

I had arranged to couchsurf in Lyon with a wonderful Norwegian student, Karoline, as it didn’t make sense to take the train straight to Geneva so late at night. I was greeted with hospitality becoming that of a Moroccan: as I was too late for a proper dinner at a bouchon, she and her roommate had stayed up, and pizzas were going into the oven as I finally walked in the door. We stayed up chatting and drinking some decent local wine. The next day I hiked up to the big farmers’ market and bought enough cheese and cured meats to feed eight as a main course. I left some for my hosts, but happily dragged the rest through Europe.

Karoline accompanied me to lunch at Café des Federations, a bouchon (a Lyonnais bistrot, for lack of a better term) I had thoroughly enjoyed during my last visit to town. It was as good as I remembered it—the pigs’ cheeks were outstanding, as was the boudin noir (blood sausage). The cheeses were everything I had been craving during my visit in Morocco. Everything was so good that I missed my train to Geneva—easy enough to fix thanks to Europe’s fast and frequent trains.

First order in Geneva, after finding my friend Zoe, was to find a place to sleep and park my 70lbs worth of bags (my couchsurfing efforts had gone without success in Geneva). It was getting late, and the hostel had a complet (no vacancy) sign on the door. I borrowed a trick from The Secret (a super-cheesy self-help book/video) that EB and Whitney had taught me, and walked in the door anyway, believing there would be a bed for me. There was; I have decided that for my next trick, I’m going to have a Tahitian island to call my own.

Armed with my cheese and Zoe’s wine and bread, we headed for the lakefront, where we’d meet another friend of hers and feast on the awe-inspiring bounty. It was a delightful evening, despite the wind, the unique piece of fresh brebis that sadly landed in the lake, and the nesting duck that snapped at me on my way to a makeshift toilet. A fantastic hot shower awaited me at the hostel, but so did an amazingly stinky, stuffy room (the leftover cheese went with Zoe to her fridge).

I spent my next day calmly wandering and sightseeing (in that order). I sampled raclette (cheese toasted by a fire, served with boiled potatoes) and some of the local (hot) chocolat. We attended a slightly pompous, but nonetheless interesting, lecture on one man’s proposed solution for the conflict between Israel and the Arabs. And then for some more local color, a birthday (I think) picnic on the lakefront, with some more wine and my cheese (no, still not sick of it). The evening took an interesting turn when I embarked barhopping on a three hour tour with Arnaud (a chap who was looking to end up spending time with one of the girls at the picnic, but somehow ended up with me instead) and his hotelier friends.

I shopped at the market and cooked Friday lunch for Zoe and her 10 year-old host sister, treasuring the mushrooms, artichokes, and asparagus. I have to say, though, that the highlight of my time in Geneva was easily the housewarming-come-dance party that Jere took us to on Friday night. There we were, minding our beer and sausages, when out came the fiddle (okay, violin) and accordion. What ensued was quite a bit of floor shaking and an all-around great time (click on the picture and check out the videos). As it turns out, they just play for fun (and occasional cash): the two young ladies making the music are botanical biologists by day. Though I breeze over this evening, it really made the trip that much more memorable.

Before running to barely catch the train the next morning, Zoe and I detoured to visit Les Schtroumphs, an old housing development named after The Smurfs for the Gaudiesque design—a worthless diversion. While I did sing the theme song for a bit, the real musical kicker came to me on the ride to Munich—lush green fields and a hum that went something like, the fields are alive / with the sound of music.

sidebar: levels of Moroccan hospitality

More ways to laugh and cringe at hospitality:

Level 1 Hospitality (code green): The most common form, found in Berber rug shops and given by complete strangers. This usually involves tea and/or pastries. It includes the phenomenon of food and drink sharing on public transportation. This is the most basic form of hospitality known to Moroccans, as basic and reflexive as a midwestern American's habit of smiling to and greeting strangers.

Level 2 Hospitality (code blue): Like marijuana, the "gateway drug," this pecking behavior can wear down a receiver's defenses and open the door to higher, more extreme levels of hospitality. It specifically involves the paying for of things such as meals, drinks, and taxi rides. It is difficult to control without a firm grasp of  Arabic, and with the male-dominated society, a woman is helplessly overruled by a man's insistence on paying. The best method for countering this level of hospitality is to slyly beat the host to the check, most easily on a supposed trip to the bathroom.

Level 3 Hospitality (code yellow): Exhibited between even cursory acquaintances, this usually involves lunch at a family's house. This includes the full mint tea ceremony upon completion of the meal. Helping the hostess with the cleanup is difficult to impossible.

Level 4 Hospitality (code orange): Dinner or lunch followed by dinner. It usually goes on late into the night, includes traditional music on the television, and is often accompanied by a polite offer to sleep over (usually turned down).

Level 5 Hospitality (code red): A true hostage-taking experience, this is hospitality gone cancerous. The host (notice an intimate relationship between "host" and "hostage") usually means well, desiring to drown immerse the recipient in his/her hospitality. Sadly, the affection is poorly placed, and the recipient is put on the defensive, overdosing on the hospitality. Meals don't taste as good because of the emotional charge, and ease and comfort is replaced by great anxiety. The only way out is a firm, almost rude insistence on an end to the proceedings.

parting days

I'm having second thoughts about this. As you may have figured out, I am nearly two weeks behind in posting. In Morocco, that was not usually such a big deal. Now, however, I am in Germany, writing  about my last days in Morocco, and it's not going so well. Maybe it’s because I’m in a lush Central Park-like setting, sitting in a biergarten by a lake, sipping a hefeweizen. Either way, I have been trying to write this post for days now, and I just haven’t been able to focus on it, so I'm over it (as we used to say back in college, at apartment M2).

My last week in Fes was a highly accelerated one. Writing this post from Europe certainly can’t do it justice. Beginning before our trip to Taza, with Will leaving, it seemed like a chain reaction had formed: EB’s mom left three days later, I finally settled on a ticket to France, and Whitney was talking about leaving in two weeks. Reality had at least begun to make itself known, though even now I flagrantly continue to blow it off. Still, the plan was set: visit Zoe in Geneva for a couple of days after a night in Lyon, then off to Munich to visit Andy, and then to Israel for a bit to tool around with, among others, my cousin Shai.

EB and Whit were planning an excursion to Sefrou, a town I had visited while being hijacked by my wannabe father, Youssef_b. Given that I didn’t really see much the first time around, I opted to join in on the fun. A bit of wrangling was required, but it wasn’t too much trouble for Mo to find us a taxi. We had an entirely enjoyable day, visiting the waterfall again, laughing intensely to inside jokes, and singing Lionel Richie and Disney tunes (I’ve been warned not to publicly admit to or talk about having watched the specific movie(s)).

We had one last calm shindig at our place with a bunch of students from the American school. The goal was to drink the last of the alcohol left from St. Patty’s day. The results were lame rather meager—at the end of the night there were still plenty of beers left, and close to a liter of hard alcohol. Still, it was probably all for the best to have a tame get-together—there was plenty of packing to do.

On my last full day, I was charged with preparing dinner, which would have been fine, save for all the last-minute errands remaining for the day. I made a last purchase of honey and packed up the home-made orange flower water Mo had acquired for me. I packed a box and shipped what I could to the States, and am still hoping the honey and water will not end up in some customs officer’s pantry. Were I offered a special Moroccan price I would have easily shipped more, especially since I wound up with even more heavy items to lug back with me (Argan oil, Mehia, honey).

Meanwhile, back at home, there was dinner to make. The Bolognese-like sauce had been cooking for the better part of the day, but I still needed to break in the pasta machine I had purchased, not wanting to think of it as a completely pointless purchase. And so dinner was a success, my bags were packed, I had the train schedule, and most of the tears had dried.

hijacked, Passover

Youssef­_b was getting insistent on my visiting him. He kept asking about my fiancée (Shiri, my sister, I kept reminding him) and my mom who, as I had told him several times, were already out of town. He is a sweet man and refers to me as a son, though, so I definitely had to take him up on some hospitality.

I recruited Gabe for the effort—planning (erroneously) to make a quick two-hour visit with Youssef­_b before dinner with EB and her family, who were all in town now. First we waited for him, and then we were dragged to the Synagogue for evening prayers, which were over by the time we arrived. He took us to Elie’s house around the corner, where we enjoyed shots of mehia (a Jewish spirit made of fig alcohol and anise—very much like pastis) while the two old men performed the Passover ritual of searching for leavened bread through the house.

It was time for dinner, and I was trying to get us to the restaurant (Gabe and I had previously discussed his poor fit for the job of planning an escape) on time. Youssef­_b was adamant that we come to his house, first. I said no about ten times, playing the subtle Moroccan game of polite yet firm refusal, but my subtlety was lost on Youssef­_b. Okay, so we’ll see your place, but then we’re turning right around and going to meet my friend for dinner! He offered beer and snacks, I declined, but Gabe (he was in on it with Youssef­_b, I’m sure) accepted, and before we knew it, Youssef­_b had left to let in a friend. We waited, finishing our beers, and got up to leave, but Youssef­_b had locked the door from the outside. My laughter at the situation turned to anger—it was all I could do to remain cool, knowing that EB and her family (some of whom I haven’t seen in years) were halfway through dinner. Youssef­_b finally let us out, but not before we had guzzled another beer. On the way back home, Gabe (a true brother from another mother—I love him) did his Gabe thing and was caught by our favorite Rasta café owner. Did I want to grab a coffee, to which I snapped at him (sorry) no! I’ll see you back at home.

Gabe, Mo, and I went to the hammam that night with EB’s brother and father, David and Warren, and friend Will. Mo arranged for the boys to get “massages,” chiropractic nightmares of getting bent in ways the body does not bend. It’s something that’s probably just as enjoyable to watch as it is to experience: ouch.

Ben, Gabe, and I were invited to the Passover Seder the next night at Elie’s house along with Youssef­_b. I was late getting back from my outing to Volubulis and Meknes with EB and family, so we missed services and went straight to meeting the men outside the synagogue. Youssef­_b was bordering on angry thanks to our missing services—he had mentioned them as an afterthought the night before, and besides, I have never been that religiously inclined. Still, I felt bad. Next thing I knew, we were around the table and Youssef­_b had disappeared in a hail of harsh words from Elie—he ditched us to join another friend for dinner. I was in awe when, a week later, I received a call from Youssef­_b, reminding me that I hadn’t paid him anything for his services as tour guide with my family. What a bad taste to leave in a person’s mouth.

The Seder was hardly traditional—four different languages spoken around the table of six, and without Youssef­_b’s eyes, Elie was at a loss for leading the Seder. Ben was in charge of leading us, but ten minutes into the proceedings, Elie grew frustrated and called for dinner to be served. Dinner was good, but not the highlight of the evening. We joked into the night, sipping Elie’s homemade mehia, talking about the women in Elie’s photos of the past (now she was a good kisser!), and matchmaking me with the sweet (and apparently rich, I was told) elderly woman to my side (I am remiss for not remembering her name past the initial introductions). We had an excellent time despite Youssef_b’s misstep. It was a Passover I’ll be able to tell my grandchildren about.

crabs

Let's gloss over the touristy crust (the casbah in Tangiers is gorgeous, especially its views of the sea) and cut to the juice--let's face it, you can read about most of this stuff elsewhere. Lonely Planet, however, still won't talk about my fantastical tales of nefarious taxi drivers and dark alleys, so you’ll have to read them here.

Nacer was to spend the first part of the day with us, then report to work at five sharp. He was already yesterday evening, so we didn’t want to put him out again. As a kind, loving, most generous local, he was not familiar with our style of traveling: always the adventure, never knowing what’s around the next corner.

Being the helpless white people that we look like, Nacer helped us find a grand taxi to Asilah (a town known for the artwork on the walls within the medina) after our huge lunch—no big deal, there’s a veritable parking lot full of million-mile Mercedes’, right? Seems that this time of year people want to go to Asilah, but they don’t want to come back to Tangiers, so the taxis just don’t drive to Asilah. We sat around and waited. And waited. Nacer kept us company. We finally gave in and called over one of Nacer’s many friends, Mohammed, and hired him to drive us. We took the scenic coastal route, and would you believe it? Yes, Nacer remained with us for the journey. We drove past jaw-dropping estates of rich emissaries, bankers, and drug dealers. We peered at the Atlantic  through the eye of Hercules’ caves. We drove past an area dotted with flashing red lights atop tall towers. Nacer explained it was once a French base, but is now an American base for “espionage.” I asked him what exactly he meant—I mean, if they’re spying, should it be public? He shrugged his shoulders, said he didn’t know what they do there. I guess not.

5:30pm, and we were in Asilah. Nacer shrugged off his tardiness: it was, after all, only 4pm Moroccan standard time… He (or rather, a guy he bumped into on the street) helped us look for an apartment (it’s all the rage these days to restore flats in the picturesque medina and rent them out to rich foreigners) for the night. After looking at three, I was content, and paid our “guide” for his services. Not so fast. Mohammed had called from the car: he ran into a friend, Zuber, and Zuber offered to put us up for free in a friend’s flat. Wow. I really didn’t know what to say to this complete stranger. Moreover, he was in charge of the fish consortium, and having noticed me eyeing the sizeable live crabs at a fishmonger’s stand, offered to arrange dinner.

Alas, the flat was not complete in its renovations. Myself, I could have stayed the night, but we wanted a real toilet seat (western toilet, but no seat) and hot water (not hooked up yet). I was mortified with the prospect of refusing Zuber’s most generous offer, but they all took it in great stride, with an air of understanding. Half an hour later we had moved into the first flat I liked. Even though it was nearly 8pm and his prospects for working that night were shot, Nacer wouldn’t agree to stay the night with us; he had class early the next morning. Goodbyes went around, complete with hugs and kisses.

Zuber would drive us to dinner, but not before some shopping. Mom spotted a couple of beautiful silver Chamsot (the Hebrew word for Hand of Fatima), they were solid silver and accordingly pricey for small gifts. Shiri upgraded to a new pair of shoes. Zuber went off to get the car, and minutes later, my phone rang. It was Nacer. The cryptic conversation went something like this: “Jonie, I forgot to tell you, don’t say you’re Jewish. I didn’t mention it, but it’s just not something to bring up in Asilah. Zuber called Mohammed and he asked about your religion after he saw what you were shopping for. Don’t worry about it, he was just being curious, it’s nothing to worry about. If he asks, tell him what I told him, that you’re just Americans.”

Needless to say, the drive to the restaurant was a bit awkward and definitely longer than we had expected. The redeeming moment was when Zuber unloaded our two crabs from the back of the van. We’d be eating well. Inside, we chose a couple of fish to supplement the crustaceans, and promptly got to work. Zuber force-fed us half of the lamb he ordered (he stays away from seafood whenever possible). The crabs were great, and we enjoyed the amazingly fresh fish in spite of their being overcooked. I can’t say I was surprised when he refused payment for the crabs, a preposterous gesture.

Tonight was Shiri and Ziva’s last night in Morocco, their return flights began in Casablanca, and it was time to settle on their transportation to the airport, 4-6 hours away. No sweat: take the train or find a grand taxi as a last resort. Mo helped me out, texting me the train schedules. Never simple when you’re short on time, there was a Mushkill: the only possible train was at 6:40am. The train was vetoed in favor of savoring a bit of the morning. I asked Zuber where to go the following morning to find a grand taxi. “Why didn’t you ask sooner!? We have to take care of it right away—they need to get permission from the police to go to Casablanca.” Oops. We drove around, to the pier to find his friend, back to his house to get a phone number, then to ‘a guy’s’ house. It was late. Too late—‘the guy’ was asleep and dead to the world. So we resorted to the grand taxi stand itself, and found a driver willing to make the trip—direct, no stops (I smiled and nodded, knowing I could more easily spring the stops on him during the trip). Signed, sealed, delivered. I felt terrible—Zuber was obviously exhausted. Despite being a complete stranger and weird about Jews, he had gone above and beyond for us.

Back at the flat, we finally got the chance to shower. I stepped out to get more minutes on my phone, and finding all the nearby shops closed, was at a loss. No worries, a big guy with a club in his hand was coming my way, and he looked like he might be able to help. No, really, I’m serious. He dawned a reflective fluorescent orange vest—uniform for the guardians charged with keeping the medina crime-free. Mohammed, as he was called, walked me out of the medina to a booth selling recharges, and all the way back to my place, meanwhile trying to make polite banter in FrAraSpish. This country never ceases to amaze.