Marrakech to Casablanca to Chefchaouen

Sunday, March 8

I was in Marrakech before, in 1972, when I was a baby of 19. I remember Jemaa el Fna, the huge square, hot and deserted in the day and coming to life by night with Senegalese dancers, snake charmers, magicians, and drummers from the Sahara. I remember food stalls opening up, the scent of grilled meat and garlic, the shouts of the cooks to come eat their food. 

I remember the souks, one entrance in particular, where slats overhead made striped patterns on everything below. Back then, we used that entrance every time we left Jemaa El Fna. The image is baked into my memory, the striped shadows, the cloth, the men in their fez caps snoozing against their bags of grains. 

I did not find the stripe-shadowed entrance to the medina. I think the slats have been replaced by carved wood. Jemaa el Fna has sprouted permanent fruit stands that I don’t remember being there, but the grilled-meat stands still spring up after dark, and of course, the performers. I’m realizing how fuzzy my memories are. And how it’s not possible, really, to go back

Anyhow, today was the day we had to travel to Casablanca to meet with our booked tour. Travel was easy: we took an Uber to the station, bought our train tickets, and rode the three or so hours in a very comfortable compartment. The landscape was nothing spectacular, just green rolling prairie interrupted by the occasional town. The only excitement was when a young stowaway ducked into the compartment and insinuated himself under the seat. The Moroccan business man who was the only other person in the compartment didn’t seem surprised, and none of us were about to make a fuss. The kid was silent and still, and still there when we got off at our stop. Our driver from the tour, Amal, met us at the station and took us to the modern, bland, 4-star hotel that was to be our home for the night. 

Casablanca, but it could be Nanaimo. Meh.

We met up with our group in the lobby in the evening. We are just five! We’d expected twelve when we saw that the trip was fully booked, so this was a pleasant surprise. After going through all the orientation business, Meryem took us to the home of a local for a home-cooked dinner of a variety of delicious appetizers followed by a dish of stewed chicken and artichoke. 

The streets were really busy on our way back to the hotel, as everyone emerges from their day of fasting to celebrate, or shop, or do whatever it is they do. We retreated to our hotel beds.



Monday, March 9 — Casablanca to Chefchaouen

Breakfast was a buffet in the hotel, which included, if we chose, a whole bunch of breads, pastries, and sweets, some cheeses and mystery meats, fresh orange juice, and boiled eggs. 

We all met with our luggage and piled into our luxury van to drive several blocks to the Hassan II Mosque. When built, this was the second largest mosque in the world, after Mecca, when it was built (1986-1993), but has been since surpassed by at least seven larger mosques. It can accommodate 25,000 worshippers inside. Our guide, the same man who hosted us for dinner last night, described in great detail the construction and the materials used (all Moroccan.) He explained that visitors can enter the mosque only between prayer times, but that it’s otherwise closed except to worshippers. We learned that the square minaret is unique to Morocco because Morocco is the one Muslim country not invaded and therefore influenced by the Turks and their round-minaret design. 

Hassan II Mosque

The length of the interior

 

 

One of many doors that look out to the sea

It was evident that our guide was passionate about his religion and its practices. He explained in detail that in Morocco, all people are regarded as equal regardless of their faith, saying that Muslims, Jews, and Christians were neighbours of equal value, and that each faith respects the other. This was a theme to be repeated by several other guides in the days to come. How much of this is idealism and how much is true in the day-to-day, I can't know.

 

Leaving the complex, following our guide.

After our tour of the mosque, we drove to Rabat for a walk through the main street of the medina there and a quick visit to the mausoleum of Mohammed V (about which we learned nothing, having no guide with us and no lit to read).

 

Pulses and grains

And other essentials

 

Meryem buys us the biggest, sweetest strawberries we've ever had

 

Balconies on the outside of a building indicate a Jewish quarter. Muslim houses face inwards towards a courtyard, with no windows on the outside.

 

On guard outside the mausoleum. Our crew: self, Milica (pronounced Melissa), Bettyanne, Sue, Vicki

After having lunch on the patio of a modern restaurant by the river, we drove and drove and drove, only stopping for a pee break at a roadside restaurant which will be burned into our memories as the place where the proprietor and a worker were having a fight over whether the chairs were clean or not. Oh, and it was an introduction, for some of us, to squatters. There were some toilets, as well, which was a good thing, because there were some among us who were not about to squat. We paid a few coins to the bathroom ladies (they’re everywhere, I’ve discovered) in return for 3 squares of toilet paper and a tissue for drying our hands. 

The last hour of driving into Chefchaouen took us up into the Rif mountains on narrow winding roads. We arrived at a blocked road and walked the last 10 minutes to our accommodations. There has been record rainfall in the last few weeks here, washing out many roads. The previous Wild Women tour to ours could not get to Chefchaouen at all.

Our deluxe ride

 

Walking to our accommodations

The reason for walking

We checked into the beautiful Dar Echchaouen hotel, then walked down into town for dinner. The dinner was mediocre compared to what we’ve been having. I’d been trying to figure out how a tour includes meals in the price, when menu prices are so varied. Today, our lunch was pretty much chosen for us — some big salads and two pizzas — and tonight, we were allowed to choose from one particular page of the menu. I’m guessing this is how they control costs, but I’ll know for sure as the tour goes on.

Entrance

Our sitting room, through to the bedroom. This was before we hung our laundry everywhere.

To sleep, really excited to explore the beautiful blue city tomorrow.

Marrakech

 Saturday, March 7

We slept really well, and woke up feeling great, not necessarily an expected thing when changing eight time zones. 

On offer for breakfast was traditional Moroccan fare: freshly squeezed orange juice, a small pancake, bread, jams, olives, and honey cake. We were joined at our table by small brown birds who wistfully eyed the cake. I might have slipped them some crumbs.

We stepped out into the medina, a warren of very busy, very touristic shops. Brass lamps, ceramics, rugs, caftans, and then more brass lamps, ceramics, rugs, and caftans. We didn’t come here to shop, but it would be easy to buy something of everything. The craftsmanship is beautiful, the quality much higher than I’d expected. We wandered slowly down the lanes, skirting (or skirted by) motorcycles, bicycles, hand carts, donkey carts. It was not unlike a slightly quieter version of Indian old-city streets.

 

Things were hopping about an hour after this

Potpourri: aromatic herbs and spices for cosmetics rather than food

 

A crew was doing some road repair in the middle of all this, a crew being two men with brooms sweeping some sort of filler between newly placed cobbles, and one man trying to keep traffic off the new mortar. This mostly worked, but Bettyanne managed to immortalize herself into Marrakesh history by stepping into some wet concrete. Look for her footprint when you go there.

Fixing the road. Bettyanne's footprint is under that little arch

We returned home rather quickly then, to clean off the concrete before it dried into the sole of her new shoe. By this time, temperatures were warmer, so we shed some layers and headed to the second of Mustafa’s recommendations for lunch, the Café Bazaar, which had also been on my list of eateries. This was a rooftop restaurant with a view of other rooftops and the occasional minaret. We had a beautiful lunch, and, Carol, you’ll be happy to know that your harira (lentil & chickpea soup) is virtually indistinguishable from the one I was served here. Well done! 

View of rooftops, from rooftop

We were there on the rooftop when the afternoon call to prayer began, first a very loud call from a close-by mosque, echoed by calls from numerous other mosques around the city. This was a magical moment, but a bit confusing because the first call started at 12:40, the next  two minutes later, joined still later by others. I was later told that the noon-hour prayer was at 12:45,  so the timing made sense. When I looked it up, prayer times change by a minute or so every day, based on sunrise I guess. I will surely learn more as I spend more time here. We have also since learned that the call in Morocco is always live, never recorded, hence the time difference between mosques.

After lunch, we decided to walk to the Jardin Majorelle, otherwise known as Yves St Laurent garden. From the images I’ve seen, it’s spectacular. Google claimed it was a 30-minute walk, which we were quite happy to undertake. On the way, before leaving the medina, we passed by the Jardin Secret, whose line to get in had dwindled to nothing since the morning, when the long snake of tourists deterred us. Now was the time to go. 

Stepping into the Jardin from the bustle of the medina, we found a hushed, birdsong-filled space, a serene retreat. That’s a good thing — we didn’t know it at the time, but we would need to carry some of that serenity when we ventured the further walk.

Pavilion with fountain, Jardin Secret

The map carried us out of the medina and into confused traffic on broken streets, a Saturday food market, trucks and construction everywhere. Crosswalks were invisible and the walk/stop signs worked only occasionally. We used the India street-crossing rule: go when the locals go. Sidewalk repairs meant walking on the street between trucks and traffic. We survived, and let’s just say it was an adventure. Pretty sure it took us more than the 30 minutes we’d expected.

We arrived at Jardin Majorelle to find timed-entry lines for which we were unprepared and were told they were fully booked until Thursday. If I had encountered that information in my research, I don’t remember, but if I did, I must have thought that there wouldn’t be a problem getting in at this time of year. Lesson learned. 

Bettyanne is amazing. I consider myself pretty go-with-the-flow, but she’s got me beat. I was disappointed in a groan kind of way (does that make sense?), and while I couldn’t say I was upset, I was just not really ready to tackle the chaos again — but Bettyanne just said, “Oh well, it’s been a great adventure!” This is what makes a good travel partner!

Heading home, we took a less congested route, and found our way partly due to the help of a friendly gentleman in a jellaba who said he was paid by the tourism board and would not ask for money. Along the way, he told us it would be a special night in Jemaa el Fna because the people from the Sahara were in town to sell their argon oil. He set us in the right direction and said his polite goodbyes.

Jemaa el Fna in daylight: not much happening...

...other than a gathering of water-sellers with their goatskins full of water...

... and some fruit stands, which would be quite decimated by the end of the evening.

After a short break at the riad, we walked a few minutes to a restaurant called Le Jardin Ben Youssef (it’s a day of many gardens). We had trouble locating it despite Ms Google’s best efforts, but a young shopkeeper saw our confusion and helped us, saying it was new, and that it was inside an institution where he had gone to school. We walked through a white archway and though several leafy courtyards to a park-like setting with a fountain, trees, and a cat that was a bit too friendly. Enticed, no doubt, by my couscous, she kept jumping up beside me until I made to bat her away, at which point, the claws came out. No, I didn’t get scratched (I don’t touch these animals), but it became clear that the friendliness was an act. A true narcissist, this kitty: lovely until she doesn’t get her way.

Waiting for dinner

Kitty Narcissist

Couscous

 

As promised, it was a special night. There were several circles of musicians, each seemingly led by a man who circulated, asked tourists for money, encouraged the musicians. There was call-and-response singing, melody playing, by violin or banjo, which is I guess what is available now. The banjo player managed to make it sound like an oud. And of course there were lots of hand-drum players.

As soon as I gave a few dirhams to the hustler man, I was invited to sit in the inner circle, and eventually joined in dancing. Sort of dancing, anyhow. I was immersed, exactly where I wanted to be.

As we made our way home through the souk at 11 pm, many shops were open. We saw ranks of women in front of what I think was a cloth store as the vendor pulled out sample after sample. It reminded me of the sari shops in Jaipur, where the floor would become a sea of silk as the women made their choices.

 

Shops shut down for the night

The beggars with their babies were still out (we’ve heard they’re part of a scammers’ network), and the street cleaners were trying to get their job done.

What a day! It took a long time to get to sleep.

The Dreaded Travel Day, or Zen and the Art of Waiting

 March 5 to 6, 2026


I alway tell myself and others that I like flying and I like airports. These are mainly lies that I must perpetuate or I’d never go anywhere. From people’s descriptions of their own discomforts, I may suffer less than most, which is partly due to the advantage of having a small body stuffed into the space we’re allowed for a 9+ hour flight. However, in truth, it’s miserable. But it’s the price to pay.

I met Bettyanne at the Port Wash dock to meet our 8 am float plane to YVR. The plane was late, and we were cold, but comforted ourselves with thoughts that this would be the last of being cold for a while. We’d be proven wrong, but it’s the delusions of the present that get you through, not the realities that strike you later. 

First flight of the day, just us & the pilot

Anyhow, flying across the Strait of Georgia is elating, and it was a beautiful morning, despite the bluster outside. The shuttle to take us from the float plane terminal to the main terminal comes every 40 minutes, and we’d just missed one, being that our plane had been late. We hung out in Seair’s little office, the first wait of a long day of waiting.

YVR was easy. We were checked in and had our boarding passes on our phones before we even got there. We printed copies of those at a kiosk just for back-up, and whizzed through security, where there were no line-ups. Something new this time: no need to separate liquids or electronics. Like last year in Frankfurt, we just threw everything in the bins and walked through. There are these new scanners that look like a cross between an MRI machine and a rocket module, and everything goes through there. I didn’t see anyone monitoring, but maybe I just missed that. Bettyanne’s stuff got flagged; turned out she had missed unloading a small metal weight she carries around in her backpack as part of her strength-building regime. I guess that regime is now following her in her travels. 

Then, a 4 hour wait in YVR, hum de hum hum, then 9+ hours on the plane, dum de dum dum, then a 5 hour wait in CDG (Paris) for the last leg to Marrakech, then a quick 3h 20 m flight (when I finally slept) to get here. Leaving Pender around 8 am and arriving in Marrakech at 3:20 pm meant 22 hours and 20 minutes of travel time in total, almost half of it spent just waiting. As Bettyanne pointed out, we islanders get good at this, because we’re always waiting for ferries. It becomes a part of the rhythm of life. Oh, yes, we do get fed up. It’s not all zen.

 

Marrakech!

We were greeted by our driver, who waited with a sign in a line of dozens of other drivers waiting with signs. It took us two rounds and then asking someone before we finally found him. This was my first full realization that our adventure is far from unique. You'd think I'd have known that.

The city walls from the window of our car

 

Traffic was crazy, but our driver was deft, and he brought us to a ragtag intersection where he handed us off to a man with a hand cart. Into the cart went the bags and we followed behind, all the way to Riad Naya, our accommodations in the heart of the medina. All this transportation was arranged and provided by the riad for a small fee. We were greeted by Mustafa, with whom I’d been communicating for months via Booking.com. He gave us sweet Moroccan tea and a map of the medina, and got us settled into our room. 

Riads are everywhere in the Marrakech medina. They are the one-time homes of wealthy merchants, now converted into guest houses. Rooms are arranged around a central courtyard, usually with a small pool in the center. Our riad has six or eight rooms only. It’s very simple as tourist riads go, but has all the characteristic woodwork and carved doorways of any very old building here. From the outside, it’s almost forbidding, on a small lane, through a low archway-cum-hole-in-the-wall, but inside, it’s an oasis. Walking along the side lanes of the medina, I was able to peek into a couple of private homes, and they were just like this: a carved doorway into a beautiful, serene space.

The way through to our riad is meant to discourage, I dunno, everyone? But then...

...things start to improve...

 

 

... and we find ourselves in a beautiful space. That door up behind us is our room

And this is the view looking down from our doorway.

We went for dinner at one of the two restaurants recommended by our host. This one was an open-air right on Jemaa el Fna, the mega-square here. We each had a lamb tagine that was more than acceptable though not spectacular, for less than $12 for the two of us. We sat next to two English women who ate panini and chips. Looking down the row from us, every table was being served panini and chips. I wonder if these people knew where they were. But that’s just me. Note that it was still daylight, and it being Ramadan, most of the population is fasting until dusk.

Cold us, hot tagine, Jemaa el Fna behind us.

We were starting to feel a chill in the air when we sat down for dinner. By the time our bill came, an eternity later, we were freezing, despite wearing our puffy coats. So much for the hoped-for warmth of spring in Morocco! 

We ended the day with a stroll about Jemaa el Fna as it was coming to life at the end of a Ramadan day. Then to bed for a very long sleep.  

Good night, Marrakech

  

 

 

 

 

Morocco (and Paris): Journey Minus Three Days

Monday, March 1, 2026

Here we go. On March 5th I’m off to Morocco with Bettyanne, tried-and-true travel partner from the Croatia trip. I’m semi packed and almost ready, and loaded with anxiety.

What’s with that? I think I always go through a bit of this, but it’s easily forgotten once the joy and excitement of a trip is underway. I need to remind myself that I’m not alone in the planning. Bettyanne, while not a super-experienced traveller, is resourceful and does her research. I’m probably taking on more responsibility than I have to. And I need to remind myself that in the days of travelling with John, I did most, if not all of the planning. (But he was here to share my anxiety!) Anyhow, I settled myself yesterday by taking care of a bunch of packing details. 

Yeah, the packing. It’s not about clothes — that part is easy. Several shirts, several bottoms, several outer layers; a couple of pairs of shoes; sundries like a sunhat and a bathing suit. The latter, I confess is a just-in-case item I carry because I think I’ll undergo a massive character change and want to swim. (I did swim…er… dip in the ocean for a couple of minutes in Croatia.)

I think I just talked myself out of taking the bathing suit.

The real challenge in packing is in all the “little” extras I think I need: toiletries, meds, electronics, the things that support the complicated bedtime rituals I seem to need in order to sleep. I’m counting out enough-plus pills, checking my chargers (and charging everything that can be charged), buying Kobo books, loading tiny jars with lotions and potions. 

And making lists, and lists of lists. I tell myself I can buy there almost anything I might forget. BUT not my hearing aid charger! Not my bluetooth toggle that transmits the plane’s movie soundtrack into my noise-cancelling earbuds! Not my silk eye mask! Not my precious loaded Kobo! Not the serums that allow me to deceive myself about how good my skin looks at 73! Can I live without this stuff? NO!!

If you’re enthusiastic about packing details, they’re down below. Most readers will not be.

So, this trip. 

We’re taking a tour. Now, I am not a tour person (she tells herself convincingly, despite the last two trips being boat-and-bike tours. Those don’t count, do they?) I have been in places, meticulously researched by self well in advance, where the tour groups cluster behind the guide-with-a-flag, faces bored or confused or both, surely just wanting to grab an aperitif in that inviting-looking café on the corner, and not follow the herd to the next highly-rated, over-explained monument. I’ve watched them from that café, thankful I’m not one of them.

But, Morocco— it ain’t Europe. I’d be a bit daunted to undertake it independently. Getting from place to place, including into the mountains and out to the desert, seems like something hard to navigate on one’s own. Bettyanne found this tour: Wild Women Expeditions, Ultimate Morocco. It’s expensive, but a rather large cut above anything I’ve done before in terms of luxury, staying in upscale, boutique, palace-like accommodations. I think I can get into that for a couple of weeks! We’ll be with a group of twelve women plus a Moroccan guide, travelling by “private vehicle,” which probably means a large van. We’ll hit all the hot spots and do a few things only women would be privy to, like visiting a women’s co-op, where we’ll learn some Moroccan cooking. We’ll also ride bikes in a desert oasis, hike in the Atlas mountains, ride camels in the Sahara, and glamp under the stars in a truly dark sky. Yeah, I think I can do that!

Wild Women Expeditions

Returning from Morocco, the only half-way reasonable flights require an overnight layover in Paris. Deciding that it would be torture to spend a night so-close-yet-so-far from Paris, we chose instead to spend some days in the City of Light, which could be the City of Rain at the end of March. We’ve rented an apartment in the Marais for 5 nights. We have spent more hours planning four days in Paris than we spent on every other bit of planning for this trip. Right, that’s the advantage of a tour: book a flight, pack your bags, and you’re good to go!

This trip’s itinerary outline:
Marrakech, 2 nights
Wild Women Ultimate Morocco Tour, 14 nights
Paris, 5 nights


For packing nerds: 

For this trip, we’re travelling Air France which has a luggage weight limit of 12 kg for both carry-on and personal item. I don’t check a bag. Sometimes I think life would be an awful lot easier if I did, but then I remember the two times my bag did not reach my destination when I did. That would be okay on the trip home, but it’s never on the trip home, is it? I had not worried about luggage weight in the past. I have travelled Air France and they didn’t weigh my undoubtedly-overweight carry-on. But last year my bag got weighed by Croatia Air, and it was 1.2 kg over the allowable 8 kg, so I had to check it — despite the plane being half empty and the overhead bin, after all, almost completely empty. 

My trusty Eddie Bauer rolling duffel, which has been my mainstay for every trip I’ve been on, from weekend jaunts to Campbell River to a three-month stint in India and Sri Lanka, weighs 3 kg empty. And I have to admit, it’s getting tired, with some side supports bulging out. After an extensive search, I decided to get a Bellroy lite carry-on, another soft-sided bag on two wheels which comes in at 2 kg, the lightest bag I could find. Soft, because I can stuff it when size is not an issue, and two wheels because I want to be able to drag it over cobblestones and up and down stairways. So, the bag is gorgeous, but oh man is it tiny! And while I’m used to the single compartment of the Eddie Bauer, it has several pockets/pouches, including a couple of puffy ones on the front that really need to be filled with something. So I have to learn to re-pack. On a recent weekend trip, I learned that the main front pouch is great for dirty laundry. Or shoes. I dunno. Shoes on the way there, dirty laundry on the way back? 

Trusty old Eddie Bauer on the right, teeny new Belroy on the left.

In addition to the Bellroy, I bought an Osprey Day-Lite day pack. I tend to put a lot of weight in the “personal item,” including my laptop and the entire trip’s worth of daily essentials, in case my carry-on gets gate-checked and then lost, which can happen. The lightest personal-item bag I’ve used has been my old (2004!) Rick Steves Civita, a bare minimum, unstructured backpack, but it kills me to walk around with it. The new day pack is constructed for comfort and has a waist belt for additional support. I’m excited to try it out. Since Air France considers total weight rather than just that of the carry-on, I’ll keep my laptop in the laptop sleeve of the Bellroy, where it’s easy to pull out if I do get gate-checked. 

I haven’t mentioned my new SCOTTeVEST. It has 154 pockets I think. At least, more pockets than anyone could need. So many pockets, the biggest challenge will be figuring out what to put in each pocket — and then remembering what I put where. I bought it (at an exorbitant price, even at 40% off) so that I could load it up with the heavy things and keep my luggage weight down. It will also work as a warmth layer, and I’m hoping to find it a useful replacement for carrying a bag. One pocket is big enough for a water bottle. Many pockets zipper on the inside, for security. Should be good. The only problem I can foresee is that the airlines will cotton on to the loading-the-vest movement (and I think it will be movement), and start weighing our outer garments. That would seem wrong, though; how could they compare me at 50 kg to the 100 kg man in the line behind me? For that matter, how can they do it now? Why 12 kg? It should be 12 kg + some pre-determined allowance for body weight. Oh, but that would be discriminatory. Like it isn’t now?

SCOTTeVEST

Anyhow, the practice pack is pretty much done, and my two bags together weigh just under the 12 kg allowance, even without really loading the vest. 

Do I feel ready? Thanks to some good friends who have taken me out to distract me, my nerves are (somewhat) calmed. The weather looks good for the first flight across the Strait of Georgia in a float plane. Whew. Here we go!

Travel Day, Mostly About Airports

 June 16, 2025

Travel day, to home-ish. Vancouver, to be exact. Pender tomorrow.

The morning was relaxed, as I finished up packing. I barely unpack, really, with my nifty slim packing cubes that serve as drawers. And a bunch of small cases sorted by function, like shower, bedside, etc. 

Packing to go home is a breeze, unlike packing to leave, which takes months. I should learn to just use old packing lists, since they’ve always worked. This time, I added updates to the current list, of things I should have brought but decided against, like an external charger for my phone, and things I brought but didn’t use, like a disposable razor that felt so horrible I only used it once, and for the space it saved, I should have brought my regular one. These things, we learn. By the time I’ve got it perfect, I’ll be done with travelling, as in too old. 

I’ve complained about the new Berlin airport in the past, and it can be confusing without all the pertinent information. Last time I departed from Berlin, it was to fly to Lisbon, and I remember it took some doing to figure out which check-out counter to go to. This time that information was sent to me, though I don’t remember how (must find out, for future reference,) but if I hadn’t had previous experience, I might have ignored that info. I had written it out for myself, and once I found where I had written it (I do duplicates of duplicates, which I now realize just confuses things,) I headed straight for the right counter. There were no people there, but there wasn’t supposed to be. First, I scanned my boarding pass (from my phone) into a booth that printed my baggage tag, which I attached to my bag with some kind of magnetic thing, not actual glue. There was a man standing by to help, or I wouldn’t have had a clue. Then I put my bag on a belt, scanned the baggage tag, and off went my bag. Into the ether. How it will get to Vancouver with baggage tag attached is beyond me, but oh well. 

BER: Self explanatory -- same system as YVR. Print baggage tag here.

BER Baggage drop. No personnel, just do it all yourself. If you can't figure out how to attach the baggage label (I couldn't), that guy is there to help. Whew!

I decided to check my bag this time because I have a relatively short connection in Munich, and if my Berlin-Munich flight is late, the transit might be too hard and too slow for me to make the connection. I put all the really needed stuff in my backpack, and I’m keeping fingers crossed and thumbs pressed (the German way, which is a must when in Germany) that the bag arrives eventually, if not on the same flight as me. 

Security, again, didn’t require removing liquids or electronics from my backpack. Remember? “Everything in the box!” But once I’d passed through the body scanner, I was chosen for a pat down and a peak at the bottom of my shoes. I remembered once, leaving Ottawa, the guy patted down my bare arms. I don’t know what he thought he was looking for. 

Once in the main departure area, I read the departures board and found out my gate wouldn’t be posted until 11:20. I had more than an hour to wait. The area was great, however, with lots of overpriced shops where I was tempted to buy a new passport neck pouch, a fancy water bottle, a new sunglasses case, a jigsaw puzzle, a portable charger, and a Jansport combo backpack/roller bag. I didn’t buy anything.

Anyhow, long story short: Berlin Airport is pretty nice! Their washrooms, however, don’t come close to Vancouver’s. There are few stalls, and they are small; there is no room for the inevitable line up in the ladies’, and if you’re waiting for a stall, you risk getting smashed by the outer door. YVR washrooms are beautiful and have won awards for their design.  Who knew washrooms could win awards?

Finally, as I write, I’m sitting at Gate 10 with an hour to go. I don’t see our plane yet. I realize I should have filled my water bottle, because if I leave now, I might not get a place to sit. Oh well, not crucial for this 1-hour flight. I’ll fill up in Munich.


Munich Airport, Gate L09

How can there be such different impressions of an airport from one time to the next? Just 20 months ago, Munich airport felt shabby, convoluted, and terribly inefficient. Today, it is the opposite. The flight arrived on time from Berlin, and I followed excellent signage that led through an enticing shopping area (no stopping here, though, as I just wanted to get to my gate,) took me down an elevator to the people mover, then up a couple of very long escalators to my gate. Along the way, there was an automated passport control where I scanned my passport, which I guess means I’ve now checked out of Europe. Entering the gate area, there was a line-up at a desk, where they put a sticker in my passport, ostensibly to make boarding very quick. I imagine it will be the same as boarding in Berlin, despite it being an international flight: tap the phone with the electronic boarding pass on the scanner, and you’re through. 

I’ll be in seat 15G, which is quite near the front in economy, but I’m in boarding group 6, which seems a little weird, but I noticed the Berlin-Munich flight used a different system for boarding, which I read some years ago was much more efficient that the traditional front to back boarding. This way, people are boarded seemingly randomly, which means no one is blocking up the aisle hoisting their carryon into the overhead bin.

Speaking of which, there was a minor battle in Munich as the gate attendants weighed bags and made people check the ones that were overweight. One couple kicked up a fuss, unfortunately in German so I couldn’t understand what was said. The gate attendant stood her ground. When another customer began to complain as well, in English, the attendant said, “We announced it twice, that bags would have to be checked. There are no exceptions.” I’m really glad I opted to check my bag earlier, because I would have had to anyways, my bag weighing in at 10 kg, and Lufthansa’s limit being 8 kg. Doesn’t matter that I booked with Air Canada, who does not impose weight restrictions, at least not yet.

*****

From home:
The flight was loooooonnnngggg. Ten hours. But my noise-cancelling bluetooth earbuds paired with my airplane adapter, and the sound was great. Turns out you have to have the buds in their case, with the lid open, and then you press the only button there is on the case for about 5 seconds, and the buds enter pairing mode. It’s not exactly intuitive, and there is no manual, and I had to look it up and hope that the info was accurate, because I had no way to test it before being on the plane. 

The legroom was tight, even for this pipsqueak. I sat centre section aisle, as I do on long flights, so there was no climbing over to do, not by me or over me. I didn’t sleep, though I tried. Watched some good movies, including Anora, an award winner. For those who've seen it, you'll understand when I say I felt a bit awkward watching the first part in a public place. No one seemed to notice, though.

I landed in Vancouver at around 5 pm, and John was there to meet me. I joined with extended family for the evening, for as long as I lasted. In the morning we took the ferry home to Pender Island.

Carol said, if you have to come home, this is the best possible place to come home to. That’s how it feels. Great trip, and great to be home.

A Last Day in the 'Hood

 June 15, 2025 — Sunday

Another scorcher of a day. There were offers of outings, but I wanted a low-key day for my last day before heading home, so we stayed in the neighbourhood. We walked to the Volkspark Wilmersdorf, a serpentine stretch of green that once saved me from jet lag on arrival in Berlin some years ago. There’s a new playground there, a huge, spectacular one. In a city full of huge, spectacular playgrounds, this one outdid them all. My favourite part was the labyrinth. Who doesn’t like a labyrinth? It was small, but definitely get-lost-able. The theme of the playground was Harry Potter, and all the characters were there, carved in wood, but the city didn’t call it Harry Potter, because they would have had to pay royalties. How omitting the name is enough to avoid lawsuits is beyond me. 

Random sunbathing on patchy grass (see previous post about this aesthetic)

Family playing pétanque, or boules, or bocce, whatever it's called here. Behind that greenery is the beer garden described below

Not a Harry Potter playground

A feature that wasn’t new in this part of the park was a row of pingpong tables. At the beach yesterday, Amelia and Ezra (and for a bit, me) volleyed a pingpong ball back and forth with the paddles they’d brought for the purpose. Today, it was actual pingpong. Well, no score-keeping, that would ruin it. Ezra taught Amelia about backhand today, and she caught on right away. Somewhere in the forgotten crannies of my past, I must have played some pingpong, because my body remembers how to do it. Weird, that. I’m not good, no, far from it, but I’m not a complete newbie, either. I have a feel for the paddle, the ball, and the table. Hmm.

Ezra and Amelia

We stopped in a beer garden on the way home. This was an actual garden, of sorts, tucked behind a hedge that separated it from a major paved walkway. From that walkway, you’d never guess this was there. Sitting in there, looking at the beat-up tables, the old wooden-slat chairs, the higgledy-piggledy-ness of it, I was reminded of Mexico, or India. Katharina said that places like this could only be in Berlin; anywhere else in Germany would be all cleaned up and spiffy. Rough-cut, Berlin.

One small corner of LAAX, a shabby-chic beer garden

 

This is the place, if you ever want to find it

I love this family!