Wrapping Up Morocco

 Sunday March 22

Who We are

Mariam has been our leader, our mother, our sometimes-admonisher, and our guiding light. Born Indigenous (Amazigh) in Imlil in the Atlas Mountains, she had an in that few guides would have,  and could relate to the people that seem to make up most of the population outside the urban areas, and they could relate to her. Being a guide is a 24/7 job. Even on the long drives, she would be on the phone most of the time, making arrangements, ensuring our bookings were good, ordering our meals to be ready as we arrived, sorting out our rooms, and just generally making sure we had as smooth and as enriching a trip as could be had. 

Amal has been our amazing driver. She can manipulate that big vehicle in lanes I wouldn’t take a mini into. And no wonder — she used to be a long-distance truck driver, the only woman truck driver in Morocco, we’re told. And now she’s one of very few woman drivers in the Moroccan tourism industry. She doesn’t speak English, but she’s our friend. More than that, she’s our hero.

The maximum number of guests on Wild Women Expeditions is twelve. When we saw that the tour was full, we thought that meant there would be twelve of us. Why were we only five? We’re guessing that it’s because they have to book accommodations months in advance, so there’s a cutoff date, which they don’t seem to advertise. This may not be true of all of their tours, because I’ve seen “space available” just before a tour is set to embark. 

To travel with only five (mostly) strangers might not be a good thing in all cases. If there’s a grump in the group, you can’t really get away. In our case, we bonded like sisters. While we were five very different personalities, I think the overriding characteristic of all of us was a positive, adventurous attitude. Oh, we were not without complaints — that would have been annoying — but even in our complaints we stood together, a group support. 

I will miss my new sisters. We agreed that if we were to find a good adventure to share, we’d try to sign up together. 


Sue

Sue is the lone American in our group, but she does not fit the stereotype we Canadians tend to attribute to Americans. She’s quiet but strong, and she will assert herself when she needs to. (Response to a squatter: “That’s not going to happen!”)  I often catch her with a little smile on her face, which could be contemplative, or wise, or maybe she’s just smirking at our antics, I don’t know. She has eyes like Joni Mitchell’s, and sometimes I catch a glance that just slays me. She is a goddess.

Sue was a key participant in a community project that wrapped the Art Center in Sioux City, Iowa, in quilted fabric. Find Sue here.


Vicki

Vicki’s a straight shooter. I mean, if she needs something, she lets it be known in no uncertain terms. She drinks coffee like no one I’ve ever met (and I thought John was the consummate coffee drinker!) She could write her own blog just about all the coffee she had on this trip, and I’ll never forget her exclamations: “DeLICIous!”  Vicki has a way of making you feel good about yourself, by paying attention, by caring for you, and by laughing her big belly laugh at all your jokes, the good ones and the bad.

Milica

Milica is our spark plug. Vibrant, curious, open. My first encounter with her was when Bettyanne and I were having a salad in the hotel in Casablanca. Not knowing who we were, she exclaimed, “Look at you two, having your salad!” and I thought she must be a rich, famous person by her demeanor. Her voice — that voice! — is so expressive and so exuberant, everyone we met was drawn to her; she was the one the nomads took to; she was the one the hotel people would light up for. All of Morocco fell in love with her. 

Bettyanne

Well. Bettyanne is one of the most patient, kind, and giving people I’ve ever met. She has energy and enthusiasm for everything that comes her way. Being with someone all day, every day for three weeks in a foreign and challenging environment is a true test of friendship, and we aced it. I could not ask for a better travel partner, and I’m grateful that I don’t have to say goodbye to her.

Travel Day

This morning, after our last high-carb Moroccan breakfast, we began the outward journey. We all had different departure times, of course. Vicki had booked an extra day, and was now questioning that decision, not willing to venture into the medina on her own (and who can blame her?) But Vicki, with time to kill, was there to see us off, to make sure we all got the right pre-arranged car (after some confusion). 

Breakfast. Since there's no longer pressure to get going, a couple of us didn't show up

Near the airport: dismal trees and barriers. A standing joke: several times during the trip, we'd drive by high walls topped by barbed wire. Marian would ask if we knew what that was, and we'd guess it was a prison. No, it was always an airport.

Marrakech airport was easy. The flight to Paris was easy. Arriving at Charles de Gaul Airport, not so easy. It should have been: catch the RER from the lower level of CDG and ride directly to a stop a ten-minute walk from our apartment in the Marais. 

But the RER airport line was not running. It took a while to figure out that there would be buses to take us into Paris. Asking directions to the bus, we were given a variety of indecipherable answers, most of them something about Gate 4, which to us meant a departure gate, and that made no sense. Turn left, then straight, then down, then left, then…. Even Ms Google, bless her, must have been trained by CDG staff to give confusing directions. “Take the escalator down,” she’d say, with no escalator in sight. By now it was getting dark. And I was quietly losing my cool. I almost never lose my cool! Anyhow, we finally realized that “Gate 4” meant “Door 4” of a particular terminal, and we found the bus, bought Navigo passes (the new way of getting around public transit in Paris), boarded with a hoard of other inconvenienced travellers, and rode to Saint Denis, where we followed the crowd down dark streets, hoping they knew what they were doing, to a Metro station. Having navigated the Metro before, I found us the right train, and we got off at Les Halles. In that shopping mall, we added another few thousand steps to our daily count before we found the exit, then made our way to our 6th floor apartment, where our patient host met us, thanks to communicating with him through WhatsApp. It had taken us three hours to get from the plane to our abode. 

We went for dinner in a dead-quiet nearby restaurant I’d found online, then walked down to Isle de la Cité, where I was excited to see Bettyanne’s reaction to Notre Dame, lit up at night. Turned out I was too excited, and mislabelled a smaller church, and she got highly excited — until I realized we hadn’t crossed the water, and this wasn’t Notre Dame. Damn! 

We're in Paris!!

Oh wow! Oh wow! But it's not Notre Dame

This! is Notre Dame

Anyhow, we were in Paris, and being in Paris is being in Paris! Paris!! Notre Dame square was all but deserted, about the only time we’d see it that way. We took the obligatory selfies and walked the ten minutes home to bed. 

 

 

A Lot of Walking

 June 13

Ezra was off work today. We’d planned a picnic for dinner, so we went shopping. For something like €50 (I checked my withdrawals, and the Euro is currently about $1.60 CAD, a highter rate than I’d though), Ez bought what would have cost probably $150 back home. Things are generally cheap here. 

I nosed in some shops for a bit, was tempted by a shirt and a dress, but only bought some Fisherman’s Friend lozenges, which will get me through the flight home, when I will wear a mask. Masks always make me cough.

Ez and I went for lunch at the Café Bildebuch, a favourite haunt since John and I first started coming to Berlin. There’s a smoke-filled front patio and a fairly smoke-free back patio, where we chose to sit. 

My egg sandwich, not at all like "egg salad"

After lunch, it was time to pick up Brookie at the train from camp. It was at the same S-Bahn station I’d arrived at from the airport, and the one I'll probably leave from to get back to the airport, so I recorded the walk on a GPS track. It’s 2.2 km from here, and it took us 20 minutes at a good clip. Hauling my luggage might take longer. I could take a closer train and transfer but this one is non-stop direct, so the walk is probably worth it.

By 2 o’clock, I’d put in more than 10,000 steps and had plenty more to do today. Last time I was in Berlin, I averaged 13,000 a day. At my age, 6,000 is considered the sweet spot. I wonder if I can slack off all winter if I double up my steps in summer. Nah, I know the answer to that. It hardly seems fair.

In my “Berlin 2025 Wishlist,” which I think I got from a NTY article months ago, one idea was to picnic on the Insel der Jugend. Katharina has been doing her best all week to make all my wishlist items happen. She takes the list way more seriously than I do. So she arranged that Ezra's sister Maria and her partner Francie would meet us there, and away we went. Ezra rode, with the kiddie wagon in tow, holding two girls really much too big for it. Katharina and I took the S-Bahn. Then walked. And walked. And walked. Well, I asked for it, didn’t I? 

Typical S-Bahn station. Bland, but efficient

Here’s the thing about Berlin: it’s very rough-cut. That’s a big part of its charm, I think. Where other cities might have pristine gardens and smooth public lawns, Berlin’s spaces are weedy, and the grass, where it survives, is going to seed. In public recreational places, whatever grass there might ever have been has long since worn away, leaving large patches of bare, dusty ground, littered with cigarette butts and other detritus. That’s okay by Berliners. They spread their blankets in the dust and enjoy their picnics as if they were parked in a corner of paradise. In large, open spaces, people plunk themselves seemingly at random. Oh, there’s a patch not occupied, let’s occupy it. Think of yourself walking into the middle of a scrappy field and just lying down there, to catch some sun or read a book. That’s the aesthetic. 

Entrance to Insel der Jugend (Island of Youth), which you can see has been re-named Insel Berlin, but nobody calls it that. 

Set in the walkway leading to the Insel, there were stones naming what I presume were sponsors of the bridge. This was my favourite. Lucy is Stephen Hawking's daughter.

By the time Katharina and I had walked enough kilometers to up my annual daily step average by several thousand, the others had already found a seemly patch of dust, and the picnic was spread out. There were low trees around, and we were quite close to the river, so it wasn’t completely random. We pretended the cigarette butts were part of the natural landscape. The girls, they can make beautiful things out of anything, I swear, and we were served delectable frisbees of “pizza,” and “French toast,” made with mud, stones, tiny blossoms, and big juicy leaves. I wish I’d taken pictures of these unlikely works of art.

It was great to see Maria, after some years of crossed wires, but it wasn’t really enough time. It was nice to meet Francie at last. (I probably spelled her name wrong, sorry.)

Francie, Maria, and Brookie, with Ezra and the kiddie wagon bringing up the rear

Picnic over, while others sailed away on their bikes, Katharina and I retraced the kilometers back to the S-Bahn, and rode home watching the sun set at 9:15. Summer!

Oh, and my step count, since you’re dying to know: 21,954. That’s about half of what a Camino pilgrim will walk in a day. But I feel pretty good about it. 

This was before my last 26 steps to the bathroom and back

Out For Tea

June 12, 2025 

 

I was on my own for the start of the day. I planned to get out to the main street to poke about the shops, but didn’t quite make it. Since I was up at 7, I needed a nap around 1 o’clock, and used my new trick of putting on a 15-minute guided meditation, setting an alarm for 30 minutes, and drifting off before the deep-breaths part of the meditation is done. The alarm woke me up, and I thought it was morning. So refreshing!

Katharina got home from work (she’s a pediatrician) at 2 o’clock, and we set out to check off one of the several things I’d put on my wishlist for this visit: tea at a Tajik tea house called Tadshikische Teestube. We rode a couple of S-bahn trains and emerged by the historic synagogue I’d visited with John on a previous visit to Berlin. The synagogue was all but destroyed during WWII (yep, our side did that), and is now a museum, not an active synagogue. There are concrete barriers in front, and a police presence, because, well, I can’t explain why. Why antisemitism still exists, or why it ever did, is something I’ll never understand. 

The domes of the synagogue on the left, television tower in the right distance

 

Notice the Big Ball in the Sky in a couple of my shots. While one might imagine some nefarious purpose, it's just a television tower. (That's what they'd like you to believe!) It's visible all over Berlin. My favourite story about it: when the sun shines on it, the reflection forms a Greek cross. That became known as "the Pope's revenge," because in East Germany, where it is (or was) situated, the government had removed all the crosses from the churches. 

Behind busy streets, quiet passageways

The neighbourhood we were in is riddled with little interior passageways between apartment buildings which have been developed into art spaces, cafés, and artisan shops. We walked through these leafy courtyards until we came to the one where our teahouse was located. The interior was really enticing, rather like the old Afghan Horseman in Vancouver for those that remember it, but on such a beautiful, warm day, we chose to sit outside. We ordered the “Russian Tea Ceremony” for two, which wasn’t really a ceremony. The very concentrated tea was held in a tiny teapot over a samovar. This was accompanied by minuscule bowls containing candied peel, rum-soaked raisins, some strawberry jam, and flavoured sugar lumps. It was supposed to be accompanied by vodka, but we chose apple juice instead. There was a dish with a number of cookies, packaged ones, not fresh. Our server told us we were to pour a small amount of the tea in our cups, then fill up with hot water from the samovar. She didn’t tell us what to do with the rest of the stuff. We took a guess and stirred the bits into our tea, which needed some sweetening, since it was strong and bitter (in a good way.)

Waiting for tea. Note ashtrays -- people in Europe haven't caught on to the nonsmoking culture of North America. The only safe place to eat is indoors, which in effect gives the best seating to smokers. Here, we were almost alone, therefore breathing clear air.

The interior of the tea house, had we needed to escape smokers

 

We lingered over tea, just talking, telling stories. So good to have this time.

Our "Russian Tea Ceremony", with sweet bits, cookies, and apple juice. The little teapot on the top is full of very concentrated tea, while the samovar is filled with hot water.

Afterwards, we walked through more of the little courtyards, then out onto the park that borders the Spree, the river that runs through the city. Across the river was Museum Island, that holds a group of historic buildings: the Berlin Cathedral, the “Old Museum,” the “New Museum” (which isn’t new), the Pergamon Museum. John and I, along with Ezra and Katharina, visited these on our first visit to Berlin in 2010. 

The Spree, with Museum Island on the right

It seemed like the entire population was in the streets today, drawn out by the hint of summer after some days of cool and even blustery weather. Something I love about Berlin is that it’s a living city. In other European capitals I’ve visited, the historic centres have become museums for tourists. Berlin is not like that. There were certainly lots of tourists where we walked today, but most of the people were locals out enjoying their city on a fine day.

There's that "Television Tower," spying on everyone

(I need to learn to make longer videos; 8 seconds seems sooo long when I'm recording!)

 

"Television Tower" with "The Pope's Revenge". Note S-Bahn train on the further bridge.

A nice restaurant before the dinner hour. Pretty sure I wouldn't want to wrap myself up in those hairy animal skins!

 

While we're out and about, here's a little lesson on using the Berlin transit system. First, you buy a ticket from the dispenser, then you validate it in a little red box. It's not clear (to me, without help) that you have to do that, but if you haven't validated your ticket, you are not travelling legally and could be kicked off the train if an official comes along to check. This is the same on European intercity trains -- you need to find the little box to validate your ticket.

Purchase tickets here. This local took a long time figuring out how to do it, so don't expect it to be easy. Know some key words, like "fahrkarte" for ticket. Otherwise, just poke at the screen, and eventually something will happen.

 

 

The validation box, this one attached to what looks like a mini fire hydrant.

Expect to share your ride with bicycles.

Amelia was at a birthday party from after school until 7 tonight, which is how Katharina was free to spend time wandering with me. We picked Amelia up at the party venue, an apartment like this one, where about a hundred kids emerged. Well, maybe not quite a hundred, but it might as well have been. Parents, mostly fathers, were there to pick up their kids. I was struck by the big smiles as they spotted theirs among the throng. I am struck generally by the strong sense of family I get, watching people here. Maybe it’s not different from home, but at home, people are mostly in their houses and yards, whereas here, because people live in apartments, families are out and about, and their affection is in-your-face visible. I don't have any photos of that affection -- you just have to imagine it.

I do now have some shots of some of Katharina's family members, from their visit yesterday. Maybe you can see the affection in these.

 

Katharina's mom, Agnes

And Katharina's sister, Theresia, and husband Damien

The Zoo

June 9, 2025

Today was a national holiday in Germany, celebrating the Pentacost. Holidays here mean that no stores are open. Sundays mean the same, so for this Sunday-followed-by-a-holiday, people had to stock up on supplies ahead of time. Ezra went to shop Saturday evening, and found a lot of empty — really empty! — shelves in the supermarket. He managed to make a really delicious vegetable melange for dinner last night, though.

After a bit of “what shall we do” back and forth, we decided today would be a good day to go to the zoo. The Tiergarten in Berlin (“tier” means “animal” and the “garten" part is obvious) is pretty amazing, but I’ve been there twice before, and the kids were curious about the other zoo, the Tierpark, where they'd never been. A two-zoo city is explained by the fact that the city was split in two for some decades. The Tiergarten was West Berlin’s zoo, and the Tierpark was East Berlin’s. 

Getting there meant taking a number of S-Bahn (the mostly above-ground train) and the U-Bahn (the mostly underground train) and a bunch of walking in between. At least, I think we took both the S and the U, but it was all so convoluted, I may have lost track. You can get from anywhere in Berlin to anywhere else in Berlin using the fantastic public system of trains, buses, and trams, but it takes at least a Bachelor of Getting Around to figure out how to navigate it. 

One of the S-Bahn stations

Walking

Sandwiches at a bakery. Note reasonable prices (€1 is worth about $1.50 Canadian)

The zoo itself, as its name might suggest, was more park than animals, a forested area covering 160 hectares (400 acres.) We did a lot of walking! Aside from a few of the animals you’d expect at a zoo, like monkeys and tigers and bears and giraffes, it seemed that most of the animals were deer-like creatures I’d never heard of, or cow-like creatures I’d never heard of. We bee-lined to the polar bears (yes, pretty sad), wandered through some educational rainforest displays, and then climbed up a hill to the Himalaya section, which housed, among other fauna, a pair snow leopards. Like most of the other big cats at the zoo, the snow leopard we saw was asleep. I dunno, bored? Probably.

 

I think the girls preferred the sculptures of animals to the animals themselves.

 

 

 

Some sort of cattle

Cheetah

Snow Leopard

An aside: I don't know how they made that hill. There are no natural hills in Berlin. The only other Berlin hill that I know of is Teufelsberg, which was made from the rubble that was the city at the end of WWII. 

I’m conflicted about zoos, but as public opinion has turned to concerns about animal welfare, zoos have repositioned themselves as bastions of conservation, breeding and protecting endangered species. I don’t know if it’s enough to counter the more obvious purpose of entertaining homo sapiens, but it’s a step in the right direction. Even so, I’m not sure the big cats would agree.

We spent hours at the Tierpark, including  having a bit of a picnic there. The girls were on scooters, when the adults weren’t carrying the scooters. What was amazing was that I didn’t hear a word of complaint the whole day, about 8 hours from the time we left home till the time we were back in the neighbourhood for our dinner out. The kids covered the same ground we did, some 10 km of walking, and just trotted (or scooted) along happily. It’s a walking culture here; maybe that explains the lack of complaining. But I was impressed.

Back in the home turf, we went for dinner across the street from the apartment, at the Perla Jonica Trattoria. I have to go there for their pasta with fresh truffles, every time I visit, . The pasta is house made, rolled in a huge round of Parmesan which they set aflame with some sort of alcohol, then covered in shaved truffle. Man, I could go for it again before I leave Berlin!

After dinner, we all rolled in to the apartment (well, climbed the six flights of stairs), where Katharina and Ezra made the last preparation for Brookie's time at camp for the next three days. One of their traditions is to send along kisses, I mean actual kisses planted on pieces of paper. 

 

And with that, a good night. 

Day Trip to Sintra

 Oct 17 2023


We woke up to pouring rain. This was not going to deter us! After breakfast at the Copenhagen Coffee Lab, the next door café & bakery (best breakfast in Portugal, maybe in the world, I swear), we donned our raingear and jumped on a trolley to Rossio Station, where we caught the 45-minute train ride to Sintra.

The Copenhagen Coffee Lab, fantastic breakfast place, goods baked on site

Where we eat breakfast when it's not raining.

The #28 Trolley, apparently the tourist "must." But we're just using it to get downtown.

There were options for getting from the station into the town center of Sintra, and there were options for getting up to the Pena Palace at the top of the hill. We opted to walk, intrepid travellers that we are.

It was a bit damp, as the Irish might say. Have a look:

We found a walking path that seemed like a good alternative to the road...

... at least for a while.

The cow has the right idea

The road above the town was scenic

There is no Portugal without stairs to climb

The Pena Palace is remarkable from the outside, with its Disney towers and Moorish gates and walls at weird angles. On the inside, with the exception of the small tiled courtyard, it was kind of the same as every other old palace I’ve been in, with ornately decorated walls and ceilings, and stuffed with elaborate furnishings. I can’t say I love these places. Some people do, though, as expressed through the Ohs and Ahs of the 50 gazillion people that were there with us. 

The way through was a roped off route where we all shuffled along like a herd of sheep. Elly and I were mostly happy to be dry, however, or at least not getting wetter.

How I felt when I got to the top, including out of focus.

Extraordinary courtyard, once a cloister. This reminded me of palace courtyards in India, except that we weren't allowed into this one.

The gawkers enjoying the extraordinary courtyard

Drowned rats. Happy drowned rats.

Meh

We grabbed lunch in the palace cafeteria (that sounds posh, but it wasn't), then opted for a cab ride back to the train station. For a whopping €5 each, we were there in 10 minutes. It had taken more than an hour to walk up. 

There is much more to see in Sintra than we saw, and on a nicer day, it would have been great to see the Moorish castle and the National Palace (maybe), and wander through the town, and sample the famous pastries only made in Sintra. But time was getting on, we were “a bit damp,” and we wanted to get back to get things dry for packing for our flights tomorrow.

We had dinner in a Taverna we'd eaten in before. A very small menu, mostly appetizers. The waiter was a joy. Elly enjoyed the complimentary ginjinha, the cherry liqueur held in high regard here. (Note to those not in the know: Elly doesn't drink.)

Elly takes a risk with Ginjinha

 
Funny thing, after all, the best part of today was the walk in the rain.