A Travellerspoint blog

Driving in Morocco - Conduire au Maroc - القيادة في المغرب

Ninety minutes. The length of a football match. Doesn't seem like very long. It's also the time it takes for the ferry from Algeciras in Spain to Tangiers in Morocco. Quite a short crossing. But with one problem. If you're travelling with a car, it's the exact time it takes for the highway code to be ripped into tiny little fish-food sized shreds and thrown overboard into the Mediterranean.

Upon disembarking onto North African soil, those who actually learned to drive are at a serious disadvantage. Thus a few points are important to keep in mind.

Abandon Good Driving Practice

Anything logical or useful previously learned through driving schools or experience on the road, should be completely forgotten. Any knowledge of road signs or fixed rules should also be cast aside like an unwanted Christmas puppy. Road surface markings especially should be ignored at all cost and despite years of proven safety success, it's best to abandon any form of lane discipline. Should you find yourself waiting at traffic lights, it's best to slot into any available space on the road other than staying within the silly white painted lines. If the said traffic lights are placed just before a roundabout then it is highly likely that they shall turn green at the same time as four other sets. This tends to result in what Westerners would observe as a scene similar to a demolition derby. However it pays to remember that when a queue, seven cars wide, is funneling into an exit with two lanes, never stop moving forward. Millimetres between cars is more than enough space and thus the brake pedal should be never be in use. Brake lights are a sign of weakness.

The Police

Although rules of the road are largely missing, the local constabulary feature heavily on Moroccan roadsides. These uniformed chaps are normally armed with two guns, one to instill fear in your mind and the other to instill fear in your wallet. Speed guns are a Moroccan policeman's best friend. There is therefore an extreme likelihood of coming into contact with Constable Mohammed as you pass through the country. Two tactics can be employed whilst dealing with these officials, the first being the standard "stupid tourist" routine. This is a simple 3 step process, firstly, offer a confused look at any question posed. When this fails, proceed to ask in very complicated English what the problem may or may not appear to be. Finally, when you are still without luck, deny all knowledge of any wrong-doing. It would be fair to say that this routine is very much dependant on the officer you incur. Should you be apprehended by a far thriftier version a second tactic must be deployed. Negotiation. As always, a Moroccans first price is highly inflated and it is likely a princely sum shall be demanded of you. Remain friendly, exit your vehicle and the said officer will likely guide you to a quieter side of the road. It's important not to offer a price yourself, he does afterall have two guns, but simply appear reluctant as he slowly drops his price. Within a minute or two you should save 80% on your original fine. Paperwork is always a pain...

The Horn

The horn on a Moroccan car is just as important as the engine. A vehicle without this necessary apparatus is the mechanical equivalent of a eunuch in a harem. Indeed it's highly likely that in your average Casablancan driving school, if such a thing actually exists, the students are taught situations which require the use of the horn. I would imagine examples are given of standard Western driving practice and subsequently disparaged as nonsensical. Someone is driving within a lane at the speed limit but is blocking your way? HONK. The traffic light is red but you expect it to change soon? HONK. The traffic is heavy with absolutely no sign of moving forward? HONK. There is a donkey and cart on the street? HONK. There was no couscous left at the market? HONK.

With these points in mind, do enjoy your journey!

Posted by scotsman 05:58 Archived in Morocco Tagged automotive Comments (0)

Do you spreche my sprache?

The single act of travelling overseas is, for some, a daunting prospect. Organising flights, visas, vaccinations, packing and of course sizing up the possible longevity of your underwear. This however is only the start. What do you actually do when you arrive? If you decide to stay in one country for a longer period, how integrated do you become? It's possible to travel to even the most far-flung and exotic destinations and spend your days largely as if you were unemployed at home but with a splash of extra sunshine, watching movies, surfing the internet and drinking alcohol.

In many cases, it's also possible to lead your life of relaxation in foreign climes and speak only Queen Lizzy's English. In fact, it's also possible to live permanently in a non-English speaking country and get by without learning the local lingo. With English becoming the unofficial lingua franca of international business, travel & communications, does this mean that we of the English tongue don't need to learn other languages?

From a UK perspective, it would be fair to say that most of Her Majesty's subjects don't feel the need to learn the tongue of Johnny Foreigner. A slight irony considering the numbers now being launched onto the continent by the likes of Easyjet and Ryanair. Does this lack of interest therefore come from laziness? Ignorance? Or maybe we genuinely don't need to try as everyone else is learning English through notable language exporters like MTV and McDonalds?

The Germans have a tendency to refer to the British as "inselaffen," or "island monkeys." This isn't only a reference to the behaviour of the pub-dwelling inhabitants but also an insight into the continental view of the British, tucked away on their little island on the edge of the continent. This island mentality may account partly for Britons unwillingness to dabble with words and sentences of a foreign nature and may also explain why English people simply speak louder when a foreigner doesn't understand them. Not a very wise move when you consider some of the complexities, double meanings and idioms employed in English.

Even when the average Englishman has screamed his request, "Would you mind lending me a quid, I'm broke," loud enough so that a dictionary weilding German understands each single word, the man with the Deutsch tongue could be forgiven for mistranslating the word "mind," not finding the word "quid" at all and then finally glancing curiously at the Englishman's body to find out exactly which part is broken.

These language faux pas are, for me at least, the best parts of learning a language. A couple of weeks ago, a student completed an exercise I had given him and read out in front of the class with a completely straight face, "A mechanic is a person who works in a factory and screws on machines." Now, that's not exactly a perfect definition and sadly the student still doesn't know this as I was trying to hard to control my laughter rather than correct him. However my favourite is from a friend who was having dinner with her Spanish boyfriends family and innocently requested "pechuga de polla." The mother, to her credit, simply smiled and said "are you sure you want polla? not pollo?" A quick dictionary inspection later revealed her initial request to be for "breast of cock" (in the penis sense) and not chicken breast as she'd hoped for.

These embarrasing moments aside, English speakers have fantastic potential to learn other European languages. Due to English being a mixed Germanic and Latin language, with a simple a change of pronounciation we can be fluent in Spanglish when in Madrid, Franglais in Paris and Denglish in Berlin. As Eddie Izzard said, we just need to get out there and mix it up a little bit...

Posted by scotsman 05:53 Tagged living_abroad Comments (0)

"You Want to See Sahara?" (Part One)

The alarm startles me into a state of semi-consciousness. I focus through bleary eyes just enough to make out a 5, followed by some numbers, before collapsing back onto the bed with frightening velocity. I contemplate hitting the snooze button, reassuring myself that if god had intended me to be awake at this hour then surely he would have switched the sun on. However this is Morocco and the almighty sings from a different hymn sheet, or at least his disciples do. Aided by lofty, Sony surround sound minarets, the mosques wail across Marrakech, calling for the faithful to say morning to Allah. Despite mustering all my psychic powers, I fail to mentally hit the mosques giant snooze button and I’m slowly brought into a state of logical thought. Blessed by this, it dawns on me that I’d set my alarm for a reason and that the minutes are slowly ticking away until the departure of my Sahara bound tour bus.

I reluctantly remove the bed covers and the December chill instantly penetrates my bones. I sheepishly skip over the icy cold tiled floor and into the bathroom where the temperature puts me in mind of a documentary about penguins in Antarctica. It’s with a degree of hope that I turn on the hot water for the shower, knowing full well that despite being assured yesterday of the existence within the premises of this North African luxury, the likelihood of actually steaming up the bathroom mirror is slim. After 5 minutes of waiting for anything other than liquid ice to come through I decide to brave it. I immediately regret the decision. As the first droplets land on exposed skin, I lose control of my vocal cords and every following wave of cold water over my body is accompanied by a small involuntary wail. Vital organs quickly retract as though running in defeat from a far superior enemy and my skin turns milky white as the blood drains away. Just before losing consciousness, I stumble out of the shower and attempt to dry myself with yesterdays still soggy and slightly frozen towel. After achieving a state of dryness somewhere between dripping wet and damp, I throw on as many clothes as possible and reluctantly stuff the towel into the top of my rucksack, knowing full well the exuberant odour which will subsequently fester.

I tip-toe out of my room onto the balcony above the hostel’s inner courtyard and begin a tentative search for both the staircase and a light switch. I quickly give up on the latter and instead make my way down the narrow, pitch black set of stairs. Swiping my foot across every step first for fear of treading on a cat, for I know from experience that Moroccan cats carry the label “domesticated” only loosely. Were I to inadvertently rouse one into a state of anger on a dark staircase, the ensuing battle could only result in feline victory. Progress is slow until a previously unknown 40 watt bulb bursts into life overhead. Through the glare I make out the generously wrinkled proprietor watching me from the bottom of the staircase with a look somewhere between weariness and pity. She lightens me of my room key before ushering me out the door and slamming it behind me with nary a goodbye nor bon voyage. Clearly too early for hospitality.

I shuffle along the narrow alleyway, bordered on both sides by high sandstone walls, and onto one of the medina’s main thoroughfares. Normally the human traffic, food stalls, donkeys, beggars and open throttled scooters make for an assault course style stroll but, at five in the morning, the street is completely deserted. The relative squalor revealed by the streets emptiness is both visually and nasally impressive. I’m left pondering over the thought that only yesterday I was happily gorging on a mammoth sandwich from a street stall which, at the time seemed quite convivial, but now had an overwhelming aroma of cat piss and an abundance of top grade donkey shit. I forge on undeterred and, after a brief but unintended barter with a taxi driver and an offer of “spacey” marijuana from a shady character in a doorway, make it to my bus on time.
Despite the abundance of clothing, I’m still shivering from the cold as I board the bus. It’s with some hesitance but real necessity that I rearrange my scarf and hat to cover most of my face. However the mujahideen look isn’t such a good idea anywhere in the world, let alone a Muslim part, so I opt for some giant aviator sunglasses to give some Western Yin to the Eastern Yang. My fashion balancing act leaving me looking like Taleban in Los Angeles.

The bus is soon out of the city and after half an hour we’re ascending into the Atlas mountains. The landscape steadily changing from a patchwork of fertile fields into a strange Arabic-European alpine hybrid. The trees become more European in appearance and the snow takes away any idea that I’m in North Africa, yet the human marks on the landscape are a stark contrast. Clusters of simple, muddy looking houses, clinging to a mountainside or surrounding the tower of a mosque and any roadside activity near these settlements is normally of the “man & donkey” variety. We stop at a café somewhere high in the mountains and a handful of locals are given the visual spectacle of 16 Europeans shivering to death whilst trying to drink Berber tea. Inside the café, I give an example to Eurocrats in Brussels of how multi-lingual business should really be done by enquiring about the price of biscuits in a mixture of “Franglais,” “Spanglish,” pigeon English and a final splash of Arabic. My Moroccan counterpart in the bargaining process, failing to fully appreciate the linguistic benchmark that we’re setting, refuses to budge from his lofty 6 euro asking price for a packet of biscuits and I board the bus clutching only some dry bread.

We roll on through the mountains and slowly the snow starts to recede. Two hours after the café stop the temperature has climbed to 20C and we’re driving along palm fringed roads with occasional kasbahs offering some architectural style on the landscape. We stop for lunch in Ouarzazate and I remember why I hate doing organised tours when the bus driver gives us a strict two hour limit in town. A mere 120 minutes to find edible food, lose money to the locals and see or experience something noteworthy. It’s a challenge…

Posted by scotsman 02:41 Archived in Morocco Tagged backpacking Comments (0)

The Woes of an Addict

(Part One)

sunny 30 °C

Travel is an addiction. It’s as simple as that. It shares with drug abuse and alcoholism all the major addiction symptoms. Withdrawal effects, desire for a bigger and better highs and, quite often, no real control over ones actions.

This latter point is very much on my mind as I sit in my Hamburg apartment, glued to my computer, scanning the outskirts of the city on Google maps. It’s a beautiful 30C summers day outside, there isn’t a cloud in the sky and the majority of the populace are doing the right thing by lounging in parks, relaxing and generally enjoying a lazy day. I, on the other hand, am hatching a plan involving four train rides, kilometres of physical labour on a bicycle and a morbid tourist attraction in the form of Neuengamme concentration camp. Like I say, it’s an addiction…

My tourist attraction of choice is actually so far from the city that it’s completely off my Hamburg map and as such I desperately resort to scribbling a route from Google onto a piece of paper. I turn the computer off, get myself ready and head off. I study my home-made map as I lock the front door and realise it looks like a treasure map drawn by a retarded pirate. The possibility of getting lost in suburbia looks quite likely.

I walk out of the apartment block into a wall of heat and make my way to the U-Bahn (underground) station. It’s an easy 2 minute cycle but by the time I get there I feel disgustingly hot and sticky. I take comfort from the chap standing next to me at a pedestrian crossing, his light grey t-shirt informs the world just how hot it is by being almost entirely dark grey with sweat. I haul my bike up the station stairs and onto the platform. A train pulls up almost immediately and I inwardly thank the public transport gods for the efficiency of the Germans. Three stops later I’m at Berliner Tor station and looking to change onto a suburbia bound S-Bahn train. I get lost in the myriad of tunnels and I’m forced to surface onto street level to hunt down the different section of the station.

I manage to find the adjacent S-Bahn quite easily but, my pride in my own simple accomplishments is soon shattered by the realisation that by breaking away from the rest of the human traffic, I’ve made myself more vulnerable to attacks from the clip-board and question wielding fraternity. I’m accosted at the entrance by a Frau armed with the board, a pen and a plethora of guilt inducing scenarios complete with monetary solutions stemming from my bank account. Being very aware of my own financial plight, it crosses my mind to strike the first blow and ask her for money but instead I claim complete ignorance of the German language and, with an apologetic look, walk straight past her. She shouts questions at me in fluent English and we have an increasingly distant conversation as I continue walking towards the platform.

The train arrives after a couple of minutes, I wheel my bike on and realise that outside it’s 30C but inside the compartment it’s 40C. Everyone looks like they're being cooked. It dawns on me that these carriages are almost completely air-tight for rain protection (Hamburg’s normal weather) and little thought has been given to the occasional hot summer’s day. Only two small windows at the front can be opened and air-conditioning is non-existent. Death by public transport, a novel idea…

The train driver announces each station we arrive at, but he does so with a very distinctive muffle, as though he might be eating socks for lunch. I resort to counting the number of stops to go instead of trying to understand what he might be saying. I slide off the train after 10 minutes of baking, 3 kilograms lighter and with a thoroughly soaked t-shirt, confirm that I can count by checking I’m at the right station and then make for the streets. As I walk out into the sunshine and hop onto my bike, I realise that my hastily drawn and increasingly retarded looking map has no directions from the station itself. Brushing any doubt about my navigation skills aside, I set off in search of the first street on my map. I quickly make my presence felt amongst the locals as I free-wheel along on the wrong side of the pavement. At least I think that’s why the old women are scowling at me. Or maybe I’m on the wrong side of the street too? Perhaps it’s a no cycle zone? Do I need a license to ride a bike in Germany? This is after all the spiritual home of bureaucracy. Whatever the reason behind the scowls, I flash them a big toothy smile that I hope they interpret as “Feck off crinkly!”
I find my first road on the treasure map after a brief but extensive tour of the local vicinity and I’m soon fighting my way past roadworks, building sites and throngs of shoppers. Not the leisurely country amble I had envisioned. I persevere nevertheless, perhaps because the idea of getting back on a sauna train so soon strikes sweaty fear into my core, and I’m soon wheeling my way down a large but mainly empty thoroughfare, skirted on either side by red brick houses, more reminiscent of Manchester than Germany. After 5 minutes of brisk pedalling I reach a sign for Neuengamme. I swing right onto the long straight countryside road toward the camp and begin my 6km slog in the afternoon heat…

Posted by scotsman 03:36 Archived in Germany Tagged tourist_sites Comments (0)

Kaffee und Kuchen


Seldom am I tempted to travel long distances purely for food. There are of course exceptions, like the legendary Mrs Macs meat pie from Western Australia which, purely for the pastry and gravy alone, I might actually consider walking over hot coals and simultaneously sacrificing small woodland creatures, but as a general rule I try and avoid lengthy trips solely for culinary purposes. Taking this latter point into consideration, you may then understand my mild confusion as to why, on a wet, Friday evening whilst whizzing down the Cologne bound Autobahn at a velocity previously unknown to this Scotsman at ground level, I find myself feeling strangely excited at the prospect of my impending Kaffee und Kuchen (coffee & cake) weekend in a friends cosy, familial abode somewhere in the depths of Rhineland-Palatinate.

I must at this point confess that, if you were to put a map of Germany in front of me right now, my fingers would scan searchingly across the it, much in the same manner as a blind man reading brail, and would likely never find the said Bundesland of Rhineland-Palatinate. In fact, unless a city is on the coast or near the edge of the country, it will probably elude the geography department of my goldfish like memory for all eternity. This is unfortunately the same with most other populous nations boasting a hectic central core. England for example is jam-packed with industrious communities at its heart and yet, were I to try and pick out Birmingham or Leeds it would be like Stevie Wonder playing pin the tail on the donkey. But I diverge…

Of course the coffee and cake aren’t my only reasons for heading into the German heartland, the opportunity to visit Cologne and take in the visual splendour of Germany’s countryside are also important, but the sweet homemade delicacies which had been promised in advance definitely hold a lofty position on my list of expectations for the weekend.

After six hours of Autobahn driving we pull up outside my friend’s home in the town of Brachbach. I stumble out of the car and attempt to make use of my sleeping legs. It’s almost 2am and, despite being a novice with German culture, I’m pretty sure that it’s too late for my first slice of sugary sweetness. We head inside, are greeted by the parents and immediately offered some refreshments and sustenance in the form of coffee and cake. A smile starts to creep across my face, I love these people already. Just as my head starts to nod and my belly rumble, my ears catch wind of my fellow weary travellers saying “nein danke...” Unfortunately the curse of coming from a culture which classes having a biscuit with your tea as mildly excessive means that, despite hankering for cake, if nobody else is having some then I can’t either. A British mental barrier that I will sadly never overcome and no amount of counselling can help. As such, an hour later I find myself tucked up in bed with beer in my belly and cakes drifting into my dreams.

The next morning we all take up residence at the dining table for a big German breakfast of meat, cheese, dark weighty bread and gallons of coffee before making our way to the station for the Cologne train. I spend the hour long journey watching the landscape roll by through a dirty, rain-drop smeared window. It’s a bleak, grey day outside and the generous lathering of industry in this part of Germany combines with the weather to create a dull depressive atmosphere. However the downbeat feeling is soon swept aside and replaced by an excited state of anticipation as we enter the city. Never in my life have my nostrils been so open in expectation when stepping off a train. As the place which it’s name to macho perfume, I have, for years, believed that Cologne must be a musky but pleasant smelling metropolis. And as such, during the languorous meander from the platform to the central plaza outside the station my nose is pointed skywards and my nostrils to the fore as I waft Cologne in, so to speak.

My sniffing is soon halted by the sight of Cologne’s hefty gothic cathedral parked right outside the station. The main square surrounding this impressive, twin-towered piece of religious brickwork looks like it has been designed with a concrete football pitch in mind. Such is the contrast between the two that the cathedral looks slightly out of place and ill-fitting, despite of course being more visually appealing. We head inside to see if the innards are as impressive. After passing through the large arched doorway we’re immediately confronted by a sea of camera-happy tourists shuffling over every imaginable square foot of the open space. I spy a corner with a table of tea-tree candles flickering happily beneath some sculpted religious scenes and I involuntarily shuffle over and start taking pictures. Normally when I’m surrounded by tourists going trigger happy with their umpteen mega pixels I can’t bear the thought of taking my camera out and being one of the crowd but for some reason this moment is different. Maybe subconsciously I feel the need to be part of a bigger entity whilst in a religious building and, as I’d rather read a Lonely Planet than a Bible, I subsequently open my arms and camera lens to the tourist brethren.

We soon move onto a communal pilgrimage of sorts, marching upwards in a spiralling fashion, our aim being the top of the cathedrals towers. The staircase boasts over 500 steps, all of which lead you in a never ending clockwise twirling ascent. They’re the kind of stairs where if you were to take the roof off the cathedral and look down, you’d be faced with a large concrete washing machine with people inside on a very slow and tightly packed spin. Upon emerging from the cycle at the top, not only are you greeted by some impressive, heaven bound spires but also a generous helping of wire mesh hindering every possible view point. This leaves me slightly unnerved as, in my mind, there are only two possible reasons why the wire is there. Either the cathedral is a popular spot for suicide cases looking for an adrenalin rush before a squishy end or the birds of Cologne are very possessive of their airspace and the pilgrims need to be protected.

Now, if I were to lose my lust for life and thus see no future, I don’t think I’d put myself through a rigorous 500 step, spinning workout before leaping off a tower to meet my maker. I haven’t given suicide much thought but I imagine if I had to then I’d go for a much easier way that doesn’t leave a stain on the pavement. And so with this in mind I’m grateful for wire mesh, despite it hindering an otherwise clear view down towards the Rhine and central Cologne, for I do not wish to have my eyes pecked out by a demonic crow.

After 10 minutes of wandering around the top and reading the graffiti etched onto the historic walls we make for the stairs again. Going down is far more interesting than the upward slog as not only do you have the benefit of the wider side of the triangular, “wedge of cake style” stairs, complete with a banister and little windows, but also you get to watch others struggling whilst going up. About two thirds of the way down we pass an Indian family and for one of the uncles it was clearly a little too claustrophobic. He had stopped dead in his ascent and clung to the wall much in the same manner as a 3rd class passenger to a lifeboat on the titanic. He doesn't look as if he's going anywhere in a hurry and so I refrain from telling him about the remaining 300 steps.

We stumble dizzily onto the streets outside the cathedral and weave our way down towards the Rhine. The sky is still hanging low like a grey blanket over the city and it makes the Rhine look suspiciously murky and unappealing. The tourist ferries are, however, still doing a bustling trade and the bars and restaurants near the river front are packed with happy, contented folks. There’s a weird feeling of seasonal confusion as the summer joggers bounce along the riverside promenade but in amongst the bars there is a Christmassy twinkle to the lights and the sense of an approaching winter as some outdoor drinkers sport scarves and various other winter regalia.

We walk along the water front before meandering into the old town and enjoying the sudden transformation in architecture. Such was the destruction of many German cities during the war, Cologne included, that in the post-war reconstruction period, architects who seemed to be primarily inspired by shoeboxes and concrete, were given free reign to design a new city. And so it is that when you suddenly find yourself in a world of cobbled streets and narrow lanes away from the modern Cologne of grey, square boxes it’s a highly unexpected pleasure. I find a beer museum on a side street but decide not to go in for fear of spending the entire day there. Instead I content myself with a quick photograph before continuing the exploration of the old world. We wander up a small narrow lane and step out into a large rectangular square the size of a football pitch. It’s surrounded on all four sides with bars and restaurants and when faced with such a plethora of establishments boasting beer taps, it’s difficult to say no. A small but refreshing Kölsch beer is soon quaffed and a plan of action is hatched involving a tour of the main shopping street, followed by a consolidation of drinking activity in the Cölner Hofbräu.

We subsequently do our best to enjoy a relaxing amble down Cologne’s main shopping thoroughfare but the density of shoppers means that it feels more like dodgeball than a leisurely stroll. By the time we reach the end of the street I’m more than happy to dive into the aforementioned beer house. As I step through the front door I have a strange sense of having been here before. However it’s not until we’ve ordered a round of beers from the particularly smarmy waiter that I realise this place is exactly like a small version of Munich’s legendary kitsch Hofbräu Haus, except here there are no buxom waitresses or lederhosen clad oompah band.

Another distinct difference being that in Bavaria a litre of beer will lighten your pocket to the tune of €7 whilst in this particular establishment you are bestowed a mere 200ml’s for €3. Now, maths is most definitely not my forte but when it comes to beer related numericals I know when I’m being had. However love, money and logic do not always mix well and as such I find myself ordering a second with a view to possibly stealing a glass. The waiter, a perfect example of arrogance personified, seems to be able to read my thoughts on this small matter of theft and he eyes me cautiously for the remainder of my patronage. He flicks a quick smirk as we leave and I instantly regret not smearing the table with mustard and accidentally spilling the salt and pepper.

Despite the unique brand of service in the bräuhaus, we’re in a happy, buoyant mood as we hop down the steps next to the cathedral and make our way over the plaza del concrete and on into central station. A quick scan of the departures board reveals that we are an hour too early and so we retreat back to the steps by the cathedral and join the youth of Cologne lazing outside in the weak autumnal sunshine. The hour soon passes and I’m slightly amazed at how quickly it disappears. Sitting on your backside doing nothing for 60 minutes should, by definition be boring. But when confronted with a large area packed with people happily minding their own business and shuffling from one unknown destination to the next, it takes on a zoo like quality. I had even started to think about information boards for some of the more permanent members of the exhibition. Nothing too fancy, maybe just a brief definition of the word “emo” or perhaps the daily habits and routines of an average tramp. It could be Cologne’s newest tourist attraction with guides and an interactive corner where you can prod at a drunken hobo. The kids will love it…

However I’m soon whisked away from my grand venture by one of Deutsche-Bahn’s double-decker trains and left to ponder what could have been. The landscape outside is slowly being covered by a veil of darkness and by the time we reach my friends house in Brachbach there is a definite chill in the air. His house looks warm and inviting from outside and as we step through the front door into a sea of warmth I hear those beautiful words, “Kaffee und Kuchen?”

Posted by scotsman 14:03 Archived in Germany Tagged living_abroad Comments (0)

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