2018 - World Chump - Wanderlust

Ever heard of Bad Homburg? Koblenz? Aschaffenburg? Aschaffenburg? Bueller? Bueller? Bueller?

If you've never heard of Aschaffenburg, then you're among the 99.99% of the not-so-silent majority outside of Germany. Why would you have ever heard of it? Aschaffenburg has no more than 70,000 people living there. Aschaffenburg - and this is something most Germans may not know - is actually in the state of Bavaria, although people associate it with the metropolitan region of Frankfurt, since the town is a mere 25 miles from Frankfurt, as in the city.

Why, then, would you bother with Aschaffenburg? This goes under 'day tours within the Frankfurt Region'. The best trip you can take if you're 'stranded' in Frankfurt for the weekend, is a boat tour up the Rhein, as I mentioned a few months ago (See Rhein). Now, in case Frankfurt's 'Mainhattan', as in American, character is not sufficient for your European fix and you need that German small town, then Aschaffenburg might just be the place for you. A 15-20 minute train ride will take you there. That's right. As with most places in Germany, no rental car needed.

Once you get to Aschaffenburg, all you need is a pair of shoes. From the Hauptbahnhof, or the main train station, head southwest, even through city center, if you must. A mile and a half from the main station is the Schloss Johannisburg, the landmark of Aschaffenburg with the famous square interior court. In the 21st century, this nice little palace has been visited by a million people or more. In the 17th century, this was merely the second or third residence of the bishop of Mainz.

Even so, the Johannisburg does not compare to the nearby promenades along the Main River. Once you reach the river, look at the distance between the bridges, navigable largely by vehicles. Between the bridges you'll find grass, water, and the occasional festival with some good food and drink.

My personal favorite in Aschaffenburg - and listen closely, beer fans - is the Schlappeseppel brewery a few hundred yards from the Johannisburg Castle. Schlappeseppel might just be my favorite beer (or pils, to be more precise) in the world. As an aside, their food is pretty good, too.

Still have an hour or two to spare? Head east to the Park Schöntal to see more park and green, along with the obligatory European church ruins. The last time I was there, the ruins were closed off, I'm guessing due to construction, although that takes nothing away from the park itself.

That's just scratching the surface. There's your day tour in the Frankfurt area...Aschaffenburg. Remember the name.

Until not too long ago, it became simply unfathomable that German Chancellor Angela Merkel could possibly lose a vote. The country was simply doing too well, even with minor hiccups like Brexit or the acceptance of one million refugees from the Middle East. Merkel was still 'Mutti', or Mom, as Germans liked to call her, often sarcastically behind the back of a hand.

It took two state elections to put Merkel's possible reign for life into proper perspective.

First state up was Bavaria, size wise the biggest state in the Federal Republic of Germany and a stronghold since the 1950's for Conservatives, largely thanks to the CDU's sister party, the CSU, or Christian Social Union. The question since then has never been whether the CSU would ever win the state election in Bavaria (and it still isn't), but whether the Conservatives would have to enter into a coalition to rule in Munich. Translated, that meant that this issue was whether the CSU could gain an absolute majority - a runaway victory, or a blowout.

In 2003, for example, the CSU gained 60.6 percent of the vote, or 124 of 180 seats of the State Parliament in Munich. All this happened despite (or because of) a Social Democratic chancellor in Berlin, Gerhard Schröder. At over 60 percent of the vote, the delegates could simply mail in their vote, one would think.

It turned out this would be the Conservatives' peak. Only five years later, even with Merkel now serving her first term as Chancellor, the CSU dipped to 43.4 percent, or a loss of over 17 percent. This was still a comfortable victory by anybody's standard, although critics also observed (correctly) that this was the first time the CSU hadn't obtained an absolute majority in the state elections since 1962. 2013 would show the CSU redeeming themselves with a majority vote of 47.7 percent.

The bottom would fall out from there.

In October, voters scaled back their support for the CSU, who gained 37 percent of the vote, a drop of more than 10 percent. CSU would have to form a coalition to remain in power. In Berlin, the Conservatives were now shaking.

The die was cast with the state elections in Hessen, where Merkel's party, the CDU, obtained 27 percent of the vote, a drop of more than 11 percent. This meant that the Conservatives would have to form a coalition with the Green Party to remain in power, and quite possibly invite the Libertarians as well. The next week, Merkel declared that she would no longer seek a candidacy for the chairmanship of the party and henceforward the office of the Chancellor.

What exactly happened?

First off, it's important to note that the two biggest parties in Germany, the CDU and the SPD (the Socialdemocrats), have both taken severe beatings in the past elections. The winners here have been the Green Party and the far right AfD (Alternative für Deutschland).

Here, it wasn't a matter of the economy, but Merkel's extremely polarizing asylum policy. Suddenly, the voters migrate themselves, from center-right to far right. And from center-left to more left, as in the Greens.

We won't know how history will view Merkel, since there's a general feeling that her legacy isn't completely written yet. One thing is certain: change, even in stable Germany, is inevitable.

Although the place we stay in is listed under 'hotels' on your booking.com and hotels.com and whatever.com websites, it doesn't come close to what we perceive as a hotel in a western sense. We are grateful for that.

The medinas, or old cities, of Morocco are so remarkable in that you never know what could be behind each door in those narrow alleys. The walls outside look so insignificant, what could possibly lurk behind each door except for a block of flats, maybe a place to store your things, if you have a business?

We ring the bell on our door, supposedly the riad we booked. Doesn't seem like it. From the outside, it looks no better than our apartment door in Germany. Once we open the door, a new world flashes before us. There is a patio with a fountain in the middle. Surrounding the patio are high balconies, each of these lingering over arches that are just stunning in their engineering and artistic detail. Remember, though, this is just one of many riads. In the States, this would be an historic monument with the supporting funds to go with it.

There are two little turtles creeping around the ground floor - the kids call them Tatiana and Tony - and we continue to gawk at the arches and the balconies, wondering whether we actually deserve to stay in such a place. Our room is a two-storied affair with a ceiling almost 15 feet high, it's almost like you can build a squash court in there. We take the stairs to the top of the roof, and there are chairs and tables, but mostly photo opportunities of the city and the Lower Atlas Mountains in the background. This place rocks.

As it so happens, we happen to be in Marrakesh for the Aid el Kebir, which means every house has a sheep due to be slaughtered to ensure the status of 'blessed' for their abode for another year. We already see sheep being carted off, their snouts muzzled and their horned heads tied down firmly to avoid any last minute mutiny. Our first day in Marrakesh is a chapter from 'The Walking Dead'. Everywhere the alleys of the Medina are empty. I've never seen anything like it. Can you imagine Times Square being cleared out? This seems just as unlikely.

Usually, the medina is teeming with activity, you'll hear the roar of motorbikes through the alleys and need to step aside, otherwise you'll get run over - see Amsterdam and bicycles. Today you could drive a tank through the medina and meet with little resistance. Just like the western world has Christmas and turkey, the medinas of Morocco have the Aid and their sheep.

On the next day, business is back to normal. Who otherwise is there to rip off the tourists? Who is going to buy their garments, their chessboards, their souvenirs? The medina thrives on tourist activity. If this were a small town in Morocco, the business might survive and barely pay its bills. Millions of tourists who don't know how to bargain ensure that the stores in the medina remain profitable year round.

We have our picture taken with a snake charmer. That cobra has so clearly been defanged it's not funny. That cobra tries to bite a python that's crossed its path, but this is like a pitbull, well, with no teeth. That black cobra is huge but harmless. The snake charmer is pissed off when he sees we only pay him 20 dirhams for his efforts. Sorry, at that time that was all the cash we had.

Meanwhile, we get to my favorite activity in the medina: bargaining with the merchants. As usual, they see the white tourist with the pin wheeled hat, a person just begging to be ripped off. Once they see I speak plenty of Arabic, their stances soften, although they also know that this entails a lower purchase price. I don't budge when I negotiate, eventually the merchants do. Heck, it's really something they would sell to one of their own, wouldn't it?

We have a tagine at the Cafe France and enjoy the view from the second floor. Liebi is searching for the water guy, a fellow wearing a flamboyant red costume with a goofy hat. This man's function is to pour water to the dehydrated tourists...and pose for pictures, which is far more profitable. Liebi had her picture taken with the water guy in the year 2000, she was hoping for a reprisal 18 years later. The guy is nowhere to be found.

We are beckoned by the merchants at the orange juice stands. All those years later, the juice is still as delicious as advertised. The difference now is that they've added other fruits to join the smoothie craze rocking the globe. All the while, there's music playing at Jemaa el Fnaa, the atmosphere is so unreal.

It is fitting, then, to end our Moroccan trip in Marrakesh, although we actually buy very little. We buy a couple of masks for Bash, since he has recently decided that he's really into masks created by African tribes. Other than that, it's rest and recreation before our plane takes us back to the west with medinas that are equally unique in their own way...but far more predictable.

Picture a city that you've read about in fairy tales, or 1,001 Nights, if you will. There are narrow alleys you can barely navigate by donkey or motorbike, let alone by car (and I've tried!). These alleys snake through rows of riads, the huge Moroccan court houses with the huge patios, balconies, and high ceilings that would make the Madison Avenue flats look like prison cells designed for solitary confinement by comparison.

At the market place, you have everything from carpet salesmen to snake charmers to acrobats and musicians. Of course the call to prayer is still belted out five times a day. After all, you're still in Morocco. At the small corner stores in the alleys, the natives drink piping hot tea poured out of silver tea pots. And no, there are no tea cups here, only elaborately painted small glasses that show off the foamy head of the liquid, a sure fire sign that the Moroccan poured the tea just right.

There are merchants, city dwellers, tourists, and hustlers, at least one for each tourist. This was the impression I had of the city of Marrakesh in the year 2002. 16 years later, not a thing has changed, except for the fact that the hustlers and the tour guides can now speak English and German. Marrakesh has evolved. Or has it?

As nice as Marrakesh has become, there is simply no visit to this quintessential Moroccan town without seeing the medina, or the old part of town. Coming from Beni Mellal, we discover quickly that our GPS has failed us. I shouldn't say that. Technically, you could drive through the medina. Then again, I suppose you could drive a car off a cliff, but neither event would be particularly satisfactory.

The fact is, you can fit the car through the narrow alleys. The problem is, this is the medina of Marrakesh, where you have a dozen tourists, plus the natives, plus the shop displays all competing for each square foot. See what I mean? Driving through the medina of Marrakesh is not for people with high blood pressure. We change our plan and decide to ditch the rental car first. If anybody is going to drive through this madness, it's going to be a local taxi driver.

Except for the fact that he can't get through, either. Worse yet, he can't find our riad and doesn't even recognize the address. Add to it that it's 95 degrees outside and we have a couple of cranky kids and Liebi ready to press the panic button.

We take our suitcases out of the trunk, the taxi driver tries to rip me off (of course), and we're on our own now. The GPS suggests we may be close. Along the way, many fake tour guides (also known as hustlers) suggest that they know where we need to go. They don't. They just want to bring us to a hotel where they know they'll get a cut if they can deliver the prime cut, or the fresh, white western tourist meat.

We finally do find the place, thanks to a pot smoking youth who attempts to shake us down some more. Denied. For all of our efforts, we accept a glass of hot tea (even in 95 degree weather) from our host before we settle in for the day. The zoo, the circus, or the medina of Marrakesh will have to wait.

Should it come as a surprise that half of my Moroccan posts are dedicated to a small city in the Middle Atlas Mountains that nobody's ever heard of? That there are more Beni Mellal posts than those of Rabat and Marrakesh combined?

I think that ratio is actually kind of generous, when you consider that Beni Mellal was my home for two years.

In the morning, bright and early when the temperatures haven't soared yet, I go out for a run. I need to improvise, as I just don't recognize the place as well anymore. Here a turn at the police station, then up the hill toward Ain Asserdoun...but where then? Downhill again, okay, here's a tarred road, even though I don't have the faintest idea where I am. All I need to do, I remind myself, is find a landmark I'm familiar with like the bus station or the broad Mohammed V boulevard, and then we'd be cooking couscous before you know it. But it doesn't happen, it's like the twilight zone, only the sun is beginning to rise. Homecomings shouldn't happen like this.

I pass a garbage truck and playfully pound against the side of the vehicle with the palm of my hand. The truck driver looks out the window, sees the white guy in the old San Diego Chargers jersey running by, and flashes me a thumbs up. Tourists are supposed to do some sightseeing and spend their money, not exercise, run in the street, and pass the vehicles in the road. Finally, I find Mohammed V, and I hurry on home.

For the afternoon, I will visit my good friend Aziz with his family in nearby Smaher. We take the rental car out there, but I can't remember where he lives, and he must come out of the house and fetch us after I phone him.

Aziz was my best friend when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer. He was always there, most notably when I had a kidney stone and was out of action for at least a week. I was with him when his father died. I could trust him blindly. It's taken him quite a few years and even more grey hairs, but now he is finally married and has a young son with whom I play with a lot.

Aziz has parlayed his talent with languages into a career that includes his participation on international panels dealing with gender rights, which is very progressive for Morocco. He has traveled to America, Europe, and Asia. Although nominally still a farmer and living humbly, he never ceases to find ways to make life better for his community. Morocco needs more Aziz's. With more Aziz's, the European Union would be applying for membership to become part of Morocco.

We make our usual rounds in the village. There's the old familiar olive orchard that produces the tastiest olive oil ever (and I've had it on numerous occasions!). Mostly, there are villagers curiously staring at all of these white people passing through their hamlet. One thing will never change: Moroccans are still the most hospitable people I've ever met, with no phoniness to it. We eat enough tagine to equip us for hibernation, if it ever were to occur.

A small crisis occurs when Aziz's goat escapes from its little enclosure. For a moment, the goat dashes from one room to another in the house until he finally stops in the last place you would want to corner a goat...the kitchen. The horns on this guy look like they were born for football scrimmages, and Aziz skillfully approaches him from the side before leading him by the horns back to his enclosure. Problem solved.

It's the old ritual again. Visit a lot of relatives, be seated on the comfortable ponges and drink some more tea, like we have all of the time in the world. Talk about the old times. Drink some more tea, play with little children that didn't exist way back when.

Rinse and repeat until it's time to go. Bye, bye, Beni Mellal. Ma'salaama. Boy, I hope it's not the last time I see this town.

After the apartment, I check out the dar chebab, or the youth center, where I used to work. On Monday, it is closed. Fine, I don't insist. It would have been nice to walk through those gates one more time, maybe have a word with the new dar chebab director, whoever he is, and see just how many faces I can recognize all of those years later.

Finally, there is one person who does recognize me. The hanout owner, the shop owner around the corner, where I would buy the most basic things back in the day, but especially the gas needed to warm up both my stove and my water. The place is still the same hole in the wall located next to the mosque that hasn't changed. The hanout owner smiles when he sees me. I was his favorite customer, since I never ran up a bill and always paid cash.

Approximately 200 yards from my neighborhood there is a Carrefour supermarket. Whereas Beni Mellal used to be just an endless row of hanouts, little Mom and Pop stores, now the corporations are beginning to roll in. It has finally dawned on somebody that this is a town of 200,000 people where a potential profit can be made. Even so, one thing Beni Mellal still lacks is good eating establishments. There are a couple I can think of that still exist, but other than that, it's still very Moroccan - not necessarily a bad thing.

Finally the ride up to Ain Asserdoun. I remember running up that hill many times early in the morning (don't do it during the day; remember what I said about temperatures in these parts), sometimes I would navigate the even steeper cross country paths leading up to the castle if I didn't conk out first and found the fresh water sources too alluring.

Ain Asserdoun, like most of Beni Mellal, has changed. Back in my day as a Peace Corps Volunteer, people talked and raved about it, but did so little to maintain in. Back then, the place smelled. Back then we talked about it being the biggest public toilet in town. Back then, it was still dirt everywhere mixed with the anarchic whims of some of the locals.

Now they put a gate around it. A key is needed to get in here. The tourist can admire the place but can't climb its stairs anymore. Maybe it finally did dawn on somebody that certain edifices need to be protected if you are to show them off. There is a tarred road leading up to Ain Asserdoun, as well as a large parking lot below where paying is optional. There's a guy sitting at the entrance of the lot, not very official looking. You give the guy a couple of dirhams, and you're off.

For lunch, we have a Moroccan tagine, meat and vegetables all cooked and mixed together with the most delicious spices. And no forks and knives, just bread. You use the bread to dip into the sauce and to pick up bits of meat and vegetables. I am a vegetarian now, so I only have a vegetarian tagine. It is still very delicious. I've waited 16 years to taste a real Moroccan tagine again.

The kids, of course, are less convinced about the virtues of Moroccan cuisine. We have to improvise with them...and drink a lot of Sidi Ali, the Moroccan bottled water. There's actually a real Burger King at a services station, and we jump on it.

There's still one day left to go in Beni Mellal, and I will use this day to visit the blad, or the countryside.

For two years, Beni Mellal, the forgotten city and home of the famous Berber castle Ain Asserdoun, was my home. As a Peace Corps Volunteer, my mobility was limited. There was the occasional taxi, sometimes I got around on bike, mostly on foot. That said, after two years I could say Beni Mellal was my home. When out-of-towners from Rabat or Casablanca asked me where a certain building was, I could tell them, even with the American accent. It only took 16 years and the partial albeit convincing face lift of a city to convince me that I no longer knew the place.

Approaching the city from Rabat was refreshing. Suddenly, Morocco has fast new highways, no potholes or donkeys to impede your progress. Granted, they come at a price, but so does every highway in Europe outside of Germany. When we approach Beni Mellal from the west, it takes a while for us to recognize the outline of the Middle Atlas Mountains, owing mainly to the haze in the area. But there it is, as we approach Beni Mellal. There's the Tasmit mountain, the most prominent feature of Beni Mellal that looms far above Ain Asserdoun at the water park. I hiked up that mountain twice, once I even walked up and down the mountain on the same day. In Morocco, people like to say 'Foc Figuig' (when you are doing very well) upon answering the question how you are doing. That means past Figuig, a Moroccan town in the outback. In Beni Mellal, you'll often hear 'Foq Tasmit', referring to the mountain. I wish I had more time, because then I would hike up the mountain a third time.

It takes me a while to locate the Mohammed V Boulevard, which was the Broadway in Beni Mellal way back when and still is, from what I can tell. I am shocked at how little I remember. Taxi, bus, foot, what happened? Progress, that's what. Between a laugh and a tear, I recognize that Beni Mellal has moved on and is doing quite well without me. The fountain on Mohammed V has water now, this in a town that is notorious for its weather in 'shor timinya', or month eight, or August. We are lucky. The weather is in the 100's, but I remember days approaching 120 degrees. Those are the days when you show up for work, have a glass of tea, go home for a siesta, then go or don't go back to work. I remember sleeping on my patio in my djallaba that I had had a tailor make out of mosquito net. And it was still too hot. 'Pal jehenem', as the Arab would say, or like hell. We survive Beni Mellal unscathed and in one piece. More than anything, I am worried about the kids. Liebi was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Morocco herself. She knows about the heat as well as anyone.

Once I find my desert and mountain legs in Beni Mellal, I start locating things. There's the police station. I remember the police chief paying me a visit shortly after 9/11 and how I almost cried when he told me that everything would be all right, that the whole neighborhood would be watching what would be happening to me at my apartment.

The apartment itself takes a while to locate. It used to be the first building you could locate from the street that passed by the stadium. Not any more. There are three more buildings, but then I find the tell tale chevron shapes of the patio wall that are a dead giveaway. I flirt with ringing the doorbell, but decide against it. But this is where I spent most of my time, in this small area. Either in my apartment, the nearby 'dar chebab' or youth center, the basketball arena where I coached the team or the stadium where I attended the Raja Beni Mellal games. Memories.

Whenever people talk to me about Morocco, I always perk up. That can't be helped, especially when I called this country my home for two years and the actual Genesis of what the worldchump blog would look like for years to come. Too bad I couldn't start it then.

Nobody outside of Morocco has ever heard of Beni Mellal. Whenever you think about Morocco, you think Marrakesh, Fes, Casablanca, Rabat, maybe even Tangiers or Chefchaoen. Beni Mellal is a small city of around 200,000 people located beside the Middle Atlas Mountains, and if you tell Moroccans about it, the inevitable answer will be either:

1) Ain Asserdoun (the Berber Castle looming over the town along with its equally famous water park)

or:

2) sroooooouuuun.

That's just one word. It is Arabic for 'hot'. As in 'shor sebaa' or ' shor timinya'. In other words, Month number seven or eight, July or August. That's when the weather will hit triple digits and then some. Here we are talking 45-50 degrees Celsius. And what do you do then? Answer: not much. You sleep a lot. You drink a lot of piping hot tea (to sink your body temperature), and you spend plenty of time at the Ain Asserdoun water park, a water source, to be more precisely.

Beni Mellal is pretty much where the Arabs stop and the Berbers begin. In the year 2018, it is amazing how many people all of a sudden decide that it is NOT so cool to be Berber and speak Tashelheit or Tamazight, the two most prominent Berber dialects. Why on earth not? I admit that the Berber script can be a bit of an eyesore when you're driving through Morocco, but other than that, I always considered the Berbers, or the Shl'ha, to be an enrichment for such a beautiful country. 16 years after my Peace Corps service ended, it seems there are fewer Berbers than ever, and more of them in the closet.

Aside from that, it doesn't change how I feel about Beni Mellal. Beni Mellal is one of three hometowns I have, the others being in California and Germany, of course. Beni Mellal revived me like no other place could have. Beni Mellal became my home.

Beni Mellal is one of those 'blad' towns, which in Arabic means 'country' or 'in the sticks'. Fine, I always thought. There are so many buses traveling through Beni Mellal, especially those between Fes and Marrakesh, Morocco's two most famous cities. If you look at a map, Fes is northeast of Beni Mellal, maybe five hours with a souk bus (regular bus, lower than a Greyhound with half of its tires inflated and half as many comfortable seats). From Beni Mellal to Marrakesh, it's another four hours, although a more ambitious driver, especially during Ramadan, can make it in three.

More than not, the bus will stop in Beni Mellal, the tourists (usually the British or French) will look out the window and think to themselves, "Oh, no. Not worth it." And Beni Mellal is just fine with the lack of tourism. Let's not waste our time here, the tourists say. On to Marrakesh.

I remember the times I would try to board a bus for Marrakesh, usually some seedy old bus as described above. Some controller (usually some young dude with shorts, a tattered shirt, and sandals) would yell at the top of his lungs:

M'RAKSH! M'RAKSH! M'RAKSH! Moroccan for Marrakesh. And when ever there is still a passenger who wants to board at the last minute, you pound your hand against the side of the bus and yell:

BLETI! BLETI! BLETI! (which means WAIT)

The passengers, among them yours truly, would have a good chuckle, wait until the last passenger has boarded, and then part for greener (or less grayer) pastures, and off the bus went.

Too bad (or maybe not) that foreigners never saw Beni Mellal the way I did. Like a first love, I will always remember it.

And now I am back to see it.

When I was assigned to Morocco as a Peace Corps Volunteer in 2000, I had a decision to make. Either accept the assignment or wait for the next one, wherever it would lead me. If this sounds like hesitation on my part, then that's exactly what it was. Having spent the lion share of my youth in Europe, Morocco simply wasn't my idea of a distant, exotic place, let alone a Peace Corps country, since it was a mere few swimming laps from Spain.

In the end, I'm glad I accepted. My instinct that Morocco was eerily similar to life on the European continent proved to be completely false, and I didn't have to wait for the classic cars mingling with the donkeys on the Moroccan highways to confirm that. The airport in Casablanca, then resembling an above average Greyhound bus station back in the States at best, already sorted that notion out. So this was Casablanca, Morocco's number one. I was hardly impressed.

From the airport we took a bus to Rabat, Morocco's capital, which was slightly better. There was dust and sand everywhere, rarely would you find a patch of green grass, save for the palace, perhaps, or one of the ministries that had a little extra pull and could siphon off some of the water for their own misguided needs. The Peace Corps Volunteers themselves stayed at a lycee, a high school near downtown Rabat. The school, while up to Moroccan standard, wouldn't have passed any sniff test back in the west. No windows, no air conditioning or even fans, basketball rims without nets, plus water that ran sparingly.

Such was life as a Peace Corps volunteer. Years later, my lot has improved, as has Rabat's. In the last blog, I already mentioned the tram running through the city. But Rabat was so much more than that. The strip running along the river between Rabat and Sale, back then largely dirt, has now become a modern promenade. Everywhere we saw large fields of bright green grass in a country where water was supposedly as rare as diamonds.

Both taxi fleets, the city and country fleet, have been modernized, largely through Moroccan manufactured Renaults. Whereas the inner-city transportation used to solely consist of old 240 Diesel Mercedes cars, now there were shiny white new Peugeots and Dacias. It used to be that as Peace Corps Volunteers, we would look forward to a visit to the capital for a chance at a lunch or dinner at McDonald's. Not in the year 2018. Liebi and I are fully aware of the Moroccan cuisine, and would rarely touch anything else. Tagine, anyone? Couscous? Besara? Nobody makes food as delicious as the Arabs, whether they are in the Middle East or in Northern Africa. If I am, God or Allah forbid, ever to have a last meal, let it be Moroccan or Lebanese.

We took the kids to the beautiful new Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art, featuring paintings by giants like Kandinsky, Manet, but what truly blew my mind were the paintings by the Moroccan artists, who were every bit as good as their European counterparts. Total entry fee for five people? 12 euros and worth every cent.

Did you know Rabat has a modern zoo, and that it cost the family about 10 euros to get in? This zoo puts most of its counterparts in the west to shame, and this is no exaggeration. Wide open spaces, ponds and animal friendly enclosures (if there is such a thing), all without having to mortgage the house. Simply gorgeous.

Rabat has arrived as a more modern metropolis, although some of the old features and mainstays, most notably the souk, didn't have to be sacrificed for the honor. Not just words, but finally deeds. Well done, Mohammed VI. Hail to the king.

The Worldchump blog has now been in existence since 2007. In that span of time, I've faithfully covered a lot of countries, hot spots, and cultural idiosyncrasies that people won't encounter on their standard package tour or their four star hotel. Worldchump first existed not so much to have an audience, but to preserve my own memories in other ways than social media. I've achieved that, for the most part, and hope to continue to do so for a while.

There is only one regret I have: why I didn't start it sooner. From 2000-2002, for example, I served as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Morocco. Two years, right there, among the best of my life. What a daily (or even weekly) journal that would have made!

Morocco has played another significant role in my life, however. I routinely say that my life can be divided into two parts. The first part was my life in Europe and the United States. Not a bad time at all. I witnessed the fall of the Berlin Wall, watched MTV in the 80's, and had a happy upbringing, all things considered. I went through the Techno phase as a student in Germany and through Grunge in the States.

Even so, I always maintain my life really began in 2000, when I joined the Peace Corps and met Liebi, now my wife, best friend, and co-worldchump. From 2000 on, I've lived a life I could have never dreamed of when I grew up in a small town long ago. Since 2000, I've traveled all over the world, never staying in one place for more than three years. I've lived in Northern Africa, The Middle East, Asia, Sub-Saharan Africa, South America, the United States (including New York City for two years, and Washington, DC for another), and now Europe. But if somebody asks me now where it all began, I tell them in Morocco, back in 2000.

And 16 years after leaving Morocco it was my destiny to return, this time with the entire family, plus Noah, my nephew, who at the time of my Peace Corps service was a little baby. 16 years doesn't sound like a long time, but for Liebi and myself, it sometimes seems like 16 decades, since we packed so much into those years. And that doesn't even begin to describe how Morocco itself has changed.

After the Frankfurt airport disaster, we spent three and a half hours in the air on our way to Marrakesh. Marrakesh itself would first be a pitstop, as we were all aching to get to Rabat, which, ironically, was our first stop as Peace Corps Volunteers back in the day. We took a train from Marrakesh and laughed at the arm rests coming off with a simple pop with the palm of the hand. While everybody else was lost in their books, I simply stared out at the landscape that, so it first seemed, had changed so little.

Here was a small old village with the obligatory minaret sticking out in the center in the same way you would expect it from a village church somewhere in Alpine Bavaria. Earthen colored houses that utterly lacked symmetry were clustered together as if they were huddled together on an island, around them mostly dry wasteland that won't grow anything in 110 degree heat and might not grow anything even in temperatures lower than that. Over there in the fields are donkeys minding their own business. And, of course, there's a sun that's beating down in August, the hottest month of the year. Morocco, the Third World. Nothing's changed.

I perk up when we reach the outskirts of Dar Beida, or Casablanca. This was where I first landed back in 2000, whereupon the Peace Corps Volunteers were then herded onto a bus and driven to the capital of Rabat, where our training would begin. That said, Casa really isn't much to look at. Hundreds of thousands of houses with the lollipop satellite dishes. But then I see something else from the corner of my eye. Was that actually a tram? Could it be that somebody decided to provide relief to the chaos that was once Casablanca? Joy!

In Rabat, we miss our stop (don't even ask) and finally disembark in Sale, which is just across the river and up the coast from Rabat. We ask a taxi driver to give us a lift to Rabat. He shakes his head and points at the tramway across the street. Right there, brother, he says. So the tramway isn't a mirage! Not in Casablanca, and not in the capital city of Rabat! The tram for all of us costs a little more than a euro, and it actually takes us all the way to Agdal. I don't believe it. Rabat. Has. A. Tram!

We finally arrive at our place in the neighborhood of Suisse and settle down for the day. I stare at the skinny palms looming above me and swaying in the breeze. This isn't the Peace Corps anymore. No living with the other volunteers like a gang of misfit teens. No anxieties, just rest and relaxation. What a trip this going to be.

So far, there is very little that has bothered me about Frankfurt. Granted, I don’t have the lowdown like most of the locals, who have plenty to complain about. There is the traffic situation that has completely collapsed. There is the lack of affordable housing due to the systematic gentrification of many parts of the city. There was a mayoral election that made Dr. Hannibal Lector look sane by comparison.

But let’s face it: after many years in third world countries, I am exactly where I want to be. It’s hard to knock the Zen out of me that I spent so many years to acquire and improve.

Of course, every Zen has a breaking point, I maintain, and that one nearly happened before my first flight out of Frankfurt since arriving here. We’ll talk about the destination later – an excellent one, for all intents and purposes – but for now, we need to focus on why the destination nearly didn’t happen at all.

I honestly don’t think there’s an airport I know better than Frankfurt Rhein/Main International. There isn’t an airport in the world I’ve frequented more, there is none that is as familiar to me, even after all these years, renovations, and add-ons. The airport is still distinctly German: efficient, user-friendly, modern. That is, until Frankfurt became Kathmandu for a day.

But let’s start from the beginning. We – Axl, Bash, and Noah, my nephew – hop on a U-Bahn to the Hauptwache (10 minutes), from there we catch an S-Bahn to the airport (waiting time 5 minutes, plus 20 minutes travel). So far, so good. That’s less than 40 minutes it takes us from our house door to get to Rhein/Main International Airport, and this despite the fact that the airport is nowhere near the inner city area. Very efficient, the way you would expect it from one of Europe’s most important cities.

Next, we follow the directions to Terminal 2. Wonderful, there’s an escalator, finally we all get on a unirail that takes us to our check-in, at Air Arabia. No problems there, either. Four passports, four boarding passes, and we have ninety minutes to burn before we need to board. What we don’t count on is that we will eventually need every one of those minutes.

We locate our gate, D9, so this is where our passports will be stamped, and later our pants and carry-on be checked. Sounds like a plan. Time for lunch. That would be at the nearby McDonald’s. McDonald’s works like a breeze. In fact, we even use their new system to order ourselves via touchscreen. Very, very important for picky kids who will refuse to eat the cheeseburger with a pickle, or, in Axl’s case, his hamburger without anything but the tomato and lettuce. Remember the ‘Have it your way’ slogan by BK? That’s the McDonald’s touchscreen system to a T. It saves us time – not that we don’t have any to burn. At least that’s what we think.

In the meantime, a queue forms around our area, and I decide that it would be a good idea for us to join said queue. The queue goes way back, as in near the Swiss border, and just for a moment, I’m beginning to think we might be cutting things close. People start to push and shove, people start to cut in line…and there is nobody to control or monitor the line.

Whoever invented queues didn’t have small children, I’m sure. Any queue with small kids is absolutely murder: for the kids in terms of boredom, and for the parents who need to watch them every step of the way. Some airports have lines for families. Frankfurt isn’t one of them.

In fact, a great case can be made that Frankfurt doesn’t believe in law and order, either, being that our line was pushing in unison toward the control checkpoint, where some unremarkable looking employees warned the crowd to stop pushing or risk missing our flights. Um, Frankfurt, ever heard of crowd control? Where the airport provides the security forces to provide an all-out stampede? Congratulations, Frankfurt, you have just joined the list of airports who’ve become too big for their own good. We won’t mention any others here (Charles de Gaulle, Heathrow, O’Hare, come on down).

We made our flight, but not before I needed to lead my boys in a mad dash that spanned the length of the terminal. Danke, Frankfurt. Perhaps we’ll try Munich next time?

Let's say you're in Frankfurt for the weekend, but you are looking for that typical German sightseeing tour. As much as I love Frankfurt, the city hardly exemplifies the Germany I've known all of my life. In fact, just looking at the skyline, you'd think you'd landed in the U.S. or in some Asian metropolis. Fair enough, because that's how Frankfurt was planned and built. Frankfurt's commerce dates back to at least a half millennium, so you can't blame Frankfurt for being slightly beyond the German norm.

That said, let's try something else. In Frankfurt, take a train (or even a rental car, if you insist) to Rüdesheim or Bingen. That's a 30-minute drive on the autobahn, maybe more if there's a traffic jam, a real possibility. From either town, book a 'ring ticket' for 15 euros per person near the ferry. Hop on the ferry in Bingen or Rüdesheim, then get off in Assmannshausen. Here you must resist the temptation of ordering coffee (or even beer) on the ferry, because you will be getting off the boat more quickly than you think. I would simply limit my activities to snapping pictures of the vineyards and castles around the Rhein.

Now, once you land in Assmannshausen, get off the ferry. Liebi and I took our sweet time, since there were still so many photos to shoot, and we nearly failed to get off the boat on time. Once we did, we followed the path toward the Sessellift, or the seat lift, better known as a ski lift. And no, people, there's no skiing in these parts during winter with that rocky terrain, instead just enjoy the view and snap some more photos until you get to the top of the mountain. Liebi and I had to chuckle at all of the items the tourists lost along the way beneath us. At least a half a dozen caps, here and there a water bottle, but, astonishingly enough, no smartphones or wallets. Now if you didn't book the ring ticket and happen to be in good shape, skip the lift and follow the path toward the Niederwalddenkmal, or the monument dedicated to German unity from 1870-1871.

At the top of the hill is a hotel and restaurant, also known as the Jagdschloss, where you can have lunch, if you reached the summit at the right time. If you arrived there earlier, keep walking and follow the signposts toward the Niederwalddenkmal. There are plenty of other sights along the way, in case you were wondering, so it's not just trees on your hike, as nice as they might look. There's a magic cave (Zauberhöhle), the Mauseturm (mice tower, but that's a different story) with a wonderful view of the Rhein Valley, and numerous other sites posted along the way.

Once you've reached the monument honoring German unity, there are several options. One, take a bunch of pictures or selfies. Two, hike toward the ferry in Rüdesheim or wherever the next train station or restaurant happens to be, or, three, take the cable car to Rüdesheim, where a bunch of restaurants and shops await you.

With the ring ticket, you have a ferry ride to Assmannshausen, the lift to the top of the mountain and the Jagdschloss, the ticket for the cable car (Seilbahn) to Rüdesheim, and, in our case, the ferry ride from Rüdesheim to Bingen. 15 euros, right? Worth every cent. If you wish to skip the lifts (hard to do, with those views), then you will pay for the ferry only. Your choice. Either way, you can't go wrong.

Did you know that I haven't even mentioned all of the wine producers in the area yet? Once you take the tour, that will hardly be necessary, because more than half of the landscape will be vineyards. In Rüdesheim, choose your winemaker and enjoy. This is the heart of German wine country. In all, this will take at least half a day. If you're not into hiking, simply take the Loreley trip, a four and a half hour round trip up and down the Rhein. Plenty of wine on board, so fire away.

Questions? There shouldn't be. This is your quintessential Germany tour for the tourist with little time. The perfect weekend tour for the traveler who's landed in Frankfurt.

One favorite German stereotype of Germany is the Lederhosen-wearing, pretzel-eating, beer-swilling guy who drunkenly bobs his head to the sounds of the tuba playing band, all of this in a cozy beer tent, mind you.

Although this might ring true for a fraction of a fraction of Lower Bavarians visiting the Oktoberfest, people can go ahead and trash everything but the beer-swilling bit. Fact is, Germans, and in particular, Bavarians, are still among the per capita leaders in beer consumption. Not that difficult, when you consider that beer has the official status of nutrition rather than alcohol itself. Let's focus on that a little more in this post.

If you are the prototypical tourist, you want to visit the Oktoberfest, with all of its crowds and mug-carrying dirndl-wearing waitresses, no matter how old it gets. I've been there two or three times, the last time in the 90's, and I can safely say I'll never be going back there.
One, I grew up with a far smaller, but not less appealing version of the Oktoberfest. It's called a wine fest. It's actually spelled Weinfest here in Germany, as a disclaimer, but it is exactly what it reads like: a party or festival celebrating wine. Müller-Thurgau, Riesling, Silvaner, Bacchus there are all types. Dry, semi-dry, sweet, there's something for every palate. The only thing they haven't invented yet is alcohol-free wine, although you can make a strong case that's what they have grape juice for. The reason grape juice isn't as popular? For the same reason coca farmers in Bolivia don't grow potatoes as their main crop. It's just not that profitable.

Having grown up in wine country in Lower Franconia, I've known these winefests all of my life. Every village, and I mean literally every village, has a wine fest, usually sponsored by your local winemakers.

What happens during a wine fest? It really depends on the village or town where it takes place. In a village, you pretty much seal off Main Street, or whatever name it goes by, for a couple of days. You break out rows and rows of benches, up go the vending trailers, and please don't forget the stage.

When it comes right down to it, the wine fest is the excuse for local wine vendors to sell their booze, all in a comfortable setting. Of course, there are several food options to go along with the live music.

Everybody in the village shows up at the wine fest, with very few exceptions: the mayor, the priest, the doctor, the farmer, the town drunk, the village idiot. The wine fest is for everyone.

As for the live music: I've been to wine fests that have hired folk duos, jazz quartets, and four or five piece rock bands. The best wine fests have all the bells and whistles; in other words, there's a 20 piece orchestra with the brass, the background singers, and the accordion. Those are always the most fun.

Think Oktoberfest, with the fine distinction that this isn't happening in a city, and where wine and not beer is imbibed. And the fact that it's the party minus the crowd and less than half the price.

Wine fests usually happen in summer, when the days are long and the sun sets around 10:30 p.m., and it is actually warm enough to sit outside in short sleeves. Needless to say, the wine fest needs to be on the weekend. Start on Friday evening, end on Sunday. Double check your calendar and choose wisely, since your wine fest will most certainly not be the only one happening in Franconia on that weekend. For example, you might not want to have your wine fest on the same weekend as one of the bigger towns or even cities, like Kitzingen or Würzburg. In fact, Würzburg alone has six wine fests alone that I know of every year, and I'm sure even more. The real wine connoisseurs rarely miss those.

One problem: as a tourist, many of these people in the villages might not speak English or your language of choice, so you might want to come armed with a few basic sentences, like how to order wine and food. Aside from that, you're set. I'll still take a wine fest over the Oktoberfest any day.

Quite a mouthful, isn't it? Let's not even bother with the pronunciation. But put this in your GPS, and you'll see why I'm writing about it. It's another excellent tip for families who would like to get out of the city for the day.

Take the A66 (as in Autobahn) toward Wiesbaden all the way until you take the Exit 11 or 519 (yellow sign), Hofheim. At the exit, take a right so you're heading south along the 519. After about 500 Meters, take a left (the L3366 on your GPS), and drive for a few hundred meters until you reach the L3265. Take a left, look for the parking lot, as well as the sign for the Regionalpark, and you're there. Parking is free. For people without a car, take the S-Bahn to Eddersheim. Might even be a better idea if you'd like to have some cider along the way. The S1 is easily accessible, just take it from the Hauptwache, if you're staying in downtown Frankfurt.

There are hiking trails that stretch out for miles in each direction. You will almost forget that there is actually an autobahn not far from where you are, let alone one of the world's busiest airports.
Near the parking lot, there is a nature center that displays all native animal and plant species. The grounds are well manicured and include a bridge stretching over a pond that is home to hundreds of fish. Next to the pond is a restaurant with plenty of outdoor seating, which you will need after the hours you spend hiking or simply strolling along the grounds.

Cross the bridge, and there is the crown jewel of the park, an observation tower that rises over 100 feet in the air and gives you a great panoramic view of the area, including the thousands of planes landing at nearby Rhein Main International Airport across the Main river. You can see this tower from far away, and it should help you find the park for those who can't work a GPS.

Next to the observation tower are climbing walls with various degrees of difficulty. And don't worry, the occasional hard landing is made soft by the mulch on the ground, so I doubt little more than your kid's feelings will be hurt should he not manage to scale any of the climbing walls.

Less than a stone's throw from the climbing walls, you'll find exercise equipment you can use while the kids burn some energy at the playground. The playground itself has earth moving equipment, so if your kid loves dirt (and most do), this playground simply offers more choices to play with dirt. Add to that the hammocks that are chained around the playground, and you can't go wrong. The parents can either exercise themselves while their kids move dirt, they can drink apple cider at the nearby restaurant, or they can relax in the hammocks. The playground is a pretty sweet deal for a kid, and maybe an even sweeter one for the adults. And of course, admission is absolutely free. This is Europe, after all.

Now if you should be more ambitious and choose to go on a nature hike, there are several guided paths you can take. Two or three take you through the woods, one of them to a horse farm, and all of them will get you the exercise you need, once the kids are over moaning about having to hike in the middle of nowhere.

What's so surprising about the place is that this took a lot of planning to look the way it does now. Imagine the observation tower, the bridge, lake, and playground away, and this could be any place in Germany, that's how normal and insignificant it looks. I can almost see how people planned the whole park. Here's the nature center, pivot, here's where the observation tower should be, here the restaurant, over there the playground. No profit motive, really, just the motivation to preserve nature and give families alternative ways to spend their weekends. The Weilbacher Kiesgruben is actually a quarry that is of little interest, but proves to be a good reference point if you need to find the place.
Spend at least a half day at the park.

For dinner, as an option, go to the XXL Waldgeist Restaurant in Hofheim a few miles away, where the largest schnitzels in the world are served. Although these are more destinations for domestic tourists, I'd like to prefer to think that these are top destinations for families, period.

One thing you'll come across in a typical Third World country is the trash. I really hate to say it, but it's a defining feature of the Third World, whether we're talking about the Bagmati River in Katmandu or any improv landfill to be found in Tanzania. People need to deal with their trash, whether they like it or not.

In other places, like the U.S., people are half-hearted about the trash problem. There are still too many disposables. Every now and then, states will put a deposit on a bottle. The separation of trash isn't anywhere where it's supposed to be, although I could be wrong. For all I know, people might be separating the trash as soon as it's left the garbage truck. In the U.S., people know very well whether they are talking about a trash item and a recyclable item. Whether they have the will to separate these (please, no segregation jokes here), is another question.

Then there's Europe and Germany. The Germans worship trash the way Americans worship guns. Back in the day, you would put a green dot on items to be recycled. That means that you would take can, container or wrapper, throw it all into one big yellow bag and have the trash collectors gather it all up. This was as far back as the 90's, as I recall.

Nowadays, things are slightly different, although the principle remains the same: separate your trash, save your damn resources. And don't let us catch you not doing it.

For beginners, there's the glass bin. You have three sectors within the bin for white, brown, and yellow glass. This is an easy and perfectly legal way for Germans to break something and not only get away with it but be seen as fulfilling your civic duty. My kids love throwing glass bottles into the bins. A food fight couldn't be more fun. Oh, and no lids and bottle caps, please. Different bin for them, as in metal.

Next come the plastic and glass bottles that you need to return for a deposit. Back in the day, you used to have some guy take back your bottle, sign a slip of paper, and you could redeem your returned plastic or glass bottles for cash. Not so anymore, because that's what the good trash lord invented robots for. Today, you return your bottle to the supermarket, insert it into a machine mouth first, and voila, the machine does the rest. Bottle accepted, here's your receipt, retrieve when it's time to check out with the cashier.

If you are too lazy to return your bottles and 20 cents is not enough of an incentive to head back to your local supermarket, you can leave them near a public trash bin, where they will be picked up more quickly than you can say homeless guy with a drinking problem.

Which leads us to the plastic bins outside of your house. These come in different colors: brown, blue, yellow, and black. Brown (sometimes green) is for biodegradable waste. Blue is for paper. Yellow is for packaging, usually metal or plastic (make sure you wash out the containers first!), see the former 'green dot' system. Black is for everything else, whatever that means. Hazardous waste comes to mind here.

What do you do with big-ticket items, like furniture or that old mattress you've been dying to get rid of? Here in Germany, there are designated spots to have these collected, also known as 'Sperrmüll'.

Finally, old clothes can be donated at any of the thousands of metal bins set up by numbers of charity groups. Take your clothes, wrap them in a plastic bag, and say Auf Wiedersehen to your moth colonies.

And careful, Germans have laws against illegal recycling or placing your old flea-ridden sofa on the sidewalk. Your tax (or trash) euros at work.

One thing I've always missed about Europe was the way towns maximized the few green spaces they have. Green spaces in European cities are scarce, but the ones they do have are, for the most part, fully developed and ready for the public's wholehearted consummation. Better known as your tax Euros at work.

In 'Frankfurt Fit', a previous post, I already mentioned Grüneburg Park. Grüneburg Park is the perfect example of a German city park. Not that great in size, but with plenty of knick-knacks that will have you and your family coming back until they've become full-fledged regulars.

Grüneburg Park can be a haven for picnickers, for pet owners, students (since the Goethe Universität happens to be right next door), joggers, and kids, since there is so much to do. The central playground is half playground and half obstacle course. Think your kids need to get out of the house after their feeble attempts to hit the ceiling with their little heads while practicing their gymnastics routines on the living room furniture? Do you need that one place for your kids outside of the hotel room when everything else has failed? This is your place.

There are wide open spaces and remote, shaded places where you can rest for a while. Hard to believe that the A66, the Autobahn, runs right past it. There are also the Korean Gardens, although those are currently being renovated. There are memorial monuments and sculptures, and the park benches you can retire to once you've seen them all. There's a nice little beer garden next to the Korean Gardens. The park flawlessly merges with the college campus next door, where cars are also a no-go, for the most part.

And as impressive as Grüneburg Park is, I don't think it can even touch Niddapark, which is merely a few klicks away, easily accessible by foot or bike. From Grüneburgpark, simply take one of the northern exits that will lead you over autobahn bridges, either over the L3004 (Northwest) or over the A66, straight to the north. The latter takes you to another green area in the backyard of the Bundesbank, or the Central Bank. Pass the bank and eventually the Europaturm until you find yourself parallel with the A66 for a while. Eventually, you'll reach Niddapark on either side of the autobahn, so no panic, although I would suggest passing the bank and the Europaturm. Pass the garden grounds until you see an arrow pointing toward Niddapark. Easily accessible by bike or foot as well.

The Nidda, of course, is the second and lesser-known river flowing through Frankfurt. The Nidda isn't even the central feature of the Nidda Park itself, which is so large, you can and will lose yourself the first few times you visit. Heck, I trained for the Frankfurt Marathon there. In fact, you could make a case I actually ran an entire marathon just trying to navigate all of the park's paths and meadows.

The Nidda Park has big playgrounds that feature two zip lines, next to a skateboard park, where you can run your skateboard, bike, scooter, etc. There are ping-pong tables nearby, just in case the adults might want to enjoy a little exercise of their own. There are paths and bikeways that simply go on forever, and I still haven't explored them all. There are also a couple of exquisite restaurants that serve dinner after a long day outside. There's a dog park that would put most human parks in Germany to shame, alone due to its sheer size.

That's another day in Frankfurt, if you decide to forego the city and its museums for the day. For a simple green park day, rent a bike (or a subway if you must, all the way to the U-Bahn stop of Hausen) and ride into both of these parks. They are one of the main reasons that Frankfurt ranks so highly in the quality of life index. Great parks and easy access to them. It's as European as castle ruins.

If you ever wanted to see something that could pass off as typically European, then this might be the perfect place. Here we're not talking lederhosen, the yodeling bit or the happy cows crooning in three-part harmony with the mountainous backdrop. We are talking about a primetime palace, built right next to the Rhein River, with all the bells, whistles, and baroque architecture that will suck any tourist into its orbit.

For beginners, find a parking spot you don't have to pay for. Nay, do even one better and just take a train to the Ostbahnhof Wiesbaden, or the eastern railway. That way, you have more time to hike through Wiesbaden, drink the local white wines and return to your abode with no harm done. If you must take a car, find a parking space well ahead of the Rhein river, like we did at the Rathausstraße. Granted, you might have to do the unthinkable and actually walk for a few blocks, but that's the small price you pay for European aesthetics.

There are many ways to approach the Palace of Biebrich, although we did it the old-fashioned way - along the Rhein, where we had a cheap, although unspectacular photo op before we turned the camera around and clicked at the spectacular front of the Biebrich Palace. Click, click. Two wings, about 200 feet apart, one for the prince, one for the princess. Now cross the street as you head for the palace, enter the grounds through the side, and you're in. 300 hundred years ago, you might have made it to the Palace grounds as an insect, today you only need a pair of functioning walking feet.

The palace itself was built in the year 1702, although it merely served as a summer residence for the Duke of Nassau. Hard to believe something as magnificent could only qualify as a summer residence, but that was the 18th century for you, I suppose. Once you're off the paved streets and wander toward the grounds and the fountains, the bridges and the lakes, your senses suggest that you might have traveled by rail, car or foot, although another part of your brain would put a bet on time machine travel. The only evidence we had that we were in the 21st century was the setup for an equestrian event to take place at the end of the month next to the west wing. Pass the grandstand and look over the grounds with the palatial rotunda as a backdrop, and even then no written word or picture could do it justice.

The enormous grounds are host to sunbathers, picnickers, pet owners, or people simply looking for a time out from the year 2018, possibly with a good glass of Riesling and a good book. There are streams winding through the grounds beneath enormous trees, more walkways and paths that could turn a simple stroll into a prolongated hike. Out by the lake, there's another majestic enclave, the duke's man cave that was reserved for him and his hunting buddies, now merely a building that lays in ruins and isn't accessible to the public anymore.

We take a break as we observe the ducks on the lake. One male duck is paddling through the water and gathering sticks for the nurse of his partner relaxing in the unfinished nest, almost ready to give birth. There's still the natural urge to provide on the grounds, whether you're a mallard or a grand duke.

Once you exit the grounds on the northern end, you're back on the pavement and in Wiesbaden, ready to face the cars and the bistros of a busy town, the refuge you just enjoyed already a distant memory.

MUST see. The baroque architecture. The grounds. The Rhein River. Good for a day trip and a picnic, or simply to call a timeout on the 21st century and simply disappear for a while.

If you are foreign, you are sure to be joined on a portion of your walk by one of several African artifact salesmen who will gladly sell you a mask, a rug, or anything else you could want for an excellent price (according to them). They are very persistent and skilled bargainers. I was hit up one day by a guy who wanted to sell me an instrument for $5. Just $5, he said. Well, I'll buy anything for $5, and it was quite a nice little stringed guitar type of thing. When I got out my $5, he said, "Oh no, madam, we said $25". I'm pretty sure we had decided on $5. Anyway, we bargained back and forth and somehow by the end, he had squeezed $20 out of me for the instrument. Considering that it was handmade with a carved top and some metal work, I felt okay paying $20 although I probably thinnk it was worth less. I felt it was okay, as he clearly needed the money more than me and now I have some Congolese instrument that I don't know how to play or what to do with.

On one of my walks on the river loop, a young couple ran up to me and wanted to have their picture taken with me. How odd, I thought but I posed with a photo with each of them and they went away really excited. While I walked, I wondered why they wanted a photo of me, and then I thought about some of the photos that I've had done in the past made with a weird looking water man in his traditional costume, a snake handler in Marrakesh, or a yogi with the painted face in Kathmandu. And then it hit me that I'm the weirdo in this scenario. I wonder what they are saying to their friends when they show them the photos. I'm going to have to process that a bit. I walked so many times about the loop that one of the locals asked me what I was doing. I think I was starting to look suspicious as well as weird.

Talk of Ebola is everywhere now that it has been confirmed in southern Congo and carries a huge stigma, as people are terrified of the spread of this highly deadly disease. Who can blame them? The good news, though, is that it does not spread quickly, and now that there have been nine outbreaks of Ebola across the globe, aid organizations such as the WHO and CDC have a good handle on what to do to identify, contain, and treat it. At first, the symptoms of Ebola look similar to malaria, so people don't know to take precautions when helping a sick person, and this is when the virus really gets spread around. It is transferred via bodily fluids like sweat, vomit, and blood. Although there was a case of someone traveling into Nigeria via plane with Ebola during the last outbreak, most people with Ebola are too sick to travel, and no one on the plane was infected by that sick traveler, fortunately. In many African countries, there are rituals that require washing and handling dead loved ones, which is a major way Ebola has spread.

It has been very challenging to get people to change their burial rituals, as there are strong taboos against burning bodies or putting people into body bags, etc. Once a person with Ebola has been identified, they are treated with major transfers of fluids, as their body is purging out all the fluids, and their blood vessels eventually collapse. They are quarantined, and then anyone they've been in contact with gets monitored for fevers twice a day for 21 days to see if they come down with the virus. So far, 90 percent of contacts have been traced to the current outbreak, so the medical response has been robust and can do a lot to contain the geographic spread of the disease. It's much easier to handle outbreaks in small villages than in large cities due to the need to contain and monitor the contacts.

Where does Ebola come from, you might ask? No one is sure, but they think it originates from some infected bush animals such as bats and spread to people via bodily fluids. I heard a story of some tourists in a cave somwhere during a prior outbreak who slipped and fell and got cut and had landed in bat poop and got it. Not sure if that's true. There are people in rural areas, though, who are hunters and gathers who rely on bush meat for survival and eat things like large rats, monkeys, gorillas, etc. They can get infected by prepping the meat to cook. When people don't have access to bush meat as a food source, they turn to other options and there are ripple effects felt throughout society that cause other problems. Luckily, the international response for the Ebola task force is promising.

Lastly, there are some beautiful hotels in Kinshasa. The one where I always stay has an amazing breakfast with so many types of food, and you can eat until you explode. What you can't do is get more than 1-2 cups of coffee. Coffee is only served by a waiter walking around and doling it out like caviar. I asked if coffee is really expensive in Congo and everyone agrees that it's not. I'm not sure why, but the waiters cannot seem to see anyone who is wanting a cup of coffee. They are always standing or wandering around but have perfected the non-eye contact or bring the coffee to a table near you without ever making it to you. Every time I have to go find someone and ask for some coffee, then rarely do they have coffee, tea, and milk all in hand at once. They only hold the thing that you weren't wanting, so they have to go retrieve whatever you wanted and often in multiple trips. Oh, you want coffee? They are only holding the tea and have to go get the coffee from some mysterious safe behind the bar. They bring it. Oh, you wanted milk in it? Oh, they have to go get that from that same mysterious vault. What, you drank the coffee you were given and want more? Back to the vault. Normally half an hour is sufficient time to eat breakfast in the mornings, but not if you want 2 cups of coffee. The other crazy thing was that they charged me a $200 deposit for anything I might use from the minibar. One night, when I had left over pizza, I decided to put it in my little minifridge, only to discover that they had locked me out of the minibar, so I had them unlock it. I was dying to see what was in this very valuable mini bar, and it turns out it only has a bottle of water, plus four soft drinks. It would take a lifetime to consume $200 worth of minibar items from what I could see was available.

All in all, after my third trip, I can say that I like Kinshasa, as it has a lot of character. I'd be curious to see more of the country some time and will definetly try to get to Brazzaville on my next trip now that my curiosity has been piqued. I wish the best for the Congolese as they have a beautiful country with so much potential. They really deserve to prosper.

Eleven years into this blog, I can finally present the first guest blog on Worldchump. And from what better source to obtain it than my wife, Liebi, who has been part of this long adventure as much as I have? Here is her post about her recent trip to the Democratic Republic of the Congo:

Kinshasa doesn't look like much when you first arrive, but like an onion, as you peel away the layers, you find hidden gems throughout the town.

When you land at the airport, be sure you have your yellow vaccination card to prove you've had a yellow fever vaccination or you will either be vaccinated on the spot or returned to where you came.

Getting from the airport into town can be quite a treck depending on traffic. The road between the airport and downtown is a wide straight highway, but if you time it wrong, what should be a half hour ride can take 2 hours. I've arrived twice on Sunday afternoons during the middle of violent political protests downtown. We had to sit at the airport until it was clear to proceed. The protests are often and getting more frequent as elections continue to be delayed and the population continues to seek change.

And how is this for change? Recognizing the need for some traffic lights, a group of women students built some traffic robots that can be seen up and down the avenue into town. The robots have red and green lights, and for the most part, drivers respect the lights when they are on. There are almost no traffic lights downtown, and if you see one, it's usually turned off, and every intersection is a free for all jam. I used to think that Congolese drivers were the worst in the world, but now that I see how they navigate through the chaotic jams at 4-way intersections, I think they are the best drivers. Most of the cars on the road look like they've been through the Battle of Gettysburg, and that's why. Also, the people piling into buses, vans, and taxis as we sit in standstill traffic has become one of the best people watching episodes I've seen. A van going to a certain part of town stops, 20 people all clammer to get into the door at the same time, there's a guy selling tickets who literally clings onto the back bumper as the van drives away, occasionally someone jumps in through the side window, sometimes the door to the van gets pulled off. That's okay, they just put it on top and keep rolling.

The downtown area has many modern buildings and a range of nice international restaurant options, although they are not cheap. If you want something cheap and fast, pizza is everywhere and so are shwarmas. My go-to place is Hunga Busta which has excellent falafels. Many businesses are run by a large Lebanese community that has resettled in the Congo, although it's a very international city with people from all over. Most people speak French but one can get by with a little English and a lot of creativity. Congolese people are warm and easy going. They are used to the foreigners who stream through for business and international aid, but there is no tourist industry here. Size-wise, the Congo is enormous and has vast resources and used to be the breadbasket of Africa. It could be again if the political situation changed. Instead, most produce is shipped into Kinshasa from other parts of the country, making it expensive, of lesser quality, and it arrives overripe and a little beaten up.

The Congo River is massive, with a strong current that carries all sorts of things downstream all the time at a fast clip. You'll see floating branches, clumps of earth and grass, and all manner of debris. Across the river is Brazzaville, the capital of the Republic of Congo. The population is around 2 million, while the population of Kinshasa is around 14 million. There is no bridge, so one has to take a boat to get there. They say that the "Congobrazza" is more developed, safer, smaller, and a little more gentle. I'll try to go there on my next trip, but one must have a visa in advance to get in and at this time I don't have one.

It's too dangerous to walk around town in Kinshasa, as it's very common to be robbed at gunpoint, and kidnappings are also a threat. There is one part of town along the river, which is essentially Embassy Row where its safe to walk in a two-mile loop called the River Loop. Embassy guard forces, Congolese soldiers, and a slew of napping gardeners like the loop. I'm not sure they'd do much to help if danger arose, but it's nice to see them there. Along the way, several food sellers or Food Mamas, as they are called, cook over small fires and will serve up a plate of some home cooked meal that you can enjoy on a small plastic table and chair on the side of the road. There's a guy who walks around with a tub of baguettes and meat on his head who will make you a sandwich, and many others carrying around food items for sale like muffins, Belgian waffles, and bags of water (yes, bags, not bottles).

(To be continued)

Sensations in the Bundesliga, as I pointed out a few posts back, are just rare these days. Some years back, you could count on at least Borussia Dortmund giving Bayern a run for its money, but not anymore. And if Dortmund can't compete with Bayern anymore, what does that say about other teams? What does it say about the league?

RB Leipzig, behind sponsor giant Red Bull, was thought to be the heir apparent after last year, but they dropped all the way to sixth place and barely salvaged a place in next year's Euro League, which is wide beyond expectations. Wolfsburg, between equally powerful sponsor VW, barely avoided being relegated this year. Money in today's football world certainly helps, although it is never a guarantee for success.

Enter Eintracht Frankfurt, the local team here. Frankfurt has certainly improved over the years, although this year, they looked like a sure-fire bet to qualify for the lucrative Champions League following an impressive streak of good results over the first half of the season. A late season slump saw them sink all the way to eighth place, which would likely see them miss out on playing on the European stage altogether. Luckily for them, there was the cup final, the last game of the year to be played in Berlin. Only one problem: they would be meeting with powerhouse Bayern Munich, who is not in the business of losing domestic titles, let alone cup finals. One game, winner-takes-all, up against the best team in the league, who, in addition to winning the Bundesliga for the sixth straight time, also hawked Frankfurt's young head coach, Niko Kovac, for next year, much to the fans' chagrin here in Frankfurt.

But miracles do happen.

Frankfurt pulled off the stunner by beating Bayern, 3-1. What exactly happened to Bayern? Were they lacking motivation after another semifinal exit in the Champions League? Were their players, all seasoned nationals, merely anticipating the World Cup in Russia? We'll never know, and the Eintracht Frankfurt fans really don't care after winning their first cup of any kind in 30 years. Only one year ago, Frankfurt had lost the cup final to Schalke. This year, the city would celebrate in style.

The Römer here in Frankfurt, the central market place in front of the town hall, was sheer pandemonium when it received their victorious team the day after winning the cup, on a warm Sunday afternoon. The tradition for any German football club is to present any freshly won title to its fans at the town hall of the city, usually from the balcony. Tens of thousands of Frankfurt fans packed the place, even the Christmas Market looked sparsely attended by comparison. One mean tweet even claimed that there were more people at Frankfurt's victory parade than on Trump's inauguration day. Fans sang and danced, it's nice to witness football history being made. For Bayern Munich, a cup victory would have been a mere footnote. For Frankfurt, the victory against Bayern is already legend.

What happens with Frankfurt next year is anybody's guess. They have already lost their goalkeeper, one of their star players. They have lost their head coach, the architect of Frankfurt's renaissance, to Bayern. For now, all of that matters so little. For now, Frankfurt is happy. For now, Eintracht rules and has brought a smile to Football Germany outside of Munich. For now, that's all that matters.

That is, at least until the World Cup starts next month.

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