Morocco - Tangier

Spain's slow drizzle evolved into a downpour as I boarded the boat for Morocco. I was pleased to find myself once again aboard a ferry, having commuted to San Francisco that way one summer several years ago. For some reason, I thought the weather would improve once I got to Morocco and, while the sun was shining on my arrival, it was a brief dry moment in what would be a particularly wet trip.

I hadn't made any arrangements for a hotel, so once I was safely aground in Tangier, I caved in and hired one of the several guides shilling at the ferry terminal, selecting mine more for his festive hat and cowboy boots than anything else. I'd corresponded with our Moroccan friend Omar via email prior to the trip, and he'd warned me that there would be touts everywhere, and that they could be both aggressive and annoying. Omar also explained that official tour guides would be able to produce a badge identifying their official status, and that it might be worth asking for, even if it could be fake.

After seeing his badge, I hired Rashid to be my guide and, after I withdrew local currency from an ATM, he led me to an overpriced taxi and we zipped off to an internet cafe. If you find yourself under-scheduled and accosted by dubious helpers in a foreign land, the internet cafe is a great refuge. For one thing, I was able to begin work on my Audi article, as the deadline would fall during the trip. I had mostly written off my time in Tangier as a travel day anyway, and wanted to free up time for Fez. Additionally, I was able to read several less than enthusiastic reviews of the hotel that Rashid was pushing, and book a place of my own selection. Working on my article was also part of my strategy for dumping Rashid, I would simply wait him out. Eventually it worked, I explained to him that I'd made a hotel reservation, and that I planned to work for a few more hours, and he went away quietly enough after naming his price. Rashid was the first of many Moroccans to reject my Euros in coin form, for some reason they're not accepted in Morocco, which I found annoying since the bills are welcomed.

After roughing in my Audi review, I walked to a cafe for a decent but unremarkable dinner, and then caught a taxi to my hotel. Fares are double at night in morocco, at least in the usually more affordable petite taxis, and I was a little taken aback when the driver pointed at the meter and asked for twice as much. Still, the prices weren't as high as Rashid's Mercedes driving cohort had commanded, and I was too tired to care. The driver didn't know quite where the hotel was, and at one point we drove down a narrow street in the medina, only to back out in lurching, clutch smoldering fashion, when it became clear that we were headed the wrong way.

The hotel had a crumbling charm that was inversely proportionate to its lack of insulation. The common areas were both shabby and ornate, making the even shabbier, but not at all ornate guest rooms a bit underwhelming. Still, I was safe and dry, and drifted off to sleep with german coverage of the winter olympics murmuring in the background. In the absence of travel partners, the winter olympics would become my constant companion throughout the trip, biathlon its chief personality defect.

Costa Del Sol, Spain: Audi A8 Drive event

Hotel Finca de Cortesin is probably the nicest hotel I've ever stayed in, and I've stayed at some swanky (and not so swanky) pads since becoming an automotive journalist. My pal Reg, a seasoned reporter and interviewer, claims that in the old days, organizations like GM would tote journalists about in their private jets, and that events could last a week, rather than the current standard of one, maybe two nights. The good folks at Audi Middle East have, at least at the events I've attended with them, added a second night at their own expense, which helps cushion the blow of traveling so far, for such a short amount of time. And so we spent a second night at a nice, if less memorable and quite empty, resort hotel. I missed dinner that night because Reg kept buying pints and telling tales of war zone bartenders and Rolls Royce sporting johns on the prowl in the GCC.

Think of me at the first joint, a lovely sprawling golf resort, plotting to depart from Spain's Costa Del Sol, where it was raining, for the crumbling, under-insulated but not charmless hotels of Morocco. I enjoyed driving the A8, which is a powerful and fine tuned machine, and was pleased to navigate the winding mountain roads above the coast with the car completely to myself. Not that I would have minded driving with a partner, as often happens, but more often than not these press trips afford you very little time alone, something I'm used to having plenty of.

I enjoyed the luxury hotel and my time in Spain, a country whose language I can speak passably. From there I went to a place where I didn't speak the language, where nearly everyone I met was hustling me for a few Dirham, and where hot showers could be undertaken only during prescribed hours. I was prepared for this contrast, but admit that, after four cold nights in Fes and Tangier on the cheap, I was ready for warm, clean, and thoroughly plastic Dubai. Still, I enjoyed Morocco quite a bit, and look forward to writing more about it.

Munich, 2011 Touareg Launch

My brief time in Munich started off quietly as a group of us, led by our very kind and well organized hosts from VW, wandered the hushed, snow covered streets in search of a tourist bus that would show us the city from a relatively warm and dry vantage point. When we did eventually find the bus, they wouldn't take us aboard for some reason, so we had carrot cake and walked around instead.

That evening, as I dusted off my 'job interview' duds ('journalist on the go' was wrinkled and sodden at home) I found that, not only does Germany get most of the Saudi Arabia based movie channels that regularly bring us classic films like Short Circuit 2, and Christmas Caper (starring Shannon Doherty, and gracing the small screen this March) here in Dubai, they also have some very odd televised costume parties that we don't have access to in the desert.

The event itself was surprising due to its particularly American choice of themes, which included a Late Night style interview format, hosted by the "David Letterman of Germany" and featuring a Late Night style band led by Germany-renowned percusionist and moustache farmer, Leslie Mandoki. Several of the interviews were conducted before a monument valley inspired backdrop, in front of which I insisted on being photographed, making for an awkward pause in the proceedings. My ego duly sated, they brought out performance artist Kseniya Simonova, whose deft hands craft evolving sand pictorials that are quite impressive in their scope and speed.

Throughout the evening, blue-jean and gingham clad servers in kiddie cowboy hats navigated the crowd, handing out a variety of tasty, if unexpected and ultimately forgettable (I just remember that they were odd, but good) appetizers. Our obliging hosts, in that unabashedly blunt German fashion, asked several of the attending VIPs who they were, culminating in my favorite reply: "Oh yes, now I remember. She's a very famous boxer." The evening closed with the music of Justin Timbalike who, sporting his trade marked fedora, shredded the violin alongside the Mandoki Players. We were gifted with Justin's CD on our way out, and most of us wrongly assumed it was the press kit and therefore didn't bother to hunt down the actual press kit. A press kit, or more specifically the Press Release, is what a journalist typically combines with a thesaurus to produce a magazine article. It was awesome. If you ever have the chance to attend a corporate launch party in Munich, the answer is "ja!"

New Year's Day Carnival

Everybody loves a parade, right? Well, I don't. In fact, while I definitely enjoyed the New Year's Day carnival in Kochi, I actually found the crowd, which seemed to outnumber the parade participants by about ten to one, much more interesting than the parade itself. There were circus floats, dancers, men dressed in drag (women aren't allowed to participate), the cast of Avatar, and many others in colorful, often homemade costumes, but that wasn't quite as compelling as the excitement of the crowd and sheer mass of bodies thronged together. I don't really like being in a crowd, and for the most part managed to skirt this one. As always, the locals were kind and facilitating. At one point we found ourselves inescapably deep into the parade crowd, and Vanessa was able to appeal to the wall of onlookers to let us pass through to safety, or really, lower anxiety. I don't mean to overstate this, it's not like I have a proper phobia, but rather, sometimes when I find myself surrounded on all sides by human bodies, I wonder, "why did I come here?" And so, the edge of the crowd was really much more my speed.

The mood was celebratory, everywhere we went people were excited to put their English into practice, wishing us a "Happy New Year," and grinning at our replies. The kids were out in force and, without exception, once one youngster had their picture taken they all wanted in, huddling together and mugging for the camera. Perhaps the day's most infectious good mood was emanating from the Michael Jackson memorial dance float, where in particular, a nattily dressed gent in a tweed sports coat and straw hat was demonstrating some serious moves. Bill had opted out, and after about an hour and a half I could see why, having had my fill of the excitement. All in all, we were glad we went.

Dining Out

Learning a language often requires admitting to the person with whom you're attempting to converse that the grammatical intricacy of their speech, or perhaps just their vocabulary or sheer velocity of air and spittle, exceeds your level of comprehension. The problem in Dubai is that you have far more practitioners of Dubaian Pidgin English than of the language's more well constructed iterations (I myself speak American Screaming Eagle of Freedom English).

At times, I've found myself stooping to fragmented cave-person English (respect, ladies) in order to get my point across, often coupled with hand gestures. Many guest workers, employed in the service industry, seem deathly afraid of admitting when they don't understand a request. I empathize, and suspect that in part, it's because their employment is predicated on their English fluency, so in a sense, they are protecting their jobs by giving you horrible service. The following doesn't qualify as horrible, but it is a depiction of a fairly normal service experience in Dubai--- the food at this restaurant is very much above average:

"Yes Mahm?"

"We'll have one red cabbage salad, one pumpkin salad, and a hamburger."

Look of total incomprehension. Brow knits for approximately 45 seconds.

"You mean cheeseburger, mahm?" Going out on a limb.

"Uhh, no. This here..." Points to menu.

"Oh, you mean the beef burger?"Accompanied by look of relief. I guess Hamburger sounds like a pork product if your knowledge of German metropolises and/or sandwich history is lacking.

"Uhh, yeah. That one."

"Anything to drink?"

"Yes, one large water and one headache remedy juice."

"Ahh... let me check on the headache remedy." Walks to juice bar, returning about five minutes later.

"Ok Mahm, we can make that juice for you."

Ten Minutes elapse.

"Sorry Mahm, but we don't have fresh onion juice for the headache remedy."

"Well, can't you make some?"

"Ahh, sorry but no fresh onion juice. No onions."

"But this restaurant is in inside a grocery store."

"Yes but... juicer broken."

Kerala Back Waters

On the morning of New Year's Eve, Mahesh bundled us into his mighty Jeep, and carried us into town to meet our pre-arranged taxi to the Kerala backwaters. Hoping to avoid bathing our luggage in the thick layer of dust that covered the trunk of our driver's Hindustan Ambassador, a model which was once India's ubiquitous sedan, we loaded our bags into the forward passenger seat, only to learn that we would be sharing the ride with a young couple from Finland. The Fins turned out to be worthy conversationalists, and we apprised one another of our recent adventures for the first half of the journey. Conversation eventually faltered, and the driver, hoping to enhance the already daring thrill-ride he was providing us with, inserted a CD of early nineties techno into the Ambassador's aftermarket sound system. Having studiously avoided both raves and DJ culture, I'm not sure why all the tunes were familiar to me, but I suspect that movies and advertising are at least partially to blame.

Arriving at the tour operator's compound, we loaded our now dusty cloth duffle bag (one of those quilted jobs) onto the houseboat which, from what I can tell, was technically a large punt. At about 8,000 rupees ($175) per night, the backwaters trip was by far the most expensive thing that we did in India, and it was well worth it. I would love to go back sometime to spend multiple nights on the boat, and Bill has indicated that the prices are a good deal lower in the off season.

The brackish backwaters alternate seasonally between shrimp farming and rice paddies, and have a dark, reflective quality that gives the fecund tropical landscape a pleasing bilateral symmetry. We trolled along quietly, our motor-less vessel propelled by a pair of boatmen wielding impressive lengths of bamboo. At one point, the forward boatman's pole became lodged in the bottom, and went whap-whap-whapping down the side of the boat until the aft boatman was able to rescue it for him. This, and a bit of pre-party sound system calibration around the marsh, were the only (minor) intrusions into what was a thoroughly relaxing and enjoyable experience.

Vanessa and I were reminded very much our own favorite non-profit as we skimmed along, surrounded by alternating combinations by reeds, flowers, palms, houses, villages, canoes, birds, children, chickens, trains, cattle, passing Fins in their own extremely well appointed punt, and of course, the water itself. Lunch time brought another pleasant surprise, as our crew brought out huge portions of excellent, almost vegetarian fare-- in fact we ate all but completely vegetarian in India and, as I've said before, thoroughly enjoyed every meal.

That night we sat on the deck listening to dancing and drumming in the distance, watching the occasional bright swirling of flashlights and small fireworks on the shore. We'd brought a bottle of good champagne from the Dubai airport duty free and, decadent infidels that we are, managed to drink half the bottle between the two of us. The boatmen found the bottle tipped over on the deck the next morning and, after checking with us, one of the crew adopted the now empty bottle as a decoration for his home. He'd given us a tour of his house the night before, and we'd been surprised to see that his mantle was already adorned with the box from that very same bottle of Veuve Clicquot, in addition to a few other Clicquot cartons of unknown origin. We felt honored to be welcomed into our host's home, which was full of interesting found and handmade objects, including hand carved models of a cruise ship and an electric guitar. He also had a whole gang of very relaxed looking pigs under his care.

The Kerala backwaters are not so different from those in Quintana Roo or, if you squint, Petaluma, but to my knowledge neither of those places offer such a restful overnight experience on the water. If you ever have the chance to go, do so. Try to opt for a punt rather than a motorboat, as backwater tourism is big business in Kerala, and keeping the number of outboards to a minimum will help preserve this stunning spot.