We headed south out of Strasbourg via our favourite way around the city: bike paths next to canals. Most people were headed in for Bastille Day celebrations and conveyed the degree to which biking is part of the European psyche: young, old, serious, posers, and the occasional tourer. 30k worth of bike path and canal breezed by, then we turned left to cross the massive Rhine. We were used to 2-meter tall locks, but the Rhine used locks measured in 10s of feet. We crossed the Rhine and rode alongside it for a few kilometres, then turned east.

We passed a yacht club (a yacht club on a river?) and realized the sign was German. No "Welcome To Germany," no fanfare, no starched guards... just a nice yacht club welcoming people to the evolution of the Third Reich. We realized the border was marked by a change in pavement. French pavement, like most European rail, is enjoyably smooth (unless, of course, it isn't, which happens occasionally and with abrupt severity). The German pavement was slightly rougher (better traction for the BMWs careening around corners?). Suddenly switching to German navigation made for an interesting trip to Scott's nearby hometown, Lahr. For a non-existent border, the culture change was drastic. Maybe it is the Quebec influence in Canada, or maybe France is more like Vancouver, BC, in attitude, but whatever the cause, German society feels like the language sounds; harsher, more exacting, more deliberate. The Tourist Office decided to be closed for the day, but after a few aborted forays into hotels (and probably a few chuckles by the reception desk occupant at Peter's floundering German) we found one with a garage for the bikes and a bed for us.

That afternoon we continued the European tradition of find-the-hidden-Internet-cafe-full-of-copious-amounts-of-smoke and dealt with a world growing farther away by the day.

Up and out into the morning market with bread, veggies, meats and odds and ends bullying around the square outside the hotel.

Today was earmarked to visit the Canadian base where Scott's dad had worked, then the train to Munich. But first, we toured around the base, finding Scott's hospital and lots of ancient barbed wire. Some evident and exposed ways in were seen, but eventually we found the rat hole, the back way in. Rolls of film later and some good sneaking, poking, and backing quickly out of 3rd floor rooms with rotten floors we departed decrepit neglect and headed for the train station and another apartment Scott had lived in nearby.

We had some hopes pinned on a fast train, but the Internet the day before had disabused us of that notion, only allowing us the country tour into Munich instead. Our hopes of a decent arrival time in Munich were politely dashed by a reservation-only policy for bikes on certain trains. The country tour turned into the semi-country tour. Semi because as beautiful as the scenery was for many hours, the multiple train changes left us somewhat breathless! We eventually found smooth, sloped pathways across the tracks beyond the end of the platforms. So we avoided the mayhem of heavy bike trailers on stairs and chose instead to dodge trains that blow through little country stations at over 100 kilometres per hour. Watching the countryside pass, Scott delved into the mysteries of accommodation in Munich. We pedaled out of the biggest train station we had been in (at least 16 tracks) and into the dark. Navigating with our still rusty German, we tried a few spots, got lost, and were politely told to go away by lights turning out and unanswered doors. Finally, we settled on the expensive option: a real hotel. The Holiday Inn does have its advantages.

Waking up in a Holiday Inn should have been disorienting, but we got right into the complimentary breakfast and clean shower stalls! We stashed our stuff with the hotel staff (they emptied the storage room and repacked it around Peter's trailer) and headed off to check car rates, email, and experience Munich. After a frustrating session with the phone system (having several different German phrases repeated in a cheerful 'you-should-know-better' voice leaves one thinking 'but I don't!') we worked out our car rental details with some help from a bored and beautiful Internet cafe attendant. Scott had heard rumours of surfers, nude sunbathing and a stupendous outdoor beer garden in a large park nearby. 'Nough said. We babe-watched and tourist-avoided while gleefully spining through the shopping/walking district, nervously dodging car traffic (do recall, this is the first big European city we've ridden in) and then escaped into the park. Neatly lined pathways and cool breezes greeted us, as did the plethora of old and wrinkly nude sunbathers. Aigh! We found the surfers (young, mostly male, pulling off wicked stunts in a standing-wave river rapid). People were encouraged to swim the length of the river, and this prompted some excitement as nautical collisions between coasters and surfers were narrowly avoided. Scott followed his nose past more tastefully turned out sun-soakers to the beer garden. Lush, massive trees shaded wooden tables jovially crowded together. The inspiration for the stories of carousing beer gardens, mugs swaying in the breeze, was readily apparent! Refreshed and sedated by a couple beers and our first of many sausage plates, we wobbled our way through town to the hotel. We were on the verge of riding to Erding when the hotel concierge asked if we were aware of the storms rapidly approaching. 'Storms?' 'Yes! Rain, hail, and wind. And they arrive quickly.' We headed north towards our Scottish hosts Emma and Gavin via train and arrived in the nick of time, literally gusting in through the door!

Emma and Gavin departed before we were functional and a comfortable while later we rode the train into Munich. Plans included the Jenn and Dave MacLachlan-famous Technology Museum, more beer gardens and a multi-bar party-town. Of course, a pastry stop was necessary first! The Technology Museum proved to be formidable with a overwhelming amount of detail and information. Many of the exhibits didn't have English translations, but we played anyway, twisting knobs and pushing buttons until we got museum-head and decided to refresh ourselves with beer and sausage.

And the party started... we went from beer garden to beer garden, testing the sausages and checking out the locals and tourists. Interspersed between the carousing sounds of raucous beer halls, we enjoyed the classical heritage of the city via buskers in the streets. Ahhhhh. There is something magical about Mozart played in a German courtyard.

We searched for a particular beer garden, traveling in the dark via foot and metro before finally deciding that we didn't know where this place was. But we still had the ace in the hole: the Disney Land for the Party Generation! We sought, we found, we entered. Then poked around for a good half hour finding out that the party was more oriented towards the bass-thumping-dance-music style of party, not the party hall we had in mind. We decided on a quick drink then the train home. Except we met Dunja and Will, two friendly Munichers on their way home from a Massive Attack concert and dropping by the Irish pub for a pint. We chatted and chatted and chatted, until we realizing that we didn't know when the last train home was. Dunja and Will walked us to the train station and shared out astonishment at missing the last train by 6 minutes. We were 45 kilometres from home! Dunja and Will cheerfully and kindly offered their couch. We went home with two people we had met an hour before and several thousand kilometres away from home. Dunja and Will were a treat, though, and the discussions went from politics to solar energy to music and back to politics. Finally too tired to stay awake, we all retired to bed and couch. Thank goodness for the Wills and Dunjas of the world, or else we would have been in an interesting and expensive bind.

We were used to waking up in rather unfamiliar places, but waking up on a couch was still a stretch. We freshened up and Will drove us to a train station. Thanks again to Will and Dunja! We trained home to pick up our stuff, showered, and then headed back into Munich to pick up our car. At one point, Peter had his feet up on a bench in comfort mode and was glared at by at least two nice elderly ladies who couldn't believe the astonishing behaviour of this apparently uneducated man. We packed bikes and gear into a black 4-door Golf and drove north, Peter navigating madly and Scott keeping all the eyes on all sides of his head wide open! Earlier, we mentioned maps and a lack of clutter on the all-of-France map. That lack of clutter was greatly appreciated as the scenery went past five to ten times faster in a car than it did on bikes. Small towns don't matter at 150 kph! We strove onwards to Losheim, aiming to drop our bikes then head somewhat backwards, well, very backwards, into south-western France. Several hours later, both of us sighed in relief and eased out of the car, wide-eyed and AC-blasted.