Meanwhile we've made it as far as Newark, and going on being awake 20 hours. Mom and Dad are still awake, Peter's reading, and I'm watching Anderson Cooper tally the dead from West Africa, game the chances of the cease fire in Gaza, question the Russian buildup on the Ukraine border, and analyze the Afghan suicide bomber's potential motives. Feels a long way from the vineyards of Alsace, but probably as good a reintroduction to the real world as any.
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
Bloody bastards
Took my knitting needles in Heathrow. I put up as much of a fight as I thought I could, in other words started crying, and it had absolutely no effect. One of the agents told me they were pointed and "sharp as a knife." Seriously? They're made to K N I T yarn, not shred it. Been a long time since I've felt that powerless - it sucked. Yes: whingeing!
Monday, August 4, 2014
Wha??
One minute we're sipping coffee and navigating cobblestones in a tiny village in eastern France, and the next thing you know we're tucked in to a slick Stuttgart hotel checking in for our flight to the US in the morning. Everything about that just feels wrong. It's gone by way too fast. We didn't get to every village in the Haut Rhin or eat every possible form of chocolate mousse or backeoffe. The real world looms and it's verrrrry disturbing.
Dinner with Dieter helped: there's nothing like spending three hours over dinner on a patio with a friend whose mutual affection spans decades and sense of humor compliments Peter's so perfectly. If Mom had another soul mate besides Dad I strongly suspect it would be Dieter - so we all hug and laugh and talk about the next trip here or the visit to the states next year, and fervently hope it will work out and seven years won't pass before the next time we see each other again. We've felt that every time we say goodbye here, and with every danke and merci to these generous, sincere friends. As Dieter said tonight, years can go by and yet when I see Marnie again it's like no time at all - an exact echo of Ute's words yesterday in Strasbourg. We've been outrageously lucky to see all these people, and spend such valuable time in these beautiful countries. I so hope we're lucky enough to do it again, and in the company of my dear insane and wonderful parents, who have made this trip infinitely more enjoyable and memorable for us both. À votre santé avec tout notre amour.
Dinner with Dieter helped: there's nothing like spending three hours over dinner on a patio with a friend whose mutual affection spans decades and sense of humor compliments Peter's so perfectly. If Mom had another soul mate besides Dad I strongly suspect it would be Dieter - so we all hug and laugh and talk about the next trip here or the visit to the states next year, and fervently hope it will work out and seven years won't pass before the next time we see each other again. We've felt that every time we say goodbye here, and with every danke and merci to these generous, sincere friends. As Dieter said tonight, years can go by and yet when I see Marnie again it's like no time at all - an exact echo of Ute's words yesterday in Strasbourg. We've been outrageously lucky to see all these people, and spend such valuable time in these beautiful countries. I so hope we're lucky enough to do it again, and in the company of my dear insane and wonderful parents, who have made this trip infinitely more enjoyable and memorable for us both. À votre santé avec tout notre amour.
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Stressburg for the day
A) Gwynneth is great at country roads, or any larger roads and motorways and autobahns. Gwynneth sucks at tiny city streets that are suddenly one way and/or pedestrian malls complete with large metal barriers.
+
B) Strasbourg, the seat of the parliament of the European Union and the Court of Human Rights, has nothing but one way streets and nonexistent to pathetic street signage, and a ridiculously large number of pedestrian malls.
=
C) By the time I'd managed to park the FUCKING car in the FUCKING parking garage near Petite France in Strasbourg, after having parked at the train station, picked up Ute, gotten out of the train station parking and dropped Mom and Ute in Petite France, driven the wrong way down several pedestrian malls, done 12 point turns in order to drive the wrong way down another pedestrian mall, followed Gwynneth's directions around fully half the city and finally reached a garage with a footprint the size of a New York kitchen, gingerly pulled into a spot on the third floor only to find that if I actually parked in it the car next to me wouldn't be able to get out, then found a spot on the fourth floor I could back into as long as Dad was out watching for potential paint scraping opportunities, I was ready to
1. Poke my eyes out with a sharp stick,
2. Get back in the car and drive as quickly as possible out of the city from hell and back into the gorgeous hinterland from whence we'd come,
Or
3. Drink large amounts of local wine, linger three hours in an epitomal French cafe on the river with new friends from Hauptstuhl, my parents and Peter and my new friend Ute, and then spend an idyllic hour on a boat cruising the River Île around the city center, silently thanking all known powers I was in a boat and not in a FUCKING car.
Leaving the FUCKING parking garage was harder than it needed to be, mainly because I was under the mistaken impression that the ticket from the train station parking garage was in fact the ticket from the FUCKING parking garage. Makes it hard to actually get out when the machine correctly thinks the ticket has already been used and the driver is convinced it hasn't. Peter fortunately realized the confusion and overrode my inchoate but insistent and increasingly physical threats against the gate and ticket machine barring our exit, got out of the car and inserted the correct ticket, and then payment, and suggested with a shrug that I simply drive through the now raised gate before it closes on us again.
We did get back to Riquewihr after that without incident, and then parked ourselves at our favorite Winstub across the street. Riesling, obviously, and some truly exceptional comfort food followed, and suddenly all memories of the stress of Strasbourg were erased and life was, if not actually a bowl of cherries, a tart of blueberries and chantilly creme.
+
B) Strasbourg, the seat of the parliament of the European Union and the Court of Human Rights, has nothing but one way streets and nonexistent to pathetic street signage, and a ridiculously large number of pedestrian malls.
=
C) By the time I'd managed to park the FUCKING car in the FUCKING parking garage near Petite France in Strasbourg, after having parked at the train station, picked up Ute, gotten out of the train station parking and dropped Mom and Ute in Petite France, driven the wrong way down several pedestrian malls, done 12 point turns in order to drive the wrong way down another pedestrian mall, followed Gwynneth's directions around fully half the city and finally reached a garage with a footprint the size of a New York kitchen, gingerly pulled into a spot on the third floor only to find that if I actually parked in it the car next to me wouldn't be able to get out, then found a spot on the fourth floor I could back into as long as Dad was out watching for potential paint scraping opportunities, I was ready to
1. Poke my eyes out with a sharp stick,
2. Get back in the car and drive as quickly as possible out of the city from hell and back into the gorgeous hinterland from whence we'd come,
Or
3. Drink large amounts of local wine, linger three hours in an epitomal French cafe on the river with new friends from Hauptstuhl, my parents and Peter and my new friend Ute, and then spend an idyllic hour on a boat cruising the River Île around the city center, silently thanking all known powers I was in a boat and not in a FUCKING car.
Leaving the FUCKING parking garage was harder than it needed to be, mainly because I was under the mistaken impression that the ticket from the train station parking garage was in fact the ticket from the FUCKING parking garage. Makes it hard to actually get out when the machine correctly thinks the ticket has already been used and the driver is convinced it hasn't. Peter fortunately realized the confusion and overrode my inchoate but insistent and increasingly physical threats against the gate and ticket machine barring our exit, got out of the car and inserted the correct ticket, and then payment, and suggested with a shrug that I simply drive through the now raised gate before it closes on us again.
We did get back to Riquewihr after that without incident, and then parked ourselves at our favorite Winstub across the street. Riesling, obviously, and some truly exceptional comfort food followed, and suddenly all memories of the stress of Strasbourg were erased and life was, if not actually a bowl of cherries, a tart of blueberries and chantilly creme.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
The Green Guide hits it out of the park.
Are you sure?, asked the woman in the tourist information office. Here - the website - the menu is here. It is alright? And it definitely looked alright - simple food served in a simple atmosphere, and all of it highly recommended by the bible: the Michelin "Green Guide" to Alsace/Lorraine/Champagne.
I'm still trying to figure out why there was even a question. I mean, we actually haven't paid much attention to the GG during this trip. Much of its focus is on the historic and architectural features of these remarkable little villages, making it pretty irrelevant to a group whose foci were prescribed from the beginning by the plea, "No cities. No museums." We've read a ton of historical plaques, make no mistake, but for the most part the intent has been to experience how life is lived today by the people who actually live year round in the region. Despite the tourism and the blatant appeals to the average tourist (and we are definitely among them), we've achieved at least a somewhat nuanced perspective. The proprietor of our little gîte lives above us with his wife and baby and parents, providing a daily reminder that while we occupy this space for a week or so, he has lived all of his 21 years here, his baby was born here, and they all eat, sleep, and make a living here. The trip to the village physician yesterday provided a fascinating glimpse into the process of accessing healthcare in a country with a very different delivery system than ours - it was definitely more than just a passport to antibiotics.
And this evening we took a winding, narrow path up out of the village and 6 km into the forest for dinner at a farm higher in the foothills. Our waiter's English was perfect, if accented - how he knew to speak English to us without even talking to us first I will never guess... - but he accepted my request to try to speak French with him anyway. After dessert I had to ask - in English by then - and he revealed that he was born in California, but moved here with his French wife in 1994. And here he was 20 years later serving simple - and absolutely delectable - food to a few regular locals and tourists who'd had the sense to make the trip, all with tangible elán and pride in the both the process and the product. He was the second American expat we'd met here, and in both cases it was clear there was really no place they would rather be. Another interesting angle on the question of what it's like to be an Alsatian/ne.
Just heard from Peter, who is still in Hauptstuhl with Brad and Peggy, that they've just got home from a day of flea marketing, castle exploring, and checking out the Rhine and Moselle valleys. And I thought I was tired!
I'm still trying to figure out why there was even a question. I mean, we actually haven't paid much attention to the GG during this trip. Much of its focus is on the historic and architectural features of these remarkable little villages, making it pretty irrelevant to a group whose foci were prescribed from the beginning by the plea, "No cities. No museums." We've read a ton of historical plaques, make no mistake, but for the most part the intent has been to experience how life is lived today by the people who actually live year round in the region. Despite the tourism and the blatant appeals to the average tourist (and we are definitely among them), we've achieved at least a somewhat nuanced perspective. The proprietor of our little gîte lives above us with his wife and baby and parents, providing a daily reminder that while we occupy this space for a week or so, he has lived all of his 21 years here, his baby was born here, and they all eat, sleep, and make a living here. The trip to the village physician yesterday provided a fascinating glimpse into the process of accessing healthcare in a country with a very different delivery system than ours - it was definitely more than just a passport to antibiotics.
And this evening we took a winding, narrow path up out of the village and 6 km into the forest for dinner at a farm higher in the foothills. Our waiter's English was perfect, if accented - how he knew to speak English to us without even talking to us first I will never guess... - but he accepted my request to try to speak French with him anyway. After dessert I had to ask - in English by then - and he revealed that he was born in California, but moved here with his French wife in 1994. And here he was 20 years later serving simple - and absolutely delectable - food to a few regular locals and tourists who'd had the sense to make the trip, all with tangible elán and pride in the both the process and the product. He was the second American expat we'd met here, and in both cases it was clear there was really no place they would rather be. Another interesting angle on the question of what it's like to be an Alsatian/ne.
Just heard from Peter, who is still in Hauptstuhl with Brad and Peggy, that they've just got home from a day of flea marketing, castle exploring, and checking out the Rhine and Moselle valleys. And I thought I was tired!
Friday, August 1, 2014
Damn, we're good.
Good enough, that is, to navigate the French medical system to a) find the pharmacie; b) learn that we need a doctor's prescription in order to get another course of antibiotics for Mom's missing toenails; c) find the doctor's house/practice; d) describe the difficulty with the toenails (this one was cheating: a quick peek and anyone can see they're verging on gangrenous); e) explain the heart history and confirm that the new antibiotic won't interfere with the beta blockers; f) discuss the shifting boundaries of France and Germany over the course of the 20th century with the doctor; and g) go back to the pharmacie and get the right prescriptions. All before 10 am!
And a few minutes later Peter and I were on the motorway headed north, past Strasbourg and into Germany, past Saarbrücken and into the little town of Hauptstuhl, home of Peter's dear friends Brad and Peggy from Omaha. Brad, an architect, is here to build a new, massive hospital on the base in nearby Langstuhl, and three years in, they've managed to cut down a few trees. American military bureaucracy combined with zealous German environmentalists have brought the project almost to its knees, and instead of a 3-5 year stint they're now looking at being here 7-10 years. So they do what we would do in those circumstances: they travel all over the place in an absolutely adorable Citroen hardtop convertible that looks like a cousin of a TT. Paris for weekends. Spain for Burning Man. Belgium, Prague, Luxembourg, and of course, just over the border to those fabulous French grocery stores. We've continued here with them the pattern of our days so far in Alsace: food, a little drive through the village (including something new this trip: a truly impressive thrift shop), a walk around a castle, a glass of beer out in the Biergarten, and then delicious food and wine at a local restaurant. Followed by ginger eau de vie back at their house, chocolate hazelnut gelato, and finally a German champagne flavored with elderflower and mint. Yep, just another day in paradise. Complete with the snoring man, and the foggy sense of satisfaction from a day well spent and a growing undercurrent of disbelief that it's all going by so quickly.
And a few minutes later Peter and I were on the motorway headed north, past Strasbourg and into Germany, past Saarbrücken and into the little town of Hauptstuhl, home of Peter's dear friends Brad and Peggy from Omaha. Brad, an architect, is here to build a new, massive hospital on the base in nearby Langstuhl, and three years in, they've managed to cut down a few trees. American military bureaucracy combined with zealous German environmentalists have brought the project almost to its knees, and instead of a 3-5 year stint they're now looking at being here 7-10 years. So they do what we would do in those circumstances: they travel all over the place in an absolutely adorable Citroen hardtop convertible that looks like a cousin of a TT. Paris for weekends. Spain for Burning Man. Belgium, Prague, Luxembourg, and of course, just over the border to those fabulous French grocery stores. We've continued here with them the pattern of our days so far in Alsace: food, a little drive through the village (including something new this trip: a truly impressive thrift shop), a walk around a castle, a glass of beer out in the Biergarten, and then delicious food and wine at a local restaurant. Followed by ginger eau de vie back at their house, chocolate hazelnut gelato, and finally a German champagne flavored with elderflower and mint. Yep, just another day in paradise. Complete with the snoring man, and the foggy sense of satisfaction from a day well spent and a growing undercurrent of disbelief that it's all going by so quickly.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
It Had To Happen
Well, I suppose it didn't HAVE to happen, but it did, and there's not a whole hell of a lot we can do about it now. Gwynneth sent us into the heart of Kaysersburg without a care in the world. In her world of digitized navigation the fact that the streets she directed us to went from two lanes to less than one in the space of a block was of no concern whatsoever. And since the narrowing occurred as a sharp left turn was required was pfffthd to her. For us however it meant leaving a good bit of our car's paint on the side of a house. Oops! How the hell did that house get in the way???
So we spent the better part of the day wandering aimlessly - that is from cafe to cafe for coffee, then wine, and lunch - through Kaysersburg, which we all agreed is just block after block of fucking cuteness (and that IS a quote). We're ruined for cuteness now, in fact, so it's a good thing we're heading home soon.
Champagne had been planned for the day since it's Dad's birthday, but we all agreed three hours was too long a drive just to drink bubbly in a cave. So after Kaysersburg and a quick mountain route over to Munster to see cheese making (erp), we returned to Kienzheim, between Kaysersburg and Riquewihr, for another wine tasting/degustation. I.e., another erp. Another ridiculously cute village complete with ancient walls and cobbled streets and charming squares with umbrella'd tables and fountains and giant pots of breathtaking fleurs. [And astonishingly, we have seen exactly two other Americans the entire time we've been in Alsace, and I'm actually not sure they were American.] A perfect afternoon, complete with late light, warm breeze, and delicious wine.
We came home for take out pizza - I know, but it just seemed like the right thing to do at the time - and a bottle of crémant (the local version of champagne) to celebrate Dad's 81st, and then dragged ourselves to the winstub across the street for molten chocolate cake and coffee ice cream. And, um, more wine. What can I say? We were celebrating! As you know, Dad, now better known as Lurch, enjoys celebrating his birthday almost as much as say, putting his hand down a disposal. So you can imagine his response when our winstub owner followed us out the door to present him with a celebratory bottle of wine to take home with us. He at least managed a thank you while in hearing distance, but we'd gotten no further than across the street when he started in with the "Jesus Christ. What the hell am I going to do with another bottle of wine? I already have a bottle of scotch to fit in my suitcase, I can't drink another damn bottle of wine, how the hell..." You can just hear it, can't you? Happy birthday, Dad - I know it's hard to take, but we love you, and every now and then we're going to do nice things for you. And guess what? You're going to have to just smile and say thank you.
Oxoxo!
So we spent the better part of the day wandering aimlessly - that is from cafe to cafe for coffee, then wine, and lunch - through Kaysersburg, which we all agreed is just block after block of fucking cuteness (and that IS a quote). We're ruined for cuteness now, in fact, so it's a good thing we're heading home soon.
Champagne had been planned for the day since it's Dad's birthday, but we all agreed three hours was too long a drive just to drink bubbly in a cave. So after Kaysersburg and a quick mountain route over to Munster to see cheese making (erp), we returned to Kienzheim, between Kaysersburg and Riquewihr, for another wine tasting/degustation. I.e., another erp. Another ridiculously cute village complete with ancient walls and cobbled streets and charming squares with umbrella'd tables and fountains and giant pots of breathtaking fleurs. [And astonishingly, we have seen exactly two other Americans the entire time we've been in Alsace, and I'm actually not sure they were American.] A perfect afternoon, complete with late light, warm breeze, and delicious wine.
We came home for take out pizza - I know, but it just seemed like the right thing to do at the time - and a bottle of crémant (the local version of champagne) to celebrate Dad's 81st, and then dragged ourselves to the winstub across the street for molten chocolate cake and coffee ice cream. And, um, more wine. What can I say? We were celebrating! As you know, Dad, now better known as Lurch, enjoys celebrating his birthday almost as much as say, putting his hand down a disposal. So you can imagine his response when our winstub owner followed us out the door to present him with a celebratory bottle of wine to take home with us. He at least managed a thank you while in hearing distance, but we'd gotten no further than across the street when he started in with the "Jesus Christ. What the hell am I going to do with another bottle of wine? I already have a bottle of scotch to fit in my suitcase, I can't drink another damn bottle of wine, how the hell..." You can just hear it, can't you? Happy birthday, Dad - I know it's hard to take, but we love you, and every now and then we're going to do nice things for you. And guess what? You're going to have to just smile and say thank you.
Oxoxo!
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Pissing, Pissing Down Rain
It did stop eventually, so I'm definitely not whingeing. But the waiter from breakfast yesterday was right: it was going to rain today, it did rain today, and if he continues to be right it will rain tomorrow too. But we don't care: it stopped now and then, and when it started again we always managed to find a covered cafe with plenty of coffee, biere or wine for occupying us until it stopped again.
We spent the day in Colmar, a Boulder-sized town just south of here known for its architecture (charmant), and its Petit Venise - a lovely little quartier complete with gondolas in the canal and markets and churches and yes, cafés with everything you could ever ask for when sheltering from the pissing down rain.
On our way to Colmar we decided to go to a supermarket called Cora for a few more umbrellas (it really was raining that hard). As usual Peter navigated and I drove, which meant that our in dash navigator, who we've named Gwynneth (for the English accent and the terrible French pronunciation), gave directions that I overrode and Peter corroborated. We got there eventually. And Cora turned out to be a small town in itself - the grocery section alone had an astounding array and range of selections of every single type of food you could ever desire - entire aisles devoted to yogurts, others to cheeses, others to bacon. You heard me: it was heaven on earth. Fortunately we'd made coffee, eggs, bacon and pain au chocolat for breakfast at home before we left, so we escaped Cora with just three new umbrellas, paper towels, a sponge and some toilet paper. Set for life.
As we came back into Riquewihr this afternoon we decided it was time for a good old fashioned wine tasting, and chose a degustation menu complete with the local Pinot blanc, Riesling, Pinot Gris, and Gewürztraminer. The Riesling won by a mile. Fortunately we'd also parked next to a local distillier, so after the tasting at the winery we tried the local amber biere next door. By the time we lurched home to the gîte we were thoroughly primed for our dinner of bread, cheeses, apple, smoked salmon, ham, and yes, more wine. But then the sun had come out, and it was only 7:30.... So after dinner we found a cafe across the way, ordered wine, pastis, and a coffee for dad, split a molten chocolate cake, consulted our green guide for ideas for tomorrow, and watched the shadows grow across the cobbled street. Erp.
We spent the day in Colmar, a Boulder-sized town just south of here known for its architecture (charmant), and its Petit Venise - a lovely little quartier complete with gondolas in the canal and markets and churches and yes, cafés with everything you could ever ask for when sheltering from the pissing down rain.
On our way to Colmar we decided to go to a supermarket called Cora for a few more umbrellas (it really was raining that hard). As usual Peter navigated and I drove, which meant that our in dash navigator, who we've named Gwynneth (for the English accent and the terrible French pronunciation), gave directions that I overrode and Peter corroborated. We got there eventually. And Cora turned out to be a small town in itself - the grocery section alone had an astounding array and range of selections of every single type of food you could ever desire - entire aisles devoted to yogurts, others to cheeses, others to bacon. You heard me: it was heaven on earth. Fortunately we'd made coffee, eggs, bacon and pain au chocolat for breakfast at home before we left, so we escaped Cora with just three new umbrellas, paper towels, a sponge and some toilet paper. Set for life.
As we came back into Riquewihr this afternoon we decided it was time for a good old fashioned wine tasting, and chose a degustation menu complete with the local Pinot blanc, Riesling, Pinot Gris, and Gewürztraminer. The Riesling won by a mile. Fortunately we'd also parked next to a local distillier, so after the tasting at the winery we tried the local amber biere next door. By the time we lurched home to the gîte we were thoroughly primed for our dinner of bread, cheeses, apple, smoked salmon, ham, and yes, more wine. But then the sun had come out, and it was only 7:30.... So after dinner we found a cafe across the way, ordered wine, pastis, and a coffee for dad, split a molten chocolate cake, consulted our green guide for ideas for tomorrow, and watched the shadows grow across the cobbled street. Erp.
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