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.
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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.
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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.