- Sit and stare with child-like delight out the upper-level window of the train at the snow dotted across the ground of eastern France. Actually, child-like delight is inaccurate; the kids on the train are used to snow and don’t find it nearly as fascinating as you do.
- Gasp in delight when the fog become so thick in the air and the snow so thick on the ground that you can no longer tell where the snow-covered fields end and where the sky begins.
- Wish you could take photos of the fairy-tale villages you pass, covered in snow like something out of Hansel and Gretel.
- Realise, as you walk out of the station in Strasbourg, on the German border, that you’ve never seen snow like this except in the Victorian Alps (because the swirling white stuff you get in Paris doesn’t count) and start jumping on it, asking yourself, “Is this actually snow? Is this what snow looks like?”
- Slowly amble to your hostel a kilometre away, rugged up to the ears, staring at the wet white stuff on the footpaths and gutters.
- Collapse in the hostel while you let warmth fill your body and stare at the snow on the roof of the cute little three-storey buildings across the road.
- Go for a walk and get as excited over the snowman as the kid who built it. Wish you could lie in the snow and make snow angels with him while his mother smiles on (except your coat isn’t waterproof and you’re cold enough as it is).
- Think that the snow caps are the finishing touch on the red Gothic cathedral in the main square – that, or another bell tower so the thing is actually even.
- Walk down to the river, squee over the exposed-timber German-style houses with snow roofs and grab your camera.
So yeah, can you tell what my day has been mostly about? This place is freezing, but it has heaps of snow to make up for it (I can cope with cold, so long as there’s a justification, like penguins, or snow). I got to Strasbourg around mid-afternoon, but by the time I’d made it to the hostel, warmed up a little and set off again it was early evening and most museums and so forth were closing. I wandered south into the old city a bit and had a look around, and made a plan of action for the next two days. I also had a look in all the souvenir shops – they have the wackiest, cutest little emblems and mascots here. That was also when I realised that I’m in the Alsace region of France – you know, as in Alsatians? It’s the Germanic bit of France (like Provence is the Italian bit, and the Pyrenees are the Spanish bit). The German city of Kehl is literally right across the river – and I mean literally as in if I go for a nice long walk east, once I cross the Rhine on the edge of Strasbourg I’m in Germany and in Kehl.
Once I got cold enough and hungry enough and my feet wanted a break, I went back to the restaurant I’d picked out for dinner. I was excited because for once there was something on the ‘local specialities’ list that was vegetarian and that I could actually eat. The onion tart with salad was uh-may-zing. Incredible (incroyable). Marvellous (merveilleuse). It was the best thing I’ve eaten since I came to France. I think my tastebuds are going to go on strike for the next few days (how very French of them) since nothing else will live up to that for a long time. I rate it right up there with true Turkish kebabs from Turkey and..well…not much else rates that high, actually. Oh, tiramisu in Bergamo, Italy, of course, and probably Gijonesa cake in Gijón, Spain. But yeah, just beautiful. I nearly asked for the recipe, but there’s no way in the world I’d be able to replicate THAT.
