So we all know that my entire life relates to cycling (or Disney), in one way or another. This is a story of another how-on-earth-can-she-draw-cycling-into-THIS-one...but she does.
There is a beautiful image from Stage 6 of the 2011 Tour de France that shows the five riders of the breakaway against the coast of Brittany, western France, with a giant island monastery in the background. That ancient monastery is the famous Mont-Saint-Michel, and since that day it's been one of my dreams to see it. Despite all my travels I'd never found time for a trip out to Normandy, where Mont-Saint-Michel
is, so eventually I promised myself that it would be my graduation
present to myself, a special solo trip (ha! They all are!) to the far west coast to finally see the island in person. Well, God willing (inshallah, masallah, Zeus have mercy) I graduated on Tuesday. Today, I saw Mont-Saint-Michel.
It's a strange feeling, seeing something for which your expectations have been so heavily built up. It's one thing when a stranger does it, since I usually find myself disappointed (case in point: Florence). It's different when you've done it, when the anticipation that's hatching live butterflies in your stomach is all of your own initiation. You worry that it won't be everything you've expected it to be; you worry that you'll have disappointed yourself.
The first view of Mont-Saint-Michel was incredible. The fear of disappointment vanished. I was here. It took a little bit of effort - due to a lack of accommodation in the area I'm staying almost 100 kilometres away, in the city of Rennes. There are bus services from Rennes direct to Mont-Saint-Michel, but with today being a public holiday the first one wasn't until 11.30am. Instead I took the train to Dol-de-Bretagne, from where the first bus left at 10.30am. By this time I'd managed to find a friend - trust me! We'd said a polite good morning over breakfast at the hostel and were halfway to Mont-Saint-Michel before we realised we were both going there and might as well go together.
So we sat on the bus together and stared in stunned disbelief at the mountain abbey rising from the ocean before us as we crossed the causeway. It was awesome seeing it from afar, but somehow it seemed smaller close-up. Do not, however, make the mistake of reading smaller as less impressive. Have you ever stood at the side of a mountain and looked straight up? Now imagine that mountain was in the middle of the ocean and had angels and houses carved into the side. That's an approximation of the scenic and architectural beauty that is Mont-Saint-Michel, size notwithstanding.
So we began the hike up the steep, twisting streets towards the top, stopping for food on the way (waffle with Normandy toffee - sticky, HOT and yaaah-mee!) As we stood in line for the abbey looking out at the beautiful Norman-Breton scenery below the mount, another voice joined our conversation, and our group expanded again. The line moved pretty quickly, and once again I blessed my wisdom in choosing to carry my passport with the French resident visa that permits me free access to most French cultural monuments, like Mont-Saint-Michel. So there we were, an Australian, a Canadian and a Turk, residents in France, Switzerland and Germany, speaking eight different languages between us, exploring an abbey atop an island off the coast of France. Welcome to my life!
We spent maybe a couple of hours going through the abbey, which is really not that much different to any other church, abbey or religious complex that I've ever visited. What's different is the locations, the views: of the bay, the island, the other nearby islands, and coastal Normandy. I may have complained to the boys for about an hour of my desire to follow the other pilgrims walking from Mont-Saint-Michel to the other island in the bay, not far away, but the realisation that they were walking barefoot through the tidal mud soon put paid to that idea, though not the complaints... ("Ils marchent a l'ile. Je veux marcher a l'ile. Je ne peux pas marcher a l'ile. Je suis triste maintenant. JE SUIS TRISTE!") Also, the fireplaces are just ridiculous. I'm quite convinced that the wicked witch from Hansel and Gretel had them built for burning a dozen people at once (which is roughly how many each one fits!)
The weather was just byootiful, even if the wind kept threatening to steal my hat, and we wandered along the narrow, twisting, winding streets some more, looking for one of the green picnic areas we'd seen to sit down. We eventually realised that wasn't going to happen and just enjoyed the views and the architecture as we braved the tourists on our way back down. Our buses - one to Rennes, one to Caen - left around five, which is when the weather decided to turn nasty and hurl raindrops at our summerly-dressed bodies. I got a good dose of my favourite irony when we decided to skip the crowded first bus to Rennes and boarded the emptier second one, which then left before the first. Apparently patience is a virtue after all. I spent the hour-long ride home curled up on a Canadian pillow watching the beautiful Norman scenery and my book (Le Petit Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery,
if anyone was wondering) in turn. I'm pretty sure I got a tan sitting in the window seat. At any rate, I got a thoroughly satisfactory and comprehensive dose of Vitamin D today, and my crepe craving was satisfied at a long, bilingual-Disney-duet-accompanied dinner (see, everything relates to Disney, too!). And don't worry, Mum, we ate the healthy ones first (and I forgot to ask for Chantilly with desert, so that was pretty healthy too). Tomorrow, train to Nantes. Don't ask why. Spontaneous, wild nomad travelers don't need reasons. We just go.
*Blogger and the Youth Hostel Internet would like to apologise for their rottenness which prevented our wonderful authoress from uploading gloaty-gloaty photos of her marvellous exploits of today. This will be remedied on Facebook and, if Blogger and the Youth Hostel Internets co-operate, in a later blog post. Goodnight/bonne soiree!
Thursday, 9 May 2013
France Life #1: The Pet Peeve
During all my time in France, I’ve come across any number of small differences between life here and life in Australia, in all kinds of tiny ways. Some of them are useful, like the boulangeries or the comprehensive train network. Others are irritating, like the bureaucracy, or the doggie souvenirs all over the footpaths. One, however, exasperates me to the point of insanity (which is maybe taking my annoyance insanely far) and has become my absolute pet peeve – fare evaders.
We have fare evaders in Australia, too, but it’s much easier and much more impersonal. Many train stations in Australia don’t have any kind of ticket gates or barriers, so those who wish can just walk straight onto the train. In France, however, every station has a ticket gate, and sometimes in the bigger stations like Chatelet-Les Halles there are ticket barriers between the RER and the metro areas, even though they’re each validated-ticket areas themselves. The metro stations have barriers, too, but the key difference lies in the type of barriers. This is where things get interesting.
The metro stations have three-armed turnstiles with a small door after them, designed to be difficult to open from mid-air if you’re trying to jump or climb over the turnstile. It is, however, possible – I’ve seen it done many times by people jumping the turnstiles to get into the metro. It’s wrong, but at least I don’t have to worry about it, I’m not involved in any way, and I can just let them get caught by the bevy of inspectors frequently hanging around Censier-Daubenton metro station.
In the RER stations, however, they have automatic metal gates taller than a person, which slide open at the insertion of a valid ticket and remain open just long enough for one person to walk through. I walk up, touch my transport pass and walk through while the next guy touches his pass to keep the gate open and follows me through. Easy. Unfortunately, these gates AREN’T easy for the fare evaders. Unlike the metro ones, where you can swing your legs over the waist-high turnstile with relative discretion, the gates are too close to slip between and too tall to scale without climbing onto the ticket-checking machine and literally stepping over the top – which is sort of noticeable for any public transport officials who may be nearby (which is not to say I haven’t seen it done – and with a bicycle nonetheless).
Instead, the Evil Fare Evaders at RER stations have come up with a new way to avoid buying a ticket – use someone else’s. They hang around the entrance barriers at the RER station – the outdoor entrance at the suburban stations – and wait for a person with a ticket to come along. Once they’ve walked into the barrier stall to scan their ticket, the EFE walks up behind them and blockades them into the stall like a racehorse. When the barrier opens and the person walks through, the EFE puts their hands across the gate slots to prevent them from closing again and follows the other person through, letting the gates shut behind them.
This irritates the hell out of me.
It’s happened to me more than once. When I approach the station there’s usually once or two guys (it’s always men, never ever seen a woman do it), older (30s+), and though I hate to racially profile they’re often Indian or black, who are just standing around paying a little too much attention to anyone who approaches the ticket barriers and is carrying or pulling out a ticket. Once you’ve walked into a stall, you’re fair game, and with them standing behind you, you can’t exactly just back out. Instead I usually stop just short of the barriers and pretend to rifle around in my bag for my wallet until someone else lets them through, or if they corner me in the stalls then I use my transport pass’s temperamental nature to my advantage and pretend to be stuck.
But for me, the worst part is that they EXPECT it. They believe it’s their right to be let through the barriers by someone else, even though you’re paying for the service and they’re not. If you refuse to go along with it and let them scrounge off your hard-paid public transport access, then you become the bad guy. Recently, pissed at the situation and not wanting to give anyone a literal free ride, I tried waving through a guy who was trying to follow me into the barriers (“No, you go. “No, please.” “No, go right ahead.”) He got sick of it pretty quickly and instead followed another hapless victim who walked up at the same time, but he took the time to turn and give me the finger as he walked through. He then waited for me to pass through the barriers before turning and giving me an earful – all for not letting him pass through the paying ticket barriers for free on my own personal public transport pass (which I do pay for, by the way).
How do they get so entitled? I mean, a fare evader in Australia is at least honest about the fact that they’re being dishonest. They never drag anyone else into their schemes and just do it themselves. If they can’t get around the rules themselves, they don’t fare evade. But here, people expect you to help them dodge the law and to pay for their ticket. It’s their RIGHT, and if you infringe upon it by insisting that they, oh, I dunno, pay for their own ticket, suddenly everything’s your fault and you’re the one who’s broken the social code. It makes me SO MAD. Cheating is one thing, but unwillingly roping innocent bystanders into helping you cheat is just a new form of low. And they don’t even seem to notice that there’s anything wrong with it.
We have fare evaders in Australia, too, but it’s much easier and much more impersonal. Many train stations in Australia don’t have any kind of ticket gates or barriers, so those who wish can just walk straight onto the train. In France, however, every station has a ticket gate, and sometimes in the bigger stations like Chatelet-Les Halles there are ticket barriers between the RER and the metro areas, even though they’re each validated-ticket areas themselves. The metro stations have barriers, too, but the key difference lies in the type of barriers. This is where things get interesting.
The metro stations have three-armed turnstiles with a small door after them, designed to be difficult to open from mid-air if you’re trying to jump or climb over the turnstile. It is, however, possible – I’ve seen it done many times by people jumping the turnstiles to get into the metro. It’s wrong, but at least I don’t have to worry about it, I’m not involved in any way, and I can just let them get caught by the bevy of inspectors frequently hanging around Censier-Daubenton metro station.
In the RER stations, however, they have automatic metal gates taller than a person, which slide open at the insertion of a valid ticket and remain open just long enough for one person to walk through. I walk up, touch my transport pass and walk through while the next guy touches his pass to keep the gate open and follows me through. Easy. Unfortunately, these gates AREN’T easy for the fare evaders. Unlike the metro ones, where you can swing your legs over the waist-high turnstile with relative discretion, the gates are too close to slip between and too tall to scale without climbing onto the ticket-checking machine and literally stepping over the top – which is sort of noticeable for any public transport officials who may be nearby (which is not to say I haven’t seen it done – and with a bicycle nonetheless).
Instead, the Evil Fare Evaders at RER stations have come up with a new way to avoid buying a ticket – use someone else’s. They hang around the entrance barriers at the RER station – the outdoor entrance at the suburban stations – and wait for a person with a ticket to come along. Once they’ve walked into the barrier stall to scan their ticket, the EFE walks up behind them and blockades them into the stall like a racehorse. When the barrier opens and the person walks through, the EFE puts their hands across the gate slots to prevent them from closing again and follows the other person through, letting the gates shut behind them.
This irritates the hell out of me.
It’s happened to me more than once. When I approach the station there’s usually once or two guys (it’s always men, never ever seen a woman do it), older (30s+), and though I hate to racially profile they’re often Indian or black, who are just standing around paying a little too much attention to anyone who approaches the ticket barriers and is carrying or pulling out a ticket. Once you’ve walked into a stall, you’re fair game, and with them standing behind you, you can’t exactly just back out. Instead I usually stop just short of the barriers and pretend to rifle around in my bag for my wallet until someone else lets them through, or if they corner me in the stalls then I use my transport pass’s temperamental nature to my advantage and pretend to be stuck.
But for me, the worst part is that they EXPECT it. They believe it’s their right to be let through the barriers by someone else, even though you’re paying for the service and they’re not. If you refuse to go along with it and let them scrounge off your hard-paid public transport access, then you become the bad guy. Recently, pissed at the situation and not wanting to give anyone a literal free ride, I tried waving through a guy who was trying to follow me into the barriers (“No, you go. “No, please.” “No, go right ahead.”) He got sick of it pretty quickly and instead followed another hapless victim who walked up at the same time, but he took the time to turn and give me the finger as he walked through. He then waited for me to pass through the barriers before turning and giving me an earful – all for not letting him pass through the paying ticket barriers for free on my own personal public transport pass (which I do pay for, by the way).
How do they get so entitled? I mean, a fare evader in Australia is at least honest about the fact that they’re being dishonest. They never drag anyone else into their schemes and just do it themselves. If they can’t get around the rules themselves, they don’t fare evade. But here, people expect you to help them dodge the law and to pay for their ticket. It’s their RIGHT, and if you infringe upon it by insisting that they, oh, I dunno, pay for their own ticket, suddenly everything’s your fault and you’re the one who’s broken the social code. It makes me SO MAD. Cheating is one thing, but unwillingly roping innocent bystanders into helping you cheat is just a new form of low. And they don’t even seem to notice that there’s anything wrong with it.
Monday, 29 April 2013
La Bella Italia Ancora
So I'm back in Italy for the week. Unfortunately, since I have three exams next week and a research project due, I'm spending most of my free time studying even though it's spring break at Sorbonne. So, you know, no exciting blog posts with pretty photos. Instead I suggest you read With My Swag All On My Shoulder, the detailed account of my mother on her jaunt through Europe. Yes, Mum and Dad are here with me (in fact, that's why I came at all!) So, you know, bombard Mum with comments (no, seriously, do. It'll be hilarious since she's largely Internet-illiterate and setting up the blog alone was almost beyond her. Comments will be so far outside her comfort zone that it actually WILL be funny. Until I have to come in and save her, of course).
Anyway, might post some pics and thoughts once I'm back in France and exams are over. No promises that the language will be English, though - you should just HEAR my Italian now!
Anyway, might post some pics and thoughts once I'm back in France and exams are over. No promises that the language will be English, though - you should just HEAR my Italian now!
Monday, 25 March 2013
Living The Glamourous Life
So I've been really slack in posting lately, and I do apologise. My life is crazy. Apparently moving to another continent hasn't changed a thing. Between uni and work I barely even have a social life anymore! And my exchange has become fairly humdrum, anyway. All the things that were weird and notable and exciting when I got here are just regular old Paris now. Either way, I offer a series of random stories, thoughts and updates from the past little while.
I got my first piece of homework back from one of my literature classes today. It was the devoir sur table (in-class written assessment) from my Literature and Opera class. I've been worried since I've been doing all my assessments as commentaire composes, since that's all I know, but I'm still not sure I'm doing them right, and I warned the teacher about it. I was worrying for nothing. I got a 15/20 for it, which is supposed to be really good in a French uni, and her main criticism was that my spectrum of inquiry was too broad, so I didn't have time or room to go into detail on any points, but what I'd written was good. There was a bunch of grammatical mistakes and miswrites (typos by hand!) but there were no 'construction' problems and she marked a few areas as 'good', and when she talked about the themes of the extracts and what we should have covered (as a general idea), she even gave the title of my devoir as an example of a good one-sentence analysis and theme for the commentaire. I was amazed! Hopefully I'll get another assigment back tomorrow, but after this first mark I'm feeling pretty optomistic about this semester.
I've been freaking out my European friends with the amount of travelling I do. I spent this weekend in Belgium - went up Thursday night and returned last night, Sunday. E3-Harelbeke was on Friday and Gent-Wevelgem was on Sunday, both major cycling races, and both Harelbeke and Wevelgem are a short distance from Kortrijk in Belgium which is just over the border from Lille and Roubaix. While I was there I spent a bit of time in Gent and its suburbs, lots of transfers through Kortrijk and an afternoon in Brugge. In other words, I'm now really well acquainted with the West Flanders region of Belgium. Feel free to check out Peloton Cafe for my E3-Harelbeke and Gent-Wevelgem pieces and my profile-feature on Mitch Docker, Australian Orica-GreenEDGE cyclist.
Attached is the beginning of an unfinished post from a few weeks ago about a class trip...
I also made some friends on this trip. I finally talked to some of the French girls in my Lit and Opera class, which is handy, because two of them are in my Medieval Language class directly after Lit and Opera on Mondays. Up til now I've been too shy and unsure of my French to talk to the native French students, so I was pretty proud of myself. I've also made a couple of friends in my Morphosyntaxe class - we've been teamed up for an oral presentation next week, but I like them alright. My linguistics classes this semester are great - Medieval to Classical Language and Morphosyntaxe are really engaging and interesting. Even Lit and Opera and Divine Love Lit classes are pretty good, since I've mostly enjoyed the texts we've studied. It's Thursdays that are a bit trying, but there's only five more weeks of class left, so I'll survive (five weeks! Holy moly! Where did the semester go?) And then after that I apply to graduate and I enter the big wide adult world! Scary thought.
In my quest for the best hot chocolate in Paris, last weekend I went to a teahouse called Angelina's that a friend recommended to me to test his assertion that they have the best hot chocolates. I've never been to a cafe that has a queue before, that was an interesting experience. Unsurprisingly the hot chocolate was rather disappointing - it was Spanish-style, not French-style, and the Spaniards don't know how to do hot chocolate. The place was worth it for the experience though, I'd recommend it.
I think that's all for now. I might post some photos at some point if I get around to it. In the meantime I need to eat dinner and then finish ghost-writing Tiffany Cromwell's blog. Ah, the glamorous life of the professional journalist...not.
I got my first piece of homework back from one of my literature classes today. It was the devoir sur table (in-class written assessment) from my Literature and Opera class. I've been worried since I've been doing all my assessments as commentaire composes, since that's all I know, but I'm still not sure I'm doing them right, and I warned the teacher about it. I was worrying for nothing. I got a 15/20 for it, which is supposed to be really good in a French uni, and her main criticism was that my spectrum of inquiry was too broad, so I didn't have time or room to go into detail on any points, but what I'd written was good. There was a bunch of grammatical mistakes and miswrites (typos by hand!) but there were no 'construction' problems and she marked a few areas as 'good', and when she talked about the themes of the extracts and what we should have covered (as a general idea), she even gave the title of my devoir as an example of a good one-sentence analysis and theme for the commentaire. I was amazed! Hopefully I'll get another assigment back tomorrow, but after this first mark I'm feeling pretty optomistic about this semester.
I've been freaking out my European friends with the amount of travelling I do. I spent this weekend in Belgium - went up Thursday night and returned last night, Sunday. E3-Harelbeke was on Friday and Gent-Wevelgem was on Sunday, both major cycling races, and both Harelbeke and Wevelgem are a short distance from Kortrijk in Belgium which is just over the border from Lille and Roubaix. While I was there I spent a bit of time in Gent and its suburbs, lots of transfers through Kortrijk and an afternoon in Brugge. In other words, I'm now really well acquainted with the West Flanders region of Belgium. Feel free to check out Peloton Cafe for my E3-Harelbeke and Gent-Wevelgem pieces and my profile-feature on Mitch Docker, Australian Orica-GreenEDGE cyclist.
Attached is the beginning of an unfinished post from a few weeks ago about a class trip...
I'm not quite as over-the-top with it as I am with my Disney obsession, but I'm absolutely mad for Andrew Lloyd Webber's The Phantom of the Opera (though we prefer the term 'phanatics'). I love it so much that the first time I saw an English version of the French novel it was based on (in my university bookshop, of all places) I bought and read it straight away. In fact, the first thing that caught my attention on my first trip to Paris was the Opera Garnier, or Old Paris Opera House. The Opera Garnier was the model for the Opera Populaire in the Phantom of the Opera film, so as soon as I saw it I realised I was in the Phantom city (not to mention the city of many other things that are educated and cultural and have nothing to do with tourist stuff). Anyway, you get the point.
I put my name down a few months back to go to a rehearsal of the opera Cenerentola at the Opera Bastille with my Literature and Opera class. We're studying Cenerentola this semester, since it was developed from the story Cendrillon by French writer Charles Perrault (which later became the Disney movie Cinderella - what, everything relates to Disney!), so I thought it would be good to choose that opera to see, plus the Opera Bastille, I mean, pretty cool, right? So you can imagine the kind of excited sounds I made when I realised there'd been a venue change and we were going to the Opera Garnier. Performer's entrance. Exclusive entry. The whole kit and caboodle. Whoa, dude.
I also made some friends on this trip. I finally talked to some of the French girls in my Lit and Opera class, which is handy, because two of them are in my Medieval Language class directly after Lit and Opera on Mondays. Up til now I've been too shy and unsure of my French to talk to the native French students, so I was pretty proud of myself. I've also made a couple of friends in my Morphosyntaxe class - we've been teamed up for an oral presentation next week, but I like them alright. My linguistics classes this semester are great - Medieval to Classical Language and Morphosyntaxe are really engaging and interesting. Even Lit and Opera and Divine Love Lit classes are pretty good, since I've mostly enjoyed the texts we've studied. It's Thursdays that are a bit trying, but there's only five more weeks of class left, so I'll survive (five weeks! Holy moly! Where did the semester go?) And then after that I apply to graduate and I enter the big wide adult world! Scary thought.
In my quest for the best hot chocolate in Paris, last weekend I went to a teahouse called Angelina's that a friend recommended to me to test his assertion that they have the best hot chocolates. I've never been to a cafe that has a queue before, that was an interesting experience. Unsurprisingly the hot chocolate was rather disappointing - it was Spanish-style, not French-style, and the Spaniards don't know how to do hot chocolate. The place was worth it for the experience though, I'd recommend it.
I think that's all for now. I might post some photos at some point if I get around to it. In the meantime I need to eat dinner and then finish ghost-writing Tiffany Cromwell's blog. Ah, the glamorous life of the professional journalist...not.
Sunday, 10 March 2013
A Nice Holiday (Part II)
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| Nemours, south of Paris |
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| Isle-et-Bardais, just north of Cerilly |
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| Countryside in Cerilly |
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| Irish fan cheering on Nic Roche |
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| The bumblebee van - 10 different flags! |
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| This guy was a (French) legend |
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| The finish line at Saint-Vallier |
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| The big blue and yellow bike... |
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| ...and the schoolchildren that went with it. |
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| 1k from the finish in Saint-Vallier |
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| Looking down 1k-500m to go in Saint-Vallier |
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| The river Rhone, Saint-Vallier |
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| Looking the other way |
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| An eager fan, Saint-Vallier |
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| Montagne de Lure, south-eastern France |
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| Views from Montagne de Lure |
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| My artsy French-mountain photos |
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| The other side of the road |
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| The technical area (the commentary tribune on the right is where I hang out) |
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| Late mountain sunshine |
So I've just had the most amazing week ever following Paris-Nice. The people were amazing, both the ones I travelled with and the ones I met at the race along the way, the views were magnificent, the riders great, and the experience unforgettable. This was my first time at Paris-Nice, as a spectator or a journo, so it was twice as exciting, and I got the chance to work alongside someone from Australian cycling that I greatly admire, which was an incredible opportunity. I have to say a huge thank you to Mike Tomalaris for his advice that put me on the right track, Matt Keenan for making the arrangements and Phil Gomes and the team at SBS Cycling Central for the incredible faith they put in me to cover the race. For those who are interested, you can read all my articles for them here. Next stop: Paris-Roubaix.
Monday, 4 March 2013
A Nice Holiday (Part I)
*Ladies and gentlemen, mesdames et messieurs, a public service announcement...*
Though I am away from Paris travelling south for the next week, I likely won't be posting much as I'm working (and studying in my free time). In case the title didn't give it away, I'm following the cycling race Paris-Nice, so while there'll be some photos upon my return, in the meantime check out SBS Cycling Central to see my articles!
Though I am away from Paris travelling south for the next week, I likely won't be posting much as I'm working (and studying in my free time). In case the title didn't give it away, I'm following the cycling race Paris-Nice, so while there'll be some photos upon my return, in the meantime check out SBS Cycling Central to see my articles!
Friday, 15 February 2013
Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow!
How To Be A Quintessential Cute Australian Tourist:
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.
- 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.
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