Strasbourg, Capitale de Noël

We have been warned that we would return home from our long weekend with a lot of Christmas tchochkes we don't need. With that in mind, we are pretty pleased when it turns out that all we come home with is (and, yes, of course this is "sung to the tune of..."):

12(hundred) photos
11-inch wreath
10 art projects
9 glass tree balls
(8 of them unbroken)
7 other ornaments
6 German beers
5 cups of Alsace wine [a.k.a. 1 bottle]
4 wood shapes to paint
3 figurines
2 ceramic houses
and a partridge for our Chistmas tree.

The town proclaims itself the "Capitale de Noël." While it is unclear whether it is the Christmas capital of Alsace, of France, of Europe, or of the world, what is clear is that the title is well deserved at some level. At one point P remarks,

(note from P, age 6, grade 1, called CP here):

strasbor is mor decretid then paris and paris is mor decretid then san fransisco!  so
by the transotiv proprte of inecwolates, strasbor is more decretid than san fransisco!]

[Ed translation: "Strasbourg is even more decorated than Paris and Paris is more

decorated than San Francisco! So, by the Transitive Property of Inequalities,

Strasbourg is more decorated than San Francisco!" Ha, ha! Just threw that last

 bit in to see if you were paying attention. She's not that precocious. What she

actually says is "by transitive logic..."]

 



 

There are markets everywhere, most of them selling Christmas decorations, treats, or things-one-gives-as-gifts-that-may-or-may-not-say "Strasbourg" in red glitter.  We give the girls 10€ each for a shopping spree (ironically, we call this their Hanukah present...), and they choose a few ornaments and little ceramic houses as souvenirs of the town. As you can see from the photos, the houses do, indeed, look just like the town.  The main difference between these old colombage house (the wood-beam and plaster style) and the ones we saw in Normandy is that many of them in Strasbourg are colored.

 

The city has put up the best children's village I've ever seen at any festival, with craft projects that rotate from day to day and an assortment of two-person strategy games that are new to us, such as sortilege, assaut, moulin, and alquerque.

 

Naturally, this is the girls' favorite area of the whole city and festival. What I love most about it -- and find to be culturally fascinating -- is that not one of the art projects or games has anything to do with Christmas. You know with 100% certainty that if this were in the US, the children would be making ornaments or decorating gingerbread men and every item would be in the silhouette of candy canes, bells, reindeer, Santa Claus, gift boxes, Christmas trees, candles, snowflakes, snowmen and of course the P.C. obligatory menorah, Jewish star and Kwanzah candelabra. Instead, the girls made silhouettes of dragons and unicorns. They made Mardi Gras masks. The face painting station went with unicorns, monsters, and fairies. There was print-making where they combined animal heads with different bodies. At a sewing station you could make up your own creatures. And G went to a station for older kids where she was instructed to make a stamp of a monster (she went multi-armed alien) using very use sharp tools.

There was hail and the tiniest bit of snow, hot chocolate, and a lot of Christmas spirit. And just a two-hour TGV ride back to paris. A wonderful winter weekend.

Borderline Menu

We have come to Strasbourg for a long weekend, determined to get ourselves in a real holiday mood with whatever this French city on the German border has to offer: cold weather, festive decorations, charming architecture. I have been told -- by a Frenchwoman no less -- to make sure to try Strasbourg's delicious foods, which are Germanic, but improved by being Frenchified and more refined. That is like saying Arnold Schwarzenagger would be a great ballerina if only you put him in a tutu. So let's call a spade a spade: it's German food.

The jarret de porc, or pork knuckles, are my "best" local meal in Strasbourg. We try the flamenkuche -- known here also as tarte flambée, and in English as flatbreads with cream and toppings. There is no other way to describe this other than to say that it is Germanic pizza, and that there is a reason there's no such thing as a German pizza parlor in the U.S.. You know that expression that even bad pizza is good pizza?  Well, when even 6 and 8 year-old American children refuse to order it any more, you know that, in fact, this pizza is so bad, it's bad. Anthony tries the choucroute with its many boiled pink sausage meats on top. This means sauerkraut, and it is fine and tangy -- at least you would expect them to get that right here -- but the boiled meats are (avert your eyes, bad pun coming) the wurst. 

[Ed. note: Anthony just read this and told me he liked the meats that came with the sauerkraut. But he just doesn't have good taste. Except in women.]

On the streets, the pretzels are soft, but served cold and without mustard (Why? What did I ever do to you, Strasbourg?!). There are at least twenty varieties of bredele, cute button-sized Christmas cookies in a variety of shapes. The stars taste just like the crescents which taste just like the bells which taste just like airplane food cookies. The only exception is the bredele we find that is flavored with geranium, which tastes -- according to Anthony -- like dishwashing liquid. I almost liked that one: At least it had flavor.

Ironically, never in my life have I been someplace where it is so hard to get a table in a restaurant. We are turned down from nearly ten restaurants over the course of an hour wandering around town on a Sunday night, no less.

I do like the roasted chestnuts being sold around town from train-shaped stands: hot, slightly burned, and great hand-warmers in their paper bags. The biggest hit, for myself and Anthony at least, however, is the glühwein -- hot mulled wine -- along with the utter lack of open container laws. The entire town is walking along blissfully warming themselves up with hot spiced wine. So much of the alcohol has burned off that even I am capable of downing a whole coffee-to-go-sized cup of it. Both red and white. Perfect for the winter weather. When indoors and not presented with glühwein, Anthony makes do quite happily with a big almost-Germanic beer. No complaints there.

Go to Strasbourg for the Christmas markets. Go to Strasbourg for the colorful buildings. Go to Strasbourg for the cobbled streets and storybook lanes. But Gott in Himmel, just don't go for the food.

Fellini Feline Felony

Weeks ago, we put tonight on the calendar for the Ubisoft company holiday party. Anthony and I worked closely with his HR department who has a wonderful service where, working through an agency, they find and largely subsidize vetted babysitters for parents who have either child-care emergencies or work-related functions.

The venue is the Cirque d'Hiver, a classic, red-velvet-and-gold-trim style circus ring inaugurated by Président Napoléon III, just 9 days after Prince Louis-Napoléon (nephew of Napoléon Bonaparte) took on the office and title of first elected president of the republic in 1852. As a creative company, Ubisoft throws very colorful, costume bashes, and this year in Paris, the theme is "Dompteur ou Dompté?," which means "Tamer? Or Tamed?" The invitation was delivered to us with two pins which are supposed to serve as admissions tickets: one with a picture of a top hat and the other of a lion's muzzle.

Anthony goes as the tamer, and I go as the lion. No, this is not a commentary on our relationship, so don't get up in arms. I mean, if you just happened to have in your house, and in your size, a leopard-spotted fur cape (not natural, naturally), what would you do? Plus, Anthony's the one with the tuxedo jacket. So now I've dressed up as a lion/tiger/leapord and have found long gloves and nylons from a local costume shop that may be more cheetah/jaguar/panther, and Anthony has his costume-shop whip attached to his belt.

The invitation says "les duos les mieux assortis seront récompensés." This means that "the duos in the best costumes will win prizes." While we don't actually expect to win, we figure we'll give it the old college try -- in this case literally, since I am wearing tiger ears from a Princeton University reunion (either my 20th, or Anthony's).

One of the first people we run into there that Anthony knows is Serge, who Anthony later tells me is the CCO (Chief Creative Officer). He recognizes me from the incredible circus-themed Ubisoft children's party held last week. There the kids had circus activities to try, video games (of course...), individually selected gifts, treats galore, free popcorn and cotton candy and crepe stands, art projects, and a visit from Santa and Raving Rabbid (it is Ubisoft, after all). It was held in the Cabaret Sauvage in Parc de la Villette, a venue built just in 1997 but made classically lavish and old-looking in that same red-velvet-and-gold-trim style.

 

  

  

Standing next to Serge is Emmeline, the CIO, and Anthony's ultimate boss. Both are very friendly and chatty, and Serge asks me where I work in the company. "Oh, no -- I'm a writer! I work at home. I take care of the kids. I'm just the wife! Anthony's the one who works at Ubisoft." We are speaking in French, but that's the gist of it.

About half an hour later, another colleague of Anthony's is chatting with us when she mentions that spouses are not invited to the party. At first we assume she is teasing us, but then slowly it dawns on us that she is serious and also that we have not met anybody else's husbands or wives.

Does the fact that it's forbidden fruit make it that much sweeter? Well, not more delicious than the passion fruit-white chocolate tartelette, my favorite of the finger foods. But mostly we are just baffled: In San Francisco, where the office is admittedly much, much smaller (about 250 total versus 1000 or so here in the various regional offices), the spouses/partners are always invited. And there are two buttons on the invitation, which clearly states that the best-costumed "duos" will win prizes. His HR department even knew we were getting a sitter for the event. Yes, the invitation also says "Cette invitation est strictement personnelle," which means "This invitation is strictly for employees," but even that never clued us in that spouses are not invited. To us, it simply meant that the party isn't open to the general public.

The main circus ring is turned into a dance floor, and the DJ plays a wide variety of songs. At one point, a French song comes on that Anthony and I find atrocious. Impossible to dance to, very late '80s or early '90s, just as buggle-gum-poppy as can be. But then we look around and realize that virtually all of the dancers on the floor -- nearly all French men and women -- are not just dancing enthusiastically but in sychronized choreography. Imagine everybody doing "Thriller" moves when Michael Jackson's song is played. It must have been the choreography from a video of a song that was popular when they were teenagers, and it is a cultural reference point they all share. They are on the inside of the ring throwing their hands up in unison, and Anthony and I are slinking out of the inner circle like, well, a couple of cats.

So it is now clearer than ever that I may speak the language, but that doesn't always mean I understand what's going on. There are some cultural gaps that no amount of bilingualism will bridge. On the plus side, at least we already know who will babysit the kids for next year's holiday party...me.

Have a Prickly, Painful Christmas

We find our Christmas tree at a florist on Rue Monge, in the 5th arrondissement, on our way from school to dance class. The saleslady discusses the merits of the various species -- both new to me: Nordmann fir which stays green and doesn't shed even though it's been chopped at the trunk and nailed to a half-log, or Epicéa which will perfume the apartment with that pine smell but will shed unless watered. It does come with some of its roots in a pot, so watering seems easy enough, and besides, we all agree, Christmas is only two weeks away. No matter which we choose, our tree will be green for the big day.

The trees come in ranges, ours in the 1.75-2m range. Both species -- and all Christmas trees anywhere in Paris -- are bunched down at the bottom, with a single long branch sticking up at the top for the measurement. It's cheating of course, like counting the radio tower on top of the Empire State Building for its total height. The Epicéa seem to be fuller to a higher point on the tree, which is nice for our high ceilings. And the lady tells me they are fatter, bunchier, and have fewer bald spots than the Nordmanns. We can't gauge that for ourselves because the trees are all bundled up in netting, however. Weighing the pros and cons, we opt for the Epicéa.

The tree, with delivery straight to our apartment, is about 60€, or $80-90, which is not bad at all. What is bad is the tree itself. It looks beautiful (if a little tilted), but the problem is that it is so prickly, it is virtually impossibly to handle. It's hard to even put the ornaments on. This is the pine that lets you know why the leaves are called "needles." Watering it turns out to be like trying to pet a porcupine.

Next year, we go Nordmann. In the meantime, our apartment smells Christmassy, and it looks good. I'm just dreading having to haul it outside when Christmas is over.

Les Arches Dorées (The Golden Arches, That Is)

G and I both started laughing at the same time when we saw this: the Metro "M" right next to the McDonald's "M". This photo is the perfect introduction to my first-ever guest blog, by my San Francisco friend Cindy, with whom we went to Versailles, talking about her trip with husband and daughter in France.

"The most challenging meal we had was at…..McDonald’s. Had to try it. Went to the one in Tours near a mall. Arrived just as a movie let out, so it was packed. They had a strange self-serve order system that we couldn’t conquer, and after many fruitless attempts, an English speaking employee was dispatched to help the poor tourists. Apparently, international credit cards do not work on the system, and one must use a different machine tucked away in the corner. Then, there is fairly complicated seat selection that you do electronically. It’s a hamburger, not an airline seat!"

This Stove Goes to 11

It may be said that a watched pot never boils, but it certainly shouldn't be said in Paris. At least not when you have a shiny new induction stove.  I can turn on the water and -- literally -- as I stand there looking down to confirm that I've turned on the correct burner, it will start steaming, then bubbling, then rolling at a full boil. In fact, it happens so quickly, I've had to alter my rhythm in the kitchen. In the States, I might heat my pan for a minute or so while I go pull out my oil and spices; let the oil heat in the pan while I chop the onion; throw in the onion while I chop the garlic, and so on, slowling building up to the chicken. But now I understand why all culinary instructors are so crazy about the system of "mise en place" -- dishes with everything chopped, measured, and ready. It is because when I turn my back, even for what seems like just seconds to ready my next ingredient, whatever is in the pan has started smoking, and I find myself standing there with a burnt pan and a smelly kitchen.

There is the matter of how the heat levels are labeled. Our stove is, of course, in celsius. Ҫa c'est normal, as the French would say: That's as it should be. We are after all in a metric country. But what of the icons? We have had to go online and print out a rough translation for ourselves of what all the symbols mean and, even then, our comprehension is still hazy. To the best of our knowledge, if you follow all the icons carefully, you will either be cooking a loaf of bread with steam heat and convection fan, or you will be doing the Hokey Pokey.

symbols from: http://www.appliancesonline.co.uk/advice/washing-machines/buying-guide/what-clothes-care-options-should-you%20look-for.aspx

For the induction stove-top, besides altering the choreography of how I cook, I must also learn a whole new labeling system: neither Imperial, nor Metric. At our previous temporary rental, the induction stove went all the way up to 11. It was just like in the movie Spinal Tap. Why not just make 10 stronger and call the hottest setting 10? Well, because this stove goes to eleven!

At our current more permanent apartment, we are the proud renters of a brand-new Neff induction stove, installed our first month here when the old one died. It has a system of levels that goes up to 16, except that it also has a Booster setting, which makes all levels work even faster, if this is at all possible; I am not exaggerating when I say I can cook, reheat, and boil more rapidly on the induction stovetop than in the microwave. Virtually the only reason to microwave anything is if I am too lazy to get out a pot or pan. So 8, which is considered medium, is already quite hot. When you put it on Booster setting, it is blindingly hot. But is that equivalent of 12? or 16? If so, why not just put it on 12 or 16? I don't know the answer and, to be honest, I'm afraid to try. I have not completely retrained myself and do, occasionally, still wander off mid-cooking to unload the dishes or put away my shoes or check my e-mail. There is nothing I need to cook that instantaneously. Plus, blackened pots and pans are expensive to replace here. In the time it takes me to snap this photo, the water has already come to a full boil.

The induction stove is so powerful and efficient (and sleek, and works well in small kitchens) that I couldn't figure out why I had never heard of one in the United States. Until I read the (very minimal, but at least multilingual) instructions that came with the induction stove. They contain a warning that people with pacemakers should not stand too close, since it works on some magnetic principal that apparently would interfere. If you are curious enough to research this phenomenon and find out that, health-wise, this is the equivalent of me sunbathing naked inside a nuclear plant or something like that, please don't tell me. I still have to go make dinner.

Boobs A-Flappin'

If Anthony was a little embarassed by what I said in Beware the Typos, I can only imagine what he's going to feel about a posting titled Boobs A-Flappin'. But that's the price you pay when you marry a writer.

My friend Megan is in town from San Francisco, somebody I just started to get to know last year, before we moved. She has heard of the Hammam (Middle Eastern style baths and spa) at La Mosquée de Paris, the Paris Mosque, in the 5e arrondissement and wants to give it a try. We meet there this morning -- on a day open only to women -- to relax and rejuvenate.

The building is lovely (with the Moorish arches I fantasize about having around the courtyard in an immense Spanish-style villa in the heart of San Francsisco), and the price is right: 48€ (~$65) for unlimited use of the baths and hot rooms, a body scrub, 20 minute massage, black soap, and mint tea.

 

I am told to bring a bathing suit bottom, so I bring my sporty board shorts once I realize I don't have a traditional bikini. I have an extra one-piece suit that I bring for Megan, since she didn't think to bring one to Paris. We are given a little plastic cup with a packet of liquid soap, which is exactly the color and texture of phlegm (so why is it called "black soap"?) to be used in the pre-shower.

The main room is hot, with marble lined alcoves in which to sit and relax. It seems like it would have felt really elegant 70 years ago, or perhaps the last time they gave it a thorough scrubbing (these may be one and the same). There is a faucet with cold water, and Megan and I find ourselves gradually pouring more and more of it onto ourselves, as we talk about life, San Francisco, Paris, friends, children, parenting, shared experiences, unique experiences, exposed breasts, and all the things that help you get to know a relatively new friend better. There is another client at the hammam, probably in her mid-fifties, who walks back and forth a great deal. She is quite thin, with globe-shaped, enormous breasts that stick straight out from her chest as if a child had drawn her body and glued on two grapefruits. Actually, of course, it is a surgeon who has glued on two grapefruit-shaped silicone implants. False or not, they just beg to be honked. Never in my life have I had such an urge to reach out and squeeze another woman's breasts. Honk! Honk, honk!

The next room is much, much hotter -- in the actual sense, not euphamistically. There is a thick layer of fog hovering a few inches over the cold-tub (which looks exactly like a hot-tub, but is just the opposite). Even I am not short enough to bend myself over or submerge myself low enough to breath in the non-steamy few inches of air above the water, though I contort myself for a few seconds trying. I have never done well in any sort of sauna or steam-room, and breathing in this ultra-hot fog makes me feel like I will die about 40 years too early, so I run out of the room, boobs a-flappin'.

After this, we wait our turn for gommage, a body scrubbing with a rough mitt worn by an even rougher lady. She is mannish, sweaty, and about as unfriendly as they come. The woman before me is obese, with great flaps and folds all over her body, and her gommage takes about 40 minutes. After, the gommage lady hoses off the table, pulls out a different -- but still used -- mitt from a bucket and hoses that down, then orders me up on the plastic table, first face down, then face up. She only scrubs me for about 8 minutes, but we calculate that if you go by surface area, that's probably equivalent.

While I am on the table, Megan learns she can go out and buy her own, new and unused mitt for the exfoliation. It is too late for me, however, and I am wondering what kind of horrible skin disease I will contract through this unbelievably unsanitary sharing of tables and mitts. When I say "wondering," I don't actually want to know. If you know, please keep it to yourself and let me hope for the best. It's bad enough that Megan happened to be telling me a story just yesterday about when she was in a hospital in Japan in the early '90s and watched a nurse rinse hypodermic needles under warm water in order to re-use them. Luckily, she was there for a bum knee and managed to avoid getting any shots. Will I be so lucky? Only time will tell.

By the time the battle ax is done with me, I look like I have been sprinkled with gray confetti of dead skin. So, naturally, I take another shower. Once Megan is done, we head out to the mercifully cooler massage room, where a wonderfully cheerful Moroccan lady slathers me with lavender-scented oil and gives me a truly excellent massage in a colorful Middle East room.

Afterwards, however, Megan and I try to shower to get the oil off, but we are so thickly coated with impermeable oil that it is if we have been purposely waterproofed. Since nothing will penetrate the oil, and we have used up our black soap in the pre-shower, we are forced to get dressed oily. Later I shower at home and she showers at her hotel, and still neither of us will be able to get completely oil-free, especially where they massaged our heads through our hair.

Oily, relaxed, and possibly newly infected with some horrible skin condition, we finish off our excellent morning with a fragrant, warm chicken tagine. It is perfect for this cold, rainy day and is one of my favorite meals I've eaten since in Paris. We top it off with mint tea and a couple pastries from a huge selection of baklava-like desserts with rose-water, pistachio, almonds, and honey .

Perhaps my favorite part of the day is on our way out where I stop to read the sign by the entrance/exit. It says in English, "Our hammam lends you tap-dancing, in case of oblivion. It is all the same more pleasant to use his."

In French, it reads, "Notre hammam vous prête les claquettes, en cas d'oubli. Il est tout de même plus agréable d'utiliser les siens." The correct translation of this would be "Our hammam will loan you flip-flops, in case you forget to bring yours. It is nevertheless more pleasant to use your own." However, I much prefer their translation to mine. I feel like they've got it right. I want to be loaned tap-dancing, in case of oblivion.

I also learn that "A lot of women prefer to remain high clouds..." Here, the French reads, "Beaucoup de femmes préfèrent rester nues...." and the actual translation is "Many women prefer to remain naked..." Not me. I see this perfect morning differently.  I prefer to remain high clouds, honking a woman's fake grapefruit boobs, sipping mint tea with a new friend, and tap dancing into oblivion.