My husband and I unexpectedly, and briefly, returned to the states for a few days last week.
The culture shock was unbelievable.
Just kidding. I did not pull a Madonna and only speak in a foreign accent and denounce all things American since I am now a tres sophisticated Europe-dweller. In fact, my English came back to me quite readily. I suspect this was the case because English is the language I primarily speak in France anyway.
However, the trip home offered some interesting juxtaposition in terms of some cultural differences that I would never have noticed prior my becoming an ex-pat. Since many people in the U.S. had questions for us, I thought I would compile a brief list here.
Disclaimer: since you all know my primary life concerns involve food, it makes sense that a few of the things I noticed involve dining. But not everything on the little list has to do with food. That said, here are some interesting things I noted:
1. The approach to service in the U.S. is vastly different from that in France, and this discrepancy is particularly apparent in restaurants. Cognitively, the disparity in serving style makes perfect sense as it boils down to that tried and true bottom line reason for most human behavior: money. What I mean is that servers, waiters, etc in the U.S. heavily rely on tips to generate their income since the hourly rate for waitressing is a couple of pay notches lower than what you might make if you cleaned hamster cages (I speak from much waitressing experience here). In France, the waiters are paid reasonable wages, and tips, while never refused, are also rarely expected. They are also always considerably lower than the 15-20% American servers expect to glean from each table.
So...waiters in France do not need to kiss your derriere to be guaranteed a paycheck. And they don't. In the U.S., we are used to waiters falling all over themselves to ensure the service is impeccable and we leave not only wanting to empty the contents of our wallets for their sake, but also contemplating including them on next year's holiday card. Our egos like this song and dance, though our bank accounts have less afffinity for it. In France, the waiter could give a toss if you like him or her. They will not shower you with affection or try to engage in small-talk. They will be accurate and somewhat efficient, and you will eat delicious food. If you need more coddling, then you will be disappointed.
2. Also on the service end, in France, it is the customer who greets the proprietor, no matter the sort of business. If you enter a place of business (a shop, a bakery, a grocery store, etc.), and you do not loudly and cheerfully say hello to anyone and everyone who is in the establishment, then your service will be decidedly grumpy and sub-par. This is a very important unspoken rule in France. In the U.S., it is the opposite case as the proprietor always first greets the customer. So it was a tad strange when I walked into our Cape Cod neighorhood deli/mini grocery store and loudly announced, "Hello, and how is everyone today!" to everyone in there. It was met with silence and it was awkward.
3. If you are a wine-by-the-glass type, which I happen to be, then you might want to note that the wine pours are wildly different. In France you receive a glass of wine, almost filled to the top of a humble, even tiny, wine glass. In the U.S., the trend seems to be to dole out large portions of wine in tumblers the size of a human head. Though the large goblet is filledto just under the half-way point, there must be approximately half a bottle of wine sloshing around in there.
In France, no one would ever offer you a second glass, even if your first was drained by the end of the entree (which means "appetizer" in French) part of the meal. They would anticipate that you would have coffee at the end of the meal, and maybe an aperatif before the meal, but having more than a single glass of wine during a meal would earn you a raised eyebrow or two. Not so in the U.S., where they hover around you as you eat and offer to refill the trough of wine when it is two-thirds down.
Of course, as noted in item #1, the U.S. waiters are looking for a hefty tip. Maybe ensuring their customers are sufficiently pickled helps their cause. It's a thought, anyway.
4. Everyone from my dental hygienist to my relatives wanted to know the answer to some version of the following question: "Are the French really mean?" I do not mean to sound rude, but this is a ridiculous question. If you think about it, can you ever say that an entire nation could be categorized in a single manner? It's like someone visiting the Playboy Mansion in Los Angelos and then asking if everyone in America has fake boobs.
So no, just as all French people are not innately stylish, neither are they all mean.
My supposition is that the confusion arises from a cultural difference in affect. Americans are smiley and friendly. The French are not smiley (of course they might have less to show off on that end as they are not as obsessed with gleaming white teeth as Americans are--here is an aspect where I am thrilled to be American, by the way). The natural manner in France is brusque, frank, and somewhat serious. There is an air of "I deserve to be first," coming from just about everyone in Paris. But it is not mean, or even selfish, it is just how everyone is because it is how everyone has been taught to be.
People do not kill you with unnecessary kindness over here, but neither do they spend all day sneering, scoffing, or spitting at foreigners. In fact, they treat foreigners the same way they treat their fellow country folk, it just feels worse to us Americans because we are used to being embraced by others in an open and friendly (albeit sometimes phony) manner. The truth is that so many people in France have been extremely kind to us. And a few have been extremely rude. Note that I could say the same for every city in which I have ever lived or visited extensively (Boston, Charleston, New York City, London, Sydney, Vail, Los Angelos, San Francisco, Chicago...you get my drift).
5. People in the U.S. chew gum in a grotesque manner. I noticed this habit a bit before, but it became glaringly obvious on this more recent trip back to the states. Being a big gum-chewer myself, I have long been conscious of not being an active, loud, or obvious chomper. People in France chew gum but it is in a more subtle, quiet manner. While I sat in Logan airport waiting to board our delayed plane, it was almost comical how many people of different ages, sizes, and looks were all chowing down on gum in a manner that suggested a cow chewing cud. Men and women, some in sweats, some in designer duds. Girls and boys, teenagers and elderly folks, all chewing gum as if their life depended on it, mouth agape and with audible sound-effects. It was really distasteful. Please consider this one the next time you pop a piece of Wrigley's; I think America lags behind here.
6. On the other hand, people in the U.S. generally have better manners. Yes phatic conversation (of the "How are you? or "Can you believe this weather?" sort) can be irritating and may be seen as "fake" but at least you feel welcome. And people in the U.S. hold open doors for the person behind or in front of them. They smile when they say hello. The men allow the women to enter or exit first. These are rituals I feel are important and civilized and they do not seem to be a big part of the French culture. Go U.S.! You are very polite, and I thank you for being so.
7. There is no doubt that the French really know their food. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. People asked me a lot about why the food is so amazing in France, and I do not have a concise or simple answer although I definitely endorse the belief. I ate well in the states, but everything seemed to have a tad too much going on. Too many different flavors, too many different sauces. When we returned to our apartment in Paris after our stateside sojourn, we were starving. As such, I popped over to the boulangerie around the corner and grabbed us a couple of baguettes with ham, cheese, and butter. My lord, the lunch was heaven. So simple yet so scrumptious. Sorry, U.S., but France has one over on us there. Big time.
So that does it for my little list. I will undoubtedly have more to add later. You might like to know that while in the U.S., my husband was appreciative of listening to people's conversations and knowing what they were saying. Well, until we were seated on the plane near a family who was traveling to Key West and who were LOUDLY discussing all kinds of riveting topics--from the need for the usage of a toilet to how close the McDonalds in the Charlotte airport would be to their departing terminal. These two topics filled about an hour and a half of air time, if you can believe it. Maybe the French are discussing equally banal and insipid things, but at least I only catch every 5th or 6th work, so I will take people gabbering on in a foreign language anyday. That said, I do NOT miss overhearing conversations I can understand, and thank you, Key West-bound family for making that crystal clear.
Although, I have to say that being in the U.S. did do something for my ego. I felt quasi-hilarious because people actually met my attempts at humor with laughter as opposed to blank and confused stares which are what I frequently ellicit over here. Maybe they were being typically "polite" or "phony" Americans, but I appreciated it nonetheless.
So the good, the bad, and the in-between. We can be sure to have it all---no matter where we live. C'est la vie.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
Cheating
I caught one of my students cheating on an exam the other day.
It was not one of those blatant crib sheet moves, where the carefuly printed answers were written on a miniscule piece of paper left behind on the classroom floor for me to discover minutes after the test concluded. You know, like in the movie School Ties. Nor did I suss out the cheater by noting large amounts of suspiciously neat cursive on the bottom of a shoe, or on the inner part of a forearm. In fact, I have no actual concrete proof that the incident occurred.
Except for the fact that I have my own two eyes. And I will tell you what those saucer-like buggers saw: a cheater.
Yet, I oddly found myself in a weird intercultural pickle with regards to what transpired. Strangely enough, even an issue with a clear "right" or "wrong" attached to it has become more complicated now due to the simple fact that I am not in America and therefore I am either confused by or else second-guessing virtually all of my interactions with the "natives."
So you already know the one big point that is dragging me down: I have no actual proof in the way of a cheat sheet, and I (stupidly?) neglected to install a surveillance camera on my classroom of 19 year-olds as they wandered in with their backpacks and pencil cases to sit for the exam. Why would I? Well, for one thing I wouldn't have been able to; technological saavy is not my forte. And for another thing, tomfoolery was not on my agenda for the day.
You know, like it usually is--somewhere between eating breakfast and eating dinner, I usually schedule a little "tomfoolery" time.
But back to the situation at hand: further sullying the case for the prosecution is that the student in question bold-faced denied the situation. I approached her not once, but twice, to tell her that if her eyes could not stay on her own paper that I would take it away and give her a zero. The second time I went up to her, I adopted an incredibly foreboding tone and added the words, in slow emphatic English: "This is your last chance."
It was pretty dramatic, actually. Not as dramatic as the rose ceremonies at the end of The Bachelor, but almost.
Just to rewind a bit: what initially raised the proverbial red flag for me as to the goings-on was actually not my mediocre observational skills. Surprise, surprise. Rather, my revelation was rooted in social dynamics. The girl/"alleged" cheater was sitting between two girls she never sits next to in class. And her two neighbors were amongst the strongest students in the class.
People in their late teens and twenties do not spend an entire semester sitting with the same friends and then, voila!, on the last day, suddenly have a new "bestie." Nope, such a scenario was not in keeping with what I have witnessed with regards to late-adolescent social behavior. So that can be considered "Point 1."
I then proceeded to watch the girl blatantly copy answers from both her neighbors. One of them, God bless her, actually moved her arm so that the little operator could no longer see her paper. The other may have been in cahoots with her, but I will give her the benefit of the doubt as she does not seem the type to cheat. But what do I know? I thought the same thing about Tiger Woods.
Anway, you may be wondering why I gave her two chances. Well here is where the intercultural monster again rears his ugly little head in the life and times of Maggie White. When I first approached her and told her she needed to keep her eyes on her own paper, she stared at me in that manner which only emanates from emboldened youth, and said something along the lines of, "What are you talking about?" This response, utterly devoid of guilt or reproach, was compounded by that air which only emanates from the French, that air that seems to say, "You are a speck of dirt on my white blouse, you are the fly that has landed in my chablis, you are the scum on the sole of my shoe."
So I became confused as my mind registered her words and expression and I felt a sudden urge to apologize for interruppting her test.
What was wrong with me? I had seen her cheat, and yet, just as when someone bumps me aggressively on the metro or when the person in the grocery store glares at me after cutting me in line, I somehow feel I need to express my regret for my non-existant shameful behavior. Seriously, what is wrong with me? Has living in France turned me into a doormat?
And then, not five minutes later, there the little prevaricator goes again! If she had stood up and mooned the room it may have been a tad more discreet than the blatant bamboozling she was pulling as she copied her neighbor's work with slow precision. I somehow managed to clear the cloud of intercultural confusion that had enveloped me and I marched back up to her.
This time, when she "Pfffft"'d me with a big old shrug and a look that said, "Your problem if you think I am cheating, but please leave me alone NOW." I told her, in all my dramatic glory that this was her "last chance."
I then let her complete the test anyway, silently cursing myself all the while for allowing this great miscarriage of justice to flourish under my inept tutelage. When she handed in the test, she gave me a cheerful "Bye!" and I was so shocked by her brazen attitude that I returned the salutation.
The moral of the situation is that if you act like you can get away with something it seems that you actually can get away with it. Temporarily, anyway. Because, I will you this: karma is not a mythical entity designed to coerce people into behaving the "right" way. It is the real deal, mes amis.
Because, as it turns out, I do not even have to correct her paper--a task I was (obviously) not looking forward to agonizing over. The fact is that her attendance record is such that she recieves an automatic zero in the class. Et voila, problem solved.
So here is the golden nugget for the day: don't cheat. Because even if you are able to manipulate your culturally confused teacher temporarily, in the end you will not win. In the meantime, I am going to work on cultivating my gumption because it seems I am suffering from a serious case of intercultural wimpiness. Wish me bonne chance!
It was not one of those blatant crib sheet moves, where the carefuly printed answers were written on a miniscule piece of paper left behind on the classroom floor for me to discover minutes after the test concluded. You know, like in the movie School Ties. Nor did I suss out the cheater by noting large amounts of suspiciously neat cursive on the bottom of a shoe, or on the inner part of a forearm. In fact, I have no actual concrete proof that the incident occurred.
Except for the fact that I have my own two eyes. And I will tell you what those saucer-like buggers saw: a cheater.
Yet, I oddly found myself in a weird intercultural pickle with regards to what transpired. Strangely enough, even an issue with a clear "right" or "wrong" attached to it has become more complicated now due to the simple fact that I am not in America and therefore I am either confused by or else second-guessing virtually all of my interactions with the "natives."
So you already know the one big point that is dragging me down: I have no actual proof in the way of a cheat sheet, and I (stupidly?) neglected to install a surveillance camera on my classroom of 19 year-olds as they wandered in with their backpacks and pencil cases to sit for the exam. Why would I? Well, for one thing I wouldn't have been able to; technological saavy is not my forte. And for another thing, tomfoolery was not on my agenda for the day.
You know, like it usually is--somewhere between eating breakfast and eating dinner, I usually schedule a little "tomfoolery" time.
But back to the situation at hand: further sullying the case for the prosecution is that the student in question bold-faced denied the situation. I approached her not once, but twice, to tell her that if her eyes could not stay on her own paper that I would take it away and give her a zero. The second time I went up to her, I adopted an incredibly foreboding tone and added the words, in slow emphatic English: "This is your last chance."
It was pretty dramatic, actually. Not as dramatic as the rose ceremonies at the end of The Bachelor, but almost.
Just to rewind a bit: what initially raised the proverbial red flag for me as to the goings-on was actually not my mediocre observational skills. Surprise, surprise. Rather, my revelation was rooted in social dynamics. The girl/"alleged" cheater was sitting between two girls she never sits next to in class. And her two neighbors were amongst the strongest students in the class.
People in their late teens and twenties do not spend an entire semester sitting with the same friends and then, voila!, on the last day, suddenly have a new "bestie." Nope, such a scenario was not in keeping with what I have witnessed with regards to late-adolescent social behavior. So that can be considered "Point 1."
I then proceeded to watch the girl blatantly copy answers from both her neighbors. One of them, God bless her, actually moved her arm so that the little operator could no longer see her paper. The other may have been in cahoots with her, but I will give her the benefit of the doubt as she does not seem the type to cheat. But what do I know? I thought the same thing about Tiger Woods.
Anway, you may be wondering why I gave her two chances. Well here is where the intercultural monster again rears his ugly little head in the life and times of Maggie White. When I first approached her and told her she needed to keep her eyes on her own paper, she stared at me in that manner which only emanates from emboldened youth, and said something along the lines of, "What are you talking about?" This response, utterly devoid of guilt or reproach, was compounded by that air which only emanates from the French, that air that seems to say, "You are a speck of dirt on my white blouse, you are the fly that has landed in my chablis, you are the scum on the sole of my shoe."
So I became confused as my mind registered her words and expression and I felt a sudden urge to apologize for interruppting her test.
What was wrong with me? I had seen her cheat, and yet, just as when someone bumps me aggressively on the metro or when the person in the grocery store glares at me after cutting me in line, I somehow feel I need to express my regret for my non-existant shameful behavior. Seriously, what is wrong with me? Has living in France turned me into a doormat?
And then, not five minutes later, there the little prevaricator goes again! If she had stood up and mooned the room it may have been a tad more discreet than the blatant bamboozling she was pulling as she copied her neighbor's work with slow precision. I somehow managed to clear the cloud of intercultural confusion that had enveloped me and I marched back up to her.
This time, when she "Pfffft"'d me with a big old shrug and a look that said, "Your problem if you think I am cheating, but please leave me alone NOW." I told her, in all my dramatic glory that this was her "last chance."
I then let her complete the test anyway, silently cursing myself all the while for allowing this great miscarriage of justice to flourish under my inept tutelage. When she handed in the test, she gave me a cheerful "Bye!" and I was so shocked by her brazen attitude that I returned the salutation.
The moral of the situation is that if you act like you can get away with something it seems that you actually can get away with it. Temporarily, anyway. Because, I will you this: karma is not a mythical entity designed to coerce people into behaving the "right" way. It is the real deal, mes amis.
Because, as it turns out, I do not even have to correct her paper--a task I was (obviously) not looking forward to agonizing over. The fact is that her attendance record is such that she recieves an automatic zero in the class. Et voila, problem solved.
So here is the golden nugget for the day: don't cheat. Because even if you are able to manipulate your culturally confused teacher temporarily, in the end you will not win. In the meantime, I am going to work on cultivating my gumption because it seems I am suffering from a serious case of intercultural wimpiness. Wish me bonne chance!
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Butt Confetti
Yesterday, a French guy purposefully dumped a bunch of cigarette butts on my head. And us Americans say the French aren't friendly.
You might think I am being paranoid by using the word "purposefully" to describe this undeserved (and unhygenic) butt confetti shower, but I assure you, I am not. As I was walking up the street on which we live, I noticed a guy who was curb-side, having a rather loud conversation with a guy who was in the window above. Obviously, the scene initially delighted me: who doesn't want to witness a public verbal spar in broad daylight?
So the window man/soon-to-be-revealed hooligan was holding an article of clothing and gesturing to curb guy. I thought maybe they were having some sort of lover's quarrel where the guy in the building was perhaps delivering some kind of "I've had it with you" diatribe and thus chucking the belongings of his former lover out his window in an indignant and dramatic spectacle. Or, you know, some similar version of the script I have lifted from a Levi's ad.
Anyway, they continued with their banter until I was just below the window and then the guy above me threw the article of clothing (it was a pair of pants, but that is really neither here nor there) to his accomplice. In the process of this exchange, a shower of about one-hundred cigs fluttered upon me, and a couple nested in my hair.
The two miscreants were thrilled with the result. I was less so. For one thing, I don't have awesome hair. Having cigarette butts in my coif makes it infinitely less appealing, and this was therefore a highly irritating turn of events given that I am working with sub-par goods to begin with.
However, now comes the reason for which I am sharing this rather tawdry tale: my reaction. It was tres francais. At least, I did not turn around with a perplexed expression and question why they were behaving so so rudely, as Maggie-in-America may have done (with a finger wag to boot). Nor did I automatically apologize, as Maggie-the-American-in-France-who-is-petrified-of-making-the-wrong-move-and-thus-giving-Americans-in-general-a-bad-name would have done. Instead, I turned to glare at both of them, scowling like they were despicable pond scum, and delivered a rather emphatic, "Pfffffft."
Oh it was dramatic, all right.
Later, my husband and I were eating in a creperie with our friend Nathaniel, who was visiting for the weekend. We all ordered our food, the boys orderd Cider, and I ordered a glass of wine. The waitress came back with the cider and said something in a really hurried and harried manner that ended with the information that it would be "five to ten minutes" before she could bring the glass of wine. This seemed reasonable, as she did appear to be really busy and whatever it was that she said en Francais eluded me. It could have been utterly viable or it could have been: "Listen, foreigners, I could give a toss about your wine, so sit tight and I will get it when I feel good and ready."
Turns out, it may have been closer to the latter. For a minute or two later, Nathaniel said, "Maggie, I think I know why she said your wine would be a few minutes."
"Oh yeah, why?"
"Because she is standing outside the door having a butt break." And sure, enough, there she is, puffing away like time has stopped.
Well, Franco-Maggie says: "pffffft" (in a slightly less scowly manner than earlier). But c'est la vie, because maybe she needed a break.
I will tell you what the moral of my weekend was though: the butts sure were not giving me a break.
You might think I am being paranoid by using the word "purposefully" to describe this undeserved (and unhygenic) butt confetti shower, but I assure you, I am not. As I was walking up the street on which we live, I noticed a guy who was curb-side, having a rather loud conversation with a guy who was in the window above. Obviously, the scene initially delighted me: who doesn't want to witness a public verbal spar in broad daylight?
So the window man/soon-to-be-revealed hooligan was holding an article of clothing and gesturing to curb guy. I thought maybe they were having some sort of lover's quarrel where the guy in the building was perhaps delivering some kind of "I've had it with you" diatribe and thus chucking the belongings of his former lover out his window in an indignant and dramatic spectacle. Or, you know, some similar version of the script I have lifted from a Levi's ad.
Anyway, they continued with their banter until I was just below the window and then the guy above me threw the article of clothing (it was a pair of pants, but that is really neither here nor there) to his accomplice. In the process of this exchange, a shower of about one-hundred cigs fluttered upon me, and a couple nested in my hair.
The two miscreants were thrilled with the result. I was less so. For one thing, I don't have awesome hair. Having cigarette butts in my coif makes it infinitely less appealing, and this was therefore a highly irritating turn of events given that I am working with sub-par goods to begin with.
However, now comes the reason for which I am sharing this rather tawdry tale: my reaction. It was tres francais. At least, I did not turn around with a perplexed expression and question why they were behaving so so rudely, as Maggie-in-America may have done (with a finger wag to boot). Nor did I automatically apologize, as Maggie-the-American-in-France-who-is-petrified-of-making-the-wrong-move-and-thus-giving-Americans-in-general-a-bad-name would have done. Instead, I turned to glare at both of them, scowling like they were despicable pond scum, and delivered a rather emphatic, "Pfffffft."
Oh it was dramatic, all right.
Later, my husband and I were eating in a creperie with our friend Nathaniel, who was visiting for the weekend. We all ordered our food, the boys orderd Cider, and I ordered a glass of wine. The waitress came back with the cider and said something in a really hurried and harried manner that ended with the information that it would be "five to ten minutes" before she could bring the glass of wine. This seemed reasonable, as she did appear to be really busy and whatever it was that she said en Francais eluded me. It could have been utterly viable or it could have been: "Listen, foreigners, I could give a toss about your wine, so sit tight and I will get it when I feel good and ready."
Turns out, it may have been closer to the latter. For a minute or two later, Nathaniel said, "Maggie, I think I know why she said your wine would be a few minutes."
"Oh yeah, why?"
"Because she is standing outside the door having a butt break." And sure, enough, there she is, puffing away like time has stopped.
Well, Franco-Maggie says: "pffffft" (in a slightly less scowly manner than earlier). But c'est la vie, because maybe she needed a break.
I will tell you what the moral of my weekend was though: the butts sure were not giving me a break.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Marche de Noel
Since arriving in Paris, we have asked numerous people to lend us their opinion on "must-do" activities we might potentially add to our ever-expanding list. The list, though actually nameless, could ostensibly be called: "Seemingly Endless List of Must-Do Activities While in Europe." Or something equally clever and imaginative.
There is no exact science as to what makes the cut and is, indeed, added to this epic list. We employ a rather non-specific formula where we tally how appealing the idea seems to be to one or both of us, the cost versus perceived value (the old ROI), the relative ease with which we could accomplish the given activity, and, of course, how cool we deem the person who told us about the notion in question to be.
Because, as a rule, I do not take advice (solicited or not) from people whom I do not believe to be tres super cool. And, frankly, nor should you.
Just kidding--what do you think I am, a hypocrite? I am hardly burgeoning with coolness over here. I blog about unruly ducks, for pete's sake.
Anyway, several "trustworthy" sources indicated that visiting the Christmas Markets/ Marche de Noel in Strasbourg, France was a non-negotiable "must" during our stay in Europe. So, being the sheep we obvioulsy are, we booked the tickets.
We actually also did a fair amount of internet research and Strasbourg quickly revealed itself to be a place we wanted to visit--with or without the "famous" Christmas markets. So going there for these "amazing" markets obviously seemed like a rather worthwhile twofer. In terms of our list, the ROI on that guy seemed pretty solid.
You might want to know why we decided we wanted to visit Strasbourg, home of the oldest Christmas Markets in France? Well, for one thing, the city is essentially on the France-German border, and my husband was somewhat interested in having a bit of a "warm-up" for when we visit Germany later this winter. For another thing, I was highly intrigued by how the whole gastronomic situation might work out, given the geography of the city.
If you have not already ascertained as much: I am obsessed with food.
But even if you are not consumed by thoughts of consumption, you might still wonder how the whole Geman-French food fusion thing would play out. I mean how could you not? Fois gras with a side of saurkraut? An esgargot app and a main course of schnitzel, preceded by a kir, washed down with a beer and followed with a plate of camembert and roquefort and topped off with a hearty portion of apfelstrudel?
Mon dieu!
As it turned out, the menus were not so much German-French as they were German or French. The decor of the eating establishments seemed to be quite on the German side of things (lots of open space in the rather brightly lit restaurants, benches rather than tiny tables and chairs, servers wearing liederhosen/dirndl-esque ensembles). This turn of events seemed unfortunate to me, but I am admittedly biased to all things French.
Also, there were some restaurants that seemed to be experimenting with the fusion route, and were perhaps not doing so successfully. I cannot say for certain as we avoided these places since they did not appear to have oodles of patrons. So--big shocker--we ate French food. No complaints here, as anyone who knows me a smidgen knows that I prefer a savory crepe and a glass of Sancerre to a wienerschnitzel and a stein of Krombacher anyday of the week.
As for the Marche de Noel...well, Friday night it was a positively glorious experience. The city was decorated to the nines with Christmas trees, twinkling lights and holiday motifs. As we walked around the markets, looking at Christmas ornaments and drinking our vin chaud (hot wine), the air smelled of gingerbread and cloves. Snow was falling and it truly felt as though we were in a movie. Fa-la-la-la-la...
Just to cut the nausea you are undoubtedly feeling by my Christmas cheesiness, I will also tell you that it was colder than blue Jesus and frostbite seemed imminent during the whole affair.
And, the next morning, Christmas Delight turned into Christmas crowds. We felt a bit confused as we were jolted from our reverie that was the magical winter wonderland of the prior evening to come face to face with scads of determined shoppers (many of whom were eating grotesque quantities of food as they sloshed about), who were letting anyone and everyone who glimpsed their manic faces know that they came to play.
Oh, holiday cheer: there you are! And I thought you only existed in the malls of America.
Sorry, I cannot resist indulging my inner cynic. That said, Strasbourg was, on the whole, absolutely lovely. Go there, tout suite. And don't listen to closely to my disillusioned feelings from Saturday; I was probably just hung-over from the Christmas clove wine.
There is no exact science as to what makes the cut and is, indeed, added to this epic list. We employ a rather non-specific formula where we tally how appealing the idea seems to be to one or both of us, the cost versus perceived value (the old ROI), the relative ease with which we could accomplish the given activity, and, of course, how cool we deem the person who told us about the notion in question to be.
Because, as a rule, I do not take advice (solicited or not) from people whom I do not believe to be tres super cool. And, frankly, nor should you.
Just kidding--what do you think I am, a hypocrite? I am hardly burgeoning with coolness over here. I blog about unruly ducks, for pete's sake.
Anyway, several "trustworthy" sources indicated that visiting the Christmas Markets/ Marche de Noel in Strasbourg, France was a non-negotiable "must" during our stay in Europe. So, being the sheep we obvioulsy are, we booked the tickets.
We actually also did a fair amount of internet research and Strasbourg quickly revealed itself to be a place we wanted to visit--with or without the "famous" Christmas markets. So going there for these "amazing" markets obviously seemed like a rather worthwhile twofer. In terms of our list, the ROI on that guy seemed pretty solid.
You might want to know why we decided we wanted to visit Strasbourg, home of the oldest Christmas Markets in France? Well, for one thing, the city is essentially on the France-German border, and my husband was somewhat interested in having a bit of a "warm-up" for when we visit Germany later this winter. For another thing, I was highly intrigued by how the whole gastronomic situation might work out, given the geography of the city.
If you have not already ascertained as much: I am obsessed with food.
But even if you are not consumed by thoughts of consumption, you might still wonder how the whole Geman-French food fusion thing would play out. I mean how could you not? Fois gras with a side of saurkraut? An esgargot app and a main course of schnitzel, preceded by a kir, washed down with a beer and followed with a plate of camembert and roquefort and topped off with a hearty portion of apfelstrudel?
Mon dieu!
As it turned out, the menus were not so much German-French as they were German or French. The decor of the eating establishments seemed to be quite on the German side of things (lots of open space in the rather brightly lit restaurants, benches rather than tiny tables and chairs, servers wearing liederhosen/dirndl-esque ensembles). This turn of events seemed unfortunate to me, but I am admittedly biased to all things French.
Also, there were some restaurants that seemed to be experimenting with the fusion route, and were perhaps not doing so successfully. I cannot say for certain as we avoided these places since they did not appear to have oodles of patrons. So--big shocker--we ate French food. No complaints here, as anyone who knows me a smidgen knows that I prefer a savory crepe and a glass of Sancerre to a wienerschnitzel and a stein of Krombacher anyday of the week.
As for the Marche de Noel...well, Friday night it was a positively glorious experience. The city was decorated to the nines with Christmas trees, twinkling lights and holiday motifs. As we walked around the markets, looking at Christmas ornaments and drinking our vin chaud (hot wine), the air smelled of gingerbread and cloves. Snow was falling and it truly felt as though we were in a movie. Fa-la-la-la-la...
Just to cut the nausea you are undoubtedly feeling by my Christmas cheesiness, I will also tell you that it was colder than blue Jesus and frostbite seemed imminent during the whole affair.
And, the next morning, Christmas Delight turned into Christmas crowds. We felt a bit confused as we were jolted from our reverie that was the magical winter wonderland of the prior evening to come face to face with scads of determined shoppers (many of whom were eating grotesque quantities of food as they sloshed about), who were letting anyone and everyone who glimpsed their manic faces know that they came to play.
Oh, holiday cheer: there you are! And I thought you only existed in the malls of America.
Sorry, I cannot resist indulging my inner cynic. That said, Strasbourg was, on the whole, absolutely lovely. Go there, tout suite. And don't listen to closely to my disillusioned feelings from Saturday; I was probably just hung-over from the Christmas clove wine.
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