Zach and I decided to squeeze one more excursion in before he had to depart for the UK, and before I started training at my new job. After doing some research, we decided to road trip to France, and drive through the Black Forest area of Germany on the way home. We crossed our fingers for a Mercedes, BMW or Audi rental (being that the majority of service cars here are of those brands), but we were surprised and laughed at the irony when the rental attendant handed us keys with a ford tag attached to the ring. “Ford? Really? It must be because I’m American” I said to Zach with a sigh. However, the little car surprised us yet again when we dipped into the bucket seats surrounded by a red and black sporty interior. It was indeed a zesty little thing, accelerating along side porsches and jaguars as we flew down the autobahn. I closed my eyes and flattened myself stiffly against the back of the seat, holding onto the “holy shit handle” as we call it back at home. I hadn’t been in anything aside from public transport for almost 3 weeks at this point let alone on the autobahn doing 150 K, which is around 90 mph. My little old jeep couldn’t go over 75 mph if it tried.
Luckily, Zach’s an experienced driver and has driven in several countries and terrains- from the winding narrow roads of Montenegro, the frozen tundras of Iceland and the busy streets of Paris, to the cratered chaos of the New York roadways. I trusted him and his skillful driving, but I didn’t trust the concept behind Murphy’s Law or the possibility of a cocky new Mercedes AMG driver with no time for a blinker. I was thankful to cross the border into France and see speed limit signs, but I was moreso confused that we didn’t even have to stop for a toll, to have the car checked, to have our passports checked...It was more challenging leaving Long Island to get to Jersey, and more expensive for that matter. All we did was slow down as we passed several men in military uniform with big machine guns, who looked fairly unenthused. “So, this is France!” I danced in my seat and Zach said through a big smile “Woooo baby! Your first time!”
We arrived in our first destination, Strasbourg, less than an hour later. I was excited to be able to read signs and understand what they meant, thanks to several years of learning the language throughout school. After finally settling into our Airbnb, we explored the beautiful city with what daylight we had left. The buildings had interesting architecture, as German influence was apparent, being so close to the border. Most of them were very tall, a few stories high, with elegance and distinct beauty. The Strasbourg Cathedral was in the center of the city, something I couldn’t stop staring at. It was glorious looking, so detailed and rich in antiquity, the early evening sun catching it’s weathered dimensions perfectly. These structures were a nice switch from the historical replicas that Munich tried to redevelop in many areas throughout the city, as a result of 85% of original structures being demolished due to bombings during WWII.
We bought tickets for a boat tour around the city, our time slot being one of the last departures for the evening. We approached the boat and asked if we could join an earlier tour, seeing that the boat was barely occupied by other tourists. “Non” the frenchman said in a curt manner. Zach and I watched has he untied the boat from the dock, a whopping three tourists spread throughout what had to be 30 odd seats. This is where we first realized that the french love to say...No.
It worked out in our favor, because Zach and I got to spend the next 40 minutes strolling around other parts of the town which we hadn’t explored yet, we even had a chance to buy macaroons from the shop that Miranda begged us to stop at and bring some home for her. The macarons were heavenly, light and fluffy with outstanding taste. Zach and I also caught a street performance of about 20 young French people playing all kinds of instruments, dressed in eccentric costumes, and dancing to the jazzy, upbeat songs that they played. Their energy was contagious, and soon the crowd grew to the point where it was blocking the street. Everyone bobbed their heads and bounced around to the beat, a smile on each face I saw.
Once we finally did get on the boat tour, we both found it to be quite enjoyable. It’s a great way to see the city for only a few euros, and the information is decent. We learned about the rich history of Strasbourg and the middle ages, feeling uneasy as we went under original bridges where people were hanged daily at one point in time. Beautiful buildings with flowers hanging from the window boxes and charming little lamps were pointed out as being “syphilis containment facilities” when the outbreak occurred in Strasbourg centuries ago. Steep roofs with little slits poking out of them represented buildings that were once used to tan animal hides all throughout. The city had much more history and interesting facts than I expected, which left me feeling satisfied from the few hours that we had spent there. It was a decent introduction to the Alsace region which we would continue to explore the following day, our next journey- the french countryside.
On our way out the next morning, I beamed with pride as I had successfully ordered Zach and I two croissants and two eclairs from the bakery around the corner from where we were staying. Initially, I was beaming with embarrassment and nervousness as I abruptly explained to the lady behind the counter what I wanted, afraid she would judge my butchered french or join the dreaded favorite German pastime of answering in English. I hate when the Germans do that. By the way, I’ve come to the conclusion that the french do pastries the best, out of all the countries I’ve been to so far. Fluffy dough, melt in your mouth creme filling, and the perfect combination of sweetness and richness always left us wanting more for dessert.
The day was filled with a rainbow of colorful places to see, beautiful landscapes of rolling hills covered in vineyards, and a continuation of delicious things to taste. Our first stop was the “Château du Haut-Koenigsbourg” a medieval castle that rested on the edge of a mountain overlooking the Alsace region. Once we made it to the top, the view was outstanding. A valley of vibrant greenery expanding for miles into a bluish haze in the distance. Zach and I ate the remainder of our breakfast eclairs while sitting on the edge of stone wall, overlooking the breathtaking view. The castle itself was rustic and in between its great walls echoed nobility from the past, creating a fairytale like atmosphere for me- minus the loud tourists the crowds of children's field trips that scurried loudly and excitedly through the halls. We didn’t stay long, as our next destination awaited us- Ribeauville.
What a charming little place this was! My eyes lit up as a response to the waves of color that were displayed through the little streets and alleyways before us. Ribeauville was the oldest medieval village in the Alsace region- each building displaying proof of that. Thick pieces of wood holding the buildings together contrasted beautifully against the bright blues, pinks, reds, oranges, and yellow paints that covered the faces of the buildings in different designs. Wave petunias, geraniums, and a multitude of other flora grew out of window boxes and plant holders along the walls of the buildings, a flower lovers paradise. I thought of my grandma, who loved flowers and appreciated their beauty so much, and how much she would enjoy it here simply for that reason. When traveling, it’s important to notice and appreciate these little things. I couldn’t recall seeing flowers this full of life and vibrance anywhere before. Each place had a sign hanging out of the front, varying in size and design. The sign described what the place was or what services they offered, and often displayed intricate detail in the woodwork or iron structure that they hung off of. Looking down the main street, you could see the hills in the distance, one with the remains of yet another castle overlooking the little village. It was the perfect place to experience the layout of a fairytale, a chance to step back in time. No overstimulating advertisements, no beeping cars whizzing past, just the beauty of an old world that has long been forgotten about by most.
As mid afternoon approached, the sun still high in the sky, we moved onward down the country roads towards the next stop. Riquewihr, only about a 10 minute drive from Ribeauville, sat surrounded by vineyards on all sides. This town was even more charming than Ribeauville, which I didn’t think was possible. It boasted of even more color and designs on the buildings, there were less tourists, and there were more cobblestoned streets to explore. Zach and I had Alsatian style pizza, also known as “Tarte Flambee” and it was more delicious than I expected. With white cheese, potatoes, onions, and bacon, I found it to be even more tasty than most of the pizza I had in Italy. When I asked for water, I accidentally asked in deutsche, but being so close to the border of Germany, I was in luck that our waitress spoke both German and French. Many of the signs were in German as well, and the architecture of the buildings was a little similar to some of the places I’d seen in Germany. It was very interesting to observe the influences of the German culture mixing with the french, and to see the transition of from German to French lifestyles the further inland we traveled. Riquewihr looked like it was a scene out of a Disney movie, Beauty and the Beast perhaps. It was only later that evening that I found out that the animators from the movie had visited this place for inspiration while creating the film. I noticed that red and white designs involving storks were emphasized in different ways throughout both little towns: through imagery, signs, on tourist memorabilia, I even saw live storks resting in designated nests on top of most of the roofs. Curious, I later discovered the folklore was related to the symbolism of fertility, that a stork overhead means a baby is on the way. These storks are valued by the Alsatians as they travel over 15,000 km from South Africa every year to the same nest, demonstrating faith and loyalty to their homes in beautiful Alsace.
Our last stop for the day was Colmar, the ending point of the Alsace region. Unfortunately, the lack of wifi throughout France prevented me from being able to contact the host of our next Airbnb, which in turn left us with a frustrated, impatient, french host. The miscommunication of our check in time resulted in Zach and I pacing back and forth through the streets of Colmar, looking for our apartment in a six story building at the supposed address, attempting to communicate with the neighboring french (who, continued to prove that they love to say no), and scaling the streets for inexpensive beer while carrying our heavy packs. Public wifi did not exist in this little town, delaying our rendezvous more and more. Finally, we approached the restaurant owners on the corner of the street where we believed we were staying. Zach began to try to communicate, until the woman cut him off mid sentence- suspiciously squinting at him: “Why don’t you speak French…?” she asked. Zach’s face went flat with expression, and I felt my brows lift involuntarily. “I’m from Australia” he stated, his tone matching his completely stoic face. She nodded slowly, turning her disapproving eye on me. “And you? Why don’t you speak french?” I smiled sheepishly and made my best effort in response: “Je peux parle un petit peut... J’essaie” the man she was with laughed a little bit, but in an accepting, warm way. We spoke Franglish for a few minutes, my memory releasing snippets of the language from pockets of my brain that hadn’t been emptied since high school. Luckily, they eventually warmed up to our company, and helped us by contacting our host, who we learned was not very happy with us. We waited at the restaurant until a young woman looking a bit agitated approached us, asking if I was Seneca.
The lack of wifi in Colmar earned me my first negative review on my Airbnb profile, which was appropriately written in french. However, our host was a busy woman with her own agenda, her impatience clearly written on her sleeve. We must have missed her the first time by a few minutes, but I have a feeling she didn’t wait much longer than that. “I have things to do and places to be” she explained, blaming my inability to respond in a timely fashion on our 4 hour check in delay. However, the apartment was gorgeous-well decorated, a beautiful view out of every window, and a cozy atmosphere. For all the trouble we went through to finally be let in, it would have been nice if there was at least toilet paper. Or soap for that matter.
Zach and I headed into town as soon as we were all settled in our place that we would be checking out of in almost twelve hours. We made the best of the remaining daylight, checking out the shops, the town square, and the restaurants, finally picking one for dinner. The food turned out to be decent, the wine was satisfying, and I was proud to be able to order my meal in french as well as understand the waitress to an extent. At least my francais was better than my deutsch. As evening sneakily took over the sky, we held hands and strolled through the little village in the dusky purple lighting. Our conversations seemed everlasting, with little bits of mutual yet appreciative silence in between. Our relationship had built off of conversation, and continued to thrive on it. Good looks were one thing, good talks were another. We stood on a little bridge that went over a canal cutting through the center of town and admired the colorful buildings, sleepy in the evening light, yet still contrasting beautifully against each other. We read some of the love locks that were attached to the bridge, reminiscing on ours in Florence. As sleep grew upon us, our feet shuffled along the cobblestones in the direction of our non-punctual Airbnb. I admired the colorful reflections upon the water, a soft rippling effect helping to ease me into a dreamlike state.
