A trans-Atlantic love story

For our last two nights in Deutschland, we’re paying homage to the old stomping grounds where hubby used to live six years ago.

Hubby and I dated for the summer of 2004, but broke things off when I took a job in Chicago. He subsequently took a new job himself and moved to Germany. Touche. We reconnected to say goodbye just before he left the country and decided to keep in touch. Several months later, I took him up on an invitation to visit (i.e. “stalked” him, as he likes to tell the story) and ended up staying in Germany with him for five weeks, during which time it became clear that 1) we were back together and 2) things were pretty serious. (Ironic that although distance was a big factor in our Chicago-Indy breakup, we somehow found a way to make things work between America and Europe.) In a fortuitous stroke of timing, the company hubby was working for disbanded in March, he ended up returning to the U.S. and, four months later, we were married. The rest, as they say, is history.

My fateful overseas flight on New Year’s Eve 2004 was only my second trip to Europe, the first being a fever-pitched high school bus tour that covered four countries in a week. Hubby was making his home in a small village called Ginsheim-Gustavsburg just outside Frankfurt, and that’s where we’re staying right now.

Ginsheim is totally different from Cologne. Much smaller, for starters, and more charming with half-timbered houses, a picturesque canal full of boats next to a walking trail, and a handful of local businesses and restaurants. You can easily catch the bus into nearby Mainz for shopping and a little excitement, but Ginsheim itself is a quiet, traditional German town in every way. Many of the homes and buildings have been here forever, passed down through families from one generation to the next.

Tomas, the hotel owner, REALLY did us a solid. Hubby booked lodging at Hotel Schafer, Tomas’ lovely establishment in Ginsheim, and when we arrived, explained that we had a little boy in tow.  In addition to the hotel rooms, there are also several apartments available to rent on the premises, so Tomas let hubby take a look at the two that were open this weekend and he settled on the larger.

Compared to some of the places we’ve stayed throughout this trip, these luxurious digs are damn near palatial! There’s a huge living room/sitting area, half sectioned off by fabric curtains to hide a double bed; a separate big bedroom with another double bed and a single bed; a small but nicely appointed full kitchen; a modern bathroom; two TVs; and tons of closets. AND, the whole suite costs about half of what we were paying for the expanded closet we’ve been sleeping in back in Cologne!

After checking in last night and making ourselves quite at home for a relaxing few hours, we tore ourselves away from our cushy pleasure palace in search of some dinner. During our previous time here in Ginsheim, hubby and I liked to frequent a small pub just down the street called Der Kleine Hexe; translation,“the little witch.” It’s a cozy little joint, full of cutesy witch dolls flying from the ceiling and old-school dark wood décor. The beer is cold, the food is great, and everything is super cheap.

Der Kleine Hexe

In fact, Hexe is where I spent that first New Year’s Eve with hubby all those years ago. The staff had prepared a feast and simply opened up the kitchen to let guests serve themselves from all manner of hearty German fare like gulaschesuppe, roast pork, sauerkraut, fish, toothsome breads, etc. For me, it was a fabulous introduction to German cuisine and hospitality. I remember standing in the street at midnight as 2005 rolled in, kissing my now-husband and watching the locals detonate enough fireworks to choke off the fresh air supply for the rest of the week.

So, last night, there wasn’t any question about where we’d have dinner. Hubby and I sandwiched the wee lad into a corner booth in the hopes of keeping his realm of destruction somewhat contained, and sipped away huge-ass mugs of cold Jever beer (three euros a pop – SCORE!)

The menu at Hexe hasn’t changed in six years. Hubby’s go-to order is something called “Sombrero Schnitzel,” a massive breaded pork cutlet topped with a German interpretation of Mexican ingredients — cheese, spicy tomato sauce and peppers, I believe. However, he passed it up in favor of spaghetti Bolognese. I sought out something I could share with the toddler and settled on a bowl of kasespatzle, a macaroni-and-cheese-type concoction of homemade noodles with a creamy sauce. I also got a small house salad on the side. The serving sizes were ginormous. Hubby made an admirable effort to finish his dinner and almost succeeded. I knew there was no way for me, and ended up bringing a bunch home in a to-go container.

The spatzle was yummy and soft, cooked just beyond al dente, exactly the way I like it. Even the toddler chowed down, and if that’s not a stamp of approval, I don’t know what is. Hubby snagged the first bite when the plate arrived at the table, thinking that the crispy bits on top were bacon. I was shocked he swallowed the mouthful after he realized that they were actually French-fried onions.

Full and happy, we rolled back to our expansive room and got a great night of shut-eye on the gloriously firm and comfortable beds.

Continuing our living large in Ginsheim, the hotel breakfast buffet was extensive. Europeans don’t do boring old rolls-and-coffee continental breakfasts. Ho ho ho, no! At nicer establishments like this one, you find a dizzying selection of options, many often surprising for American palates. In addition to the more conventional cold cereal, fresh fruit, juices, breads and pastries; our hotel sets out platters of German sausages, cheeses and cold cuts; a variety of spreadable toppings and accompaniments like tiny shrimp in a mayonnaisey sauce, veggies and pickles; and indigenously flavored jams (red currant? sultana?). There are also bowls full of whole nuts for the cracking and a mini-fridge of flavored yogurt cups. The only complaint was the coffee, kinda stale and not so great.

No matter, though. We would find our fix later at the Mainz food market. Every Saturday, the public space in the shadow of the imposing Mainz Dom cathedral shapeshifts into a teeming open-air market every bit as impressive as the ones in France. Stand after stand of beautiful produce, meats, eggs, cheeses, olives, breads, flowers, honey, oils — if they don’t have it, you don’t need it. The Christkindl market booths and decorations are also taking shape, lending an added sense of ceremony and joyous overtone. Many of the flower vendors are selling fragrant branches and wreathes made from seasonal greenery, bunches of fresh mistletoe, and festive arrangements of red and green blossoms.

Mainz market

We wandered through the bustling crowds, taking in all the sights, sounds and smells, and finally stopped to warm up with a coffee from a vendor operating out of the shell of an old French mini bus.

the kick-ass coffee bus

We took the huge line to be a good sign, and we were right. Coffee-snob hubby gave his double espresso the highest marks, declaring it the best java he’s ever had in Germany, and my cappuccino was delicious.

coffee bus wares

After a pleasant drive north past scenic vineyards (this is prime-time riesling/gewurztraminer production territory), we crossed over the Rhine on a ferryboat at the ridiculously quaint town of Rudesheim, much to the delight of the squealing toddler. The riverside villages are like something out of a fairytale with spired churches, crumbling stone castles and half-timbered homes. You half expect Hansel and Gretel to come bounding out around the corner at any moment.

Rudesheim on the Rhine

The toddler seems to have invented his own pseudo-Germanic dialect over the past week or so. We’ve been treated to verbal gems that crack us up, like “Where’s mein teddy?” and “Hold mein hand!” The wee dude also spontaneously gave the Hexe barman an enthusiastic and unprompted “Danke!” after being handed a glass of sparkling water. The barman seemed pleased, but lost patience and ignored us after the little guy thanked him for fourth time.

Sadly, the no-children-in-restaurants attitude has followed us south, I fear. We stopped into Hexe this afternoon for a beer and found half dozen or so people sitting around watching a football match on the TV in the corner. In utter silence. This was such a foreign concept, pun intended, I couldn’t get over it. And here we come, barging in with a noisy two-year-old. The reception was not warm. We managed to sit fairly quietly in a corner, nursing our beers, until the toddler tripped on a step and fell, letting loose with an ear-shattering wail. Every pair of eyes in the place was upon us instantly. I could sense the bad vibes shooting our way as hubby snatched the little guy up and hightailed it outside to finish his sobfest there without judgment. We left shortly thereafter.

Our last night in Germany — dinner in the hotel restaurant was the same old story, although the staff and diners seemed a little more forgiving than the Hexe crowd. This was a pretty upscale place, and the food was worth the trouble – schnitzel topped with pears and brie and served with potato croquettes for hubby, and scrumptiously tender pork medallions in a mushroom-cream sauce over spinach and linguine for me. Tasty, tasty stuff. Now if only the toddler had let us actually enjoy our dinners without insisting on running riot around the restaurant… Sigh. Dining out en masse is just not fun these days. Hubby does much better at chasing in these instances, namely because he eats so much faster than I do. I took the toddler back up to the room for his bath and hubby followed after paying the bill, thoughtfully bringing along a two-scoop serving of vanilla bean ice cream with a decadent chocolate sauce to pour over. That’s my guy!

After three weeks on the road, it’s time to pack it in and head to Frankfurt airport for our long haul home. Auf weidersehn and danke schoen, Deutschland.

Kaffee tawk

When we travel for extended trips like this with hubby, I like to seek out and make contact with expat/American communities wherever possible. Interacting with these groups makes the culture shock a little less, well, shocking for me. And the groups I’ve met in various cities are usually very kind about letting me attend their events and gatherings as a guest for the week or so while I’m in town.

Last year when we were in Germany, I did some research ahead of time and discovered an organization called the American Women’s Club of Cologne. Several women responded to my email requests for information and were lovely about forwarding their calendar of social events and encouraging me to attend. I was able to reconnect with a couple of the same gals prior to our return trip this year.

The AWCC is awesome and has a full schedule of activities, from weekly coffee meetings to book clubs, moms groups, dinners, recipe exchanges, girls’ nights out — you name it. I can see this would be a great resource and a lifeline for new relocatees. I ended up riding the tram over to a small moms’ group gathering yesterday afternoon. We’d originally planned to hook up at a playroom facility, but when I got there, it was dark and locked. Fortunately, I was able to find the friend I’d intended to meet in a nearby café. When I went in, I was delighted to see a children’s play area set up in the back with tons of age-appropriate toys to occupy my little guy. Obviously a popular stop, as there were a half dozen other moms sitting around enjoying lattes as their kiddos played away to their hearts’ content. I whiled away a happy and relaxed hour chatting with two moms from England and one from Seattle and left with my weary travel-worn spirit feeling renewed.

This morning, I marked my calendar for another kaffee klatsch, this one at a place called Bastian’s – a more upscale café around the corner from our hotel. (For my Indy readers, this place is like a bigger version of Taste but with more bakery options, to give you a frame of reference.) Not really a mom-friendly event, this, but I had to bring the toddler with me as hubby was busy at his trade show and I didn’t have a choice. There were four other women in attendance, one native German, two from Australia, and one in the process of relocating to Cologne from Chicago. No other kids in tow today and no such luck for a play area here, so I ended up catching bits and pieces of conversation and quick sips of milchkaffee between jumping up to chase the toddler all over the shop.

Bastian’s is a gorgeous bakery/café and I really would have liked to stay for lunch, or at the very least, a piece of the absolutely beautiful looking cakes and desserts in the display counter. Hmph. Better luck next time. We hightailed it out of there when the toddler started to squeal like a stuck pig in that high-pitched, scare-every-dog-in-the-neighborhood way that only toddlers can. I sensed the golden window closing and picked up a small salami sandwich from a stand stack for a quick lunch in the hotel room while the toddler inhaled peanut butter crackers and a banana.

Our dinner last night went a long way to restore my faith in dining out with kids in Germany. I’m of the mindset that when in Rome, you should eat as the Romans do. Therefore, wherever we are, I like to seek out the best quintessentially local cuisine we can find. The only catch is, in Germany, people don’t seem to bring their kids out to dinner very often. Or at all. So when we go to German restaurants, we usually get the stink eye from waitresses and often from fellow diners as well. Now, my son is a typical, curious, busy two-year-old, but he does ok for the most part. It’s not like he picks up plates and smashes them onto the floor or flings goblets of sparkling water at fellow diners, for Pete’s sake! Still, we get the cold shoulder.

I asked my expat friends about this situation, and they all agreed that it’s hard to find child-friendly dining-out options here, with one exception. Italian restaurants. The Italians don’t seem to mind a little noise and a little mess. To test this theory last night, we went for dinner at a place by our hotel called Ristorante Sansone. And what do you think happened? We had the most fabulous, relaxed dinner and the staff doted on our son like crazy. Two of the waiters joked with him throughout the entire meal, even going so far as to snatch him up and take him over for a close-up look at the residents of the lobster tank.

Michael meets a lobster

It was so refreshing, and the food was delicious, too. I loved my fresh ravioli pasta stuffed with a ricotta and pear filling, topped with spinach, nuts and gorgonzola sauce. Divine. Hubby’s pizza diavolo was good, but CRAZY spicy – the thick slices of meat were so hot, he had to pick them off. The residual heat still made him sweat.

ravioli

Back in the mood for German food once again, we went for a walk down by the Rhine riverfront this evening for a visit to one of hubby’s go-to Cologne stops — Der Lowenbrau. This is an old-school beer hall joint that looks like it’s been around for ages and ages. And, as we were there early and it wasn’t terribly crowded, they were fairly tolerant of the toddler’s explorations.

Der Lowenbrau

 

The menu’s full of German classics, thankfully with English translations. I went for kasseler rippchen, a delicious smoked boneless pork chop/ham deal with a mound each of sauerkraut and mashed potatoes. The plate was a little cold by the time it got to me, but everything tasted wonderful and I polished it off without further ado.

Kassler rippchen

To wash it all down? One of my favorite drinks in the world – gluhwein. Like gulasche, gluhwein is an ideal way to cure what ails you on a chilly night, and a seasonal Christmas market standard offering. Basically, it’s a big honking mug of red wine spiced with cinnamon, orange and vanilla. It’s served hot with a little sugar on the side, and in my case tonight, a few crispy tiny almond meringue cookies. Just as good as I remembered.

gluhwein

The Christmas decorations and lights are currently going up all around town, and the preparations for the annual Christkindl markets are well underway. These miniature villages are popping up in various sites, each looking like a magical fairyland with its sweet booths and twinkling lights. I can only imagine how fun it would be to while away an afternoon or evening strolling along, sipping gluhwein, nibbling roasted chestnuts and checking out all the wares. Think stuff like nutcrackers, replicas of half-timbered houses, toys, dolls, sweets and all manner of holiday gifts. I’m really sorry we’ll miss this experience, as the markets don’t officially open until the day after we leave. Maybe we can time our trip better next year…

Greetings from Germany

We’ve been in Deutschland for two days now and the differences between this country and the previous two we’ve visited on this trip are strikingly apparent.

For starters, Germans operate by the book. I’m not saying they’re, um, uptight, just very much more formal and reserved than the French or the Italians. Gone are the friendly smiles on the streets, the pats on the head and high-fives for the toddler, and the casual sense of ease. These people mean serious business, not monkey business. Not that there aren’t exceptions to every rule, of course. The young man at hotel reception who checked us in couldn’t have been more accommodating, and there have been a few random offers to help me carry the stroller up and down public stairs.

I must fess up and say that the language barrier is really wearing on me at this point in the trip. I know enough French to get by in basic interactions and social situations, but I’m totally at a loss when it comes to German. I can say hello, goodbye, please and thank you, another beer and where is fill-in-the-blank. That’s about it. If someone starts speaking to me in French, I can probably deduce enough to figure out the gist of what he or she is getting at. In German? Not a clue. In some cases, this is probably not such a bad thing.

For instance, the waitress at the restaurant last night blasted me for the collapsed baby stroller accidentally falling into the busy main service aisle for about two seconds before I could grab it out of the way. Or the dirty backpacker at the Dom who made some sort of lewd comments about me hefting the stroller and carrying it up a small flight of stairs (without offering to help). It sounded like the German equivalent of “oh yeah, baby.” Whatever it was, he was NOT on the up and up. I contemplated telling him to F off, but he probably wouldn’t have understood anyway.

Our hotel room here is tiny compared to our previous accommodations – three single beds crammed into a room with a cramped bathroom, slow wifi connection and no fridge (fortunately, it’s cold enough outside that we can keep milk, yogurt and beer on the window ledge). The hotel does offer a pretty impressive breakfast buffet that includes stuffed crepes, scrambled eggs, a mélange of fried meats, fresh fruit, nuts, cheese/cold cut platters, and something that looks suspiciously like sushi. It’s a buzzkill that the food doesn’t taste as good as it looks, and the coffee sucks.

Even hubby prefers to get his morning fix at the Starbucks around the corner, and you know he wouldn’t set foot in that place unless he was really desperate. The toddler and I actually ducked in there ourselves yesterday – they offer some interestingly flavored seasonal lattes, and I’m intent on trying all of them. The lebkuchen version was yummy with a hint of honey and spice, and the toffee nut I enjoyed today was equally good. Hubby brought back a cup of steamed milk for the toddler; he wasn’t interested at first, but got pretty excited once we started calling it “Michael’s coffee.”

I guess I’m making Germany out to sound pretty bad, which is unfair. Really, Cologne is a lovely city. Very picturesque with the gigantic Dom cathedral as the centerpiece of the city, hyper clean, lots of charming pedestrian shopping streets, and an entirely different kind of good food than France or Italy.

Cologne Dom

For our first dinner in town, we revisited a place we found and liked during our trip last year. Bier Esel is an old-style traditional German brauhaus not far from where we’re staying. I had my heart set on schnitzel, and that’s what I got. The place was packed, though, and service was slow as a wet week in Wales (another classic hubby-ism). It felt like we had to wait forever for our food and drinks, not a pretty picture when you’re exhausted from a daylong train journey and trying to wrangle a cranky, overtired, hungry toddler. At last, our dinners arrived. If you enjoy Hoosier-style pork tenderloin, trust me, you’d like schnitzel. My pounded, breaded pork cutlet was absolutely enormous, served Jager-style with a creamy mushroom sauce and a mountain of fries. I chewed my way through half of it and cried uncle.

What I really love about German cuisine are the snack stands and backereis (bakeries) on every corner. German baked goods are every bit as good as those you find in France, but in a completely different way. The breads are heartier — hefty pretzel rolls and chewy buns, but there are also fabulous butter cookies, strudels, cakes, huge doughy gingerbread-like men, and donut-ish Berliners. It’s all good. My usual lunch here is a tomato mozzarella sandwich on a crusty hard roll, perhaps with a smear of butter or basil oil and a slice of salami. Yum, yum, yum.

a typical backerei window

One of the first things I ate during my first trip to German six years ago was a bowl of warming, delicious gulaschesuppe, and it’s still something I seek out when we’re here. You can also find a thicker gulasche on its own served over noodles, and that’s what I ate last night. In its basic form, gulasche is a beef stew made with peppers and onions in a spicy tomato sauce. The suppe is the same thing in more watery soup form. Either way, it’s the perfect thing to warm your bones and your tummy on a cold night, and the version I had last night during our return trip to Bier Esel was fantastic. So good that hubby ended up eating half of it, despite the fact that he’d already had gulasche earlier in the day somewhere else.

On the Cologne agenda this week – a couple of coffees with the American Women’s Club and a trip to the local Chocolate Museum. Stay tuned for a full report.

Auf weidersehn, dear Cologne

Currently catching up aboard a train, somewhere between Mannheim and the Swiss border, en route to Zurich, Lugano and ultimately, Milan. The train ride coming out of Cologne down to Mainz is like something out of a fairy tale. It’s no wonder, as I think I remember hearing that the Brothers Grimm actually hail from somewhere around these parts, and Heidelburg Castle just south of Mainz is the real-life original model for the Disney version.

The train hugs the beautiful Rhine River for the first two hours down from Cologne, gorgeous mountains rising up on the far side of the water, adorned with scatterings of ancient picture-postcard villages and the frequent sight of castle ruins perched on top of the hills. Throw in the occasional vineyard climbing its way up the rocky face and you start to get the picture.

Myriad images and impressions of Cologne are still fresh in mind after a lovely, lovely week. Hubby and I often end up coming home from business trips like this saying, “What were we thinking? Never again.” This is not one of those times. Our visit to Cologne seemed to work out very well for the most part.

A few random interesting Cologne anecdotes: two days ago, I hauled four small bags of dirty clothes into the laundromat across the street from the hotel to do some much-needed washing. As I stood in front of the pay station with a clueless look on my face, a friendly older gentleman approached and asked if I needed help. Turns out he was American, had lived in Cologne for more than 40 years and seen the likes of naïve tourists like me many times in just such a circumstance, I’m sure. After he gave me a brief tutorial in the ways of German laundry systems, we made small talk. I asked where he was from originally, and it turned out he was born and raised in Elkhart, Indiana, just a few short hours away from Indianapolis. We marveled over the fact that the world truly is quickly becoming a much smaller place.

Yesterday morning was the kaffee klatsch (coffee meeting) with the American Women’s Group of Cologne back at Bastian’s Cafe. It was a small turnout due to the fact that there was a bigger event last night that many of the women would be attending instead. Still, three ladies showed up and I found their impressions of living in Germany very enlightening. One has lived here for four years; another just six months. I found their advice and stories comforting; it’s nice to know that should we end up living in Europe at some point, there are support networks, opportunities for camaraderie and potential new friends just waiting to be discovered.

Hubby wrapped up his last day at the trade show early, due in no small part to an oncoming cold, and we were able to pack at a fairly leisurely pace. It’s funny how luggage contents seem to expand from one stop to the next, even though we actually have less material to work with now than we did coming over.

For our last dinner in Cologne, we returned to Bier Esel, banking on once again getting a truly stellar traditional German meal. I hoped the food would live up to the sauerbraten I enjoyed there the other night, and I’m thrilled to say it did and then some.

Hubby ordered the jagerschnitzel, a slightly odd choice for him because he doesn’t like mushrooms and the cutlet came absolutely smothered with them. He said he liked the sauce, just not the fungi itself. I was on the verge of ordering the gulaschesuppe I’d been craving all week when I noticed an actual gulasche entree listing. Bingo. Decision made.

Each of us got a mixed vegetable salad to start — a bed of lettuce filled with shredded carrot, cabbage, cucumber and some thin slices of a crunchy whitish vegetable we couldn’t place (the waitress would later tell us it was pickled radish). Hubby notes that salads in Germany are usually brought to the table swimming in dressing. No problem for me, being the condiment queen that I am, but hubby would prefer a little more restraint. Ranch dressing, of course, doesn’t exist anywhere outside the U.S., but the yogurt dressing versions in Germany are pretty close in flavor and appearance.

The jagerschnitzel was delicious (I did my best to make a small dent in the pile of mushrooms hubby ended up scraping off), but again, I got the better end of the bargain with my choice. My gulasche filled half of a huge pasta bowl alongside a pile of buttered penne. The noodles were a nice base, but really, they needn’t have bothered. All I really wanted to focus on was that fantastic stew of tender beef and spicy, peppery, paprika-spiked tomato sauce. The serving was enormous and hubby had to help me out with finishing the meat, which he did very gladly, onions and all. It was that good. We stuffed ourselves silly. One last kolsche beer and we were outta there. A post-dinner stroll through the shopping district was definitely in order on the way back to the hotel.

jagerschnitzel, the sequel

gulasche with penne pasta

All packed up and ready to go this morning, we bid a fond farewell to an older Asian gentleman on the hotel staff who’d all but adopted our son. He sought him out and chased him around the lobby trying to pick him up any chance he got, and even snuck me a clandestine candy bar as we left. I don’t know if I’m getting more familiar with German customs and language efforts or what, but it seemed to me that the residents were much friendlier this time than they have been in my two previous visits to the country. Hubby and I were both genuinely a little sad to leave Cologne.

A quick taxi ride later, we were at the “hauptbanhof,” or train station. I remember this word with a little mnemonic device – to me, it sounds like “hop on and off,” appropriate for a train, don’t you think? Another German word I get a secret kick out of is “ausfahrt,” which, somehow appropriately, means “exit.”

I was in shock/awe at the number of people bellying up to the bar at 8 a.m. with glasses of kolsche beer. We grabbed machine coffee and insanely good “schoko-croissants” (chocolate croissants) at a station cafe before boarding the train for the start of our ten-hour, two-transfer journey to Italy.

To the wonderful city of Cologne, danke schoen. And cheers!

Oops, I did it again.

Forgive me, Father, for I have committed a cardinal travel sin.

I usually make it my goal on trips such as this to avoid any food or restaurant that is exactly the same as what I could get back home. No McDonald’s, no chicken tenders, etc. etc. Well, friends, I must admit that I have faltered. Not once, but twice. And I may do it again. I went to, gulp, Starbucks.

Starbucks is just starting to make its presence known here. They’re not quite on every other street corner (yet), but you can find them here and there without looking very hard.

To its credit, Starbucks does serve up a consistently good cup of coffee, wherever you might be. It’s disheartening to visit a local German bakery that sells the most mouthwatering pastry and then be handed a cup of coffee straight out of an automatic machine the likes of which you’d find in a 1950s office breakroom. Yuck.

I made plans to meet up yesterday morning with one of the American Women’s Group women I’ve been emailing with (who is actually English, as it turns out) for a coffee and Cologne chat. She’s actually the one who suggested Starbucks, I wonder if it was in an effort to make me feel more “at home,” and I went along with it. We convened at 10 a.m. and passed a very pleasant hour and a half alternately talking about the complexities of ex-pat life and corralling our corresponding toddlers.

There is another Starbucks less than a block away from the hotel where we’re staying, and its windows open out onto one of the busy tram stops. Having had another rough stretch of non-sleep last night, I really needed a big cup of good java this morning, and I knew watching the trams go by would be more than enough entertainment to keep the toddler enthralled in his stroller while I sipped it down.

The Starbucks coffee menu in Cologne seems much the same as back home in Indiana, and I didn’t detect any taste difference at all in the lattes I ordered, but there are a few localized special touches. Such as the seasonal lattes. Back home this time of year, you’re looking at things like peppermint mochas and gingerbread spice. Here, the flavors advertised are lebkuchen (honey cake), toffee nut, and dark cherry chocolate. Or maybe it was dark chocolate cherry… Whatever. In any case, it was enough to make me go “damn! That sounds good!”

The baked goods are different as well. You’ve still got a case of coffee cakes, muffins and what have you, but with slight flavor variations. I was particularly intrigued by something called a “gluhwein” muffin. I think I’ve mentioned before, gluhwein is actually a cold-weather quaff – spicy mulled red wine served piping hot with some extra sugar on the side. The ingredients listed on the muffins included red wine, cinnamon and orange. Hm. I can’t imagine how red wine works into a muffin mix exactly, but I am more than willing to take one for the team and find out.

Other meals worth mentioning… I was on my own with the toddler last night while hubby attended a gala dinner in conjunction with the trade show he’s here for. Based on past performances, I was a tad nervous about managing the little man on my own and being able to eat at the same time, but I was willing to give it a shot. I asked one of the hotel staff in the lobby for a recommendation, and he sent me to a restaurant/bar across the street called “Putz Beer Hall.” I swear. Putz.

The place looked pretty dead when we wheeled in, and the first waiter we encountered was a surly sort of older guy who didn’t speak English. He acted put out at having to find someone who could understand my request to bring in the stroller, and at the fact that I was bringing a stroller into the pub in the first place. But he did and quickly enough, we were settled. Of course, this guy ended up being our server.

This was another old-school beer hall, much like the one we visited two nights ago, but smaller, cozier and darker. Other patrons included a young couple who looked like they were on a date and a young professional guy who was soon met by a buddy. Who could also have been a date. I wasn’t sure. Another woman came in while we were there, sat a table next to us, and then moved as soon as my son let out a lone squeal.

Dining out here with a kid is something that is borderline frowned upon, according to what we’ve seen personally and what my local coffee friend was saying. Apparently, it’s just not done. I only recall seeing one other stroller out during dinner this week, which is odd because you see people walking around outside with strollers everywhere. German custom, perhaps? It was the same in Paris, too. I guess they’ll just have to deal with us; as travelers living out of suitcases, it’s not like we have any choice in the matter, after all.

The Putz menu offered up more traditional German fare, and I selected “kassler rippchen,” smoked pork loin. The plate featured two generous smoked chops with a flavor cross between ham and bacon, one atop a huge mound of mashed potatoes and the other on a pile of sauerkraut. Sauerkraut is one of the those things I would never think to eat back home, but here, I can’t get enough of the stuff. I found combining the mash and the kraut made the whole concoction even more delicious. Another superlative German meal. The waiter even lightened up a little bit when I ordered and conversed in German, my son cooperated and I left feeling I’d won a minor victory.

I think I’m falling in love a little bit with German food. The meals I’ve had here have been hits for the most part; the only misses came when we ventured outside German restaurants! The Italian dinner we had a few nights ago was ok, but way overpriced for the amount of food we received. And tonight, I was on my own again and grabbed some quick Chinese food from a place I’ve been walking past all week. I was in a hurry to get my son back to the hotel before a meltdown, the place looked promising and fairly busy, and I’d seen people getting food there to eat on the go. But… the chicken vegetable curry stir-fry thing I got was less than mediocre. Bland, watery and just plain meh. I was disappointed and spent the rest of the night wishing I’d followed my first instinct and stopped at the sausage stand for a bratwurst and fries instead.

Tomorrow is already our last day in Cologne. Our week here is absolutely flying by. That means only three more German meals to go. I’d better figure out a way to really make them count.

Walk this way

When I was online researching what to do during our time in Germany, I came across the American Women’s Club of Cologne, a group of English-speaking ladies that organizes regular meetings, coffees, playdates and such. I emailed for more information and got the goods on this week’s coffee, as well as a couple of mommy and me gatherings. After finding the address for the coffee, hubby offered to help me suss out the location ahead of time so I’d know where I’m going come Thursday’s event. The destination? An upscale coffee shop/bakery called Bastian’s Cafe, within an easy walk of our hotel.

Quick digression: everything is within a quick walk of our hotel. We have not used a car once since getting to Germany. From the airport in Frankfurt, we took the train up to Cologne, then a taxi to our hotel. That’s the only time we’ve been in a car this whole trip. Cologne, like the vast majority of European cities and towns, is extremely walkable, which I love. Everything you need is just a quick stroll away – groceries, restaurants, shops, whatnot. And if it’s not accessible by foot for whatever reason, all you have to do is hop on the tram and get to wherever you need to go that much more quickly.

From our hotel, we can walk to the Dom in the center of town in about 15-20 minutes. There’s so much to see along the way, the journey itself flies by. The streets are built as much for pedestrian traffic as they are for cars. Since the roads here are not laid out in grids as they are in many American cities, finding your way around can be confusing at first. Streets and alleys shoot off of other streets in crazy directions like a maze and it’s easy to get quickly disoriented. I find the best way to go is to simply memorize a few major landmarks. Fortunately, there are city maps posted on kiosks every few blocks or so just in case you hopelessly lose your bearings.

Bikes are also serious business here. You see all sorts of people riding them, from crunchy granola types to well-dressed women in the latest fashions. There is a bike lane alongside the streets and you’d better stay out of it if you know what’s good for you. We were almost run over a couple of times for not paying attention.

In short, the public transport (especially the train system) and the general walkability of European cities is awesome. If only America could get with the program and realize this, I daresay our obesity problem would quickly diminish. Germans eat some heavy food and drink a LOT of beer, but not many are overweight because exercise is so ingrained in the lifestyle here. I could go on, but that would be a whole other blog entry entirely…

Let’s get back to Bastian’s. This is one of those trendy-bordering-on-snooty coffee shops – a big, light, wide-open space full of heavy wood tables, chrome trim, a spotlessly clean glass counter full of cakes and pastries, and jazzy music playing in the background. The wait staff is all young, attractive and dressed in black. For Indy residents, it was kinda like Taste before the remodel, only much bigger.

We found a seat (table-service only) and checked out the menu of breakfast and lunch fare. Hubby ordered a croissant that came with jam, cheese and butter. I recounted and realized I’d eaten pretty much nothing but bread and sweets the day before, so I ordered the omelet of the day to get some protein and fiber – three eggs with diced zucchini, peppers and feta. It came with a small side salad; hubby and I shared a big basket of fresh-baked bread and rolls. They make their own coffee, too – no machine java here, thank God!

After a horrendous night’s sleep marred by a three-hour stretch of crying, the baby didn’t want to cooperate very much and much to our dismay, started tuning up just as the waiter set our plates down in front of us. Efforts to distract him didn’t help, and we knew our time was limited. Hubby always eats faster than I do, so he ended up wheeling our son out in his stroller, leaving me to finish my omelet and pay the bill.

As soon as hubby exited, I realized I didn’t have any change for a tip (we feel the need to tip generously anytime the baby is involved), so I texted him to come back. Tipping isn’t as big a deal here as it is in America because servers’ wages are so much better, but it is still customary to round up or leave a euro or two. Hubby returned, tossed me a few coins to pass over when the time came and left again.

I finished my food, asked for the bill, (in German no less! Right on!), and started to hand the waiter my credit card to pay when he informed me the place is cash-only. Great. I only had ten euro on me in cash and the bill was 20. Out came the phone and I texted hubby again. A few minutes later, here he came, wheeling back in like a broken record. I’ll bet those people thought they were never going to be rid of us.

Hubby dug through his pockets, found the extra cash we needed and we were finally good to go. Or so I thought… no sooner did we get out the door and down the block when I realized we’d left my son’s “Wonder Pets” book sitting on the table. Hubby flat out refused to go back again, so I returned to pick it up. We thus dubbed Bastian’s the Bermuda Triangle of cafes; once you get in, you just can’t ever get away.

The late breakfast tided us over until dinner. In the mood for more traditional German fare, we were disappointed when we discovered the pub/restaurant hubby keeps trying to take us to is closed on Mondays. A few other false starts later, hubby remembered a place called Bier-Esel that seemed worth a try. Lo and behold, it was open and could accommodate us with the stroller in tow.

Our server was a lovely older woman who paid us just enough attention and played along with our botched attempts to speak German. Most servers and store clerks immediately switch over to English the second they realize you’re American. I was pleased that she didn’t.

The restaurant itself is pretty old-school. Nothing fancy, just a bunch of tables, a few German tchotckes lining timbered shelves and mantels, and a bunch of locals drinking beer. Mussels seemed to be a featured item, as many diners were sharing huge bowls of the critters.

My first choice for dinner was going to be gulaschesuppe, but I worried a serving of soup wouldn’t be enough to fill me up and considered the full dinner choices as well. Hubby ordered a chopped steak with gravy, french fries and a small salad. I opted for the sauerbraten, another traditional German dish I’ve been meaning to try. This seemed as good a place as I’d be likely to find.

Hubby’s food looked ok, but mine was fabulous. The sauerbraten is a plate of extremely tender roast beef slices drenched in a rich brown raisin sauce. I know what you’re thinking right now. Raisins!?!? Ew! Ok, before you start judging, let me ask you this. Ever had A-1 sauce on your steak? Enjoyed it? Guess what one of the ingredients of A-1 is. Raisin paste. So there ya go.

My sauce wasn’t anything like A-1, though. It was thicker than a jus, but not as thick as a gravy, with a sweet and sour vinegary tang. It was DELICIOUS. The meat melted in my mouth; I didn’t even have to use a knife. If you like pot roast, you would like this dish. Hubby’s fork kept wandering over to my plate again and again. The dinner also came with a bowl of homemade chunky applesauce and two large potato dumplings, which confused me a little bit at first. I saw them and expected them to be creamy mashed potatoes, but when I tasted them and realized they were doughy, I couldn’t get my brain around it. When I realized they were actually dumplings, hubby pointed out that they served as a perfect vessel for all that yummy sauce. He was right.

Sauerbraten with potato dumplings and applesauce

We tried a different tactic with the baby for this meal and brought his dinner along with us instead of feeding him first before going out, which seemed to work well. He was happy enough to nibble away and let us actually enjoy our meal at a leisurely pace for once.

We strolled back to the hotel, full of fantastic German food and beer. Still keeping my eyes open for that gulaschesuppe, though…

German 101 for foodies

Unlike romantic French or melodic Italian, German is not what I consider a pretty language. Hearing it spoken aloud, some words and phrases aren’t too bad and remind me in a way of pigeons softly cooing. Other sounds are harsh, guttural and downright ugly. This is not a good thing when you’re trying to figure out something appealing to eat in a restaurant and it sounds like your waiter is trying to clear a big wad of phlegm from his throat as he recites the specials.

It’s a given that you’ll have to eat during a visit to Germany, so it does pay to get acquainted with a few of the more common food items and how to pronounce them. Many restaurants in larger German cities such as Cologne do offer menus with English translations to make things easier. Many, however, do not, leaving you scratching your head and wondering just what the hell “erbsen” is and whether you really want to eat one.

It’s always reassuring when the plate the waiter brings to the table contains exactly what you thought you were ordering, and it is possible to deduce some items phonetically or visually. Say “schokolade” out loud and you can pretty much guess that it means “chocolate.” Same with “milch” (milk), “kaffee” (coffee) and “salat” (salad). However, seeing signs for “back” shops initially made me think they were advertising chiropractic services, or perhaps something along the lines of a “Relax the Back”-type store. Au contraire, mon frere. “Back” means “bake,” so there you go. Bakery, or as the Germans say, “backerei.”

The items that really threw me for a loop the first time I read them were the meat dishes. Meat here is called, somewhat graphically, “fleisch.” Yup. You’re literally ordering flesh. Add on the animal to determine the kind of meat, as in “schweinefleisch” (pork) or “rindfleisch” (beef). To make matters worse, ground meat is called “hackfleisch.” It’s enough to turn one into a vegetarian if you think about it too much.

Oddly, “schinken” is not chicken, as you might be led to believe after pronouncing it aloud. It’s actually ham. Chicken is “huhnchen.”

After you’ve dined out a few times and eaten something that you’ve enjoyed, it’s easy enough to look for it again on menus elsewhere. Ever the creature of habit, hubby finds one or two things he likes and sticks to them (see “pizza salami” in my earlier entry). Some consistently good and authentic German standbys that I often find myself seeking out include “gluhwein,” a delicious hot mulled red wine; “gulaschesuppe,” spicy beef-tomato soup with peppers; “schnitzel,” breaded pork tenderloin; “rippchen,” a smoked pork chop; and “spaetzle,” noodles, sometimes served with a cheese sauce like a German mac and cheese (“spaetzle mit kase”). Oh, and “eis,” which is ice cream or gelato. You see tons of signs for “eis cafes,” charming little eateries that serve coffee and desserts.

There’s sort of a caste system of restaurants here as well. There are the nicer, more upscale, sit-down places where you can enjoy full table service. There is plenty of recognizable American fast-food, sadly. There are smaller, cozy, more casual restaurants where you can enjoy a beer and some food. There are also tons of bakery/coffee shops with a handful of barstools or sometimes even just tall bar tables and no seats, good for zipping in and out for a quick espresso and a pastry. There are also snack stops galore (“imbiss”) where you can grab a quick bite of whatever might tickle your fancy. Turkish kebabs, Chinese take-out, pizza slices, even seafood.

As in any language, the most important German words to know are “bitte” (please) and “danke schoen” (thank you). I’ve found those two utterances alone, along with awkwardly pointing to the item you want on the menu, can often see you through the worst of times when it comes to ordering.

Guten appetit!

Cologne – day zwei

Got some semi-decent sleep last night, except for a couple-hour awake break thrown in for good measure courtesy of the toddler. We finally got up around 10 a.m. local time (uh… 5 a.m. Indy time?), fed the kiddo and ventured out for a breakfast of coffee and German pastry.

German backereis (bakery-style snack shops) are a dime a dozen. You can find one every block or so, and they are TASTY. Not quite as fancy as the French patisseries, but definitely no slouch in their own right. There are a couple of major franchises that you see over and over, plus a bunch of local shops, too.

These establishments are fairly small, they may not even offer seating, just to-go service. The display windows tell the story in a second. Lined with row upon row of mouthwatering baked goods, it’s hard to make a selection – croissants, hard rolls, raisin-studded rolls, cinnamony buns, donut-looking things, soft pretzels, oh my. The coffee is hit or miss, most comes straight out of a machine and isn’t great, but who cares. You’re only using it to wash down the pastries, after all.

a small portion of a typical backerei window

We stopped into one of the bakery franchise shops for breakfast. Hubby ordered a croissant filled with creme, and I opted for a German specialty called a Berliner. It’s basically a round jelly donut covered in sugar. Yummy. And the center of controversy…

In Cold War-era 1963, John F. Kennedy was making a rousing speech in West Berlin, and in a well-meaning show of support, uttered the words “Ich bein ein Berliner,” proudly intending to say “I am a Berliner.” However, the literal translation came across as “I’m a jelly donut.”

Ein Berliner

He wasn’t far off base though; residents of Berlin ARE called Berliners, as residents of Frankfurt are called Frankfurters. I assume Hamburg residents are called Hamburgers, but can’t confirm.

Anyway, we wandered around a little more today, playing tourist and taking requisite photos of the Dom and all around town. We stopped into the train station so hubby could check into arrangements to get us to Milan later next week, then back out into the streets.

Since we’d eaten such a a late breakfast and snacked through the day, the next real meal was dinner this evening. Hubby wanted to go to a little place along the river called “Der Lowenbrau” that he’d frequented quite a bit when he was here last year. It was cold, but outdoor tables set up with space heaters allowed al fresco dining without shivering. We ordered up a couple of beers, and fed the baby while we waited for our food.

Hubby ordered one of his standbys, a pizza salami – thin-crusted pie with tomato sauce, cheese and paper-thin slices of salami. He got to know this dish well during his previous visits to Germany.

hubby's pizza salami

There are a plethora of Italian restaurants in Germany, due to proximity I’m guessing. Actually, there are restaurants of just about any ethnicity and ilk you could hope to find in major German cities such as Cologne. Indian, Thai, Argentinian, Ethiopian, Mexican; you name it, and it’s here. Sadly, there are also a good number of American chains such as McD’s, Burger King, KFC, Pizza Hut and Starbucks, although I can’t imagine why any U.S. visitor would eat there with so many other local options! Nice to be so spoiled for choice, but I figure when in Rome…

I want to soak up as much of the authentic German cuisine as I can while we’re here. Really, why wouldn’t I? German food is damn good stuff! Heavy on the breads, meats and potatoes, but with some interesting spicing and variations. They definitely like their pork, beef and lamb here. Typical sides seem to include potatoes, cabbage/sauerkraut and spaetzle (noodles).

My dinner tonight was the first of what I anticipate will be several schnitzels of the trip, along with fries and a small salad. I venture to say almost anyone in Indiana who eats meat has eaten a version of schnitzel. I’m talking about the traditional Hoosier pork tenderloin. It’s the same thing — a boneless pork chop, pounded into submission, breaded and fried. There are many ways you can get your schnitzel here, with a variety of sauces and toppings.

Tonight, I enjoyed a Jagerschnitzel, the pork topped with a dollop of creamy mushroom gravy. It was good, but not as good as the schnitzels we used to enjoy in Patrick’s old homestead of Ginsheim-Gustavsburg, just outside of Frankfurt. There, we frequented a tiny pub called Der Kleine Hexe (“The Little Witch”) that made a MEAN schnitzel. The place was so small and traditional, you could actually hear some little old German grandma in the back, pounding out your pork cutlet with a rolling pin before frying it up and bringing it out to your table. Hubby always ordered their Sombrero schnitzel, the chop topped with cheese, peppers and spicy tomato sauce. Brings back good memories.

my Jagerschnitzel dinner

Tonight, unfortunately, the toddler decided to act up, effectively squelching any plans of finishing our dinners in peace or sticking around for a second drink. Hubby and I took turns chowing down our meals while the other chased our adventurous toddler around the general vicinity. Then he started wailing and it was time to go.

Since the evening was cut short, I consoled myself with a few bites of a Ritter Sport chocolate bar purchased at a quick-stop grocery on the way back to the hotel. Ritters are some of my favorite chocolate in the world – hefty square bars of chocolate with a dizzying selection of fillings from strawberry yogurt and nuts to marzipan and peppermint cream. Tonight, I opted for a dark chocolate/chocolate mousse filling number that really left me feeling satisfied.

a small selection of Ritter Sport chocolate bars

Happy Halloween!

Oh, de Cologne

Here I am in Germany! Hubby, son and I arrived bright and early this morning after the overnight trans-Atlantic flight. We went from Indy to Atlanta, then an almost 9-hour jaunt into Frankfurt, followed by an hour-long train ride to Cologne and a taxi to the hotel. The flight itself was made ultimately much more bearable by hubby working some voodoo magic on the gate attendant in Atlanta and somehow managing to get us upgraded to first-class seats. Which kicked ALL kinds of ass and set a good tone for the beginning of the trip.

Something you should know before I say any more – I am not a good air traveler. You’d think after living in L.A. for nearly two years and all the back and forths from there, not to mention 10, count ’em, 10 trips to Europe, I’d be well over any flying fears I might have harbored. Not so. If anything, my flying anxiety is just as intense now as it ever was. Once we actually get underway and in the air, I’m not too bad, but the anticipation of the trip in the days just prior leaves me frantically checking turbulenceforecast.com and making sure I’m stocked up on Dramamine.

I am sad to say that while the extra space and attention in first-class were HEAVENLY, especially considering we were traveling with a very busy and curious 18-month old, the food was wasted on me. I rarely eat on airplanes. I have a sneaking feeling that eating an airplane meal en route would not sit well on my already-nervous stomach. I can’t imagine hitting turbulence just after downing a nuked lasagna would really be a good idea. And I definitely do not want to be THAT girl.

Hubby is a frequent flier, to say the least. He may even hit diamond/platinum/master of the universe status this year when it comes to frequent flier miles on Northwest/Delta. He crosses oceans like he’s crossing the street. I have lately begun telling him he’s turned into a travel snob, but after getting the first-class treatment on such a long flight, I am shutting my mouth. No wonder he whines like a stuck pig anytime he doesn’t automatically get upgraded and has to sit in, sniff, coach.

Hubby has no problem eating while flying, and I must admit, the menu in first-class was tempting. But I refrained, content to observe hubby with his meal of choice. First course was spinach salad with feta, roasted pepper soup and a scoop of hummus covered in toasted pine nuts. For the main, he had a surf and turf deal with a filet, shrimp, risotto and sugar snap peas. Oh, and free Heineken. It all looked tasty enough, but when it comes to my tummy, I usually try to follow a better-safe-than-sorry mantra if there’s any doubt.

Once we landed in Frankfurt and my feet were back on solid ground, I was hungry. We hit a cafe in the airport where we fed the baby and I scarfed down some scrambled eggs with ham, fresh orange juice and some of my son’s strawberries. Nothing spectacular, but it certainly hit the spot at that moment.

Jet lag has taken its toll on all three of us today. Neither hubby nor I got much sleep on the plane in spite of our lux accommodations, as we took turns baby-wrangling and trying to shush our son anytime he roused, which was often. Have you ever seen footage of those guys who try to wrestle alligators and the alligators end up twisting and rolling about a thousand times a second to escape roping? That’s what it’s like trying to hold our son while he sleeps. He eventually dozed off soundly, thank God, but didn’t get nearly enough rest. By the time we caught the train, made it to our hotel in Cologne and took a quick walk out for some much-needed coffee and a croissant, the sleep-deprivation was really catching up with all of us. A nap was definitely in order.

Hubby spent a month in Cologne last fall, so he knows his way around pretty well. The baby and I were supposed to join him then, but one thing after another went wrong and we never made it. I’ve been to Cologne once before for a weekend when I came over to visit my then-boyfriend, now-hubby five years ago (he was living just outside Frankfurt at the time).

Cologne is an interesting place. The architecture is very old and Gothic, although the city was all but destroyed during the World Wars and much has been repaired. In stark contrast to the cobbled streets and the awe-inspiring Dom that dwarfs everything around it, the city is highly modern, a media capital full of state-of-the-art shopping and hopping nightlife. The city nestles along the Rhine River, providing a scenic viewpoint and a home for charming riverside hotels and restaurants. Cologne is about the same size as the Indianapolis metro area when it comes to population, and I believe is even paired with Indianapolis as a sister city. You’d never mistake the two in a million years, though.

the massive Cologne Dom (Cathedral)

Post-nap, the baby went into the stroller and out we went to get some air and get reacquainted with Cologne. It looked pretty much the same as I remember, and I was able to recognize some of the quaint streets, pubs and restaurants we’d been before, once upon a time. One particular establishment we decided to revisit was Papa Joe’s – a kitschy beer hall kind of place whose main claim to fame is two animatronic musicians, one playing an accordion and one playing some sort of small tuba. These two robotic creatures “play” upon their perch anytime a patron drops in a coin and makes a song selection, much like a jukebox. The figures are a big draw, but it’s vaguely creepy to see their eyes roll your way as they bang out polka classics.

When hubby and I stopped in this place five years ago, the smoking ban hadn’t yet been instituted and it was like a wall of smoke when you walked through the door. We somehow managed to stay for a drink and watched as a group of Japanese tourists entered, then quickly exited, coughing and gagging. Thank goodness, it’s now smoke-free, so we were able to bring our son in for the fun.

Tonight, a small group of rowdy beer-swilling men had taken over the bar, singing loudly along with the traditional German tunes the animatronic duo cranked out, glasses raised and waving proudly. Picture a German bar version of “Piano Man” and you sort of get the idea. And it isn’t just German songs either, there are even a few little ditties in the catalog that I recognize. You haven’t lived until you’ve heard a bunch of drunk middle-aged German men belting out John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Road.” This amusement was followed up by a polka version of, I kid you not, “Billie Jean.” I could hardly believe my ears. It was good, clean fun, and we stayed for a glass of Gaffel Kolsch, the local quaff of choice. The waitress took a shine to Michael, even going so far as to snatch him up out of my arms and whisk him behind the bar for an up-close look at the robot musicians and a  few wafer cookies. He blew her a kiss on the way out; now I know we’ll have to go back.

More wandering built up our appetites and after being shut-out of a German pub/restaurant hubby wanted to go to (they were full, apparently), we ended up at a crepe place. These were not your ordinary crepes, though; they were more like large square hot pockets stuffed with a whole menu of tasty fillings. Hubby got one wrapped around a meaty tomato sauce, almost like a spaghetti Bolognese, without the spaghetti. It must have been good because he even tolerated a few specs of onion he spied in the filling. My crepe housed a medley of veggies heavy on the broccoli and onion, with cheese and tomato sauce holding it all together.

Full and tired, we managed to wind our way back to the hotel, where we are trying to prop our eyelids open for another hour or two before finally succumbing to jet lag and sleeping the sleep of the dead. I want to write more, but at the risk of becoming incoherent, I think I’ll save some for tomorrow.