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.

The grass is always greener

I’ve been getting some comments from people about how jealous they are of our travels, which leaves me with mixed feelings. On one hand, I know that we are truly, truly fortunate to be able to visit so many amazing places, and to go so often to Europe thanks to hubby’s work. There is no way we could afford to travel like this if his expenses weren’t already being comped, and I am thankful that the toddler and I have opportunities to tag along with him as often as we do. But before you start gagging, let me mention a few of the harsher realities of these trips.

For starters, I hate to fly. Planning any trip that involves air travel immediately instills in me a slight-to-moderate sense of panic. Hubby says if he had a choice, he’d rather fly solo with the toddler than with me any day. I’m ok once we get to where we’re going, but in the days and weeks beforehand, a certain level of anxiety is always in the background.

Throw in the fact that traveling with a toddler is, at best, a little tricky. At worst, it can be a complete nightmare. Depending on what country you’re in, people may or may not be helpful. This is the first big trip we’ve taken with our little guy since he’s started walking, and trying to convince him to sit on our laps for a eight- or nine-hour flight or train ride doesn’t always go over well. Plus, he’s not been spending any time in the stroller back home, so I’m sure he can’t really understand why he has to once again tolerate being strapped back in for hours at a time. It must feel like a demotion.

When it boils down to it, the whole reason we’re here is for hubby’s work. And he works HARD. Long hours are involved. When he’s doing a trade show like this, he takes off early in the morning and we don’t see him again until dinner. Maybe. If there’s a mix-and-mingle business function he needs to attend, he may not get back to the hotel until after we’re already in bed. We’re not a happy tourist family on vacation, strolling down cobbled streets hand-in-hand. Although we do get lucky and spend an occasional free day together, and we go to bed and wake up in the same room, the toddler and I are pretty much left to our own devices. When the weather’s bad, we may end up spending an entire day stuck in a small hotel room, trying to keep ourselves entertained with music videos and German or Italian-dubbed episodes of “Happy Days” and “Spongebob Squarepants.” If that doesn’t quickly make a person stir-crazy, I don’t know what will.

For better or for worse, we’ve been totally reliant on/at the mercy of public transportation in the European cities where we’ve been. While I really like the focus on pedestrian accessibility here, it is a little bit limiting. There are buses and trams and the like, but it can be a problem at times trying to maneuver a stroller on and off the things. Many require stairs; not a possibility with a stroller.

Out of all the cities in Italy, Milan is not somewhere I would choose to go of my own accord when there are other options like Rome, Florence and Venice so nearby. I would love, love, love to take the toddler on a daytrip or even an overnight to another city, but between lugging along his carseat for the cab ride to the train station, the stroller, a suitcase, a diaper bag, my purse, and the little man himself, I just don’t see how I can pull it off. There’s no way I can juggle that amount of schwack on my own.

And just because we are away from home, we’re still slave to the toddler’s schedule. This can quickly ruin your intentions of spending an entire afternoon strolling through the Louvre, taking a day-long bus tour through the Tuscan countryside, or whiling away an evening getting looped on the local wines at a charming little enoteca. When we’re figuring out what to do or see for the day, consistent meal times and a nap have to be factored in. So if we’ve taken the tram into the inner city here in Milan, for instance, I have to make sure that I’ve packed snacks, milk and a lunch, and that we get back to the hotel in time for a nap. Otherwise, the kid turns into a complete terror and will sit in his stroller screaming while hubby and I try to “enjoy” our own dinners later in the day.

Which brings me to food. Although hubby and I are fairly good at adapting to the local cuisines wherever we are, the toddler is something of a picky eater. Buying baby/toddler food in a foreign language can be a guessing game, although the photos on the packaging are helpful when it comes to figuring out the contents. Some of the offerings are things you would never in a million years see on U.S. shelves, though. I can’t imagine feeding a baby pureed lamb, trout, rabbit or horsemeat (I kid you not), but apparently, they do here. I basically follow the guideline that I don’t serve anything to the toddler that I wouldn’t want to eat myself, and I definitely am crossing those jars off the list.

There are tons of baby-food fruit options and sweets, but I can’t locate any toddler-appropriate vegetables to save my life. Fave American standbys like mac and cheese are nowhere to be found. Instead, we’re left to try blends like ham with pasta and hope for the best. We’re also attempting to expand the toddler’s culinary horizons by offering him tastes from our own plates. This usually has not gone well, with the exception of tiramisu. He has decidedly refused many (what we consider  yummy) bites with a grimace, and pretty much subsisted on breadsticks, crackers and cheese since we’ve been in Italy. Thank goodness you can find yogurt, applesauce and bananas everywhere, otherwise we’d really be in trouble.

Also, we must always remember to request hotel staff to empty the minibar fridge in our room so we can use it for milk, and we’ve become really adept at washing bottles and spoons in hotel sinks.

So there you go. Does that mean I would rather stay home and forego these adventurous excursions because they’re a little trickier with a little man along for the ride? Of course not. Does that mean you should be jealous? Eh, that’s your call.

Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, here’s the food report for the past few days. We’re quickly becoming regulars at Il Pavone. With the exception of the site of the tuna/Caprese salad fiasco, we’ve eaten there every night since we’ve been here. As hubby says, when he’s coming off a long day of work and he’s tired and starving, he doesn’t want to guess whether a restaurant will be good or not. He wants to go somewhere he can count on getting a large beer and a solid dinner. I don’t disagree at all, and Il Pavone’s menu is big enough to offer plenty of options. I’m going to try to make it through the whole week without ordering the same thing twice. So far, so good.

Two nights ago, I had a simple and delicious risotto with asparagus and topped it off with a ramekin of tiramisu for dessert (which the toddler decided he liked and ate half of). I also realized that I have unintentionally ordered vegetarian dishes every night since we’ve been here. Not that I have anything against the meat, and I will probably order some at some point; the veggie pastas have just appealed to me the most.

Last night, hubby had the delicious fusilli della casa I ordered on our first visit (which may be my favorite so far); I ordered a tortellini pomodoro with a side of steamed spinach. Hubby’s work pal got an insanely good-looking lobster linguine concoction and a huge calzone. That guy can EAT. Everything went down very well. I’ve taken to all but drenching my food with the olive oil they serve on each table as a condiment. I swear, the stuff is so good, I could just stick a straw in the bottle and drink it.

Il Pavone fusilli della casa

tortellini pomodoro

lobster linguini

Online, I found an Americans in Milan club, similar to the one I’d latched onto in Cologne, and yesterday was the group’s monthly coffee get-together. I got directions and the toddler and I navigated our way there without too much problem. I’m sorry to say, it wasn’t a good experience. It wasn’t really an American group, but more of a welcome-newcomers-to-Milan thing for women of all nationalities. Which was fine. However, the women there were a much older, ladies-who-lunch-type crowd, all dressed up in their finery (thank goodness I’d worn a skirt), many wearing hats and scarves. Not really my scene. The toddler, ready to burst out of his stroller after a 45-minute tram ride/walk, ran riot through the whole gathering, effectively curtailing any plans I had of relaxing over a coffee and a chat with the ex-pats. I was lucky to get a few words in edgewise with anyone before I was off and chasing him again.

At one point, I was simultaneously trying to talk with a very kind Asian woman; hold my purse, a sippy cup and the diaper bag; and bounce the squirming toddler in my arms. Whining and wanting to get down, the strong little bugger suddenly bucked hard. I lost my grip on him and barely caught him by the leg before he plunged to the hardwood. It completely scared the shit out of both of us.

So there I am, weighed down with bags and a screaming toddler hanging upside down from my hand about six inches above the floor. In front of an entire room of snooty women, who immediately started gasping and disapprovingly clicking their tongues in a judgmental manner. The wonderful Asian lady was the only one who even attempted to help me. I lowered the toddler to the floor as gingerly as I could, picked him up firmly and hauled ass out of there. I was hyperventilating and sobbing by the time I got onto the street and, with shaking hands, had to call hubby at the show to talk me down from the ledge. For the rest of the day, I was freaked out about how close I came to breaking his poor little neck. I can’t even think about it now without wanting to vomit.

All’s well that ends well, I suppose. I don’t imagine any of those ladies will be emailing to invite me out for coffee again anytime soon, though.

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.