Copenhagen is Also Delicious

Now, I like to eat as much as the next person. But I'm no foodie; my palate is not too sophisticated for boxed mac and cheese. (And boy, do I miss that stuff.)

I had no idea that Noma, the best restaurant in the world, is located in Copenhagen--in fact, many of the best restaurants in the world are there. But Evan knew, because he is a self-proclaimed foodie. And when he asked, "Want to go to dinner with me at the best restaurant in the world?" the only possible answer was, "Um, duh."

Which is how we ended up in Copenhagen on the first weekend of November.

My bus arrived in Copenhagen an hour earlier than its scheduled 8:30pm--I'm still not sure how that happened--so I had to scramble, stiff from the 12.5 hours spent on the bus, to gather my things and get oriented. Once off the bus, I navigated through to the other side of the train station, where I caught a city bus to Evan's and my Airbnb. I had no clue how to pronounce the name of the stop I needed to get off at--the Danish language seems to primarily be comprised of ø's and å's and ů's and j's at the ends of words--so I pulled up the name of the stop on my phone and showed it to the friendly, English-speaking driver to make sure I was on the right bus. (Thankfully, I received an answer in the affirmative). I paid for my one-way ticket and received a handful of coins with holes in their middles as change.

Twenty minutes later, my navigation app informed me that I had arrived at my destination, and I climbed four flights of stairs to find that my foodie had made pita pizzas for dinner. Copenhagen was off to a yummy start.

The next morning, we did as native Copenhageners do and got on our bikes, off to Lagkagehuset for breakfast. Lagkagehuset is apparently THE Danish bakery, known throughout the land for its...well, Danishes.

Hopped up on sugar and caffeine, we continued on our way into the center of the city, with the intent of joining one of those free walking tours that Evan and I are such big fans of. We were distracted, however, by the swirly black-and-gold spire of Copenhagen's Church of Our Saviour. When we spotted people scaling the staircase up and around the tower, we knew we had to get up there. 

Ooooh...shiny!

So we parked our bikes, flashed our student IDs to the teenager at the entrance, and climbed the 400 steps to the top of the tower. 

Even though it was a misty day, we were had a pretty dang spectacular view of Copenhagen.

We then realized that we weren't going to make the 10:00am walking tour, so we revised our plan and decided to aim for the 1:30pm tour instead. In the meantime, we went to scope out Noma.

Despite Evan's efforts way back in July--which had involved waking up at some ungodly hour to get online the instant that November reservations for Noma opened--we hadn't been able to secure one of the coveted tables. So the closest we got was snooping around the outside. 

However, we (and by "we" I mean "Evan") had somehow managed to book a table for dinner on Sunday at 108, Noma's sister restaurant, which had opened only six months ago. So we also creeped on the people having lunch there. 

We ourselves found lunch at Copenhagen Street Food, an old warehouse around the corner from 108, where dozens of street vendors offer everything from duck-fat fries to sushi to Smørrebrød (Denmark's famous open-faced sandwiches). 

Holy Smørrebrød, Batman!

By the time we finished at Copenhagen Street Food, it was pouring rain. Not just drizzling; we're talking cats and dogs here. Nonetheless, Evan and I sloshed back to our bikes and gamely headed toward the center of town.

If you've never had the experience of city biking in the rain, don't. It is nothing but misery. In spite of our raincoats, we were drenched when we finally arrived in the center of the city, which dampened our enthusiasm (heehee) for the walking tour. So instead we whiled away the afternoon by ducking into various shops, including the Lego flagship store. Bet you didn't know Legos were Danish! (Don't feel bad...neither did I.) 

Lego biking is more fun than regular biking.

LEGO SAAAAANTA! OH MY GOSH! I KNOW HIM!

We took a long afternoon coffee (and cake) break to dry off and warm up, and by the time we got out of the coffee shop at 4:00pm, it was nighttime. Literally nighttime. That northern latitude really makes a difference in how much daylight a place gets. It really messed with my internal clock, and by 5:00pm, I was about ready for bed.

But we still had to eat dinner, so we headed to another indoor food market. This one was more grocery-store than Copenhagen Street Food (there were butchers and fish vendors and whatnot everywhere), but there were also a few places where you could grab a bite. After a few laps around the place, Evan and I settled on sharing fish and chips and a fish taco, which was more like a fish burrito (but still pretty darn tasty).

Fish are friends, not f--oops. 

The market was closing up as we left, so we stopped at a bakery stand for some macarons to take on the road. (It really is an addiction.)

Sunday dawned just as cold and windy as the day before, but at least the rain wasn't as heavy, so Evan and I finally showed up for a walking tour. Our tour guide was a good-natured Australian, who made jokes about every nationality in our tour group, plus the Swedes (the archenemies of Denmark) and Kiwis (apparently New Zealand and Australia don't get along very well). He was also very informative:
--You know that device that you stick in your ear for hands-free calling? Well, the name "Bluetooth" comes from Danish King Harald Blåtand (Harald Bluetooth), who played a major role in uniting warring factions during the 10th century in parts of what are now Sweden, Norway, and Denmark.
--Carlsberg beer is Danish, and every year, the Carlsberg award goes to a Dane who makes a major contribution to society.
--Niels Bohr won the Carlsberg medal for his contributions to science (the structure of an atom, anyone?). Part of his prize included a house with a pipeline from the Carlsberg brewery, so he had free beer for life.
--Niels Bohr also saved a huge number of Danish Jews during the Holocaust. His mother was Jewish, and when he was evacuated to Sweden, with the intent of being transported to the US to work on the Manhattan Project, he refused to go until the king of Sweden publicly promised to evacuate all Danish Jews and to offer them refuge in Sweden until it was safe for them to return to Denmark. This promise was upheld, and over 7,220 of Denmark's 7,800 Jews, plus 686 of their non-Jewish familý members were saved.

The tour ended near Frederik's Church, which has the largest dome in Scandinavia. Evan and I poked around the church for a few minutes (not going to lie, it was mostly because we needed to warm up, but also it was a very pretty church). We then made a beeline for the cheesecake place recommended by our tour guide.

Say "cheese!" (cake)

We had a few hours to kill before our 8:30pm dinner reservation at 108, so we wandered for a bit more before finding ourselves back at Copenhagen Street Food.

We whiled away the time by sharing a couple of beers, as well as an order of duck-fat fries and a croque monsieur. (Yes, we had a pre-dinner snack. This girl gets hangry way too easily.) We then classily ducked into the bathrooms to change into our dinner clothes. Now somewhat presentable, we walked over to 108.

I'm sure I didn't fully appreciate the culinary skill involved in such a dinner, but everything was pretty dang delectable in my opinion. And I definitely enjoyed watching Evan swoon over every bite.

Here's what we ate:

Slices of pumpkin with fresh goat’s milk cheese and blackcurrant leaves

Grilled courgette with gammel knas and blackcurrant leaves

Braised oxtail with black autumn truffles

A caramelized milkskin with grilled pork belly and cress

Grilled monkfish with cabbage cooked in chamomile, summer greens and a sauce of mussels

A sourdough cone filled with blueberry ice cream and mint

Speechless? Me too. (Even more so after I saw the bill.)

The next day, Evan had to head back to Rennes for class. So we checked out of the Airbnb, and he headed to the airport while I found the hostel I'd be staying in for my last night in Copenhagen.

I checked in and shoved my bags into my locker, then turned right back around and headed out to take advantage of the all-too-limited daylight hours. I was off to find the Little Mermaid.

Maybe you knew this, but Hans Christian Andersen, fairytale author extraordinaire, was a Copenhagener--probably one of the most famous ones. He wrote classics such as "The Princess and the Pea," "The Emperor's New Clothes," "Thumbelina," and, of course, "The Little Mermaid." In honor of what is probably Hans Christian Andersen's most famous story, there is a statue in one of the Northernmost harbors in Copenhagen of the Little Mermaid herself.

It was quite a hike (it took most of the afternoon), but it was through a nice part of town, and it was finally a sunny day, so I enjoyed it. I also enjoyed the Copenhagen-style hot dog that I snagged from a street vendor on my way back to my hostel.

By the time my weary feet crossed the threshold of the hostel, it was dark outside, and I was once again ravenous (in spite of the pit stop I'd made at Lagkagehuset). So I asked the girl at reception where the closest place for good, cheap food was, and got directions to a kebap place right around the corner. Between the falafel and the fries, I was happy, and I went to bed early in preparation for my bus to Berlin the next day. 

And of course, I had to stop at Lagkagehuset one more time on my way out of town.

Dam! This City is Cool

I bet you can guess what our first breath of Amsterdam air smelled like.

That's right: the sweet, sweet smell of freedom.

Our heads perhaps slightly muddled by a second-hand high, Evan and I managed to navigate the metro to Amsterdam Centraal, where we caught a ferry across the harbor to our hostel, which turned out to be the best hostel that I've stayed in yet in my travels. It was a big hostel, with great facilities (including a kitchen, bar, and outlets/lights at each comfortable bed), a good location (close to the city, but quiet at night), and fantastic staff (super friendly, and extremely helpful in the event of a mishap...yup, learned that one first-hand).

We checked in, put down our backpacks, and said a brief hello to our Canadian roommates before Evan and I had to dash to catch a ferry back across the harbor. Why the hurry? Well, it turns out that, in high school, Evan had a couple of Dutch friends, and since they were now all in the same country again, we were meeting them for dinner.

With a little help from Google Maps, we found our way to the restaurant, which wasn't too far off the main shopping street (already decked out with Christmas lights), and met Evan's friends: two sisters, one of whom lives in Amsterdam. We had a round of Belgian beers while the old friends caught up. When the waitress came back to ask, for the third time, if we were ready to order, the other three ordered various schnitzels. Thanks to the substantial amount of time I'd spent in Germany and Austria the previous month, I'd had my fill of schnitzel for a while, so I ordered my first steak in three years.

After dinner, the sisters showed us a little bit of the city, and introduced us to stroopwafels, those marvelous Dutch sweets. Holy cannoli, those things are addictive. I easily ate a dozen a day during my time in the Netherlands. Crispy waffles, filled with gooey caramel goodness...just thinking about them right now makes me want to catch a train back to Amsterdam instead of heading to Berlin today.

Anyway.

After a few more Belgian beers at a canalside table, Evan and I said good night and found our way back to the hostel.

Even Amsterdam knows that Bruges' beer is better.

The next day, we consulted TripAdvisor to help us find a good breakfast place. We had just about settled on an omelette place with a 4-star rating, and would have headed there for breakfast, had the next name on the list been anything other than "Bagels & Beans." As soon as we read the word "bagels," Evan and I knew that was where we were going. Bagels are one of the foods that both of us have missed the most since leaving the US.

Don't get me wrong, Europe does a lot of foods better than the US does, especially baked goods. But one thing that has been conspicuously absent from European bakeries is bagels. And if you know me, you know that there was a time--not so long ago--when I ate bagels for two meals out of every day.

To make a long soliloquy short, we went to Bagels & Beans, which had not only some pretty solid bagels, but also a spectacular view of the harbor. They also had ginormous coffees, including a mochaccino served in a cup as big as my head.

A restaurant after my own heart.

After breakfast, we poked around the main shopping street, where we discovered a deceptively narrow entrance to a large and ornately decorated church. We came to the conclusion that the church was strategically placed so that shoppers can come and pray to win the lottery, that way they can actually afford to shop on that street.

We then stumbled upon the famous flower market along one of the canals. This market boasts a mind-boggling array of Dutch tulip bulbs (I had no idea there were so many varieties!). Of course, not much was in bloom, given the time of year, but Evan managed to buy me a tulip anyway.

We cute.

Then it was time for our walking tour! In an effort to prevent hangriness from striking mid-tour, we grabbed a couple of hot ham-and-cheese baguettes on our way to the meeting point.

On the tour, we learned that the elevation of Amsterdam is about 3 meters below sea-level. The only reason that the city even exists is that those crazy Dutch literally built the land, using sea walls to hold back the water, before they put the buildings on it. (That's how the city got its name: from the dam that blocked the Amstel river.) We also learned that, even though Dutch tulips are world-famous, tulips were not native to the Netherlands; tulips originally came from Turkey.

And, of course, the tour guide showed us Amsterdam's famous red-light district, centered around the oldest church in the city. You may find this ironic--I definitely did--but, apparently, way back when Amsterdam first started out as a trading port, the church and the "ladies of the night" had quite the symbiotic relationship:

--The ladies used the church bells to time their "work shifts." The bells sounded every fifteen minutes, which made it very easy for the women to keep track of the time that their customers had paid for.

--At that time, the Catholic practice of "indulgences" was in full effect; sinners could make a donation to the church in exchange for forgiveness of their sins. At the conclusion of every "business transaction," the ladies would send their customers to the church to be forgiven for their sins. The church, in turn, would give a cut of their profits to the women.

The tour was very educational! 

After the tour, we went to a grocery store for dinner ingredients and to replenish our supply of stroopwafels. We also popped into a souvenir shop. I've been collecting postcards from every city that I visit (they're cheap souvenirs, very lightweight and packable, unlike the Oktoberfest stein that was my Munich souvenir). Evan, meanwhile, has made stickers his signature souvenir (also lightweight and packable, though occasionally more difficult to find). 

Souvenir shopping done, we went back to the hostel, where we took over one of the four kitchens to make pasta. (Yay for saving money!)

The next morning, Evan caught an early flight back to Rennes for class. I caught a couple more hours of sleep, then headed off to the Van Gogh Museum, one of the things that I had been most excited to get to Amsterdam to see.

What an AMAZING museum.

Obviously, there were paintings by Van Gogh everywhere, but there were also letters (both written by him and written to him), paintings by many of his artist friends and influences, and paintings by those influenced by him. There were also some of his original sketchbooks and painting equipment.

All of this was organized in such a way that really led me through Van Gogh's life and career as an artist, and I left the museum not only having seen many of my favorite paintings in person, but also with a better understanding of my favorite artist.

If you get the chance, I HIGHLY recommend visiting the Van Gogh Museum for yourself. 

Couldn't take any pictures inside, so here's one of the outside!

It was well past lunchtime by the time I left the museum, so I made my way back to Bagels & Beans for an XL-cappuccino and a bagel sandwich (I had to get my fix while I could). 

I wandered back along the main shopping street, which was a mistake: I fell in love with a coat that would have been beyond my price range even if I had an income right now. While searching for a knock-off version that I could actually afford, I discovered that late-90s/early-2000s fashions are alive and well, at least in Amsterdam: almost every store I went into had denim skirts.

The next day found me in Giethoorn, a teeny (we're talking one-grocery-store teeny) little canal town about three hours by train from Amsterdam. (Okay, fine, it's two hours if you actually pay attention and don't miss the stop where you were supposed to change trains.)

Since it's no longer the big tourism season, it was pretty quiet in Giethoorn. Nonetheless, I managed to keep busy by wandering around town, crossing dozens of bridges over the network of canals that serve as roads, and endlessly snapping pictures of the unbelievably-cute, thatched-roof houses.

This is my "I can't believe this place exists" face.

Later in the afternoon, I rented a kayak and took myself on a tour around the parts of town only accessible by watercraft. I also paddled to the lake, which, aside from the ducks who--based on their panicked quacks--were as afraid I'd capsize as I was, was incredibly still and peaceful.

For my last day in the Netherlands, I had a ticket to the Anne Frank House. Evan and I had planned to go together on Monday, but when we went online to get tickets ahead of time (rather than stand in line for 3+ hours), they were completely sold out, not only for Monday, but for every day for the next few weeks! Apparently tickets are booked typically a month in advance...whoops. Luckily for me, on Monday night, someone cancelled their tickets for Friday morning, so I was able to snag one.

I'd been to the Anne Frank House once before, when my family visited Europe eight years ago. But that was before I had read the diary of Anne Frank. This time, walking through the rooms in which the Frank family, with four other people, had hidden for two years during World War II, held much more meaning. It's really something that everyone should visit in person.

After my morning in the museum, I was feeling pretty subdued, so I just wandered around Amsterdam for a while. I briefly stopped into a different Bagels & Beans for lunch, and when it started to rain an hour later, I ducked into a bookstore for cover.

Fortuitously, it turned out to be the American Book Center in Amsterdam; four wondeful floors of books and magazines that I could actually read! It was perfect, because I'd run short of new reading material--carrying around a bunch of books isn't exactly conducive to packing light--so I whiled away a couple of hours browsing, eventually becoming engrossed in Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Johnathan Safran Foer. Have any of you ever read that? I bought the paperback, making use of the student discount that the shop offered, and I'm in the middle of it now...it's a great read so far.

Anyway, I guess my mind was still in my book when I got back to the hostel, because I somehow managed to lock my keys in my locker. 

Yup. I guess it was about time for another mishap. 

The girl from reception and I both tried our hand with the bolt-cutters, to no avail. A little while later, the good-natured bar manager--who was a rather brawny fellow--arrived, complimented the sturdiness of my padlock, then proceeded to bust it open in a matter of seconds. 

Bless.

The rest of the evening was spent packing up my newly-liberated backpack, ready for an early departure the next morning. I was Copenhagen-bound!

Belgium is Delicious

Like, the most delicious country yet.

When Evan and I arrived in Brussels on Thursday, we weren't feeling too optimistic. Our bus had been delayed leaving in the morning, and the ride had been long, so we were--I was--a little bit grumpy. Our Airbnb was in a somewhat sketchy part of town, and farther from everything than we had thought, so we had to figure out public transportation, which was more expensive than anticipated, and, by the time we got there an hour later, we had yet to see any historic-looking buildings.

Things started to turn around once we actually got in to the studio we were staying in for the next few nights. It was teeny-tiny, but cozy, with private kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. Plus--unexpected bonus--a balcony!

Itsy-bitsy Airbnb.

We spent about an hour there unwinding from the day of travel and checking out every inch of our dinky new digs, then hopped on the metro towards the old town square.

Once we got into the older part of town, I felt a lot better about the decision to come to Brussels. There were three main reasons for this change of heart:

Reason #1: fish and Belgian chips (otherwise known as French fries)

Reason #2: Belgian beer

Reason #3: Belgian waffles

Other reasons came later in the evening when, after wandering the old town for a while, we went into Leonidas, the Belgian chocolate shop that my aunt had insisted we needed to visit. I exercised an extraordinary amount of self-control and limited myself to four dark chocolates in various flavors, and two macarons (caramel and litchee).

Those didn't last long enough for me to take a picture.

We hit a grocery store for breakfast supplies on the way back to our Airbnb, planning to make good use of our pint-sized kitchen while we had it.

After a yummy homemade breakfast the next morning (a combined effort of Evan's culinary skills and my talent for supervising), we were ready to tackle a walking tour of the city.

Our tour guide was brand-spanking-new (it was her first tour!), and she had lots of good recommendations for places to get food and beer, and, more importantly, chocolate and coffee.

Oh, and she also told us some cool facts about the history of Brussels and showed us the two famous fountains.  

Manneken Pis (all dressed up for Halloween?)

And his little sister!

And their dog (who isn't a fountain, just a statue).

After the tour, Evan and I made it our personal mission to visit all of the chocolate shops the tour guide had recommended, plus the coffee shop and the biscuit store she'd showed us.

Hello, Gorgeous.

A café eclaír from our new 2nd-favorite chocolate shop.

Mary Chocolatiers is the BEST, but I forgot to get a picture there.

This biscuit shop is actually older than the country of Belgium. Belgium was founded in 1830, and Maison Dandoy was established in 1829. 

Since we'd splurged on junk food, we decided that cooking dinner in our Airbnb was a fiscally responsible move. So we went to a grocery store, where we picked up a six-pack of Duvel (a Belgian beer), and some sprouts (they don't call them "Brussels sprouts" here).

For the next day, we'd planned a day trip to Bruges and Ghent. After an AMAZING walking tour in Bruges, though, we decided to pass on Ghent in favor of spending more time in Bruges.

Bruges was everything I'd hoped Brussels would be, just smaller. Old, picturesque buildings, cool shops and restaurants, with lots and lots of stories everywhere.

Our tour guide was fantastic, weaving tales from centuries before with more modern history. His enthusiasm as infectious, and I can honestly say that the "Legends of Bruges" tour has been, far and away, my favorite walking tour so far.

Some of my favorite tales from the tour included:
--Lace was invented in Bruges, by a lady who apparently got the idea in a dream, in which the Virgin Mary wove a spiderweb and placed it on her lap.
--The people of Bruges are sometimes called "the Irish of Belgium," because of their tendency to throw raucous parties, during which they drink with reckless abandon.
--The longest beer pipeline in the world is in Bruges, connecting De Halve Maan brewery with its bottling plant 3 kilometers away. Locals are waiting for the day that the pipeline bursts, pint glasses at the ready.
--The cathedral in Bruges used to have a golden dragon atop it, until one day, during a particularly wild party, the people of Ghent--jealous of Bruges's status as the favorite city of Maximilian II--swiped it. The golden dragon sits atop the cathedral in Ghent to this day.

After the tour, we went to a kitschy little café called I Love Coffee, where we grabbed a snack (and some coffee, of course). Rejuvenated, we wandered the streets of Bruges, in search of souvenirs and yummy food.

Did someone say waffles?

It was a little too cold for it, but we sat outside for dinner anyway. The local beer didn't do much to warm us up, but a huge pot of mussels did!

We caught a train back to Brussels not long after dinner, and I fell asleep on the ride, which gave me just enough energy to walk into our Airbnb and fall into bed. Evan and I spent our last morning in Belgium--where else?--at Leonidas, where we picked out enough dark chocolates to last us the bus ride to Amsterdam. And then some.

God, Belgian chocolate is good.

A Few Days in BK (That's Bad Kreuznach, Not Burger King)

Honestly, for the last week before I returned to my aunt's house, I was kind of counting down the days until I would be there. I had been traveling solo for almost a month at that point, moving to a new city (and often, a new country) every few days, and I was ready to be someplace familiar, with family rather than a new batch of strangers.

I was ready for a little break, a few days when I wouldn't feel obligated to wake up early, get out, and go do stuff every single day. A few days when I wouldn't have to decide whether to go out to dinner or figure out what to cook or to just skip eating altogether because it was just too expensive/too much effort.

I was tired of the same clothes that I'd been wearing for a month straight (most of which were black, chosen for ease of matching and so as not to show wear).

And I was ready to dump all of the heavy souvenirs that I'd been hauling around for the last few weeks.

It was strange, coming back to my aunt's house, though; when I'd left in September, it had still been summer. Now, it was most decidedly fall. No more leisurely evenings out on the balcony; we'd traded warmth for gorgeous colors on the trees and in the vineyards.

Aside from the seasonal changes, everything was comfortingly unchanged. It was nice to climb into a familiar bed and to pet familiar dogs and to use the same full-sized bottles of shampoo and conditioner as I had a month earlier.

It was nice to have a couple of lazy days, during which the most eventful thing that happened was scoring a pair of sneakers for less than €13.

And it was WONDERFUL to run again.

When packing my backpack for my month away from my aunt's house, I'd realized how little space 40 liters really is. At the last minute, I'd rashly decided to ditch my running shoes--they were so bulky, and I'd get exercise walking everywhere anyway--a decision that I came to seriously regret. I MISSED running.

Even though I've never been much of a city runner, every time I saw someone running through town, I'd get mad jealous. Or I'd e walking through a really nice park, like the English Gardens in Munich, and just want to go for a run.

So the first morning back at my aunt's house, I got up and went for a run. And man, I could not wipe the smile off of my face. Even after a month off, running felt GOOD. Apparently I'd walked enough to counterbalance the junk food and maintain some level of fitness.

On Monday, my plan was to work on my blog most of the day, and get all caught up before Evan arrived the next morning. Well, I did manage to get a bit of blogging done, but that all went out the window early that afternoon when there was a knock at the door and there Evan was!

There have been very few times in my life that I have felt as surprised as I did in that moment, so major props to Evan and my aunt for scheming behind my back for three weeks and managing to pull that off!

We love the bridge houses!

Suddenly, I got to reprise my role as tour guide (which you all know I have sorely missed) and show Evan around Bad Kreuznach in the rain. To escape the downpour, I also introduced him to that wonderful German tradition of afternoon coffee and cake.

YUM.

One of the things that Evan was most excited to see in Germany was castles, so the next day, we took a train along the Rhine to my favorite castle, Rheinfels.

We bought our tickets at the gate, from a guy who was just as excited about he fact that we got a student discount as we were. We spent hours exploring the ruins and being adventurous. 

Even though I'd been to the castle only a month earlier, Evan and I still managed to find parts of the ruins that I hadn't seen the last time, including several mining tunnels. I'm generally not a big fan of tunnels--something about enclosed underground spaces tends make me hyperventilate--but I was feeling brave that day. I was even game to try a very narrow tunnel--one that involved simultaneously ducking and climbing--until I came face-to-face with a big ol' spider. I was out of that tunnel so fast I practically bowled Evan over. 

We did a bit more exploring in the castle, now out in the more open bits, before wandering down through the town of St. Goar below the castle. There, Evan had his first real bratwurst.

One of my hobbies is taking unflattering pictures of people while they eat.

We enjoyed more authentic German food at dinner that night; my aunt had made Speisbraten, a roasted pork loin stuffed with onions, served with leeks and potatoes.

In the interest of stuffing Evan full of as much German food as possible, we had Zwiebelküchen (onion cake) and Federweißer (new wine) for lunch on Wednesday, in between bouts of packing. My aunt packed us some leftover-Speisbraten sandwiches for dinner, and Evan and I were off to Frankfurt, where we spent the night in a hostel before catching our bus to Brussels at 7:00am Thursday morning.

Even though I was "home" for almost a week, those days flew by...I couldn't believe that I was already leaving again! But at the same time, I was really excited to get to Brussels. 

After all, Belgium is where waffles come from.

The Most German Place in France

I arrived in Strasbourg not quite sure what to expect. (Of course, the same could be said for most of the places that I've been.) But Strasbourg is located in the Alsace region of France, which has flip-flopped between German and French posession over the last couple of centuries. It's been described as an interesting blend between the two cultures, and I wasn't entirely sure what that meant. I also wasn't really sure why I was in Strasbourg. I'd decided to come here based on a recommendation from my dad, who had visited in his youth. Sorry, his first youth. (There ya go, Daddy. We all know you're still a child.) Aside from that, I really had no particular reason for visiting, other than it kind of made sense as a pit stop on my roundabout way back to my aunt's house.

I knew exactly when my train crossed over the Germany-France border, because I suddenly couldn't understand any of the announcements on the train. It occurred to me, at that moment, that I should maybe have taken some time on the train to look up a few words and phrases in French. But too late now, I was here!

As is now a reflex upon arriving in a new city, I pulled up my navogation app as soon as I got off the train. I quickly realized that my Airbnb, though a short walk from the center of the Old Town, was quite a hike from the train station. Carrying a month's worth of souvenirs forty-five minutes through an unfamiliar town struck me as incredibly unappealing, so I decided to splurge for a tram ticket to get to my Airbnb. After over a month of traveling, I've gotten a lot better when it comes to figuring out public transportation. Not perfect, by any stretch of the imagination, but better. So I bought myself a tram ticket (luckily the ticket machine offered a choice of languages, including English) and hopped on the C Line. What should have been a five-minute walk from the tram stop to my new Airbnb ended up being a ten-minute walk because of one wrong turn and three stops to take a break from carrying all of my souvenirs.

My hostess arrived at her door about two minutes after I did, and showed me my room for the next few nights, which contained a double bed with about a foot of space on each side. Cozy, to say the least.

My hostess then left for the night, off on an overnight business trip, and I headed to the grocery store for a few perishables. I picked up some produce and eggs, plus some cookies (essential). I considered getting a bottle of wine as well, simply because it was so cheap (€2-€3 for almost any bottle in the store!). I'm not at all a wine drinker, but I'm a sucker for a bargain. In the end, I decided against it, for the sole reason that I know next to nothing about wine, and so didn't know what to choose. Indecision strikes again!

I went up to the checkout, echoed the cashier's "Bonsoir," and got ready to pay. But then the cashier said something in French and held out my bag of apples with an irritated look, and I froze. Clearly the "nod, smile, and point" technique wasn't going to work here. "I'm sorry, I don't speak French," I stammered, face flaming with shame at my own American arrogance. The cashier scowled and shook her head--she didn't speak English--and said something else in French, pointing behind me, towards the produce section.

I suddenly found myself in the middle of one of my worst social-anxiety nightmares: a long line of people, everyone annoyed and waiting on me, and I had not a clue what was going on or what to do.

Thankfully, a woman a few places behind me in line spoke a little English, and stepped up to inform me that I had to "get the kilograms of my apples" before coming to the checkout. I choked out a mortified "thank you," and weighed my produce as quickly as I could. The cashier glowered at me as I returned and meekly offered my credit card. I quickly shuffled, head down, out the door, where I broke into a run back to my Airbnb. At least the people staring at me now would think my face was red from exertion rather than shame and embarrassment.

From then on, I made sure that I started every interaction with: "Je ne parle Français...parlez vous Anglais?"

"I don't know how to speak French...do you know how to speak French?"

Once I was safely back in my Airbnb, I spent the rest of my first evening in France eating an entire package of chocolate-covered cookies and watching Netflix.

I should have just bought that wine. I really could have used it.

I got off to a bit of a late start the next morning, but I was ready to get out and explore Strasbourg, as long as I didn't encounter anyone who would require me to speak/understand French.

I know what you're thinking. That trying to avoid French while in France is not only a ridiculously stupid idea, but also impossible. But I had a plan: I would stick to the super-touristy spots in the city, where it's basically guaranteed that everyone speaks at least a little bit of English.

I headed toward the cathedral, the spire of which I could see from just outside my Airbnb. After a month and a half of exploring new cities, I've learned that, in most cases, the center of the Old Town in any given city will be pretty close to the tallest church tower in sight. I knew I was on the right track when the souvenir shops started popping up beside restaurants boasting menus in several languages. Sure enough, here was the cathedral, and there was the line of tourists waiting to see the view from the tower.

Not actually the cathedral. This is a different church.

I meandered through the streets of the old town for the next two hours, simultaneously getting orientated and procrastinating choosing a restaurant for lunch. I wasn't in a hurry to embarrass myself once again by failing to speak French.

I eventually returned to the cathedral square, opting to eat at one of the places that I typically abhor: a super-touristy restaurant, right on the main stretch, with a laminated menu in six different languages, boasting a variety of overpriced "local specialties" of dubious quality. But at least I knew that they spoke English.

I sipped my surprisingly-decent cappuccino as I studied the face of the cathedral. When my clearly-microwaved quiche Lorraine arrived, I switched to peoplewatching. I topped off the meal with a subpar salted caramel crêpe. I'm annoying myself with how much I sound like a food critic (apparently I've watched too many episodes of "Master Chef"), but I know that I really had no one to blame but myself for the not-so-tasty meal. I resolved to never let a language barrier intimidate me out of good food ever again.

The infamous crêpe.

Emboldened, I made my way back to Place Kléber, a wide, more modern square that I'd come across earlier that day. At the time, I'd spotted a small market, primarily vendors selling old books, vintage posters, and aged maps, but was turned off by the prospect of getting glared at by another native French speaker. But now, I went and flipped through every book, poster, and map that struck my fancy. The only thing that kept me from buying a couple of the old perfume ad posters was the price tags. (Okay, fine, the language barrier was still kind of scary, but mostly it was the price tags. "Vintage" stuff ain't cheap.)

I then wandered in the general direction of my Airbnb, with the intention of finding a nice bench upon which I could sit and enjoy the last of the day's sunshine while working on my blog.

I resisted the temptation to peoplewatch, and immersed myself in memories of Switzerland as I tapped away at my phone. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an older man, clearly a local, approaching my bench. Immediately, I was uneasy. There were literally dozens of empty benches all around the square, and he was walking purposefully towards mine. Maybe he was going to ask for a lighter for his cigarette; it had happened before. But, no, he plopped himself right down next to me, and said something in French, that obviously I didn't understand. I said as much, and he switched to English, asking where I was from, how long was I in Strasbourg, and telling me I had such a pretty face, I should be a model. Yup, my instincts were right. I was out of there.

I was entirely too skeezed out to continue working on my blog, so I stuck to walking through the busy, touristy lanes until all that was left was relief that I had trusted my gut and gotten out of there safely. I picked up some Chinese food for dinner and headed back to the safe haven that was my Airbnb to eat and write.

I was unimpressed by the French version of Chinese food--I missed my American interpretation of Asian cuisine--and was feeling rather disenchanted with France after my first day in Strasbourg.

But I got up the next morning, game to give Strasbourg another chance. I headed out a bit earlier than the day before, not really sure where I was headed. I was planning to go on one of those glass-topped boat tours around the city later, switching it from all the walking tours, but in the meantime, I just started walking. I came across a good-sized farmers' market, and bought all the makings for a picnic lunch, including some of the yummiest carrots that I've ever eaten. I also got a flammbaguette, a perfect fusion of the German Flammkuchen and a French baguette. Now this was the kind of thing that I'd been hoping for from Strasbourg. Yum.

After lunch, I went on my boat tour. It was nice, cruising along the river, and I got to see some parts of the city that I hadn't made it to when walking around, like the European Parliament building. The tour was a nice change from the walking tours, but it was all prerecorded, and it just played through headphones as we went along, so it was missing the personal effect that I love getting from the walking tours. Nonetheless, it was a nice way to spend my afternoon.

Back at my Airbnb, I cooked pasta for dinner, then set about figuring out the logistics of my day trip to Colmar the next day.

In spite of all my planning, the morning got off to a rough start. I'd planned to get a 24-hour pass for the tram, which would get me to and from the train station that day, as well as the next morning. But my credit card got rejected by the ticket machine for no particular reason, and of course I didn't have enough coins for the machine, which didn't accept bills. So I ended up running the 2.3 kilometers to the station to catch my train to Colmar.

Colmar had been recommended to me by a friend who'd visited it on her trip to France a couple of years ago. Colmar is a small city (or maybe a large town), known for its super-cute small town, which features a canal. It's one of several towns in Europe that boasts of the nickname "Little Venice."

Look how stinking cute this place is!

I had a wonderfully relaxing day, just poking around the shops, sampling whatever foods struck my fancy, including a pain au chocolat and a ginormous meringue. My "Je ne parle Français" got quite a workout, as schoolkids apparently on a scavenger hunt during a field trip, kept approaching me, presumably to ask where something was.

I don't know what this building is...lemme take a picture in front of it!

All in all, a good day. Things started to quiet down as the shops began to close shortly after sunset, so I found a nice bench for peoplewatching to kill the hour until my train back to Strasbourg. I'd only been there a few minutes, when a guy who looked to be a little bit older than me came up to my bench. After the creepy guy the other day, I was wary, but this guy was actually asking for a lighter for his cigarette. I once again went with my gut, and said okay when he asked if he could join me on the bench. And I am so glad I did.

We ended up having one of those incredible philosophical discussions, the kind that you can only have in the evening, over a couple cans of beer like the ones he generously offered to share.

I was genuinely sorry when I had to leave to catch my train; it had been one of those amazing travel experiences that I'd dreamed of having ever since I started planning my trip over seven years ago. My last night in France (for now) had definitely ended on a high note. 

The Other Freiburg

No, not Fribourg/Freiburg in Switzerland. I got the heck out of that country before it could steal any more of my money. This Freiburg is in Germany.

After my rather stressful stay in Switzerland, I was ready for a much-needed weekend of relaxing. I was a bit nervous upon arriving in Freiburg, however. I would be staying in an Airbnb for the first time.

For those of you who don't know, Airbnb is a website that connects travelers with hosts all over the world. You pay a (usually pretty reasonable) fee to stay in their home, sometimes in a spare room, sometimes on their couch. I figured it would be a nice change from staying in hostels; I'd only have to share a bathroom with one or two people, rather than five or more. And I was interested to observe real Europeans in their natural habitats.

But on the other hand, in spite of all the great reviews for the Airbnb that I'd booked, I was anxious about staying with total strangers, in their home, in a foreign country. At least I knew my hosts spoke English.

My train pulled in to the Freiburg Hauptbahnhof on Friday afternoon, and I clambered off, my movement somewhat impaired by the weight of all of my souvenirs. I shifted the straps of one of my bags to the crook of my elbow, and then used my little T-Rex arm to fish out my phone and pull up my navigation app. The 25-minute walk looked pretty straightforward...until I was about 100 meters down the road and two minutes had been added to my arrival time to compensate for my sluggish pace.

Forty minutes later, sweaty and panting even in the crisp Fall air, I arrived at the address for my Airbnb and pressed the buzzer. The answering voice told me to come up to the 2nd floor, then buzzed me in. I groaned, remembering that in Europe, "2nd floor" means "climb two flights of stairs, not just one like you would to get to the second floor in America," and heaved the door open.

One of my hosts, a friendly-looking guy about my age, held the apartment door open, and encouraged me and all my stuff up the last flight of stairs. He showed me to what would be my room for the next three nights. I dropped my belongings to the floor, with a whispered "sorry" to the people below for the thump, and looked around. I was relieved to find that the room looked exactly as pleasant as it had in the pictures online.

I was even more relieved to discover that my hosts were pretty cool people. The guy invited me to join him and his friends for lunch in the dining hall at his university, where each of us got a huge plate of some pretty delicious tortellini, plus a salad, for €2.50. That was exactly what I needed to recover from all the expense of Switzerland.

I was seriously impressed by how well my host and his friends spoke English. (I also really appreciated it, because, as much as I want to learn German, I wouldn't have enjoyed the conversation nearly as much if that had been the language we used.) It turned out that all three of them--as well as my other host that I had yet to meet--were studying teaching at the university. It was pretty cool hearing about how the process of becoming a teacher works in Germany: it takes a total of seven years (five at university, and two interning) to become a teacher in Germany.

We also talked about the differences between going to college in the States and going to university in Germany. It typically takes longer to get a degree in Germany, but it's hecka decka cheaper there: compared to the thousands (or even tens of thousands) of dollars students pay per semester in the US, German students pay maybe €200 in fees per semester. The fall semester also starts later in Germany; the first day of classes was the day that I left Freiburg, October 17th. There's also more breaks during the school year, and competitive college-level sports aren't a thing (which, honestly, probably accounts for most of the difference in pricing).

My host, his friends and I also grabbed coffee at the library before parting ways. There, we talked about differences in another aspect of college life. The other way of saying that is that we compared notes on the drinking cultures in our respective countries.

My host then gave me directions to bike to the Altstadt (the old town). Yep, you read that right. I was getting back on the bike (both literally and metaphorically) and giving city biking another go. Luckily, Freiburg is a much smaller city than Frankfurt, so I wasn't on the bike for too long when getting from place to place. And there were fewer pedestrians and cars for me to potentially hit.

I wandered around the Altstadt for most of the afternoon, just taking it all in. I also popped into quite a few shops, just reveling in how cheap everything was, compared to Switzerland. I decided to treat myself to ice cream--only 80 cents a scoop!--at the Münsterplatz (the main square in the old town, where the cathedral stands). It was then, as I gazed up at the gothic spires, slurping at my ice cream cone that the unthinkable happened.

My ice cream cone broke.

As if in slow motion, I saw the top half of the cone, holding one scoop of dark chocolate and one scoop of raspberry, tumbling toward the cobblestones. Reflexively, my left hand shot out, and miraculously--blessedly, even--managed to snag the ice cream before it hit the ground. As I placed the ice cream safely back on the cone and set about licking the chocolate off of my fingers, I noticed a German guy watching me. He looked both amused and mildly impressed, and called across the square something that sounded congratulatory. I smiled, nodded, and went on my way.

That's right, the worst thing that happened on my first day out of Switzerland was that I almost--almost!--dropped my ice cream. It was good to be back in Germany.

I wandered until it began to rain, then swung by a grocery store on my way back to my Airbnb for the evening. I finally met my other host, a girl about my age who played handball, and was very interested to hear about the strange handball-like sport that I played. (If you're sitting there wondering what that sport might be, go to YouTube and search "Kronum" right now, and don't come back until you've watched at least three videos.)

I set about cooking pasta for dinner, glad to discover that my cooking skills weren't too rusty from the recent lack of use, and called it a night not too much later.

I started the next day early, eager to take advantage of the beautiful Fall weather while it lasted. I biked towards the old town, soaking in the fall colors and the cool architecture on the way. I parked my bike and went a-wandering again, stumbling upon the market at the Münsterplatz. And, oh did that make my heart happy.

One of the main reasons that I wanted to come to Freiburg was that I remembered visiting the city with my family the last time that we were in Germany. And one of my most vivid memories from that visit was the market. I still have the clay bird whistle and olive wood ring from the last time we visited Freiburg, eight or nine years ago.

At this market, there are dozens of meat vendors, fruit and vegetable sellers, and craftsmen and craftswomen selling everything from intricate floral wreaths to olive wood salad tongs to beeswax candles to painted ceramic toothbrush holders. I took about three laps around the whole market, scoping out the wares, before realizing I had nothing smaller than a 50-Euro bill on me. So I had to hit the ATM before I bought a woven basket, a patterned fabric hair and, two bars of honey-and-floral soap, a jar of Waldhonig (honey from the Black Forest), a silver and mother-of-pearl ring, a bratwurst, and a glass of Federweisser (new wine). I parked myself on the edge of the fountain to peoplewatch while I ate my bratwurst and drank my Federweisser.

I meandered away from the market, up and down streets that I'd somehow missed the day before. I realized, as I swapped my new basket full of souvenirs from one hand to the other, that I wasn't really sticking to my resolution of "no more big souvenirs." *sigh* It was going to be one long walk to the train station on Monday.

To distract myself from that disheartening realization, I found a sunny table outside of a café and treated myself to a cappuccino and a piece of apple cake. I then biked back to my AirBnb to drop off my souvenirs and unwind for a bit before going out in search of dinner. I'd resolved to go out that night after my absurdly early bedtime the night before.

So, after Skyping with my parents for an hour, I biked back into town. As it got dark, I wandered into the student-heavy part of town, hoping to find a good place for dinner, and maybe someone to talk to over dinner. I've gotten used to eating alone, even in restaurants, but solo meals simply aren't as much fun as eating with someone else.

After about forty-five minutes of walking around, I still hadn't settled on a place. Hangriness was setting in, and I had no one to blame but my indecisive self, a thought that didn't do much to improve my mood. I finally settled on a restaurant that I'd passed by thirty minutes prior, having dismissed it because I wasn't in the mood for burgers. But by this point, some American-style food actually sounded pretty dang good. So I ordered a Farmer's burger from the snooty waitress--my attempts to speak German apparently irritated her--and watched the students as they passed by, beers in hand, presumably headed for a fun evening out.

After devouring my burger and fries, I leisurely biked through the quiet residential streets back to my Airbnb. I'd transitioned quickly from "hangry" to "in a food coma," and my resolve to have a night out on the town had vanished with the last of my curly fries. At least I'd stayed awake until 10:00 pm this time.

I woke up almost twelve hours later.

Chalking it up to still recovering from Switzerland, I made myself a late breakfast while I chatted with my host. He didn't have any plans for another couple of hours, so he offered to show me to the hiking trail with a view over the city. It was nice to get out in nature again, and it was nice to have some company as well. And the view over Freiburg as pretty great.

After my host headed off to meet up with some friends, I biked to the complete opposite side of town to do some more hiking; once I'd had a taste of the outdoors that morning, I knew what I wanted to do for the rest of the day. I biked on the paths around the Waldseepark for a while, then hopped off to sit by a peaceful little duck pond for a while.

I biked back into the city, parked myself at a sidewalk café, and spent the rest of the afternoon leisurely drinking several cappuccinos and sampling a variety of cakes. I'd earned it after all of the hiking and biking.

For my last evening in Freiburg, I played board games with my hosts. We played two games I'd never heard of before: Ligretto and Carcasonne. The first is a card game that involves quickly stacking cards in numerical order to empty your hand; I lost spectacularly. The second game is a somewhat complicated strategy game, centered on castle-building (named for the famous walled city of Carcasonne, France). Not only did I come out on top, I also scored a day trip idea for when I'm in France.

My train the next day didn't leave until 1:00pm, so I killed some time by grabbing coffee (and a pastry, of course!) while I wrote a postcard. I then realized--with the help of Google--that the only post office that didn't close for lunch, making it the only post office from which I could mail my postcard before I caught my train, was on the other side of town. So I once again clambered onto my bike. One twenty-minute ride later, I was standing at the end of a line that stretched out the door. Twenty minutes later, I still had yet to purchase my 90-cent stamp, and I was starting to worry about making my train. But then a blessedly-efficient postal worker came in from her lunch break, and I was out of there less than a minute later.

The next forty-five minutes involved racing via bike back to my Airbnb, scurrying to stuff my ridiculous amount of stuff into my bags, and trekking like a pack mule to the train station. I collapsed into my seat on the train, sweating profusely, and hoped the hike from the train station in Strasbourg to my Airbnb there would be shorter.