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.