Fraluxemrier

After last weekend, when Kate and I successfully crossed the Finnish line, we felt like we needed a little break from traveling. But because we still wanted to take advantage of the three-day weekend Uncle Sam mandated, we decided to drive to some highly acclaimed places near us that we hadn’t been to yet: Lorraine, Luxembourg, and Trier.

Lorraine
We left Wiesbaden around 11 a.m. – three hours later than “planned” because we were glued watching Ashton Kutcher’s surprisingly good show “Beauty and the Geek.”

Our first stop was Nancy, the former capital of this formerly German territory, and only about two and a half hours away by car. The only reason we stopped here was to see Place Stanislas, a huge pedestrianized square in the center of the city that is as sissy as the name of the town itself. It had gilded wrought iron gates entering the square, gilded lanterns, gilded fountains, and other opulence that echoed Versailles.

As you can see, it was sunny. Luckily for us, this part of Europe shed its Cirrus Maximus earlier than usual this year, meaning we’ve had some brilliantly sunny days these past few weeks. Unluckily for us, it meant you’d be walking in this square, taking in the beautiful examples of mid-18th-century architecture, and be temporarily blinded by a sudden ray of sun. (For Pecos, it seems the wind was more of a problem).

Next was Metz, a half-hour back toward Wiesbaden and home to one of the biggest flea markets in Europe. We skipped the flea market. Not our thing. Instead we headed for the green parts of the map because we had Pecos with us and knew he would enjoy chasing swans and children alike. And that he did.
Metz we loved. It had a languid waterway that was more stream than river pacing through the center. It had a large grassy park on either side of said stream, complete with drunk French youths tackling each other in a very sissy way and rollerbladers narrowly missing small children. It had an adorable and yet enormous maze of pedestrian streets. And it had two beautiful churches.

Here’s the main church, Cathedral St. Etienne in Metz. And here’s my favorite: some church whose name we couldn’t figure out on the island in the center of town. Beautimous! We followed up our walk with a hearty French meal. Savory crepes for dinner. Sweet crepes for dessert. What a country!

The next day was Pecos’s fifth birthday. And what would Pecos like more on his birthday than to see Luxembourg and Trier?

Luxembourg

An hour’s drive north brought us to the capital city of yet another country Pecos has been to (making 11 in total now). Luxembourg I think is cool because it’s the last remaining Grand Duchy in the world, they speak another language there (Heck, the place is called Lëtzebuerg in that language) and they have the highest GDP per capita in the world.

Kate thought it was cool because it was easy to people watch from the numerous delightful cafés as well as amble through the narrow, cobblestone streets and not worry about losing your way (because it’s a very manageable size for a city).
She also like watching the changing of the guard outside the Duke’s residence.

Pecos thought it was fun because they had sticks.

But he also thought it was a little chilly.
Trier

Last up was Trier: the oldest city in Germany.

Trier was everything we thought a European city should be. It was old. It was compact. It had many fantastic churches. It had old ruins (the Porta Nigra, so called because of the darkness of the stone, is one of the most famous Roman ruins outside of Italy). It had a river running through it (the Moselle, the same streamy river that runs through Metz). It was surrounded by steep, wooded and vineyard-covered slopes. And it was walking friendly – as noted by the wide pedestrian areas dotted with French fry and ice cream shops.

The sights that interested us most were a large stone cross erected over a thousand years ago – and still standing.
The Dreikönigenhaus, a nobleman's town residence dating from 1230, whose original entrance was so high it could only be reached by a retractable ladder that could easily be removed when trouble arouse.

And, of course, the Porta Nigra, which Pecos found a little boring.
After a kebap and a walk around the city, we drove the serpentine roads along the Moselle River for an hour, admiring the innumerable vineyards and counting down the days until I could sip wine again (it’s still only February!).

Finland: The land of ice and snow (and smelly dogs)

The Arctic Circle was certainly a winter wonderland and has to be one of the best places Kate and I have visited since moving to Europe. And the trip made a wonderful birthday present, Kate said.

First off, however, we didn’t see any northern lights. Although this was ostensibly the purpose of our icy, mid-February jaunt to the Arctic Circle – scheduled during a new moon to minimize extraneous light that would distract from Nature’s polar masterpiece – we had a fine time anyway taking in the northern sights.

It was overcast the whole time we were there, which kept the temperatures cold enough to snow every day (and warrant the long underwear we each wore), but temperate enough to make walking around the wintry wonderland painless.

We started with a flight to Tampere in southern Finland, where we whiled away the dark afternoon and early evening hours taking note of the friendly American fascination the Fins have.

Seriously, the first few signs we thought were coincidental (and flattering), but now it was just getting silly.

And racist.
Finally, it was time for our overnight train on the Polar Express to Rovaniemi, the capital of Lapland and birthplace of winter itself.

The train’s form-follows-function features like a sink tucked behind a bubbly wall in our sleeping cabin and a sleek motherboard control for temperature, music, lights, and an alarm clock were Ikea-like and very Scandinavian – and impressed the bejesus out of Kate and I, who would probably have been satisfied with a dusty pillow and a broom closet.

We awoke to darkness the next morning (at this Arctic latitude, we only averaged about seven hours of light per day), but when the train stopped we practically ran out, overjoyed to get outside and hike the five kilometers to our lodge. The air was fresh and frosty and the walk through the town, over the frozen river, and into the quiet woods where our lodge lied reminded me of snow days as a kid when my dog and I would play on the ice and galumph through the snowy woods. It was a winter paradise.

Our lodge was actually a duplex cabin and had all the amenities Nanook could ever want – a stove, fridge, coffee pot, and most Finnish of all, a sauna. I was super excited about the sauna, not because I’d ever really enjoyed one before, but because it would typify a true Finnish experience.

But there was no time for that this morning, as Kate and I were about to go dog sledding.

God, this was fun. It wasn’t the speedy doggy express I’d pictured. (Perhaps I watched Balto too many times.) It was more like the local trains, which was fine with us because it gave us more time to enjoy the scenery (Side note: Do you think Tiger Woods calls the wilderness in the arctic the “taiga woods”? Another side note: If this doesn’t mean anything to you, google “taiga”).

Anyway, as you’d expect, it started with an excited husky howl, which I embarrassingly took part in.


And here’s what the actual adventure looked like. Dog butts. Lots of dog butts. And me, again embarrassingly, baying to the call of the wild.

Eat your heart out Cuba Gooding Jr.!

The two-hour trek through husky utopia wasn’t just woods, though. We cut across a frozen lake and got into an accident with the sledge in front of here. Here’s a video of that happening, in which you can tell I’m not paying attention to anything but these gorgeous creatures when Kate says “You gotta go, honey.” So I turn around, yell Mush! and only then realized that the sledge in front of us hasn’t moved an iota. (Kate apparently saw the first sledge go and assumed the second sledge would go too).

Our calamitous adventure also involved our dogs running quickly over a large divot, which caused Kate, who was driving then….I’m just saying….to lose control, allow our sledge to pinball against the wooded sides of our path, and fall off. With no driver, the sledge (and me in it) tipped over. I obviously fell out and wound up behind Kate, who was running at full speed to catch up with six energetic dogs…who, by the way, were speeding along at three times their normal speed because they’d just lost 300 pounds of dead weight.

Anyway, we caught up, righted the sledge, and laughed about it for a good 10 minutes.

Back at the dog farm, we thanked our dogs for a good run and had some time left over to play with some adorably bitey puppies.


Then it was sauna time, when I think I broke a heat endurance record, staying in the sauna until it hit 88 degrees CELSIUS. That’s 190.4 degrees Fahrenheit, people. It took 45 minutes to get that high, which I’m pretty sure is about 30 minutes too long in any sauna, let alone one that can almost boil water. But I made myself proud (and no doubt dumber if excessive heat kills braincells).

The next day we slept in (I had a heat hangover I guess) and slowly made our way to the North Pole…sort of.
Santa’s Village, an over-commercialized complex complete with annoying South of the Border-type billboards, is home to Mr. Santa Claus himself – and apparently it’s where all letters labeled “Santa Claus, North Pole” go.

Since it is billed as the top destination in all of Finland and was only five kilometers from our lodge, we figured, what the hey. I’d like to meet the fat man.

It wasn’t like we expected. There were no happy elves, candy canes, and smiling people anywhere. We had to sign a form and swear under oath not to use our camera (Santa is copyrighted). Then we passed through a set of larger-than-life double doors only to find a dimly lit fun house filled with creaky and creepy stairs, dark scary turns, and sudden booms and bangs that would frighten the dickens out of grown men, let alone little kiddies to whom Santa is an icon.

Kate thinks it was the center of the earth (apparently Santa goes all around the world very quickly by controlling the earth’s rotation from the center of the earth). I think the Finns see Santa as a charitable hermit who happens to have some Elvin engineers who designed a way to control the earth’s rotation from an isolated and scary shack in Finland. Either way, we have no pictures; so you’ll have to go and see for yourselves.

Then, we met the fat man himself. It was weird. He asked us where we worked. How we liked living abroad. What Kate was studying. That’s not Santa, I thought. Santa shouldn’t care about those things. It reminded me of our friend Bob who one time dressed up as Santa here in Wiesbaden and had a little girl tell him that she moved here from Denver. “Interesting,” Bob (dressed as Santa, mind you) said. “I have a daughter in Denver.” I’m sure that creeped the kid out for life.

During the rest of our time at the Arctic Circle we bought some reindeer meat, sent Pecos a postcard, and slid down an ice slide.

That night, we bided our time in the city of Rovaniemi, ate at an all-you-can-eat pizza place, and played in a few fun igloos.

Then, finally, we headed back to the train station where we caught an overnight train to Tampere. What a train it was!

And that was it. We caught our flight from Tampere the next day and reminisced abour our amazing adventure – definitely one of the best we’ve been on.

Fasching in Wiesbaden ... again ... and some hiking ... again

For the second year in a row, Kate and I decided to take the lazy route to Karneval this year and walk down our street until we got to Wiesbaden's main event in this "fifth season," as the German's like to call it: a Fasching parade.

Karneval, Fashing, Fastnacht, Fassenach, Mardi Gras - this ancient Pagan/Christian welcome to spring is called many things around the world. And here in Germany each town celebrates it a little differently, each with their own "local" emphasis. In Munich they have doughnuts everywhere, for instance. In Cologne they have a famous processional called the "Zoch." Here they just yell "Helau!" (hello) and get dressed up in clown outfits.

I called ourselves lazy because, although we could see masks, dancing, and parades anywhere, apparently the New Orleans equivalent of German Fasching parades are in Cologne (about an hour away) and in Mainz (about 15 minutes away). Plus, there's always the wine region parades in the small towns near us, where instead of showering candy upon parade watchers, each float fills up your cup with local wine. But no. We're lazy. And we thought watching a marathon four-hour parade was work enough, thank you very much. Especially catching all that candy, shampoo, paper, bath gel, and, uh, window sill sitter trinkets.

As you can see, at least we dressed up.

Kate deemed our Arab outfits as semi-offensive. I said semi-offensive would be to have drawn unibrows on both of us. Offensive would have involved wires sticking out of my shirt and a high-pitched la-la-la-la-la.

Also, Kate and I went on a hike in the woods near us last weekend and took lots of pictures of Pecos trouncing in the mud and climbing altitudinally-gifted rocks.

And then getting scared.

Barcelona (pronounced Barthalona)

We hadn’t read much about the city before leaving, but thankfully we didn’t need to. The city offers surprisingly few tourist attractions: a charming pedestrian zone with creepy street performers, gads of art nouveau architecture (called “Moderismé”), a Picasso museum, and a shiny day star called the sun (unknown in Germany).
But its lack of “must-sees” didn’t damper our days, as we spent our “in-between-sights” time enjoying much-needed 60-degrees-and-sunny weather, the labyrinthine medieval gothic quarter, and delicious grub.

I’ve been to this Catalan capital before, but neither Kate nor Josh had had the opportunity – nay the delectable privilege – to sample its paella, sangria, and Serrano ham. So after arriving, unloading our packs, and energizing ourselves with a buttery pastry (I went for the pound-and-a-half cream danish), we cheerfully set out to discover the sights and tastes of this Mediterranean metropolis … and get lost doing so.

Before el lunchos, we walked around a bit and saw the scary performers on the pedestrian street (called Las Ramblas, which is Arabic for “the place with scary street performers”) and the Columbus monument, which we determined had Señor Colón pointing south.
Luckily, our eventual eatery had Serrano ham – so Kate and I indulged. Unluckily, the pepper top was screwed on by a two-year-old who’d just eaten French fries, so my bite of ham had a bit of bite for me.
Afterward we walked to an unfinished Moderismé church called Sagrada Familia and saw architect Antoni Gaudi’s fascinating Ninth Symphony equivalent. Here are a few pics.

Although Kate and I both liked the place, Josh seemed a little scared.
Anyway, it had a playful mix of styles that all reflected nature in some way (spires shaped like grapes, columns made to look like chestnut trees, honey-comb-like decorations), and is well worth the time and money. AND it made me hungry for churros. (Pronounced “¡¡¡¡CHURROS!!!!” because we’re always way too happy and excited when it’s time to eat them.)

After the churros (¡¡¡¡CHURROS!!!!), an hour spent watching college-aged jugglers in a park, a quick nap, and a rapid ramble around the Barri Gothic (which we loved) we were back out for more food, sampling tasty tapas and palatable paella. The next day started with a jaunt by the Cathedral La Seu – which employs a gaggle of geese as night watchmen – and a sunny daydream on the steps of some other nondescript church that tourists kept taking pictures of. Either that or they thought the homeless guy sleeping behind Kate and Josh in this picture was the second coming of Gallagher. That was followed by watching a crowd of surprisingly alive folks doing an ancient Catalan back-and-forth shuffly waddle “dance” to Mediterranean-style music.
Then, the last thing on our list of must-sees was the Picasso museum, which had a lot of his earlier (read: not drug-induced) work, in which the Spaniard actually paints pretty well. I’m always relieved by evidence that modern artists actually have talent, as it makes it less tempting for me to pay a four-year-old to paint the next “it” painting.

Afterward we rambled and ambled through the sun-drenched, palm-laden, lake-centered park, watching men with no rowing experience unwittingly paddle their families in circles. What fun! (First picture)

We then watched the jugglers again while working on our tans. Somewhere between the lake and the jugglers my belly growled for churros (¡¡¡¡CHURROS!!!!), but I knew I had to contain myself….for tonight was the Pièce de résistance of our trip: Spanish game food at a real, honest-to-goodness European Futbol match.

Josh had purchased soccer tickets for all three of us to see FC Barcelona trounce underdog Santander Sunday night and I could tell he was excited. He wanted action. He wanted crazy European hooliganism. I wanted flan.
So we got there and everyone was excited. Josh was eager to see how close our seats were to the pitch and Kate and I were eager to read the food stand menus. Paella perhaps? Got any Gambas? Fancy a flan?

On a good note, Barcelona won, 1-0. On a sad note, I’m sorry to say they didn’t offer flan at the soccer match (only a sports-a-phobe like me would actually think such a nonsensical victual would be offered at a sporting event.). But despite the flan-less-ness of the trip, we liked Barcelona.

It was a relaxingly simple getaway filled with sun, fun, and a Mediterranean feel. And of course churros (¡¡¡¡CHURROS!!!!).

Pecos munching on the Sasquatch of squash

During a hike near us last weekend we came upon this mammoth squash (among others), which Pecos just went bananas for, without any goading from us. This perspective doesn't show the squashes true size, though. Here's a picture to illustrate.

House Resolution #2008

So far, so good. Sort of.
Without much forethought, I made a New Year’s resolution this year to only drink water. No soda. No juice. No coffee. No alcohol. Just water.

The draconian denial is pretty typical for me, who arbitrarily makes ascetic resolutions to deny myself from what I view as unnecessary indulgences. In high school, for instance, I gave up hot showers for about two and a half weeks (which probably ended up being a defensive measure). And in college I wanted to see how little I could eat and still get by – both because I viewed our society’s waste as an excessive misuse of inherently the most valuable thing in our lives and because it would save money.

Although I now take hot showers and bust at the seams after a good Chinese buffet, I still don’t like indulging myself too much. I dislike the beach because it makes me feel lazy and I’d much rather read non-fiction because I think it’s a more productive use of time. (And my showers are short and my meat intake is measly).

But back to my point. Even though I’m doing relatively well with my resolution (I’ve decided to drink coffee on weekends but other than that am sticking to it), I know I’ll probably end up struggling and caving in. And that’s OK because I know I’ll learn a little something about myself and will feel proud of my ability to deny myself.

It’s not like I haven’t caved in before. In 2006 I didn’t want to burp out loud for a whole year and in 2007 I wanted to read the bible the whole way through. Failed both of those.

But I’ve also kept some resolutions, including stopping biting my nails and learning more about Judaism.

According to google, only 8 percent of Americans successfully achieve their New Year's resolutions, with 45 percent failing by the end of January. At least I’m doing better than that.

New Year's at the Capital of Europe (aka Capital of Terror)

I think some random American dude summed it up best. Just after midnight on New Years, Jay, Linda, Kate, and I were walking out of Brussels’s Grand Place – the crowded Belgian equivalent of Times Square – and Linda was earnestly asked by a fellow celebrating American: “Was that it?”

Indeed, it was.

Here’s a video of the uneventful occasion, in which Kate doesn’t even know we’d entered 2008.

The reason was that frightened Belgian officials put Brussels on a ‘maximum’ terror alert and canceled all official New Years’ Eve celebrations – including fireworks, music, and a lightshow – because of intelligence about a potential terrorist strike in the capital
http://www.iht.com/articles/2007/12/30/europe/brussels.php But letdown or not, we all still managed to have a good time in this, the birthplace of Godiva chocolate, French fries (yes, according to legend they’re Belgian, not French), and pissing boy statues. Our first stop on our typically swift exploit was Mini-Europe, a park housing 350 of “the most attractive monuments in the European Union” at a scale of 1:25. It was, in a word, monumental!

As if Europe wasn’t small enough….

Actually, we all really enjoyed it – it was like condensed traveling. Kate especially liked it, which is no surprise considering she would drown herself in miniatures if given the chance. (Good thing no one has created mini water). And it was bolstered by live action models of trains, helicopters, and Mount Vesuvius erupting (which made me have to use the poopoo lounge).

Here’s my dad and I revisiting a regrettable escapade in France we had almost seven years ago.

And here’s Bruges, which happened to be our next stop of the day.

Bruges is a well-preserved (almost pickled) Gothic city in the Flemish (cough cough) part of this low country. Many friends have said the city is an absolute joy – it has the canals of Venice, they’d say, the bikes of Amsterdam, the quaintness of Rothenburg, the French fries of, well, Belgium, ad naseum.

Well, they forgot THE TOURISTS OF ALL THOSE PLACES COMBINED. Maybe it was just that this small wonder has all the acclaim at 1/4 the size; but we managed to squeeze a couple photos off before being engulfed. We also managed to gobble some fries doused in mayo – a traditional specialty in this part of the globe.

We sought amnesty in the relatively peaceful “Capital of Europe,” Brussels, the Washington D.C. of Europa, where both EU and NATO officials call home.

Our first stop here was the Grand Place (or Grote Markt in Flemish) an enchanting old-world square in the center of town. Dinner was mussels (in Brussels, of course), a dish called stoump, one of the many famous beers that this country is so renowned for, and, of course, more French fries to gorge on.


We also saw this fantabulous light show.


The next day (New Year’s Eve) all four of us got out for a couple hours of some good old fashioned staring. As very visual creatures, we stared at the “probably good” signs adorning local waffle shops, we stared at a lazy rat at a park, we stared at scantily clad child mannequins in store windows, we stared at passersby who thought they looked fashionable (scoff!), and we stared for quite some time at this unusual merry-go-round.

Our pre-midnight celebration ended with a paella dinner (not actually from Belgium) and two local dishes from Belgium – waterzooi (chicken) and carbonnades (beef) – accompanied with heaping portions of, you guessed it, French fries.

After the midnight misfortune, we went back to our hotel, stayed up late drinking champagne, eating chocolate, and comparing previous New Year’s celebrations we’ve experienced. (Some better, some worse, none with more trans-fatty acids).

Thank you Jay and Linda for a wonderful but ill-timed trip to Belgium. Next time we’ll devise a backup plan. Here's me trying to conjure one up. Or maybe it was the gas from Vesuvius.