Yeah well... so's your mother.

_{The crowded fountain in the apartment courtyard}

I suspect there are few places in the world better for people-watching than Los Angeles. The city is renowned for attracting the odd, off-kilter, and bizarre.

One of these is my landlord.

Our landlord was German who spend part of his early life not far from Strasbourg (he was the son of a factory manager posted to Lorraine in 1940, until the family suddenly had to leave in 1944. “We were refugees from the West,” he told us, seemingly expecting sympathy. No comment.) He now owns our building and at least one other in our neighbourhood, as well as a mysterious “business” in Chile.

He is rich as Croesus, and owns at least three identical Mercedes Benz (white, black and red). He wears a cowboy hat at all times, as well as a Bolero tie fashioned from some kind of animal horn. He wears two $15,000 watches, one on each arm – one is set to German time, the other to local time.

As a landlord, he’s not bad – the place is well maintained, and most of the initial problems we had moving in were dealt with expeditiously. Nonetheless, I am plotting against him.

Why? Well, the day we viewed the apartment, after chatting about eastern France (and glossing over what, precisely, his father’s affiliations were that earned him, at age 28, the strategically important position of manager of a steel mill in occupied territory during wartime), he asked where in Canada we were from. I told him Halifax.

“Oh, Halifax, I have been there!” he said.

“Great! Were you on vacation?” I asked, expecting polite noises about my hometown’s many charms.

“No, no. My friend was visiting, and he had a heart attack. I went there to visit him in the hospital,” he said.

“Oh, that’s too bad…” I began, but he interrupted me.

“Let me tell you something about Halifax. I’ve been to many countries all over the world…” he began. I began a smile, expecting that he would finish “and the people in Nova Scotia were by far the friendliest!”

Nope.

“… and the women in Halifax were the ugliest I’d ever seen. Really. The portrait of the Queen in the hospital was the best looking one I saw the whole time I was there.”

Now, Dear Readers, I would like to be able to report that at this point I drew myself up to my full height and launched into a furious defense of the womenfolk of my home province. But understand: we had not yet signed the lease. I had no home, Amynah really wanted the apartment, and this Stetson-wearing pseudo-cowboy held the key to my future comfort.

“Oh, well…” I smiled weakly, “I guess you were unlucky then.”

Forgive me. Though in my defense, I'm considering hiding a dead fish in one of his lovely cars.

A day at the beach. Well, an hour.

Venice beach and the beach of Santa Monica are relatively close to our new home, and so on Sunday we decided to take a trip to the seaside. Unfortunately, we left it far too late, arriving at the seaside at close to 4 PM. Even though that’s pretty late in the day for beach going, the roads around Venice Beach were choked with traffic – it took us 15 minutes to go through one light.

Parking was going to be impossible (and expensive - $12 minimum!) so we headed north a mile or two, to Santa Monica. For some reason, even though the two beaches are pretty much the exact same stretch of sand, Santa Monica was nearly abandoned when we arrived.



We didn’t stay long, and I wasn’t the least bit equipped to be on a beach (next time, I bring sandals) but it was interesting to see the differences between the two sections of coast. Venice Beach (what little we saw of it) is a refuge for bikers, hippies, and people with tattoos on their necks. The big event we saw there – other than the boardwalk lined with noisy bars and tables of junk jewelry and psychics’ stalls – was a massive drum circle on the sand, a throbbing mass of pot smoke, sweat, and whirling dreadlocks.

Further north, we crossed an invisible line in the sand onto the considerably more staid Santa Monica beach. It lacked a boardwalk – instead, it was lined with a grassy verge dotted with folks reading, and a bike path on which cyclists and rollerbladers competed for space. The big event on the sand here? It appeared to be an outdoor prayer meeting of a Santa Monica synagogue.

Notre Dame... again?

Le rayon vert de la Cathédrale de Strasbourg
Uploaded by StrasTv. - Up-to-the minute news videos.

Some time ago I did a post on the fantastic pulpit in the Church of Notre Dame de Strasbourg - I mentioned, offhand, that on the equinox (I probably said solstice) the sun will shine through a particular pane of glass onto the carved crucifix. I've never seen it, but here's a video, of what it should look like tomorrow.

Tales from the DMV

So, after sitting in the DMV for two hours, to register my car in California, that happy moment arrived when they called my number "B128 - counter 18." Clutching my heft of paperwork, I went 18-ward, arriving with a cheery "Hello!"

"Grunt," said Miss (Ms?) Counter 18.

I explained what I wanted, and she asked me what paper I had brought. I opened my folder, and presented her with the wonders within: a document from Homeland Security! Another document from Homeland Security! A document form Honda! A document from the dude outside who inspected the car! A document from Nova Scotia! A document from my new insurer! My license! My lease! My smog inspection certificate!

"Grunt," said Miss Counter 18, obviously rendered speechless by the splendour of my muniments.

She proceeded to thump away with some ill-humour at her computer which, judging by her repeated appeals to her coworkers, was not able to cope with the ineffable foreignness of my car. Judging by the sub-voce imprecations afterwards directed at her coworkers, their advice was not helpful.

At one point, one of her passing colleagues dropped by to offer a hand. As she explained the difficulties the mysterious stranger from the Great White North was posing to her database, he eyes lifted, first to me, and then to a point somewhere over my right shoulder. I stood still, worried that perhaps my cowlick was acting up again, perhaps assuming some obscene form on my head.

"Hey!" he suddenly yelled. "What are you writing?"

"Nothing," said a Russian-accented voice behind me (not my cowlick - phew!). "Just... something personal."

I turned. All of us in the DMV that morning turned, desperate as we were to counter the shattering ennui of waiting, waiting, without even some piped-in smooth jazz to alleviate the torment. The Russian was a big man, in a t-shirt with an airbrushed logo for a heavy metal band, clutching a pad of post-its and a pen to his chest, jaw thrust out defiantly.

"You were copying the eye test chart," said DMV guy.

"I was not. Besides, it's a free country," said the Russian.

"You can't do that. Go sit down over there," said the DMV guy.

"I can write what I want. You can't tell me what to do! It's a free country!" said the Russian.

The exchange continued like this, until a security guard finally came out and escorted the man off the premises. The last I heard of him, he was yelling "I'll sue! I'll sue!"

Disappointed, all of us in the DMV went back to inspecting those points in the middle-distance that had occupied our attention before. I looked up at the eye chart - it was suspended from the ceiling, about ten feet behind the counter where I stood. I could read it easily with my glasses on. I asked Miss Counter 18 where one normally had to stand to take the eye test.

"Right where you are," she said, as she entered my address in her computer with extraordinary viciousness.

I fell silent. The Russian had been standing about 20 feet behind me - three times further than he needed to be to pass the test. If he was copying the numbers from there without aid of a telescope, why did he need to copy them at all?

Me versus Substance X.

When you’re a married couple planning on driving across a Continent in a two-door Civic, what you take with you can become a matter of friction. Our car was packed to the brim, and virtually nothing was easily accessible. And, as is usually the case, it was always theother person’s stuff that was superfluous: if Amynah wanted access to her other pair of shoes, for instance, it would be my guitar that would be in the way. If I was attempting to squeeze in the tape recorder I use for interviews, one of Amynah’s superannuated pharmacology textbooks would be clogging the box.

One item that caused a certain amount of stress was my camping gear. "Why do we need a gas stove? Why do you own two hatchets?* What use for a mosquito net hat are you going to have?" asked Amynah, as I grunted and cursed, trying to squeeze these items into my bag.

As it turns out, plenty. We didn’t have power on the first day we lived here, and so our tea was brewed over the blue flame of my camp stove on our balcony, and the two flashlights I packed came in handy in the dark.

The upstairs bathroom has a skylight that has, over the years, been encrusted with a black coating of Substance X. Personally, I believe Substance X to be a combination of shower steam and smog residue, baked on the interior of the glass by the sun. Amynah, on the other hand, was convinced that it was a toxic mould of some sort. Given that she is relentless, pregnant, and able to conjure up all sorts of horrific scenarios as to what could happen if she or the baby inhaled Substance X (“We could have some sort of lizard baby, with two tails. You don’t want a two-tailed lizard baby do you?”) I was induced to clamber up onto the bathroom counter, stick my head into the skylight, and investigate.


_{Skylight, with Substance X}

A swipe with a sponge did nothing, but when I poked at it with my jack knife (thanks Yann!) some flakes came loose – which I immediately inhaled as they fell on my upturned face. This was not going to be pleasant.

Fortunately, Amynah had brought home a filter mask from her lab for the job, but that did nothing for my eyes (not to mention my precious, precious hair**). Whatever Substance X was, I didn’t believe it was toxic, but on the other hand, I didn’t know it wasn’t.

Suddenly, a flash of brilliance. I would wear my mosquito-net hat, and the filter mask. Not only would it prevent me from turned into a reptilian monstrosity, but I would also be able to justify having carted the damned thing 9000 km in the first place.

Yet somehow, when I summoned Amynah to the bathroom to deliver a triumphant “I told you so!” all she could do was laugh, and insist I post this photo on the blog.



<sub>* Why do I have two hatchets?

** I recently got my first LA haircut. The barber referred to my hair as "strong" as he rubbed the cramps out of his scissor hand. If you're going to charge me twenty bucks for a 15 minute cut, you better work for it buddy.</sub>

Movietown

Now that Amynah and I are settled, we're making some small efforts to exploring our neighbourhood. Before moving here, I knew nothing about L.A. at all, beyond what I'd seen in the movies (almost none of which was flattering). I'd never heard of Westwood, but once we let our friends and family know our address, everyone hopped on to Google Maps.



"Oh! You're near where Nancy Reagan lives!" said Amynah's Mom, inexplicably enthused by the idea.

"You're not too far from Hollywood," my Dad informed me.

"You're really close to the Playboy Mansion! It's like, four miles from you! Seriously!" said an excited friend, seemingly expecting me to be so electrified by the news as to drop the phone that instant and race there that instant. To save him embarrassment, I won't tell anyone here that that was Tim.



Tim also found out that in addition to our proximity to UCLA, our part of town is apparently well known for its historic theatres (I think historic in this context means "old" not in the sense that "Lincoln was shot there." And "old" means "pre-1960" not "around when Lincoln was shot." I'm still making adjustments here people, bear with me). They're certainly local landmarks, and Amynah and I fully intend to visit one for a matinée as soon as possible. They're certainly shinier than my previous city's landmarks.

Home tour

_{From the Mayo Clinic Guide to a Healthy Pregnancy, week 25-28: "You will be busy buying final supplies, finishing your baby's room...." Here you go baby. The finest empty boxes and plastic bags money can buy.}

We're home, and I have Internet! Life is grand. Now that we have sufficient furniture to sleep, eat and read, I present you with our life so far.


_{Our bedroom.}

We live in an area called Westwood, which is very close to UCLA - close enough that Amynah can walk. We're very (by local standards) close to Santa Monica, and the Pacific, though we haven't yet visited. Being this close to the ocean means its a little cooler here than other parts of the city, and we're nowhere near the wildfires.


_{The main floor, kitchen, dining area and parlour area}

Our immediate neighbourhood is pretty well appointed: all the major amenities are here. There's even a bagel shop, and a French bakery (staffed by une vrai française. Neither matches up to Fairmount/Christian standards, but I'll take what little bits of home I can.

I will write more later, but now I desperately need to catch up on the work that somehow slid over the previous month's epic journey.

Los Angeles: The beginning of the end of the beginning

At some point, I am going to do a proper post with photos, amusing anecdotes and the tales of woe and suffering that seem to please all you readers so much, but at the moment, I'm going to stick with a "I'm still alive post."

In effect, we arrived in Los Angleles on Sunday. Since then, we have found an apartment, Amynah got a Social Security number, we've transferred our meagre belongings to our place, I've ordered, but not yet received, phone and internet service, and we've done a little bit of furniture shopping.

Amynah's lab has been astounded that we've accomplished all that we have as quickly as we have, but for me, it's been endless: we have been living out of our suicases since July 31. I want my own bed, in my own place, and to have the choice of clothes that aren't wrinkled from weeks of being crammed in a bag.

The ferocious heat isn't helping my temperament either - the temperature is supposed to reach 34 degrees celsius today. The sun is my enemy. My car is covered with ash from the wildfires (which are fortunately nowhere close to where we live) - the last two nights, it was like the sun had set two hours early because of the smoke. Or maybe that's just LA's famous smog - I haven't had time to ask.

Once I have some semblance of a normal life, I'm sure my humour will improve. So far, the few people we've asked for help have been incredibly generous - our apartment is full of borrowed camping equipment, dishes and food. Amynah's relatives have been very generous with their hospitality. And our apartment is amazing - two levels, two bedrooms, a balcony, parking, quiet neighbourhood near UCLA. So at some point, our lives will be much better, and easier.


The end is in sight, but it isn't nearly close enough.

City of Angels. Fire-breathing Angels.

_{The Oregon Coast}

We’re now settled into our home for the next seven days – a hotel, somewhere in and/or near Santa Monica. Blogging will continue to be short, sporadic, and probably cranky, because it’s 99 degrees Celsius here (4,544 degrees Fahrenheit) and half the city appears to be on fire.

We’re looking for an apartment, along with a million other stressful things that need to be done, like setting up a bank account, registering the car, getting a doctor and, eventually, finding me a job in a state where the government is paying its bills with IOUs. But no, I’m not stressed.


_{Somewhere on the highway where James Dean died.}

Newport, Oregon

_{Beach, moon, fog}

We spent three hours locked in Portland's traffic, navigating construction-clogged rural roads, in order to make it to the Scenic Pacific Coast Highway, which everyone assured us was beautiful.

So far, nothing but fog. Beautiful, ocean-obscuring fog.

Welcome to America

_{Mount Robson, British Columbia}

This trip – and really, I think the word odyssey is more appropriate – is technically to Los Angeles, but really has been to Blaine, Washington. Why Blaine? That’s where the border crossing is between Vancouver and Seattle.

The U.S. border service, for Canadians, is like the weather. We are constantly complaining about it, usually personally affronted by it, but for all we carry one, we're usually only ever slightly inconvenienced by it.

Everyone has their horror stories to share: my Dad had heard from one of his golfing buddies that if we didn’t have “the right form” our car could be confiscated at the border. There was, of course, no hint of what “the right form” was, nor was the legality of such a car seizure explained, but such is the mythic power of the U.S. Border service: to listen to Canadians, you would think that the 49th parallel was patrolled by a particularly unreasonable species of ogre.

So, as we left Vancouver, the tension level in the car was high. We had several forms for the car that we hoped were “the right form” (one of which had arrived by fax at our friend’s work yesterday). We had our visa applications, and several other documents we found on the Internet, one of which seemed to want to know if I was or ever had been a member of the Communist party. We had copies of our birth certificates, wedding certificates, college diplomas, and a Merit Badge from when I was in Scouts.

We didn’t need any of it.


_{Forest-fire devastation near Kamloops, as seen from the car}


As we pulled up to the border, my hands were literally trembling. Amynah had her folder of documents sitting discreetly over her swelling abdomen. The guard looked in the window.

“Nova Scotia plates? Wow, that’s the first time I’ve seen one of those.”

“Yeah,” I said, controlling the trembling in my voice, “It was a heck of a drive.”

“I can imagine,” he said. “How long did that take you?”

Ah ha! A question! This had to be a trap. I thought quickly… how long had it taken?

“Uh, yeah. About sixty hours, all told,” I said, then, confidence building, I ventured a joke to prove my Canadian credentials: “There’s a whole lot more Ontario than the world really needs.”

“Oh yeah. Well of course – Ottawa’s there.”

What? Did a U.S. Border guard just make a Canada joke? Who was trying to ingratiate himself with who here?

In any case, he waved us aside, and told us to go to the desk to fill out our visas. This was done by a guy who was about to go off shift, and so was trying to dispense with us as quickly as possible. Anxious that our car should cross the border properly, and having gone to some difficulty to acquire “the right forms” we asked if we could import it legally. He gave us a doubtful look.

“Well, you could… I guess. But it’s up to you,” he said, in a tone that made it clear that he would prefer that we not bother. When we indicated that we wanted to, he sighed, and called over a colleague to help him out. I suspect if we hadn’t mentioned it, no one would have brought it up at all.

In any case, we’re now in Seattle, about to have dinner with a friend here, and then make our way south to Los Angeles. Three countries, eight provinces, and 6500 km on, the final leg of the journey begins!

Strasbourg, Saskatchewan

_{The Strasbourg grain elevator, a classic of disappearing Prairie architecture}

Before leaving Strasbourg, France, I had told all of my friends there that I was going to pass through Strasbourg, Saskatchewan. The Canadian Strasbourg is a Prairie farming town founded a mere 102 years ago. They were Germans, who founded their community when its namesake was in German hands, and so called it Strassbourg. In the intervening years the settlement discreetly lost that Germanic third “s.” Since then it has grown to be home to nearly 800 people.

Saskatchewan was the only Canadian province I’d never visited. The village seemed worth the detour on our way to Edmonton, if only for the novelty value of sending postcards from Strasbourg to Strasbourg.

Dad and I pulled into town in the late morning, stopping to snap a photo of the town sign and the grain elevator by the railway. Then we parked on Mountain Street (the main drag) to hit the post office. I handed over a stack of postcards I’d written somewhere between Cobalt and Longlac earlier in my journey, and asked if they had any cards for the Town of Strasbourg.

“No, but I think the drugstore next door might have some,” said the postal lady, as she rooted behind her counter for some stamps for France.

We then went next door, asking the girl stacking the shelves with deodorant if they carried Strasbourg postcards.

“No,” she trilled in her melodious Saskatchewan accent, “But you can try the Every Little Thing across the street, they might have something.”

Dad and I thanked her, and crossed the road to the craft store. We’d have no luck here, said the proprietor, “But you can try the municipal office on the corner.”

Losing heart, Dad and I entered the Town of Strasbourg Municipal Office (and Royal Canadian Mounted Police detachment). The woman behind the counter there was on the phone, but put her caller on hold when she saw us.

I explained that I was looking for postcards of the town, in order to send them to Strasbourg France, where I’d lived before. She thought that was absolutely delightful.

“Just a second! I know we used to have some back here,” she said with alacrity.

After a few minutes of rummaging around failed to turn up any postcards she went back to her phone: “I’ll have to call you back,” she said to the person on the other end.

“I’m just going to call the mayor,” she said to us.

“Uh… ok,” I said, a little startled.


_{Notables from Strasbourg's history, on the Centennial mural}

After a brief conversation with Her Honour, the municipal authority directed us to the Cornwell Centre (a sort of Jack-of-all-trades store that sold hardware, clothing, computer supplies, and served as the editorial headquarters of the local paper) a few buildings up the street. We were to ask for Lance, to whom the Mayor was going to speak on our behalf. Lance, in turn, would print us out some postcards of an aerial view of Strasbourg.

This was far beyond the call of duty, we felt, but we were hardly going to say no. We ambled up to the Cornwell Centre where we met Lance. He wasn’t able to print out any photos for us, but he did present me with a selection of photos of the town, which he emailed to me on the spot.

Dad and I were feeling hungry at this point, and after checking to make sure the museum would be open after lunch, we headed to the Royal Hotel, which boasts a small restaurant and pub.


_{The Strasbourg Museum, in the former rail station}

We ordered roast beef sandwiches and coffees, fairly pleased with how the visit had gone so far. As we were finishing up, two women walked into the restaurant. One of them stopped at our table.

“Are you the guy from Strasbourg? I’m the mayor.”

Her Honour – Carol, to her friends – and I chatted for a bit. I told her we were on the way to visiting the town museum, and she insisted that I stop by her office afterwards to talk some more.

Better yet, as we walked up to the counter, Carol waved the waitress away: “Just put it on my bill – it’s on me.”

Note: it took three years before I earned a free meal from La Mairie in my previous Strasbourg. It took thirty minutes here.


_{Incidentally, when I popped by her office afterward visiting the museum, Her Honour also asked me to write something for the local paper. I'm happy to do it, but it goes to show there really is no such thing as a free lunch.}

Big sky country

_{Prairie storm brewing near the Sakatchewan/Alberta border}

I am writing this post, believe it or not, standing in Amynah's parents' basement workroom in Edmonton, with the computer sitting atop the clothes-dryer, as it is the only room where I can be assured a decent wireless signal while not keeping her awake with my typing. Such is life on the road.

Ottawa to here was a heck of trip - three days on the road, fifteen hours a day behind the wheel. My Dad graciously volunteered to help with the driving. Northern Ontario is a lot bigger, and a lot more French than I'd expected. Manitoba was exactly as flat as I remembered. I saw Cobalt Ontario for the first time - that being the small northern mining town where my parents started their married life and produced my older sister. I also saw a lot of other towns, villages, hamlets and lakes I'd never seen before.


_{The school where my Dad taught in Cobalt, Ontario}

Canada is a country to challenge the imagination of any cartographer: how many names for geographical features can you come up with, after all? I imagined some poor soul at the end of a long night, staring at yet another blue blob on his map - "Long Lake taken? Broad Lake? Mary's Lake? Oh to heck with it, just call it Fish Lake and be done with it." My imaginary cartographer had really hit the end of his tether by Saskatchewan, when he named the Qu'Apelle Valley which I believe roughly translates as the "What do you call it" valley.

_{I have an awesome story about my visit to Strasbourg, Saskatchewan, but it will have to wait: but all of you in Europe receiving postcards from me in the next few days should pay particular attention to the cancellation stamp.}

The say it's the journey, not the destination. They are wrong.

I'm in Ottawa right now - I had meant to keep up on the blogging while I did so, but it's been almost impossible, what with the socializing, repacking, driving, socializing and migraine-having, the last of which ruined one-third of my limited time in Montreal.

In any case, I will be back on the road on Sunday while Amynah takes to the air, and unlikely to appear on the Internet in the interim. Maybe once I arrive in Edmonton (3000km away) I will snap a photo of my new-to-me, road-beaten, over-stuffed, bicycle-bedecked car.

Incidentally, my friend's daughter is completely ignoring me, and fawning over Amynah. The only time she addressed me today was to ask me what Amynah would like for breeakfast, and to tell me to water the plants in front of the house while she was out at daycare. She appears to believe I am some sort of footman.

Farewell to Nova Scotia

_{Bandstand in the Halifax Public Gardens}

I hit the road for Montreal tomorrow: Nova Scotia was too short, and too busy. I did get some photos of Halifax, wandering around today with my friends Tim and Jocelyn. The city's changed a lot in the last ten years since I've lived here, mostly without anyone telling me.


_{George's Island in the Halifax Harbour}

Sadly, I didn't think to take any picture's of my parent's fortieth anniversary celebration last night, but it was a lot of fun - a house full of family and friends that have gathered around a solid, loving marriage.

Kafka's car

No pictures in this post, just a tale of woe.

My Dad has extremely generously agreed to transfer ownership of his old car to Amynah and I, so that we won’t have to walk from Halifax to Los Angeles. Amynah and I had assumed that we would be able to get by on our European driver’s permits until such time as we were officially resident in California.

On Tuesday, I called up an insurance company to arrange for insurance on the new car. I was answering all of the questions no problem (Honda… black… 120,000 km…) with no problems, until the guy at the other end of the phone wanted to know my Canadian license number. I explained that I didn’t have one: I had swapped my Quebec one for a French one in 2007.

He told me they couldn’t insure me until I had a Canadian permit. So, I got on the phone with the Nova Scotia government and explained my situation: I used to have a N.S. license, switched to a Quebec one nine years ago, then to a French one a little less than three years ago. She told me that – with luck – I would be able to re-instate my Nova Scotia one for a fee, assuming they could find my Quebec one in the national database.

Yesterday Amynah and I went down to the “Access Nova Scotia” offices and took a number. Then we waited. And waited. And waited some more. It appeared that last week, their computers had gone down, and this week they were clearing the back-up.

After an hour and a half, our number was called. I explained our situation to the teller, and she pulled up my license information. “I’m sorry sir, we can’t give you your permit. It says here you’ve been suspended,” she said, uncomfortably: license’s are usually suspended for criminal behaviour, like drunk driving.

This was not the case for me: I’d had a perfect driving record in Quebec, but the women explained that sometimes the Quebec folk mis-typed their forms due to their inexplicable Frenchness. I said I’d give them a call to fix the situation but then, on a whim, asked them to check out Amynah’s status.

Hers was fine – her license was merely expired. To prevent the morning’s expedition from being a total waste, we decided to get Amynah a Nova Scotia permit, making her legally a Bluenoser, much to her Alberta-girl chagrin.

We returned home and informed my Dad that he would be transferring title not to me, but to his daughter in law. While they were doing that, I would call the insurance people and tell them the new situation.

“Oh, my colleague should have consulted with his superior before he told you that. Hold please, and I’ll get back to you,” said my new insurance buddy. I desperately hollered at Amynah and Dad – halfway out the door – to stop.

After ten minutes, my insurance guy returned: “Well I talked to my superior, and he talked to his, and then it went all the way up the foodchain, and unfortunately, we cannot give you insurance unless you both have Canadian permits.”

Damnit. I hung up the phone, and called Quebec, to ask them why my permit was suspended. The man there told me that apparently, the Montreal Municipal Court had requested the suspension. He gave me a number for them. They, in turn, informed me that I had two parking tickets that I had left unpaid before leaving the city. As I had not received the summons to pay them, I now owed over $400 in fines.

The only way my suspension would be lifted was if I paid them – the only way I could do that was to go over in person, or pay by money order. Neither would fix the situation in anything less than two business days, taking us to Tuesday – our schedule requires us to be on the road by Sunday.

Desperate, I called my friend Dave, who works in downtown Montreal, not far from the municipal court: “You can always tell a good friend by how much money they ask you to spend on their behalf” I said, by way of introduction to our problem.

Fortunately, Dave was on lunch break, and willing to march over to the court with $400 bucks to plunk down in our name. He then – God Bless His Soul – walked over to the Quebec driving permit authority with the documents proving our fines had been paid, in order to lift my suspension immediately (when my Mom came home and asked if we had dealth with that, I told her “I called a friend of mine who works for the United Nations, and he spoke to some people for us – it’s taken care of.” Which is, strictly speaking, true).

Now it was back to me: I now went back to the Access Nova Scotia Office, and took another number: this time, I had a book. I waited, and waited, and waited – over an hour. The suspension had been lifted, and soon I had a brand new Nova Scotia license in hand. I called Dad – the transfer could go through. I took yet another number and settled in to wait.

While killing time waiting for my Dad to show up with the papers, I realized the woman who’d processed my license had screwed up, and put the last Nova Scotia address they had for me on my permit – a place I hadn’t lived in for 13 years. Resignedly, I took yet another number to fix that problem.

Dad arrived, and we settled in to wait: fortunately, I was called to fix my license and the woman told me we could transfer the car to me at the same time.

The transfer – the sole object of the entire exercise – took five minutes. For which we spent nearly $600, and waited in line for five hours.

On the other hand, it is a nice car.

They call it a geyser here too - what a coincidence!

Waiting for the Geyser:



What a geyser looks like when you're standing right next to it:



What it looks like after you've dried off your camera and retreated to a safer distance:

The pictures say "Iceland" but the words say "Disaster."

_{The view across the "Smoky Harbour"}

Reykjavik: the showers reek of sulphur, the town is tiny, the people friendly and the temperatures low. I’ve nothing much to say about beyond that as we were too tired today to manage anything other than wander from café to café, but tomorrow we’re heading out into the countryside. However, I’m breaking up this post with photos from here anyway.

Our final day in Strasbourg was as memorable as these things can be. We had been up until the wee hours of the night before packing, repacking, unpacking, and reorganizing everything we owned. Some of our belongings (186 kg worth) are being shipped to California. Everything else was coming with us, unless it could be sold, given away, or thrown out.

We woke up on our final morning exhausted – a solid week of goodbye dinners and parties mixed in with packing and paperwork had completely knocked us out. We walked over to Christian for our final breakfast, lugging an enormous box of books with us. There, our friends Yann and Félicie joined us, relieving us of the books in the process. Breakfast was fine, though our goodbyes with them were more than a little soggy.

Wiping our eyes, we rushed back to the apartment and threw out an enormous pile of boxes, used-up tape rolls and bubble-paper scraps (not to mention rodent poison). Amynah’s friend Any then dropped us off at the airport.



Thus is where things became dramatic. Just as we were about to get into line to check-in, we were surprised to see our Argentinian friends Carolina and Danilo show up – they had driven in from town just to say goodbye. We were in a rush, so we asked for them to wait while we dealt with our ticket.

Once we got to the head of the line, the ticket agent told us we were only allowed 20 kg.

“Per bag?” asked Amynah.

“Total – and you're only allowed one bag per passenger,” she replied.

This, needless to say, was a disaster. We each had two bags, and our larger suitcases were almost 30 kg each. To get them from Strasbourg to Paris, Paris to Reykjavik, Reykjavik to Halifax would cost us 100 Euros per bag, per leg, for a total of 600 Euros.

Then I had a flash of inspiration. The Air France Cargo service – the means by which we were shipping the rest of our belongings – was only a kilometer away. With Carolina and Danilo’s car, and one hour before we had to board our flight, we could ship our suitcases directly to Halifax, and still make the flight to Paris.

We hurriedly checked in our smaller bags, and then rushed back to our friends. We ran out into the parking lot, threw our bags in their car and drove like madmen to the freight terminal. Weaving Danilo’s hatchback through the 18-wheelers lining the cargo warehouse, we burst into the office: “We need to ship these to Halifax, and have to catch a flight in 45 minutes. Can we do it?”

The woman behind the counter shrugged: We could try. We quickly trimmed some of the heavier items from our carry-on, and scrawled “household items, clothes, personal” on the customs form. We then made a mad-dash back to the airport, praised Carolina and Danilo to the skies and we bid them farewell, sweated our way through the security check and managed to make it to the gate as the last few people boarded.


_{Honesty is the best policy (it's a holiday weekend in Iceland).}

Things didn’t get much easier in Paris: Charles de Gaulle is not a terribly welcoming airport, and Icelandair’s service is only slightly better than a discount airline. The lineup for check in was utter chaos – everyone was trying to elbow their way in front of everyone else, thus making enemies out of people with whom they were about to locked into a tin can with for the next three hours. An older couple used their maple-leaf festooned luggage cart to muscle us out of our place in line but Amynah used her superior “scootching” ability to cut back in front of them. Annoyed at having been beaten at their own game, they then started a pointedly loud conversation with the woman next to them about how rude the French were and how much more civil people were in Canada.

It was a weird feeling to be simultaneously amused by the irony, outraged at their unmerited sanctimoniousness, and slightly guilty that we had (justifiably!) counter-butted them in the first place.

Au revoir.

_{Amynah's institute}

Today is my final full day in Strasbourg. Tomorrow morning, Amynah and I will rise early, have an early breakfast at Christian, and then be driven to the airport to catch out flight to Paris, Rekjavik, and points beyond.

This is therefore my final post as Strasmark – well, at least my final post in which the Strasmark name makes any sense. “View of the marching fishes” never made any sense outside of my head. I intend to keep blogging – I’m sure Los Angeles will have plenty to offer in terms of stories, even if it isn’t quite as picturesque. Failing that, I’m sure the 9,000 km drive to get there will yield a tale or two, assuming I’ve not descending into gibbering madness by the end of it.

In the last few weeks I’ve spent a lot of time blogging about Strasbourg’s history and tourism highlights. Sometimes I've written about the people we’ve encountered here, but I think overall I’ve left the impression that our only social contact is with those who we have commercial dealings, and supplemented by friends we temporarily import from Canada.

When we first arrived in Strasbourg three years ago, we had almost no idea what we getting into. It was an adventure, and we romanticized what life would be life here; our expectations were unreasonably high. I didn’t really think I’d spend my days penning op-eds on the proceedings of the European Parliament while sipping a café au lait in a riverside terrace while sporting a beret, but… well, I kind of did.

Of course it didn’t work out that way.

The very first phone call I made in France, while in search of an apartment, ended with the woman on the other end telling me “to call back when I could speak French” and hanging up on me. I quickly realized that I was going to need far, far more language facility that I had on reserve to survive in this country.

Worse, I had expected that I’d be able to return to freelancing easily. Of course, after years of working in an office, I had become accustomed to having colleagues with whom I could take coffee breaks, bounce ideas off of, and occasionally socialize with. All of that was gone, and because we knew no one else in the city, I had no replacement.

The first six months – and beyond – were miserable. Going to the store to perform even the simplest errands required a 15-minute pep talk: what if I had to ask where the green peppers were? What if someone asked me the time? Slowly, I retreated within myself, avoiding the outdoors and dreading social contact. Amynah would come home in the evening, and I would talk her ear off non-stop about… well, who knows what the heck I had to talk about. Complaining about the accordionists, probably. But I had to talk to someone or lose my mind. She was foolish enough to marry me, so she had to put up with my blatherings.

I tried taking French lessons that the University of Strasbourg offered to foreign students and their spouses, but my fellow students were unapproachable, and the teacher not terribly pleasant or flexible: due to an early Hallowe’en-themed article I wrote that I mentioned in class, she was convinced that I was some sort of occultist. No amount of explanation could change her mind.


_{Just because I hang around graveyards taking pictures of haunted towers doesn't make me an occultist}

In my more despairing moments, I felt like I had been sentenced to solitary confinement: the three years stretched out in front of me like a desert. I couldn’t wait until it was over: I hated France, I hated the incomprehensible French, and I loathed their needlessly opaque language that served as an impenetrable barrier between me and happiness.

Of course, things were better than they seemed. Even during those first few months, there were plenty of people that reached out to us. Amynah started in the lab at the same time as another post-doc who came to Strasbourg from Bordeaux via England. With Julie and her boyfriend Sebastien, we made our first forays into the countryside, and were introduced to French customs such as mushroom hunting, viewing duck as dinner, rather than pond decorations, and cheering on Les bleus “football” team at the Stade de Meinau.


_{Julie and Sebastien, on our first visit to Mont St Odile. Natasha was just a glimmer in their eye at this point}

It was Sebastien who introduced me to his coworker Caner, the first of my language-exchange partners. The language exchanges proved to be fairly ineffective: Caner and I got on too well to bother correcting each other's language faults, and thus spent most of our “exchanges” speaking in whatever tongue was most effective for shooting the breeze.

There were others in Amynah’s labs who also made the effort to make us feel welcome – Audrey, one of the technicians, would always make a point of speaking to me, despite my near-total lack of French. Others invited us to dinners, movies, hiking and picnics, afternoons in her boss’s pool, voyages to pottery country, evenings of video-kareoke. But these were always “Amynah’s friends” – I was always welcome, but never quite au courant with the lab gossip and science talk.

It wasn’t until I signed up at the French course actually offered in Amynah’s lab that things truly opened up for me. The teacher, Danielle, was unbelievably welcoming. The day I met her was the day of her last class that semester: she accepted me as a student, and immediately invited Amynah and I to a housewarming party at her new flat across the Rhine.


_{Some of our friends here, from left: Guy who's name I don't remember, Qi, Sami, Chihiro, Hiroyasu, Amynah, Soraya, Mirna}

It was through Danielle and her class that we tapped into another social network here in Strasbourg. Most of her students – some learning French, some learning English - were in the same boat as us, foreigners finding their feet in France. They came from the U.S., Argentina India, China, Japan, Spain, Finland, Syria, Lebanon and Hungary. Danielle, and her husband David adopted us all as their polyglot children: their house was a frequent meeting point for dinners, concerts in the park, and a launch pad for expeditions to the Germany’s Black Forest.

Danielle and David were great friends in their own right, but of course without them we never would have enjoyed Qi’s Chinese New Year’s dinners, or started my language exchanges with Mirna and Lama (both of whom, I am happy to say, are now considering post-docs in Canada).


_{Two of the sweetest people I know: Lama and Qi, queens of the mountain.}

It was also through Danielle and David that had the opportunity to meet Sami the Finn with whom we enjoyed many disastrous outings into the countryside. And, without Sami, we would not have become friends with Belinda the Australian – not that Belinda was ever in need of anyone’s help in terms of making friends and settling in.

Once Danielle and David moved to England, we tried to fill their considerable shoes by welcoming newcomers like Belinda the way they had welcomed us, and so I made some ill-fated efforts to organize outings of internationals from Amynah’s institute into the surrounding countryside.

Finally, also through Danielle and David, Amynah and I have become good friends with Félicie and Yann, who have been so kind to us I can’t help but think there’s something wrong with them – surely we’re not so much fun that anyone would want to invite us on their weekend in Provence? My regular lunches with Félicie were a highlight of my week over this past year, and their relaxed good humour in all things - cleaning our apartment, last minute New Year's Dinners - made them a joy to hang out with.

Throughout it all, our friends and family kept coming for visits from Canada (and England, Germany, Ireland and the Congo). Because of them, I was motivated to get out into the country and explore - and as a side-effect, rarely felt homesick. Their patience with my grueling and didactic tour was appreciated: for a long time, knowing the city’s history was the only way that felt even somewhat at home here, and I appreciated the many opportunities I was given to show off my knowledge.

But as we prepare to leave, we’ve been shown an incredible amount of generosity from our friends here: dinners, gifts, even the occasional heartfelt note expressing sadness that we will be leaving. Almost everyone we know has offered to help with the considerable logistical difficulties involved in our move.

I’ve come a long way from the miserable, depressed hermit I was three years ago. Amynah’s lab, and For Amynah and I, the three years we have spent in Strasbourg have been the best time of our lives. There will always be a corner of our souls that will always be given over to this place, but it isn’t because of the bike trails and history.

The people we have met here are some of the best people we have ever known. I only regret that we did not spend more time with them all. I will miss them terribly.

Petit France: You feelin' lonely, sailor?

Tomorrow will be my last full day in Strasbourg. Our flight for Rekjavik leaves Friday morning – we arrive in Halifax on Monday.

So, the tour’s over for now. There was an awful lot that I wanted to blog about before leaving – why the Marechal de Saxe is buried in Strasbourg even though he had no connection to the city, the location of the most ghoulish playground I’ve ever seen, the reason why there are three churches named after St Peter within a mile of each other in Strasbourg, the reason why the Cathedral bell rings every night at 10:05 – but I simply don’t have the time.

So, as my final Strasbourg city tour post actually from the city (though I make no promises that it will be the last ever), I give you Petit France.

Petit France is a neighbourhood of historic Strasbourg, and is the second-most visited attraction here after the Cathedral. It’s chock-a-block with the half-timbered architecture that characterizes the villages of the countryside, most dating from the 16th and 17th centuries. Their flower-laden profiles reflect in the waters of the many canals that run through the area.



The canals actually are the reason why the houses are still here, rather than being torn down in favour of the stone buildings that dominate the old town. These canals powered the mills and leatherworks that comprised the industry of old Strasbourg. However, these industries were distinctly smelly, and staffed by lower-class folk. The neighbourhood thus was avoided by the better class of people, who clustered together at the other end of the island, while Petit France was left to moulder: the landlords renting to the working class residents couldn't be bothered improve their properties. They were therefore saved from the wrecking ball.

So why the name? Petit France was so-called long before the French took possession of the city. It was, in fact, the German soldiers of the Holy Roman Empire that gave the neighbourhood its name. There was a hospital in the area, specifically there to treat those soldiers that had contracted syphilis - “The French Disease” – from the neighbourhood’s professional ladies.

And thus, Strasbourg’s most photographed neighbourhood is a former slum named after a venereal disease.

It's not exactly Tim Horton's, I know.

_{The Christian salon, with the dessert shrine in the middle}

When Amynah and I actually lived on View of Marching Fishes the closest patisserie was a place called Christian. We were assured that it was one of the best places in town to pick up a croissant and we quickly discovered that its petit pain au chocolat were the lightest, most satisfyingly chocolatly pastries we had ever had, ever.

After a month or two we realized that there was a corridor leading through a courtyard behind the pastry counter. It leads to a hidden courtyard, off of which is a spiral staircase leading to the upper floors.

We bring almost all of our visitors here, as the Christian tearoom is everything you would imagine a European salon to be – if it were the 18th century. The walls are covered with a deep purple velvet, set off by the similarly-hued chairs and tables, both of which are covered in supple leather.

The café has an excellent lunch menu, but Amynah and I prefer to go for breakfast, so that Amynah can take enjoy one of the twelve varieties of hot chocolate on the menu, and I can snarf down the dejeuner complet: two eggs, four slices of toast with homemade jam, a small kougelhopf, washed down with fresh-squeezed orange juice and a cappuccino.

The staff at Christian are professional and efficient, which is why we were disappointed, about a year ago, to encounter a new hire. While obviously trying hard, and very friendly, the new waitress was not familiar with the menu, had trouble remembering Amynah’s order, and made one of the worst cappuccinos I’d ever had in the place.

I was inclined to let it go, but Amynah is not one to suffer inconvenience easily. Much to her annoyance, it seemed that every time we went to Christian in the following months, we ended up with the same waitress. She adopted us as "her" customers, and made a point of stopping to chat, which only seemed to irritate Amynah more.



However, the novice proved to be a quick learner. Over time, her cappuccinos improved and she mastered the menu. Now she makes the best coffee in the joint and, amazingly, won over Amynah as well. She became "our" waitress, and now we’re disappointed when she’s not on shift when we arrive.

In any case, after each of the several ultrasounds we’ve enjoyed so far in France, we’ve popped by here. After the first, though I’d promised Amynah I’d keep word of our pregnancy secret until we’d cleared various other tests, I was too excited by my introduction to Mademoiselle Reynolds to keep my happiness contained, and thus ended up telling our waitress the good news: she therefore knew before either of my siblings, and most of my friends.

*_{While our regular was by far the most outgoing of Christian’s staff, we’d evidently made an impression on the rest as well: when we mentioned to one of the more long-serving staff that we were leaving France, she said “It will be a little strange not having you here.” Perhaps we enjoyed their pastries a little too often?}

Storks bring babies. At least, that's what I'm telling ours.

The White Stork is a symbol of Alsace: the tourist shops here abound with stuffed versions, and four stone ones even made it onto the Cathedral. Though nearly extinct in the '70s, a major conservation effort has succeeded in rehabilitating the population, and now can be seen throughout the countryside, stalking farmer’s fields for food. They are considered to be good luck, and so it is fairly common to see round platforms built on top of houses and churches in the local villages to encourage them to build their nests atop ones home.

There are many legends and folk beliefs attached to the bird, not least that their association with fertility. As in North America, young children are often told by squeamish parents attempting to avoid the biological nitty-gritty that Ciconia ciconia was to blame for the sudden arrival of their baby brother or sister.

Which brings me to the subject of this post: we’re expecting a visit from the stork ourselves. Many (possibly all) of my readers have already been told through other means, but Amynah is pregnant, and expected to deliver on December 13. We had a major ultrasound today, which revealed that our child has the correct number and placement of limbs, digits, and eyes and appears to be in fine fettle overall. It also revealed that it will be a girl.

We’re obviously very happy about this, even while being a little stressed by the idea of moving to the far side of a distant continent just prior to the birth, but life is never predictable.

Rohan Palace: Queen takes Bishop, Pawns take Queen

We’re getting into the final week here, so I’m back to trying to cram in the last few history posts before we leave.

When Louis XIV took over Strasbourg in 1681, he did so via negotiation, thus sparing everyone the inconvenience of a siege. The deal the Sun King and the city fathers struck allowed the residents to practice whatever faith they liked, but not in Notre Dame, which was returned to the Catholics. The city was allowed to continue to run its affairs as it pleased, via a city government made up of the representatives elected by the various guilds but the titular “head of state” – the Bishop – would be appointed by the king, and serve as his representative.

The first Bishop-Prince to fill this role was Armand-Gaston-Maximilien de Rohan-Soubise, reputedly the “natural” son of King Louis. Of course, as the representative of the King of France, he required a residence of appropriate elegance and splendor, and so the Palais Rohan was built.



It’s a Parisian-style palace, and the first major French-style building in the city. What I find remarkable about it is that, although it was built for a man who was at least nominally a church official, there was almost no concession to overt religiosity on the building. Other than depictions of Faith and Hope (or Hope and Charity? Whoever they are, neither is Chastity, as we will see) over the entrance, there’s nary an angel, crucifix or saint to be seen.


The last Bishop-Prince of Strasbourg was Louis Rene Édouard Rohan, a man in possession of the dangerous combination of ambition and stupidity. He took on the job in 1779, but he didn’t have much interest in being Bishop of a barbaric little outpost on the far edge of the Empire. He was much more interested in politics, and – much to his detriment – gossip. As Ambassador to Vienna he had alienated the Austrian royal family by streading scandalous rumours about the conduct of the Austrian Princess. Sadly for Rohan, he would later have to play host to that Princess as when she spent her first night in France as wife of Louis XVI – the room where Marie Antoinette slept is still preserved in the palace museum today.



Making an enemy of the Queen of France wasn’t a good career move at the time, and so Rohan set about trying to win a place in her esteem. To do this, he contacted his former mistress, Jeanne de Saint-Rémy de Valois, who went by the name Comptesse de Lamotte, who was close to Marie Antoinette. The Comptesse delivered letters from the desperate Cardinal to the Queen, who – judging by her correspondence – was inclined to forgive the Cardinal.

Incredibly, the letters were such that the poor deluded Cardinal came to believe the Queen was in love with him, an impression not lessened by the Comptesse inviting him to Paris so as to arrange a meeting with “The Queen” – in fact a prostitute doing what must have been a heck of an impression – and the Cardinal, in which the Cardinal "gave her a rose." I've no idea if that's supposed to be a euphemism.

The Comptesse suggested that the Cardinal could clear up any doubts by doing the Queen a favour. When her wedding to Louis XVI had been announced, a syndicate of jewelers had tried to convince the king to buy as a wedding gift a fabulous and elaborate diamond necklace that had been commissioned for the previous king’s mistress, though never delivered on account of his death. Such was the workmanship that only the King would be able to afford it.



However, Marie Antoinette refused, on the grounds that it was far too expensive, and the money would be better spent equipping the Royal Navy. However, according to the Comptesse, the avaricious Marie-Antoinette secretly coveted the necklace, but was worried how the public would react to such an excessive purchase. And so the Cardinal – who was already lending the Comptesse huge sums of cash – arranged to pay 2,000,000 livres for the necklace on credit, on the understanding that the Marie Antoinette would pay him back. He then delivered the item to the Queen’s valet – actually the faux-Comptesse’s husband.

When the jewelers came looking for their payment, the whole fraud came out in the open. Cardinal Rohan was put on trial in 1785, as were the Lamottes and the prostitute. The Comptesse Lamotte was found guilty and sentenced to a whipping, branding, and imprisonment. The first two were never carried out, and she escaped from prison within a year.


The Cardinal was found to be innocent, which, along with Lamotte’s suspiciously easy escape, convinced the French public that their foreign Queen had engineered the whole episode to acquire the necklace, and embarrass her long-time enemy. Her already weak popularity plummeted, and the resentment against her and her husband’s rule would break out into the French Revolution four years later.

We all know how that ended for Marie-Antoinette. Rohan anti-Marie credentials stood him well in the early years of the Revolution, but he eventurall left for Germany, where he used his fortune to help priests fleeing the Terror. After her escape, the “Comptesse” moved to London, where she wrote her memoirs, blaming everything that had happened on the Queen's scheming. As for the necklace – supposedly it was broken up and sold.

_{As incredible as all of this sounds, I’m not making any of it up.}

There's something about Marie

Restaurants in Strasbourg, from the outside, have a certain mysterious quality that make them seem really appealing. You walk by and inside you seem happy people, eating their meals, enjoying their wine, and just looking like they’re having the time of their lives.

When we first moved to Strasbourg, there was one particular restaurant in town that seemed particularly attractive: the golden tinted windows made it look warm and pleasant, and the fact that it was on the corner of two picturesquely narrow streets, behind the 18th century city hall, only added to the appeal.

We first visited “La Petit Mairie” (a pun on it’s proximity to the City Hall and the owner’s name) with one of the first of our many guests. It was clearly a genuine neighbourhood restaurant – a rare Winstub without Alsatian kitsch littering the walls to please the tourists. We were seated and ordered our food (mainly Alsatian food, with rotating daily specials of Continental cuisine). The food was very good, but what struck us in particular was the host. Marie greeted everyone who came in after us with a two-cheek kiss, made small talk with them, would stop by their tables repeatedly to chat, and – in some cases – was able to bring their order without them even looking at the menu.

“I feel like everyone here is a member of a club – and I want in,” I said to Amynah. She nodded agreement.

And so our project began: we brought almost every guest we had to Marie’s restaurant. Soon, she began to recognize us, and so we earned the two-cheek kiss greeting. Within a few visits, she would remember that I would always order a tarte flambée to share with our guests, that Amynah really likes their fish specials, and how Amynah likes her steak.

Our plan worked: we were in. And what a payoff we’d have.


_Marie

A couple of weeks ago, I popped by to take photos of the place for a magazine article I was writing. Amynah was with me, and Marie spotted us out on the street. Knowing that we were leaving, she assumed we were taking souvenir photos (which was my other motivation). She came out, and insisted that we come by to dine chez elle one last time.

Last night, we took her up on her invitation. And it was perfect. We were received like royalty: For Amynah’s benefit, Marie made us a tarte flambée with a section of mushrooms, instead of lardons, which arrived with a beer for me and fruit juice for Amynah. This was followed by salmon for Amynah, and the specialty of the house - Jarret en miel (hunk of pig in a honey sauce) – for me, along with a generous glass of Reisling.

As we dined, Marie repeatedly stopped by our table, asking about our plans for California, talking about her plans to add an outdoor terrace to the restaurant and her upcoming vacation. All around, I could see the other customers wondering why we were getting so much attention.

Finally, Amynah was presented with a Dame Blanche with an extra scoop of chocolate sauce for dessert, and a digestif for me.

Bellies straining after two hours of such excess, we were done, and reluctantly prepared to leave. I asked Marie for the bill: “Non,” she said, firmly. “It is my gift to you. But please, send me a card from wherever you end up.”

It was like the realization of a dream I didn’t even know I'd had.

The Cranky Baker

More-or-less across the street from our apartment is a bakery, renowned for having the Strasbourg's best kougelhopfs (an Alsatian pastry I wrote about here). It's our go-to place for bread.


_{This is not the Cranky Baker, who is on vacation. I don't have an affectionate nickname for this girl. She's very nice though.}

We are usually served by a woman we dubbed "the cranky baker." It wasn't very nice of us, as she was always very polite. However, for at least for the first 6 months we went there, she never once cracked a smile. She would rush through our order with a grim efficiency that I interpreted as saying that she did not like her job, did not like bakeries, and did not feel inclined to like us or any of her other customers.

We should not have judged so quickly.

Gentle soul that I am, I was usually inclined to buy my bread and exit the store as quickly as I could, as seemed to be the lady's clear preference. Amynah, being made of sterner stuff, is not a force to be intimidated by mere hostility. She therefore resolved to crack this woman's reserve. She began her attack with little steps: a "comment ça va?" here and there, a remark on the weather, a little compliment on how much she likes the "petit pains."

The war was over before it began. Remarkably quickly, the Cranky Baker warmed up to us - it was as if she'd only been waiting for someone to give her a reason to chat. She'd greet us as we came in, or note if we were earlier or later than usual. And soon, even, she began to smile – and a wonderful, transformative smile it was, setting her face alight.

In any case, a couple of weeks I went in to get a loaf of fresh bread to defile for my peanut-butter and banana sandwiches. While there, I mentioned that we had bought a kougelhopf mould, and asked if it were possible to get their recipe so we could continue to enjoy their specialty in California. The cranky baker immediately went to the shop window and returned with an entire book of recipes for me, pointing out the page where their recipe was: "It's usually 8 Euros, but please, take it as a gift."

Obviously, we can’t call her the Cranky Baker anymore. But the Friendly Baker just doesn't have the same ring.