Summertime, and the living's easy

_{What? This thing again?}

A point-form summation of a near-perfect weekend:

- Friday afternoon, biking through the Illkirch forest, then into Germany and up the Rhine to Kehl.

- Being hailed, in Kehl, by a street-side flower seller desperate to unload the last of his merchandise so that he could catch the Turkey-Croat match in the Euro Cup. We walked away with five bouquets for 11 Euros.

- Watching a three-person German bar band do a Robbie Williams cover in the pre-match party by the giant outdoor screen. Star of the show: the bongo-playing Jessica Simpson look-alike, complete with cowboy boots and Stetson.

- The band was followed by a pair of 12-year old bellydancers, who took it well in stride with the beatnik-cowgirl tried to steal their moment in the sun by returning to the stage with a live boa constrictor draped over her shoulders. All class, that one.

- Saturday we hit the local farmer’s market, then hopped on our bikes to hit an even larger farmer’s market not far from the university.

- Spent the afternoon napping and reading Le Monde which came with a supplement from the New York Times. The latter came with an index explaining such mysteries of the English language like “to hit the wall.”

- In the evening, we wandered the town, taking in the sights and sounds of the Fêtes de musique, in which every village in France is turned into a stage for every semi-talented bar band that ever plugged in a Stratocaster. We saw bands that sounded like The Cure, The Talking Heads, Thomas Dolby, The Pointer Sisters, Steppenwolf, The Rolling Stones, The Sex Pistols and Hole. We did not manage to hear anything that sounded like it had been recorded in this century* (or, for that matter, anything French) but the aural walk through my youth was refreshing nonetheless. Or at least it was, until about midnight, at which point I could have done with some sleep. It was not to be, as two of the main stages were set up in front of the Cathedral and on Place Gutenberg, thus ensuring that we got to hear U2 battling it out with Aretha Franklin all night long.

- Bleary eyed and ill-rested, we hopped on our bikes first thing Sunday morning, in order to rendez-vous with Amynah’s boss Brigitte and her husband for a hike. We ended up doing the same route as I had with Tasha and Travis a few weeks before, largely because Brigitte was tickled by the name my guidebook had breathlessly given it: “Witches and Bloody Sacrifices.” The hike was a delight (I will never tire of being able to picnic in the ruins of a 13th century castle) but the return home was even better. The temperatures reached 33 degrees Celsius yesterday, and so we were all quite happy to don our fancy Euro-Speedos (or their gender appropriate equivalents) and splash around in Brigitte’s pool for the remains of the afternoon. This was followed by a dinner of loup marin and rosé taken poolside.


_{* We did hear a cover of the White Strips' “Seven Nation Army,” but it sounded like something Bruce Springsteen would have done with the E-Street Band, complete with saxophone solo. This group also won the fun French-ism of the night award: “…I’m going to Wee-shee-taw.”}

Am I compulsive?

Well perhaps a bit - for some reason, since I described [part] of one set of friends visit, I feel compelled to describe them all. But I'm lazy, it was a couple of weeks ago now, and frankly, as Travis pointed out in the comments of the previous post, not all of the visits were marked by disasters, leaving my blogging lacking in narrative heft.

Nonetheless, I feel I cannot move forward in my blogging life until I get this out of my system. Therefore, a photo-post (even worse, some of these are already up on Facebook, making this even more redundant).


_{It looks vaguely like I am holding miniature people in my hand here. I WILL CRUSH THEM!}

With nine visitors, I spent much of the latter part of May like this: blathering about Strasbourg (points to anyone who's taken my tour who can guess what I'm blathering about in this photo. Hint: look at the decorative elements on the building on the left, or the pattern on the road that my hand's blocking. Closest answer gets a Twinkie!*)



We spent a few days on/near the Mediterranean coast with friends. The weather was not cooperative, meaning that with the exception of some French people walking around in winter coats, we had the beach to ourselves.



We swapped Tim and Joç for Tasha and Travis, and so I subjected them to same bike ride. It went much better, and we made it as far as Obernai, after a detour to a lookout spot from which we could see nothing, at a convent we were not allowed to visit, though orchards and vinyards from which we could not pick the fruit. En route, we met a pony that was doing its darndest to pretend we weren't there.



The next day we went on a hike north of here, picking our way over trees and branches downed in the most intense lightning storm I've ever seen. Our ultimate destination was the Chateau of Wasenburg, pictured above, that had once been besieged by the Archbishop of Strasbourg. Oh, the good old days! On the way we passed several pagan sites which were, depending on which plaque you believed, either used for bloody sacrifices, judicial executions, or baby-making. The castle incidentally, had also been visited by Goethe (Travis, on Goethe: "Is he really any good, or did they just need someone to be their Shakespeare? Did the Germans just say, 'Hey, we need a writer - Goethe, you'll do. And while you're at it, go visit a lot of places. We'll put up plaques: we love visiting plaques!")

I don't have any pictures from our subsequent visitors, as we never strayed out of the city, but I did learn that if people get googly-eyed over one baby, they lose their freakin' minds over twins. Also, Carol didn't stay long enough.

* No it won't.