The adrenaline rush of rebooking sustained me well into my flight out of JFK to Paris. I slept a bit on the plane, but by the time I hit the ground at Charles de Gaulle I was starting to drag and could feel the wall coming at me.
Try as I might, the fatigue of the last few days was going to win. I had worked a very late shift on Thursday into Friday and was barely hanging on when I arrived in New York early that evening. Then my plans for a recovery day in the city were completely usurped by the weather.
I had not had a proper rest in days.
At CDG, I dosed caffeine heavily and boarded my last flight to the Basel Mulhouse airport, which stands near the border of France, Switzerland, and Germany. Formally named Euroairport Basel Mulhouse Freiburg, the airport has a bit of a fascinating arrangement, as it’s shared by two countries. Arriving visitors can pass Swiss customs there and head directly south to Basel or they can stay in France.
I gazed curiously toward the craggy peaks of Switzerland, as I’ve never been there, but eventually turned away when my bus lumbered into its stop to take me to the Saint-Louis train station. My destination for this week lay in the other direction, to the north, toward Strasbourg. Switzerland would continue to wait.
On the train, the plush jaundiced yellow seats with their worn and tattered seams were comfortable enough that I struggled to keep my hazy brain awake. I didn’t want to risk sleeping through my stop and instead passed time gazing out the windows as we sped north through the rolling Alsatian countryside, an occasional farmhouse and village blurring by.
The images smeared in my vision, and it wasn’t just the crusty windows of the train. I was exhausted enough that my eyes weren’t always tracking and focusing correctly.
We reached Strasbourg 20 minutes early and the handful of us in the cabin crowded out of the narrow doors that kept closing in on us, intent on keeping us inside.
I considered walking the mile to my hotel, but my wearied body instead won out and I boarded a tram. Standing in the last car, swooning at times, I surveyed the streets and timbered buildings of the medieval core passing by.
I was checked in shortly after noon, which would mean an extra meal. Alsatian food is an infamous blend of heavy German and refined French and timing is a real thing here — most of the restaurants that serve local fare are only open until 2 for lunch.
I cleaned up briefly, donned a light jacket and stepped cautiously into the cobblestone streets of Strasbourg. The weather was cool and the grey clouds above hung low in the firmament threatening rain.
Everybody wore a heavier coat than I had chosen. I checked my steps for just a moment to reconsider my choice. Winter at home had been truly cold, however, and for me this was nothing.
As I passed the first corner, the enormous spire of the Strasbourg Cathedral rose above the nearby buildings, dominating the view, beckoning me to visit. But this, too, would have to wait.
I perused some menus along the way and finally settled on a winstub featuring traditional local foods. As I took my seat in the warm wood dining room I browsed the menu in search of something I had heard about that would be maybe a feature protein but still be a bit on the lighter side, and honestly – I failed.
At the suggestion of the waitress I ordered the pot-au-feu grand-mère, which means grandmother’s hot pot. What arrived was a plate of salad featuring shredded carrots, beets, and celeriac. Next to this were decadent fried potatoes. And alongside it all was a steaming pot of beef and root vegetables.
This meal was a lot, and definitely more than I had wanted, but I have no regrets. Everything was delectable, from the cool winter salad to the caramelized potatoes and the tender beef. It all settled warmly and happily into my eagerly waiting stomach.
After lunch I knew what I needed: a walk and sleep. The walk took me past the Strasbourg Cathedral, where an intimidating line awaited entry. I didn’t know if these were just tourists or if this was in celebration of the first Sunday of Lent, but I was too worn to find out. The cathedral will need a commitment of time and a fully functioning brain.
Still, I paused for a moment to take in the colossal facade in front of me, trying to snap a few photos. The structure is simply massive, its breadth completely occupying my field of vision and the framing on my camera.
One can’t just photograph it in its entirety. It’s built on the scale of the meals here — it’s just too much.
On my way back to the hotel my tired inhibitions had fallen enough that I stopped for a crepe with whipped cream, which coated my mouth with an opulent buttery sheen that we don’t get at home. I’m in France, I thought, I should have dessert.
And then I slept until my stomach woke me again, ready for dinner.
Dinner took me back to the cathedral, where the doors were tightly secured for the night. Outside, its exterior was dramatically illuminated against the darkness of the encroaching night, with thousands of faces peering out upon the square.
And I felt my neck creak as I craned my own face up toward the spire towering above.
butterblogger 