driving like a Frenchman

Tim often maintains that I drive like a Frenchman while on London roads - note, Frenchman. Every culture has its own version of what it means to be 'macho'; us Brits down pints to prove we're hard, Americans watch sports, Italians flirt with their mates' girlfriends, but the French...they can seem a little 'girly' to us, what with their skinny bodies, manbags, kissing on cheeks, constant grooming and aversion to physical exercise (unless it's petanque)...or as the stereotype would have you believe!

But on the road, wow, it's as if they've been given a shot of testosterone as soon as they park their bums in the driving seat.  They'll weave in and out of lanes, aggressively honk their horns with abandon if you so much as hesitate at a red light and play their music loud.  Really loud.  Frankly I wasn't surprised I heard so many ambulance sirens during my stay.

Hence the prospect of driving...on the other side of the road...on the autoroute...right into Germany...on the autobahn...with no speed limits...with all the crazy Frenchmen...was utterly terrifying.

So of course I had to give it a go.  I'd driven in the States with all the mental traffic of Los Angeles, how bad could it be?  We were en route to Europa Park in Germany (just across the border, a mere 40 minute drive away).  So with no sat-nav, with a non-driver in the front seat with me we set off in a Toyota Previa (which felt a bit like steering a cruise ship, bearing in mind I usually drive a zippy Ford KA).

Getting the hang of turning right at a roundabout was challenging, leading to a few casual near death experiences along the way but hey, grasped it in the end!  What I found most interesting was the sharp contrast between the manic, aggressive French driver and the obedient, reliable German one.  Every other car was a Mercedes Benz, Audi or BMW - but instead of the show-off Jeremy Clarkson wannabes you encounter on any British motorway who thinks driving one magically transforms him into the Stig on a racing track - the German drivers never tailgated, nor sped up rapidly, nor undertook.  They had all the diligence and respect as a learner driver on test day - but with confidence.  It was actually a really lovely experience, not once did I feel hurried up or harassed.  Gotta love sensible Germans!

summer in Strasbourg

I'm sitting in the sweltering heat as I type this.  Although in terms of proximity to the equator I am only slightly south of London it feels like the Amazon rainforest - the kind of sticky heat where your skin is constantly glazed with a moist film and peeling yourself off leather upholstery is a small torture.

I've arrived in the midst of a heatwave, staying with my boyfriend Tim at his family home in Strasbourg in the Alsace region of France.  He was born in America but raised here from the age of six months, and it gives me great pleasure to tell people I'm dating an Alsatian :P

Strasbourg is one of those European cities most people have heard of but - 'Oh, isn't that in Germany/Austria?'. It is in fact a French city on the German border.  As a result of various historical conquests and subsequent volleying back and forth between French and German rule, it's an interesting blend of both cultures but a strong Alsatian identity prevails (mostly in the older generation but it's not unheard of to hear the Alsatian language spoken in some of the more traditional pubs).  There are trilingual signs in some places!

So today I was shown around by my own native tour guide.  The magic is of course, lost on Tim but to my eyes it was simply stunning.  The city itself is probably the quaintest I've ever encountered - in fact it's not like a city at all. Apart from the sleek modern tram snaking its way around it's the 'provincial town' straight out of Disney's Beauty and the Beast - cutesy old timbered buildings, cobbled streets and pretty squares presided over by the imposing, gothic Strasbourg Cathedral.  I felt I'd stepped back to yesteryear...could almost kid myself I could hear the clip clop of a horse-drawn cart...

'Little town...it's a quiet village...'

We stopped for lunch overlooking one of the many canals, where 'bateaux-mouches' constantly ferry tourists up and down.  On the menu was typical Alsatian fare - a fusion of Francais and Deutsch - so you've got the choucroute (sauerkraut) and pork dumplings (not my cup of tea) but also onglets de boeuf and steak-hache.  All a bit heavy for me on such a warm day, so I opted for a 'salade gourmande' and a glass of sweet Muscat wine.  The real culinary treat came later when we went to Tim's favourite restaurant, one that caters specifically to 'tartes flambees'. 
 

These are a delicious Alsatian version of pizza - but better.  The base is as thin as a crepe, covered in all the naughtiest things you can think of - cream, lardons, onions and cheese.  It's served on a big wooden board on the side of the table, you're then expected to slice it and share between your fellow diners.  Inevitably the entire thing is gone in about 30 seconds, and the waiter will continue to bring more and more until you eventually say 'Stop! I have had enough! I am satisfied!'  Right on cue, the dessert menu arrives and...suddenly you realise you could make a teeny bit of room somewhere in your stomach...

Needless to say, I walked out of there feeling like a blimp.  Or a Michelin man.  But by God, it was gastronomic heaven.

Tomorrow I've got my first go at driving in France...I fully expect to be writing my next post from la clinique...(which, by the by, is a hospital, not a place to buy makeup as I wrongly and hilariously thought on arrival...the shame!)