Life, Love and Amsterdam

The last time I was in Amsterdam was for an epic trip through parts of Europe with a group of friends. It was four years ago, I was single, living in San Francisco, and I had not a worry in the world.

This time around, I’m living in France, I’m on a much stricter budget, and I went to Holland with Alannah to celebrate our third wedding anniversary.

We also went in for her first ultrasound two days before the trip, so yeah – that changes everything.

Everything the typical American would want to go and do in Amsterdam was out. Cannabis and magic mushrooms – out. Bike rides among the canals – out. (Alannah had recently fractured her tailbone, meaning bike seats were out of the question.) Whorin’ it up – out, unless I wanted our third anniversary to be our last.

Just as my life has changed in the last few years, so have our priorities when traveling. Whereas I used to be all about seeing and experiencing as many things and meeting as many people as possible, we have narrowed down our travel focus to the things we love most: Food, drink, and the people that make them.

Just as we did in Italy last summer we eschewed the museums and sightseeing for a real taste, so to speak, of local culture. Being that we have a moderately well-read food porn and cooking blog and are constantly looking to expand our own cooking repertoire, we took this opportunity not only to get away for an extended weekend, but also to try food and drink we’d find inspiring.

Getting to Amsterdam from Paris couldn’t be any easier. The slick Thalys high-speed train leaves Gare du Nord regularly, taking three and a half hours to get to the ‘Dam with stops in Brussels, Antwerp, Rotterdam and Schiphol Airport along the way. As usual, we opted to sit near the bar car so we can get the party started right... Although Alannah could not partake of the lovely (and affordable!) on-board Belgian beer this time around.

To meet our budget for staying in Amsterdam, we had several choices, none of which one would typically equate with an anniversary trip. We could hole up in a hostel with a bunch of backpackers – we generally don’t mind this at all, but past experience has shown a great majority of Amsterdam backpackers tend to be on the drug tourist track: Not exactly our idea of a couple of relaxing nights. The other was to grab one of the many affordable hotels right on the central axis of town, the Damrak – which is flooded with said tourists. A third new option, however, fit us best: Using the power of social networking and ingenuity, Air BnB lets individuals rent out rooms to other individuals, often at a very reasonable price. We found a room for rent from a nice local named Mense, just across the River IJ from Amsterdam Centraal Station. He even picked us up at the ferry port to bring us to our cozy, well-appointed little room. At €35/night, it could not be beat, and the location – despite being only minutes from Amsterdam’s city center – was quiet and peaceful. Taking the free ferry back and forth across the IJ every time we wanted to go into town or go home was actually pretty novel and cool, too.

What was novel but not so cool was the German-style shelf toilet in our bathroom. The last thing you want when you’re on a diet of beer and cheese and bitterballen is a toilet made to examine your stool, but hey, we travel to experience other cultures, right?

We got settled in and sent out some emails to local friends to possibly meet up, then made our way back into town for our first order of business: Lunch. Dutch pancakes? Fried meatballs? Aged Gouda cheese? Nope. Burgers.

Getting a good burger in Paris is like pulling teeth. Only more expensive. So it was a relief to get to Burger Bar – right in the tourist bustle of the city center – and sit down for a giant wagyu (Kobe beef) burger for the price of a shitty frozen steak haché at a typical Parisian brasserie.

Our growling stomachs settled, it was on to the next order of business: Beer. We made our way through the tiny streets of the southwestern city center to find a couple of fantastic beer shops – De Bier Koening ("the beer king") and The Cracked Kettle – both of which sell some amazing local brews, as well as import beers we simply can’t get in Paris. Knowing we could get the Dutch beers fresh at the bars, we picked up some cold, hoppy American and Danish beers I could drink while finding our next stops. A certain amount of cold efficiency is needed when you have a huge list of things to sample over three days.

We spent the afternoon weaving back and forth through the western canal belt around the Jordaan neighborhood, finally making our way up the Prinsengracht canal – one of the prettier but more yuppified parts of town – to stop for what would become our new addiction: Dutch apple pie and mint tea. Our friends Melanie and Andrei had recommended pie at this particular shop when they’d visited us in Paris previously, and it automatically went on the “When in Amsterdam...” list.  They did not steer us wrong.

As if a burger and several beers and gigantic apple pie isn’t enough to stuff the belly, we trekked on to our next destination: De Keuken Van 1870 on Spuistraat. Fearing that nothing but chain restaurants would be open past typical Dutch dining hours (i.e. when we Parisians usually eat), we loosened our belts and sat down for a meal of traditional Dutch food – and local beer, of course – in what was once a workmen’s lunchroom. The food was fabulous – and huge – and neither of us were able to finish. That’s impressive when you consider that between the two of us, we’re a greedy pig and a pregnant lady.

Toward the end of dinner we got a text from a local friend whom we’d previously only known via internet. Many years in the Depeche Mode fan community has resulted in many, many friends around the world, the majority of whom we haven’t met. So we took the opportunity to meet up with fellow fan Marcel, who hopped on his bike to join us. We ended up at a local beer bar – a really local one – that exclusively serves Dutch beers, 30 of which are on tap.

The only trouble is that Alannah is currently not drinking and Marcel doesn’t drink beer, so I couldn’t sample all 30 drafts at ‘t Arendsnest. Despite doing my best to drink for three, I only got through four beers before throwing in the towel. The delicious, delicious hop-laden towel.

We called it a relatively early night, taking the ferry back across the IJ to get to our cozy little room and sleep in.

By noon the next day we were a bit bleary-eyed but awake, ready to take on another day of Dutch culture via food and drink. A lot of drink. In order to get some soakage first, we ferried across to Centraal Station, bought 24-hour transit passes (€7, not bad for unlimited tram, metro and local train travel) and took the tram southward to the famous Albert Cuypmarkt.

In one of Europe’s biggest street markets, vendors sell everything from junk to cheap underwear to organic produce, to lovingly-made street food. Alannah immediately keyed in on stroopwafel (big ol’ waffles covered in syrup) and poffertjes (miniature puff pancakes). Not having had enough starch and sugar, apparently, we got an even bigger fix at the amazing Bakken met Passie, a bakery just west of the market that seriously puts most Paris bakeries to shame. The sheer variety, artistry, and – most importantly – deliciousness of everything on display was a bit overwhelming. We wanted to eat everything. We settled on dining in, restraining ourselves to a couple each of surprisingly complex cheese sandwiches, pastries, and drinks.

As much as I wanted to compare it to our own efforts I resisted buying a round of Passie’s San Francisco sourdough. After all, we came for the Dutch food and drink, right?

Speaking of drink... I couldn’t go another moment without a beer. Our next destination was a grueling haul across town (ok, maybe 15 minutes taking two trams) to the Funenkade due east of the city center. There, attached to an old octagonal windmill, is the Brouwerij ‘t IJ. It’s one of two actual breweries in Amsterdam (Heineken doesn’t count – it’s only a tourist attraction, and the actual brewing takes place elsewhere), and they feature five beers on tap at any given time. For the non-committal, flights are available.

The brewpub is like many other brewpubs. There are lots of beer guys with beards hanging out. There’s a lot of sampling and note-taking and sniffing going on. There’s a tour of the brewing facilities that really is the same pretty much the world over. The stark contrast between European beer culture and American culture comes in only one aspect: The presence of children. I’d say a third of the patrons were there with toddlers in tow, and the servers were happy to oblige them with glasses of juice with a little lollipop set into the straw. The wealth of decent non-alcoholic options at Dutch bars is a godsend when traveling with someone who can’t booze it up. Alannah discovered the breadth and depth of organic and conventional apple juices available in Holland, as appelsap seems to be the non-alcoholic beverage of choice around here.

With more than a strong buzz going, I needed to feed the baby. That’d be MY belly. We had just enough time to make it to Frank’s Smoke House before closing. It is not a “coffeshop,” but rather the only smoked fish specialty shop in Amsterdam. We were able to gorge ourselves on sockeye salmon sandwiches while chit-chatting with the lovely lady (Maria, was it?) behind the counter. Before our trip, my mom had commented on Facebook that we need to find a good smoked fish joint (herring in particular) in Amsterdam. Marcel commented that most Dutch ate their herring raw, and he’s right. But somehow Alannah found this humble smoked fish palace.  Now we know where to send my mom next time she’s in Amsterdam. (Which is surprisingly more often than you’d think.)

Then it was back to the city center for more beer. Several glasses of American brews that are nearly impossible to find in Europe, some conversation with a Scottish immigrant and his Dutch wife, and the overall gezellig atmosphere made In de Wildeman a surprisingly kick-back, cozy stop in the heart of the otherwise touristy city center.

It was about dinner time, but the thirst for otherwise unattainable beers would not relent.  We made it to the relatively new Beer Temple, a more slick, modern beer bar – not unlike what you might find in Southern California – specializing in craft brews and, more surprisingly, American craft brews, with many of them on tap. Ok, so there was a little mission creep in sampling Dutch culture, per se, but you simply cannot get beers from Anchor, Left Hand, Flying Dog, etc. on tap – and rarely even in the bottle – in Paris. We did maintain some Dutchness by eating a huge hunk of oudekaas (aged Gouda) with mustard.

Marcel had come out to meet us again (I felt bad for dragging a non-beer drinker to beer bars, but he assured us he’s used to it!) so our sampling of fine beer and fine cheese was nicely accompanied by great conversation.

Alannah noted once again how in all our travels, when meeting up with people I know through the Depeche Mode fan community, we are in the company of extremely nice, welcoming souls. I had warned her before our first concerts together that we’re like neo-Deadheads in a way – but I think we only picked up the positive aspects. And not the patchouli.

One late evening round of street frites (drowning in mayo, of course) and then it was back on the ferry and in for a very sound evening of sleep. Even the horror of using the icky shelf toilet couldn’t keep me from sleeping soundly and contently.

Our final morning had us getting up early. We had to get to the Albert Cuypmarket again, and I was dead set on doing this before our 24-hour transit passes expired. Also, we had to get to Bakken met Passie before their pastry selection was picked over.

Mission accomplished.

We then hooked around the western canal belt (Grachtengordel - try pronouncing that right the first time) to get up to the Noordermarkt and check out the organic foods on display. Fulfilling our mission of acquiring things one simply can’t get in Paris, Alannah picked up a kilo of kale. It also made for a fun little linguistic exchange, with us learning the Dutch word for kale (boerenkool) and us teaching the spelling and pronunciation of it in English to the market lady. K-A-L-E - kayyyl.

Our checklist pretty much being done by midday, we figured we’d move on to more pedestrian things one does in Amsterdam: Eat a pancake. Eat bitterballen (fried meatballs). Maybe hit a coffeeshop.

During the lunch hour, trying to get pancakes was a big failure. The few pancake houses out there were packed and had a nasty line full of tourists (like a croque monsieur in France, pannekoeken are something typically made and eaten at home, not at restaurants). And bitterballen are apparently non-existent until after 4pm, when bars turn on their deep fryers. We settled for apple pie and mint tea, which is a pretty damn good consolation prize if you ask me.

An hour or so later, we stumbled upon (or stumbled up) to Pannekoekenhuis Upstairs, a tiny, über-gezellig pancake house up the steepest set of stairs you can imagine. Being at the bottom of the Red Light District, it was largely full of English-speakers (and a few locals) but no matter – the couple running the place (I assume they’re a couple: one big burly guy, one dainty Asian guy) were about as Amsterdam as it gets.

It’s a good thing we handled those stairs before popping into my favorite, mellow, mostly-locals coffeeshop nearby for a tiny taste of what Amsterdam is famous for: An incredible variety of teas and infusions, served not in cups but glasses so you can appreciate the color more. I had the mint tea. And a spliff of AK-47.

And this is where people ask (every damn time) why I would write publicly about the latter part. It’s simple. I have no political or career aspirations. It’s 100% legal. And I’m from California, where if you don’t have at least one hook-up and don’t have a story of that one time you were soooo high, you’re not actually a Californian.

And to clarify, my non-partaking wife did not do so much as look at my spliff.

With all that out of the way, the experience was, well, whatever.

Again, as a Californian, herb is more a less a part of la vie quotidienne. In fact, not having immediate access to medical-grade bud at any time is one of the very odd things about living in Paris. Occasionally at a party or concert, someone will light up a joint of the cheap shit and pass it around, the cannabis equivalent of an unpalatable Miller Lite. So – like hoppy beers and good burgers – taking a few puffs was a tasty reminder of my native land.

And after three years of dealing with the I’m-so-pushy, I’m-always-right, I-don’t-know-how-to-queue, I-can’t-take-a-fucking-risk-to-save-my-life chaos that is Paris, it was a much deserved moment of unwinding.

Luckily, I didn’t fall into a freezing cold canal as I dodged and weaved my way to the next location, thanks to Alannah keeping an eye on me.

With the clock winding down to our train ride back to Paris, we found ‘t Arendsnest Dutch beer bar again and planted ourselves in for one final session of beer (and appelsap) drinking and bitterballen eating. Still extremely relaxed from the previous stop and with no “checklist” to follow, our last couple of hours in Amsterdam were chill, mellow, and full of smiles.

Alannah and I whiled away our time, talking about our newly forged memories, the totally gezellig vibe of old school bruincafes (old brown pubs, such as the one we were sitting in), and how amazingly friendly and welcoming every single local has been. We determined we’ll definitely go farther afield on our next trip, but even while generally remaining near the city center, we managed to largely steer clear of the bachelor party groups and collegiate drug tourists, and to find some very comfortable, serene spots.

Despite Amsterdam’s distorted image as a “cesspool for sex and drugs,” Alannah caught on to what I’d been talking about before – how it’s an OK place to visit as a tourist, but how it seems a fantastic place to simply live.  We can’t imagine living anywhere other than Paris right now, but seeing how kid-friendly, bike-friendly, and generally friendly Amsterdam is, we can’t feel but a twinge of jealousy for the families riding to the organic market, kids in tow in their bakfiets, with a jongkaas broodtje in hand.

One ultrasound and my priorities have totally changed. Proost!

--

The full-on foodie account of this post will be found on Hungry Amateurs.
The full set of photos taken on this trip can be found at my Flickr page.

Everybody's Jumping Everybody Else's Train

Legroom (on the Thalys
from Köln to Paris)

Several years ago, I was interviewed for a USA Today article about why I prefer flying over taking trains within Europe. Young, single, impatient me expounded the virtues of speed and price. Less time in transit meant more time to drink the local libations, after all.

Fast forward to 2010. I'm older. Married. And wiser, though that's debatable. What's not debatable is that flying sucks, almost without exception. If it's not the airlines nickel and diming you, it's the security establishment mocking your sensibilities by putting you through its theatrics.

The 45-minute flight from the aforementioned article now takes at least 4.5 hours door to door, will cost you at least triple in hidden fees and surcharges, and will generally be an unpleasant experience. The 5-hour train ride it was compared to may still be slow despite the greater number of high-speed services, but nowadays, it will likely cost less, make it on time, and allow you to get on board with all of your luggage, your own lunch, and your dignity.

Furthermore, with most rail services being nationally owned (or at least government subsidized), there's little chance you'll be left high and dry by a bankruptcy. You know, like when a group of you book tickets to a bachelor party on a discount Slovak airline, and due to said airline's bankruptcy, leave the bachelor and the best man high and dry in Bratislava. (True story. Ask the assholes at SkyEurope.)

Beyond all that, as I mentioned in last week's post on Hungry Amateurs about eating in London, trains are bringing glamour back to travel. Maybe even a little romance.

A first-class ticket on a high-speed train is certainly nice... Our Eurostar trip to London in late 2008 was an absolute pleasure, however brief, with champagne, lunch served with proper silverware, and chatting with a few dozen of our newest Welsh geezer friends.

Being on a Belgian train network
means big Belgian beers.

But you don't need all that to have a relaxed, comfortable, and leisurely ride through Europe. If you're looking to move about freely, chit chat with other passengers, and even get a little boozy with your honey bunny, I've got two words for you: Bar car.

Not that anyone doesn't know about the bar/snack train that's available on just about every main line in Europe... But on this past weekend's trip from France to Germany and back, we found serious bliss in the bar car.

First, there are often (as is the case on Thalys trains) four sets of quad seats on the bar car. If you can get these seats (and don't mind a bit of noise and passers-by around you), take them. Being with a maximum of 15 other people in the car – and likely no snotty kids – you're better off than even the 60 people per car in first class.

Even if you can't land these seats, don't worry. Hang out in the bar car anyway. If you're paranoid, you can bring your luggage with you, and if you're somewhere in between, you can leave your luggage in the rack at the end of the car, looking up from your Duvel or Leffe or champagne once in a while to make sure it's not gone.

The clusterfuck at Cologne (Köln) Hauptbahnhof after
most regional trains were canceled due to Atlantic
storm Xynthia on 28 February.

Of course, train travel isn't without its share of headaches. While they don't get up in the air, they're also subject to delays and cancellations during storms, what with trees falling on tracks, building materials flying through windows, and snow shorting out entire trains.

Yesterday, for example, our scheduled 4-hour trip from Düsseldorf, Germany to Paris, France (via Cologne, Germany and Brussels, Belgium) took somewhere in the neighborhood of seven hours.  This was due to the massive storm raging all over western Europe, as well as unrelated delays caused by the previous week's head-on commuter train collision in Belgium.

On a plane, this sort of delay would've been a nightmare, an irritation, and a royal bitch all rolled up into one.  But thanks in no small part to the bar car, it was still a pleasure – more time to spend with my squeeze, and with some good beer.

Of course, it was exhausting, so you'll have to wait 'til I recover a bit if you want to know any more about the trip itself.

No Sleep Til Dortmund

Eight more beers, one more train station sausage, a fried pie, and hours later, we're in Dortmund.

What was supposed to be a near full day in Düsseldorf ended up being one extended evening. Upon arrival at the train station, we stowed our luggage and started exploring the town. All I have to say is that train station lockers are freakin' magical. If not the need for a bed, you wouldn't even need hotels!

Not that we'd see a bed for a while.

"Stamina Ramen" at Na Ni Wa

We started off exploring Düsseldorf's Japantown area. Who knew that Europe's third largest Japanese community (after Paris and London) lives here!? We stopped into Na Ni Wa and had some amazing ramen... Yes, I had the best ramen I've had outside of Japan (or New York City's Ippudo) in Germany. Seriously. Rue Ste-Anne in Paris, your Japanese community has just been given notice!

Wowed (and utterly stuffed) we walked through the center of Düsseldorf, through the ritzy shopping district and into the Altstadt (old city). One of the first things we saw in the cobblestoned, charming part of town was... a Hooters!?

Despite my love for wings, boobs, and pantyhose paired with hotpants, we gave it a pass and beelined it to the first old brewhouse we saw. Brauerei Uerige fit the bill, so we figured we'd run in for an Altbier or two before exploring more of the Altstadt.

Eight beers later (six for me, if you insist on accuracy, two for the Dame) and we found our butts firmly glued to the old wood bench. The fact that they started closing down cued us to move along and head back toward the station, where we'd be meeting up with our friends (and hosts for the night) before moving on to Dortmund.

Of course, things took longer than expected. In waiting for them, I picked up a dodgy train station Bratwurst. When we finally met up, it turned out no one else had eaten dinner, so we went to late night favorite... McDonald's.

Alannah and I weren't hungry, but believe it or not, we were thirsty. So we had a couple of large Cokes – which disappointingly weren't gargantuan American sized liquid diabetes in a cup – and I couldn't resist trying a McVeggie Burger (not too good) and a fried apple pie. Yes, health-conscious friends back home.... McD's still fries their pies in Germany.

Friends united and post-midnight snack complete, we caught the commuter train to Dortmund. Even though it took an hour and a half, it was mindblowing to see that there's 24-hour rail service.

We were in by 3:00 am, in bed by 5:00, and I woke up after six hours, ready to take on the day... And judging by how many times my sleep was interrupted by trips to the toilet, this day will NOT include any train station Bratwurst.

Lost in Luxembourg

I've been back from a short trip to Luxembourg for a couple of days now, but it's taken me a while to recover enough to write about it. I've been wearing my baggiest pants, hiking socks, and some highly unfashionable sandals while I recuperate, looking so hideous that I don't want to venture outside for fear of being deported. I'm tired. I'm bloated. My feet are destroyed.

Our mission was twofold: To meet up with my friend and fellow fan Alex – who now lives in Germany with her husband Thomas – so we can go see the very first stop of Depeche Mode's "Tour of the Universe"... And to drink beer. We were successful on both counts.

While in my hardcore-fan-for-whom-nothing-is-ever-good-enough, the concert was fairly decent (I was hoping for better for Alannah's first!) and just to be at the first show of the tour at a smaller venue was a distinct pleasure. Tickets had sold out in mere seconds, so we knew we were among the privileged few at Luxembourg's Rockhal.


In this same venue, home to Luxembourg's biggest concerts, the beers - as in big drafts in pint cups - were only 2 euro each. I'll say it again: Pints of real (i.e. Luxembourgish pilsner, not Bud or Miller) beer for only 2 euro.

Luxembourg, being a world financial capital, is one of the most affluent places on Earth. Yet we found that - like at the Rockhal - everything is cheap. Not just beer.

With it being Octave, the Luxembourgish Catholic period observed after Easter, the Place Guillaume II was turned into a special fair, with stands featuring everything from cotton candy to nougat to carnival games. And, of course, plentiful beer and food on the cheap.

One thing we've missed since moving to France is street food. As much as people may mention kebabs and crêpes, there really is no street food in Paris. Occasionally, you can buy a grilled ear of corn from a Pakistani immigrant roasting it over a can full of charcoal in a shopping cart – and believe me, it's some seriously sublime stuff – but in general, you're unlikely to see Parisians munching on the street.

Scratch that for Luxembourg. Even at 10:30 in the morning, it wasn't unusual to see a local tucking into a giant sausage sandwich and several beers. Personally, I opted for the speck/lard sammich to go with my brews.


We also sampled grompere kichelcher (potato pancakes, German style) with apfelmüs, Luxringer (barbecued bratwurst), Currywurst, and anything else they'd hand us for just a few euro coins at the stands.

Vegetables seemed to be few and far in between, so in order to stay regular, we figured we'd try the uniquely Luxembourgish specialty of gezwickelte beer. This is an unfiltered brew available exclusively at Mousel's Cantine, downhill from Luxembourg City in the Clausen/Grund area, and well worth the hike. I complemented our waiter on the simple but remarkably delicious, smooth beer (I was expecting something more hoppy, tangy, or even gritty) and he proudly boasted that this is the only place you can get it - because they make it out back. (The big Mousel brewery itself has long moved to another city.)


After putting down litres of the stuff (4 euro a Stein, not bad), we thought it might be a good idea to find our way back toward our hotel and get some dinner before Alex and Thomas arrived in the evening.

Easier said than done.

Much of Luxembourg is – thanks to the Pétrusse river cutting a winding swath through it – hilly and zig-zaggy. There are very few straight lines from one place to another. So although we had followed our waiter's instructions to get back, we wound up somewhere in an ancient neighborhood in the Grund, without much of an idea where we really were. Not a big deal, considering the area is really quite charming and cute.

"Hey, there's a bar!" Alannah said, noticing the skulls in the window of the Aula Cafe. "Let's go inside," I replied.

And that's how we ended up having a liquid dinner.


We'd intended to have a quick beer and a pee-break and make our way to a restaurant for our first proper meal, but the Bofferdings went down too smoothly and the bartender and locals were too friendly. We ended up camping out for several hours, downing the aforementioned beers, as well as house specialties of honey and banana liqueurs. They even put on a ton of Depeche Mode on the sound system when they found out we were in town for the show. Class all the way.

Finally peeling ourselves off the barstools, we again took directions and made our way toward what we thought was the center of town. Somehow we ended up walking alongside what seemed like a highway. Night had fallen, and I went into a service station to ask for directions. They seemed a bit taken aback that we were on foot, telling me we had to go two kilometers in the direction from which we'd just come. Shit!

That one wrong turn cost us our intended dinner. We'd made it to the restaurant just as they'd decided to stop serving, the smell of steak and what had to be the best garlic sauce ever wafting through the air. I grumbled all the way back to the Gare part of town. At least the timing was right and we were able to meet up with our friends who'd just gotten in from Germany.

Luxembourg, despite speaking French and having a lot in common with France, does not keep French dining hours. So our only choice for dinner was... McDonald's. This isn't so awful, as I have this weird quirk about wanting to try the Golden Arches in every country I visit. (Verdict: Nothing to write home about.) But also because this was the same McDonald's that Alannah had come to on her very first trip to Europe. In fact, at this McDonald's, oh so many years ago, she had eaten her very first meal in Europe.

I'm still laughing at her about that.

But I shouldn't. I fully understand. After all, she could've arrived after 9-freakin-P.M.

At bedtime, we both realized that - despite it having been only a year since leaving the US - we've already become French. Dinner before 10:00pm just seems sort of... abnormal.

The Agony of Da-Feet
I awoke early the next morning. Not because I was excited to see my favorite band at an exclusive show in a small-ish venue. But because of serious pain in my right foot. All the hiking, climbing, and generally being lost had taken its toll – I'd either strained or hyperextended my foot. And the steady diet of fat, nitrites, and beer probably didn't help.

So we made it the morning's goal to hit the farmer's market, to see if this country does actually consume anything that grows on plants that wasn't once a hop or barley.

After a nice sit-down petit déjeuner of coffee, croissants, and orange juice (4€ as opposed to 9€ in Paris), I painfully soldiered on to the market, which had been displaced farther away from the center of town because of the Octave fair.

It was sorely disappointing, with few stands and most of them selling the same stuff as you'd find at the more run-of-the-mill Parisian markets. Alannah did find, however, some treviso, a particular kind of radicchio she'd picked up and fell in love with in Italy last year.

The four of us marched back toward the old town to hit up the Octave fair once again for some munchies, loading up once again on sausage-type-goods. If you can't beat 'em...

As midday approached, we headed back toward the train station to make our way to Oberkorn, just a few stops past where the evening's concert would be. There's no reason for any person to go to Oberkorn unless A) you live there, or B) you're a Depeche Mode fan.

The band played their only other Luxembourg show there back in 1982 or so, and wound up naming a B-side after it - "Oberkorn (It's a Small Town)"

It is, indeed, a small town. The train station is maybe about 50 metres long, has no gates or fences or anything to keep you from just walking across the tracks to get to the other "platform" (read: sidewalk), and their claim to fame appears to be a community swimming pool that has a waterslide.


On the other hand, their gleaming, modern local buses put most public transit in the US to shame. (Not that it takes much.) And they have the most perfect pavements on the face of the Earth. No joke. I wonder how much beers cost here...

Our incredibly trivial, deadhead-like pilgrimage over and done with, we got back on the train to go to Rockhal. (Their tickets are good for all public transit in the country of Luxembourg on the day of shows. Sweet.) We were among the handful that had arrived insanely early to be the first ones in, wanting to be right up front, after all.

Unfortunately, I had to return to Luxembourg to put my photography gear away at the hotel (the No-Cameras rule applies only to SLRs, apparently) which meant coming back later with a bigger crowd to find the others and regain my position in line. This meant a lot of "Excuse me," "Pardonnez-moi," and other niceties while stepping on the toes of people who surely thought we were just trying to cut in line.

And that was the case - not because I wasn't polite, nor that I couldn't say in several languages that I'd been there earlier and was rejoining my friends... But because there was the (I hate to say typical, but that's how it is at these shows) Eastern European contingent who had indeed cut in line to go be at the front. In fact, one fine example of such post-Iron Curtain louts was right in front of Alex and Thomas, a gargantuan couple who had absolutely no consideration for anyone else.

As luck would have it, when we made our way to the front of the stage once the gates opened, so did these two jackholes, who despite being in a great spot right by us, had to make a show of trying to push even farther. (As though they could get through the one person and steel bars separating them and the stage.) Further into the evening, there were a few more denizens of countries-that-should-never-have-been-let-into-the-EU trying to shove and muscle their way to the front, earning a few elbows in the ribs from yours-truly.

I finally understood why so many European fans - despite the wide availability of general admission floor tickets - prefer to buy seats a bit off the floor. While the crowds here are generally incredibly polite and respectful of personal space, there are always a brutish few who try to take advantage of the politesse and forcefully jockey for better position. I noticed at a show in Paris - in a much similar situation - that Alannah and I were among the few who resisted and fought back.

Make your own WWII analogies.

The show itself was pretty good. It had its high highs (some decades-old songs being dusted off, Martin Gore giving the performance of a lifetime), its low lows ("Peace" is the worst live Depeche Mode song ever, Dave Gahan still tries too hard on stage, Peter Gordeno should simply be hanged until dead), and as-expected parts (can we drop certain "standards" from the setlist yet, guys?). But again, it was the privilege of being there, and taking Alannah to her first DM show, that made it worthwhile.

Despite the irritating dickhead quotient.

Best of all, despite continuing to be on my feet non-stop since early in the morning (and with exception for time spent on the train), my right foot did not fall off. In fact, by the night's end, I couldn't even feel my feet anymore.

Home
This was our third train trip outside of the country since moving to France. But for me, at least, the trip home actually, really, truly felt like we were going home. Back to our city. To our neighborhood. To our apartment. Our little nest. Where we actually, honest to god think of when we say "our home."


The night before leaving on this trip, I booked us our tickets to go back to the US for vacation this summer.

And for the first time in ages, I'm not looking forward to it.

Don't get me wrong.

I want to see my friends. My family. My old colleagues.

I want to have a hoppy Seattle microbrew, California wine, and Crunchy Cheetos.

I want to see the Pacific Ocean, the Sierra Mountains, and the Puget Sound.

You know - all those things people vacationing on the West Coast get to do. Before going home.

Entire photo set at Flickr

A Little Brit o' That...

I was having fun sending little Twitter updates from my phone on Saturday, gloating about my glamorous life. I found a last-minute deal on Eurostar for a daytrip to London, and thought, "Why the hell not? That's why we moved to Europe." Well, that and getting away from the festering pile of decay that is the political/economic atmosphere in the US - though that doesn't matter much in a globalized economy where we're all screwed anyway.

But I digress. While Joe Sixpack and Caribou Barbie are concerned about their insolvent banks and soon-to-be-foreclosed homes, we were living it up, sipping champagne and quaffing Scotch, hurtling toward London at some respectable fraction of the speed of sound.

We were on a First Class car full of Welsh pensioners on their way back from a coach tour of Switzerland, a jovial group averaging about 126 years in age. Give or take a few years. As the youngest people in the car, we apparently warranted a huge round of applause for our young newlywed status - or perhaps for our ability to withstand cold weather. Asked where we were from, we told them that we were Californians but now lived here. "What's wrong with you!?" one demanded. "It's too sunny in the States," we snarked back. "Skin cancer, you know."

"We love Florida," one of them said.

"I know," I wanted to say, "Old Brits love Florida more than George Michael loves anonymous sex and crack cocaine." But considering the company, I had to lie. "Oh, it's wonderful there. Orlando's brilliant any time of year!" I pandered to the couple who'd be sitting across the aisle from me for the next couple of hours.

To be honest, I don't blame them for loving Florida. All my memories of the place are fond. Gorgeous beaches, gorgeous women, gorgeous sunshine, more gorgeous women. Like me, they probably think "Beaches, binge drinking, and bikinis," and their subsequent perpetual boners, as opposed to "The Florida Gators, Katherine Harris, and Jeb Bush," which are enough to make anyone permanently flaccid. Florida is like Viagra - fun for the young who indulge in it, a last grasp at life for the aged, and a huge contributor to our fucked up system. How appropriate that it's shaped like the hanging schlong of America.

If Florida is America's cock, then London is Europe's pussy - or at least the loose-moraled hussy that keeps letting America fuck it. I'm not sure what the "special relationship" that Bush and Blair consummated is, exactly, but it doesn't seem like Gordon Brown has done anything to clean up the wet spot it left. Like its fellow sputtering empire, Britain is all commerical freewheeling and part police state.

Peppered amongst the 9,587 adverts flung at you every minute are stark reminders from the state. I don't mind being told to "Mind the Gap" on the Tube, but I get a bit uncomfortable being told, "Your town, your street, your home - it's all in the database." Or, "To find out what an illegal minicab can cost you, ask a rape victim." Or, "Think your belongings are safe? Think again."

Fear, fear, fear, and more fear!

Luckily, London is full of beer, beer, beer, and more beer!

Between rounds of shopping in the hipster-clogged new markets in the East End and the tourist-clogged high street shops of the West End, we downed some much-needed hand-pumped cask ale. Sure, you can get beer with a little bit of color in France, but even a pint of the crappy stuff costs an arm and a leg. After drinking beer (or attempting to, at least) in Paris, I somehow didn't mind putting down £3.30 ($5.80) for a pint of real ale. After all, you pay roughly $9 (with today's strong Dollar/Euro exchange rate, at that), for a single pint on the continent. Who knew that drinking in London could ever be considered cheap!?

The fact that a full pint of the good stuff costs less in London than a happy hour-priced pint of the yellow swill in Paris makes the trip worthwhile. Even if much of that trip is spent battling the morons of the London Underground.

I swear, I was about this close [gesturing with pinched fingers] to taking the head off of the next person who stood in the middle of a walkway, shoved me as I was moving faster than traffic as it was, or dragged their wheelie luggage across my foot with the 500-page hardcover tome on Ferran Adria I picked up at the bookstore.

That'd be the English-language bookstore. In England. Where the English books don't have to be imported. And subsequently don't cost as much as a mortgage or small vehicle, as they do in Paris.

Which has me thinking... Maybe more countries should dive into the downward spiral of financial mayhem. It makes for great bargain shopping. Anyone fancy a trip to Asia? I hear their markets are screwed, too.

Petits Connards...!

I was sitting at my desk today, lamenting the fate of the ever-plunging US dollar against its trans-Atlantic cousin, the Euro.

Our CFO happened to be in on this conversation.

"In fact, this is very good for us," he said with obvious delight. "Here is your week's salary!"

He put a coin on the desk.

My new boss decided to join the chorus. "You've done a great job this week. We're doubling your salary!" And he slapped down another coin.

Who says the French are humorless? They're mean-spirited, evil bastards who prey on the feelings of someone on the edge of pauperdom, but they're funny.

Ahh, I remember when I could do that to my Canadian friends. Those were the days. Now we can't even afford a crappy, watered-down can of Molson's. Sorry, Canucks, your dollar may be worth more than ours, but your beer still sucks! And before you get all butt-hurt, you can revel in the fact that I can't afford even suckier, even more watered-down French beer.

The Score: England vs. France

This isn't a post about the Rugby World Cup. In fact, as they're not in the same pool and playing in a mediocre fashion, they'll be lucky if they get to meet each other later on.

No, this is the traditional wrap-up post, being written as I eat a shitty Subway sandwich for dinner, sitting at work - the result of going on vacation just before a big midnight product launch. But for now, I get to take a few moments to recount some holiday bliss.

Food
Long known for boiled "meat and two veg," England has come a long way culinarily. London is one of the most international cities in the world, and now hosts some of the finest restaurants in the world. And while all the kebabs and Indian food and fusion cuisine have really elevated the status of food in Britain, all the competition has made even the stalwart pub meals become that much better. Whether it's chicken tikka masala, shawarma, or a full English breakfast in front of you, it's hard not to get a fresh, satisfying meal just about anywhere in the UK.

That said, a simple slab of cheese from the corner store, a pastry bought at the train station, or a coffee just about anywhere in France will make anyone lament even their finest food choices at home. While I enjoyed every meal in England and consumed it with gusto, not once did I curl my toes and roll my eyes back into my head as much as I did with any French meal. The fact that I'm putting a Subway sandwich into my digestive tract while a Parisian côte de boeuf is still lodged somewhere further along is probably insulting to the French people and their way of life. Because I think food is life there.

Points Awarded to: France


Drink
Winemaking may be sacred in France, and it'd be astonishing - perhaps even illegal - to get a poor house red for just a few euros, but even the biggest wine snob has to admit that we have a greater variety and range in California alone. Don't get me wrong - the Imperial sampling I had at Moët & Chandon was about the best sparkling wine I've ever had, and the Côtes du Provence I had with one dinner was a brilliant suggestion on the waiter's part.

But England... damn, bring on the beer! Just the fact that every pub has real ale on cask makes it worth a trip across the pond alone. And while a couple of my favorite beers are French (Kronenbourg 1664 and their Grand Cru Blanc de Blancs white... yes, that's a beer), very few French drinking experiences hold a candle to sitting in a warm pub and enjoying a few pints in good company.

Points Awarded to: England


Atmosphere
I found it damn near impossible to go anywhere of interest either in London or Paris that wasn't crawling with tourists. I still cringe at my mental soundbites of hideous American accents exclaiming, "We sure ain't in Kansas anymore!" or "Wow, that building's gotta be over a hundred years old!" (Try over 800, jackass.) But there's a reason people in shorts, sandals, and tube socks swarm all over Europe. It's because as Eddie Izzard says, it's where the history comes from. And it's all very breathtaking.

When you take into account that the cathedral you're staring at is from the 1100's, that the romantic bridge you're strolling across affords a brilliant view on either side of the river, or that the building before you is one of the great architectural marvels of the modern age, you can't begrudge anyone else for going to check it out. Even if it spoils your perfect little experience.

And for all these things - history, beauty, and architecture - both England and France are winners. And they both get demerits for the irksome number of irritating chavs, bothersome con artists, and general scumbags hanging around. But for the first time on a trip, I've factored in another variable: Romance. Being that this was my first big trip with a significant other, I found myself constantly thinking, "Wow, this place certainly is romantic." Most of the time in France.

Points awarded to: France


Getting Around
Laugh all you want about Socialism, but London and Paris have both benefited largely by having mayors of such persuasion. Since my last visit to either, both are criss-crossed by an impressive number of dedicated bike lanes, and as such, more bicyclists. This has eased congestion greatly in the metropolitan centers and has made it easy to get places while enjoying the great views on tap. And in smaller places - like Exeter and Epernay - biking is already commonplace and easy to do. Largely because the areas are so small to begin with. This alone makes Europe heaven for a regular cyclist as myself, whereas in California, we're persectued by the authorities. (See recent LAist stories about incidents in my former stomping grounds of Hollywood and Beverly Hills.

The metro systems in both capitals are also legendary. They get you around with ease, usually with little delay, and if you do it right (i.e. getting a transit card like the locals do), cheaply. Sure, both are prone to the occasional transit strike, but I'll take that over gridlock any day of the year. I'd have to say, though, that London has an edge because of its more straightforward metro layout and hilarious station names. (I'm talking to you, Cockfosters.)

Points awarded to: England - by a slight margin


Intangibles
Paris has this certain... I hate to say it... je ne sais quoi that envelops you everywhere you go. Despite longstanding rumors to the contrary, the people are friendly, every other corner looks charming, and as mentioned before, it's just f'ing romantic - as if frozen in time. London, even with all its history and pagaentry, is downright modern and dynamic. There's an energy about the city that spreads to the rest of the country (with beer prices dissipating as the radius grows) and it's infectious. Both are at the forefront of style and fashion, not unlike an American metropolis like New York, but have a crazy amount of history and tradition behind them that dusts anything on our side of the Atlantic.

And both England and France have played host to once-in-a-lifetime memories for me. Whether it was attending a culturally unique wedding ceremony, shouting along at a Rugby World Cup match, cycling through vineyards, or having an extravagant snack in the lap of luxury, I've had some amazingly memorable experiences in both countries on this trip alone - nevermind past sojourns to either.

Tie


Ok, call it a cop-out, but it's really hard to choose between these two great countries. Every time I start thinking, "Damn, France was really something," I remember something about England that was equally as cool. And although I'm partial to England, having lived there as a child and still consider it "home" in a way, there are things about it that irk me beyond belief. As the immigration officer at Heathrow said as she opened my passport to stamp it - "Been here a few times, have we?" But as much as I've done England to death, I still haven't done it all, and would just as eagerly book a flight there as I would to France.

Hell - I salivate at any opportunity to leave the country.

And although I've really enjoyed my years as a lone wolf traveler, and even the group trips, I'm looking forward to all the future opportunities with my true love.

Beer.

Er, I mean Alannah.

(Don't give me that look! She wouldn't be with me if she didn't love my jerkwad comments.)