As you might imagine, the French don’t call French toast “French toast”, but they also don’t call it “toast” as one might expect, particularly based on the fact that English people call English muffins “muffins”. French toast (in French, translated back to English) is called “lost bread”, which may help explain why the best French toast is made from stale bread (the recipe I used as a kid, which I still use to this day, incidentally, recommended leaving bread out overnight to dry out before use).
The giggles
I came home from Spanish class tonight with a serious case of the giggles, which reminds me of a French expression for having the giggles that, for some, undoubtedly leads to more giggling: I ate a clown. Actually, it sounds quite creepy in English, but in French it makes me laugh.
They’re ba-a-ack!
It’s that time again: little wooden shacks have filled up the pedestrian streets and small squares all over town, and, to my surprise, were already lit up, populated, and selling their wares. I knew that things were getting set up for the Christmas markets, but hadn’t realized that they would start this weekend.
Though I so rarely get downtown these days, and especially not on Saturday afternoons, there were a few stores I wanted to hit, so I drove all over downtown to find a parking spot, got a great one just as it was freed up, paid for a little less than 2 hours of parking, and headed towards Place de la Réunion. To my surprise, the whole square was fully decorated and covered in wooden stalls (arranged, I must say, much more decoratively than in previous years). Since it was unbelievably cold out, I sought out a stand selling hot apple cider (just about every stand selling food – which accounts for probably half of the stands – sells hot wine, but I felt more like apple cider). I found one selling a selection of hot beverages (including orange juice, which I still think is really weird) and let my plastic cup warm my hands (through my gloves!) as I continued on to Rue du Sauvage, where most of the stores I was interested in are to be found.
I started my search for a few things, making my way up the road towards Porte Jeune, which (for the past couple of years) has become the main hub of tram traffic, and at which they recently built a shopping centre. I had thought that there were only a couple of stores, but headed over to check it out. It was extremely mall-like, although much smaller than your typical North American mall. Clothing stores are the majority, and a few kiosks and cafés, as well as a large Subway (as in the sandwiches – making it the second one in Mulhouse, with the first really not that far away) give it that real “mall” feel. I bet many of the stores that moved in there (particularly those that were previously located in the pedestrian streets of downtown) must have been laughing themselves all the way to the bank yesterday too, since it was so bitterly cold it was much more pleasant walking around in side, than dashing between stores along Rue du Sauvage, not to mention the savings in heating bills they’ll see over the next season as many stores downtown incomprehensible keep the doors wide open even in the dead of winter, hoping that vents heating the doorway area will bring in the customers.
Anyway, on my way back towards my parking spot, I happened upon the Canadian (Québecois) stand at which I bought a jar of maple butter just after Christmas last year. Without a doubt, it was the same guy (who even remembered me – although, to be fair, there aren’t a hundred million Canadians living in Mulhouse that he could have otherwise mistaken me for). I bought another jar of maple butter (at at least twice the price it would have been in Canada, but undoubtedly less than buying+shipping it from Canada) and was amused at the new additions to his products of choice: dried cranberries, concentrated cranberry juice… all marked “canneberge” (the French word for cranberry, although in France, since they’ve never heard it – it being a fruit native to North America, only make more common in the past few years via Ocean Spray cranberry juice – call it “Cranberry”, with, of course, a good strong accent, and emphasis on the “ry” rather than the “cran”).
So for my local (Mulhouse) readers: don’t forget to get to the marché de noël and find the Canadian (if I remember correctly he was on Rue du Sauvage, roughly across from C&A) for some REAL maple products (not that low grade stuff that you can get at the grocery store for several times what it’s really worth).
Sweden part 4
Part 3 was here, by the way. In the interest of actually publishing this post that’s been waiting for weeks, I’m going to gloss over a few details…
The conference was very interest, and us non-Nordics were a clear minority. At the evening cocktail at the end of day 1, Bruno and I chatted with a group of Danes (is that still the right term? it doesn’t seem politically correct to me), one of whom had a personality so similar to Viann, it was scary. That his name was Ivan (could the names possibly be any closer???) made it even more bizarre. We had a great laugh with the guys, who kindly invited us to join them for dinner. We ate at an aMAZing Italian restaurant (whenever I think of Nordic countries, I always think of Italian food, don’t you?) and laughed pretty much all evening.
Thanks again to Marc, David, Ivan, Micke, Rune and Lasse for that!
The next day Ivan was among the presenters and his similarities to Vianney continued: there presentation style is unbelievably similar.
The food was a bit more Nordic, with venison at lunch and, in the evening, the planned trip to a proper Swedish restaurant. Thanks to a kindly contact on Twitter, I had the name and address of a restaurant as well as advice on what to order. He did not steer me wrong. Oh social networking – is there anything you can’t do? Despite being stuffed, I ventured into the dessert menu, opting for a Raspberry Soufflé. Ok, so soufflé hardly sounds Swedish, but still. It was unbelievably fantastically fantastical.
We headed back to the hotel relatively early, since we would have to be up around 4:00am. Inevitably I had trouble getting to sleep, and even more so staying asleep. On the bright side, we got to the airport even quicker than expected, which was a pretty good thing, because you would not believe how many people there are at Arlanda airport at 5:00am on a Thursday.
Oh yeah, and the awesome train to the airport had outlets all over the place, so I was able to charge my cell phone and my laptop en route to the airport. Cool.
At the airport, the timing was perfect. The lines moved slowly, and my gate was at the other end of the world, but everything moved along just right; I had time to browse the books, with a set of novels that Marc had recommended to me at dinner catching my eye (although I wasn’t about to pay airport prices, it gave me a good reminder to look them up on the net when I got home).
By the time I got to my gate, I had time to write a single paragraph before it was time to board. At take off and for the first part of the flight, I took in the view over Sweden, and promised myself I would go back. I gave in and bought food on the plane (a venison sandwich on Swedish bread) and couldn’t help but think that I was eating Rudolph for breakfast. I guess that’s what lack of sleep will do to you! It was 7:40am, I was exhausted, and I still had several hours of travel and an afternoon of work to deal with!
On the descent, just above the top layer of clouds, I get a great view of a full-circle rainbow, perfectly framing the shadow of the plane. I realize that there is a good scientific reason for that, but it just looked surreal. Unfortunately, I had just turned of my (camera) phone, and wasn’t able to get it back on fast enough to get the photo.
9:30
It’s a small world (after all).
Having no checked luggage (lucky for me they didn’t weigh my cabin baggage, since it was a bit overweight on the way over – I got a stern talking-to, but she didn’t make me check it) and undoubtedly more so on the way back (add a stack of papers from the conference, and a package of Swedish bread, although I’m sure that would hardly be the last straw (or, as the French would say: the drop that makes the bucket overflow). As a result, it was a smooth (if longish) walk through Zurich airport to the train station (in the airport itself). I studied the board to see whether hopping on the first train to Zurich HB would be the best option, or whether one of the trains directly to Basel would be coming up. Oddly, I didn’t even see a direct train to Basel, but since I know what time it goes through Oerlikon (the first stop past the airport, and frequently my destination when I’m in this neck of the woods) my tired brain managed to realize that the it would probably appear on the board within minutes (which also meant that it was nearly an hour away). It’s only as a write this that I realize that it also means that I only missed it by a few minutes, but, to be fair, I wouldn’t have run for it even if I had thought it, because there are too many other options to make the added adrenaline necessary.
Anyway, I figured I wouldn’t make the next train, which was to leave within a minute of my looking at the board, and I still needed to get down to the platform but, as it turns out, my timing really couldn’t have been closer. They were already blowing the whistle just before I squeezed on with some North American travellers (I knew they were North American because I heard them ask directions). We were a bit squeezed into entrance area with several other people, but there was no sense trying to find a seat, since the train wouldn’t be stopping at Oerlikon (or anywhere else) before the HB. As the father prepared to load their bags into the luggage rack, I heard the mother say that she thought it might be the next stop. I told her that it was. They then asked whether someone would come by to collect their tickets, and I told them that chances were good they didn’t check at all (which they didn’t).
My incorrigible roaming eyes settled on the Air Canada luggage tag on one of their bags, and then the luggage strap with a Canadian flag on other. My curiosity picked, I noticed a luggage tag facing up, and just had to see the town/province. Georgetown, Ontario. All things being relative, that’s really really close to where I grew up.
A few words between Canadians (“My daughter lives in Oakville!”) and attempts to make connections (she also knew people that went to OT – Oakville Trafalger High Schol that she wondered if I knew growing up, and while I wondered how old she thought I was, I resisted the urge to ask how old the people in question are, since I would be less than surprised if they were not my age at all), and a recommendation for that Swiss restaurant in the tourist area of Zurich, and we arrived at the main station.
I had intended to wish them a enjoyable end of trip (Zurich was the last leg after some time in Rome) but they got a bit lost in the crowd, and short of waiting (and appearing mildly stalkerish) I didn’t really have the chance. I started walking up the other side of platform (where there were fewer people) and was surprised to see that the train sitting there was headed for Basel, leaving just a few minutes later.
As we pass through Neuenhof, I realize that this is one of the few times my story has been more positive than negative (and I’m happy for it: aside from simply having a good trip, I like telling stories that don’t involve complaints!). That said, I can’t help but worry that I’ve passed my bad luck onto Bruno, who is flying via Paris, and therefore has to deal with a stopover, double the possibility of delays and a much longer voyage in general.
For another story of a that went quite well, this seems like a good time to link to the story of my trip to from Mulhouse to Barcelona (via Baden Baden) and then on to Prague (via Frankfurt). As it happens, I just posted this (and had a good laugh re-reading it) and I wonder if good trips breed good trips or whether it’s a complete coincidence that I happened to read it right around the time of another good trip…
We’ve just passed through Baden (not to be confused with Baden Baden…I guess they were running out of names…like the Roughriders and the Rough Riders) and I can’t but help to think “frick!”. This non-word, cousin of “frig” and more distant relative of a stronger four-letter word starting with “f”, is the favourite exclamation of Elliot, one of the main characters of Scrubs. It is also a town in Switzerland, which I will be passing through shortly (we are arriving in Brugg as we speak). I can’t help but wonder whether the writers (who have also given Elliot a few German lines now and then, as she – and the actress playing her – apparently speak some German) know that it’s a town in the German-speaking part of Switzerland, or whether I am once again over-thinking things, and seeing connections that aren’t really there.
And then there were three
Exercise balls are slowly replacing desk chairs at work: we are now up to 3. All women. Still no pregnancies…as far as we know 
The thing about Swiss cheese
I have no idea why this just came to me, but a while ago someone told me this, and I wanted to share it with you:
The more cheese you have, the more holes you have. The more holes you have, the less cheese you have.
Mmmmm culinary parodoxes.
Morning! and other misnomers
What’s in a morning? Depends on whole you ask… and where. In the land of frogs and snails, a “morning” refers to a radio show hosted in the early part of the day: a morning show if you will. Yep, another case of taking an English term, and dropping the key part (i.e. the noun) and using the descriptive word(s) (adjective or otherwise) as the new term.
A personal favourite of mine is the “red hots”, better known in the anglo world as the “chili peppers”.
That plural also reminds me of another cute one: adopted anglo foods, like chips and cookies stay plural, even when they’re singular, as in “I would like a cookies, please”. This is particularly amusing since the French frequently don’t pronounce an “s” at the end of a word, particularly in the case of plurals (which makes sense , given that they aren’t usually pronounced in French).
Getting on the ball
First came the misconceptions, then a bit of mockery, but now we’re getting into imitation – the highest form of flattery, no? My dear colleague, Vianney, bought a ball like mine today… shhhh; rumour has it he’s pregnant (what? with the advances in technology these days it could happen! couldn’t it?). Something tells me this rumour won’t have the same effect as when it was me…
