Two hours later I arrived and wasn’t sure what I should do next.

I used the GPS to guide me to the attractions.  I spent the day moseying around the river, parks, and neighborhoods just imagining what it would be like to live and work in Strasbourg. Strasbourg has railway streetcars that remind me of the ones in New Orleans that ran through the neutral ground (median). Then it dawned on me, they call it the French Qarter for a reason. Of course when the French came and settled that area of America they’d bring their architecture and city planning style with them.

As the sun began to set and I began to get hungry again, I stumbled upon the heart of Strasbourg. So this is what the fuss was about. This charming, historic, little town on the French and German border is what I’d imagine would happen if France and Germany got married and had a baby. Apparently, the city has been on both sides of the French and German border multiple times through the centuries due to wars. Street signs are written in both languages.

The architecture looks like the real life illustrations of a German fairytale.  Down the cobble stone streets I could hear both French and German being spoken but in all the shops I was greeted with, “Bonjour Madam.” I thought for sure they had to be the nicest people ever and the pleasant greeting was just for me! Later, I gathered saying, “hello ma’am” to everyone was just common courtesy here.

So that brings me back to where this story began, at an outdoor picturesque café in La Petite France district of Strasbourg. It was evening. I was hungry and sitting at a candlelit table for one. One of the most pleasant differences of dining in France as opposed to dinning in Germany is the menu. I couldn’t speak a lick of French, but French is the language of food! I understood every bit of that menu. Pinot Noir, boeuf, brie, hollandaise sauce, béarnaise sauce, al gratin, crème brulee…with the french treatment.

Well, a few tables away was a delightfully rowdy bunch of French men enjoying the first weekend evening of September. As I finished my meal of steak and potato at my candle-lit table set for one, the most boisterous of the bunch, calls over to me in French. I’m mid-sip of my white wine.  I smile as I do when I have no idea what’s going on and shake my head. He says something again and I tell him I don’t understand. So he tries again in English, “Come on, I am not asking you out on a date.”  Well, since he wasn’t asking me out on a date, those were the magic words.  I’d spent all day in silence, with just me and my thoughts, I could use some company.  I was hoping one of them would be named Henri for the sole reason it was the name of the pigeon Fievel sang “Never say Never” with in American Tail. No such luck. When I relocated with my wine to their table I introduced myself to two men named Claude, Jean, and Ali. Ali, was the loud one. What amazes me is that, while Americans tend to get tripped up by my name, often renaming me something more familiar to them, the French allow my name to roll over tongue with grace, dignity, and ease.  It does have French roots. They were all older than me, probably by 10 years or more. And so the discussion began.

I noticed there are three common conversation themes when I speak to European men:

This post-dinner conversation was no different. It started with a mini lesson in french…all the guys giving me essential French phrases…essential including flirty French phrases.  They came to understand how little of their language I knew.  They tried to teach me phrases in French that I could use on my French-speaking American beau. I loved how they pronounced his last name the way it should be pronounced vice the American corruption of it.  Then we started in on political affairs which was nice because that’s why I was going to school and I could get the French perspective. Now, I do appreciate a lively debate so long as it stays on the topic at hand and does not turn into attacks on the individual.  The conversation segued into quantifying the level of racism in America in comparison to France and Germany.  It all started when I talked about how much I loved Germany and they talked about how horrible Germans were back in WWII. I do not like absolute terms. Clearly not all Germans are Nazis. I had grown so much in love with my new hometown I felt like Germany needed defending. I just had not experienced the racism in Europe that I had in America, granted I spent more time in America.  The French men were in agreement that France was racist and Germany was more so. I explained my German Great-Grandfather who came to America and married a black woman and had eight babies with her. And hey, being a Nazi then could have easily been a means of survival. But with this conversation I could tell the WWII grudge still existed. In America I feel that we’ve more or less forgiven and forgotten. Of course we don’t have the memories or pictures of Nazis marching down our Pennsylvania Avenue in DC like the French have of Nazi troops marching down the Champs-Élysées.

Just then, Ali answered a phone call with his artist friend. I could hear him say magnific and Noir American. Claude translated Ali’s end of the conversation, “He says you are beautiful.”
“And black” I finished. Yes, I recognize the word Noir.  I watched Claud’s face light up. Even though he knew I couldn’t speak a lick of French, he forgot maybe I would know a word or two.

Our discussion brought amusement to the restaurant host who watched with a smile.  Turns out the owner of the restaurant/hotel was Ali’s friend. He spoke to the host in French obviously ordering something. Moments later the host returned with desert! They tried to explain what it was but I could not understand. “Your father,” he explained. Oh, It’s called a colonel. Same word but for some reason, Americans started pronouncing it (and in Kentucky, spelling it) “Kernel”.  It’s lemon sorbet with vodka and it is delightful! A traditional treat I wouldn’t have known about if I kept to myself.

It wasn’t long before I learned I was debating with French attorneys!  We talked for three hours. Eventually, the patrons of the sidewalk cafes began to dissipate as meal time entered its final hours.  We decided to continue our conversation at Claude #1’s house. Being the independent American woman that I am, I tried to pay for the colonel. “In France, this is not possible,” Claude #1 said.  Well, so much for that; we were not in Holland (As in going Dutch…I’m attempting to make a joke).  Yes, I am aware of the dangers that lurk when a little, young American girl to go off into the night with three unknown French men in an unfamiliar city. Trust, I was texting my whereabouts to everyone I knew. We turned a few corners of the old town, and wound up not too far away from the Cathedral.

The night dragged on our conversations slowed.  Our final discussion of the night was about Marvin Gaye. Apparently Ali had seen the American musician perform in Paris and was disappointed to learn his father had killed him soon after. Ali still seemed quite upset about this.  There was no excuse he said. The guy didn’t believe in God or his will. They think I don’t smoke because I’m American and Americans don’t smoke.

I know, I know, Americans gasp in horror of me staying in the home of strangers but as the quote goes, a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet.  The world is not a big bad scary place as American news would want you to believe. I’m aware there are some dangerous men out there but I won’t regard every stranger as a threat until proven otherwise.  There’s a benefit to traveling alone. You tend to find yourself in situations you would not ordinarily land in had you traveled with a crew of fellow adventures. And most times, it works out better than planned and makes for an interesting story later.  I got some interesting perspective through conversations I wouldn’t have engaged in had I been in a group. I got the local tour of the old town, and got an insider’s view on lodging. By traveling with only an idea and not a plan, my weekend trip turned out better than expected.