The Twinkling Spirit of Strasbourg

Christmas time in Strasbourg. Everything about it is special– the city, the markets, the sounds, smells and the lights. Oh, the lights. They were as captivating as those in Lyon but in a more traditional way. The markets filled the streets with small wooden shops each lit and stuffed full of goodies for the holidays. The place was packed with people – happy, laughing, and smiling as they jostled down the narrow corridors between market stalls. The experiences started the moment we set foot in the cobblestoned street.

Anytime I arrive in a new place, I feel a sense of excitement for the adventure and exploration of it. Here, I could barely contain myself as we dropped the bags, grabbed umbrellas (there was a slight drizzle that stopped completely after we arrived), and headed out the door with map in hand, of course. And so it began. The street in front of our hotel had a ceiling of white lights with large snowflake pendants. We walked down the street under the lights and ran into the first little market stalls – small, wooden stalls lit and decorated. This particular market was for locally made products – like Munster cheese, fresh and dried mushrooms, honey, spiced breads, and sausages. The next set of stalls had ornaments, pretzels (which Mike couldn’t resist), gingerbread, and, of course, hot spiced wine or vin chaud (which I couldn’t resist). There we were, standing in the streets of Strasbourg, in the middle of a market, holding hot wine and surrounded by charming buildings - all within thirty minutes of arriving!

The buildings alone were worth trip. They were clearly indicative of the Alsace region of France, particularly in the La Petite France (check) section of the city. It looked like bits of Germany and Switzerland had been rolled up and plopped down in France. The buildings were constructed in the classic exposed beam construction so representative of this area. Between the deep chestnut-colored beams, the plaster came in a variety of colors - white, yellows, greens and deep orange – and some were richly decorated, too. The timbers gently sagged and shingle roofs slumped in the middle as though the buildings decided to sit, relax, and stay for awhile. I stopped and stared every few feet during my morning runs at each new building or street filled with charm. During any season, this would be an enchanting place, but at Christmas, it takes on a whole different character.

We heard about the markets of Strasbourg, but the surprise was the decorated streets. They were festively dressed in lights like blinking stars, snowflakes, red wreaths draped with curtains of red lights, shooting stars, angels, lanterns, balls, garlands, and even Baccarat crystal chandeliers (protected in plastic coverings) hanging over the streets. Each street had a different pattern of lights so that we could navigate our way through the city by the stars – or the angels, or the wreaths. But the decorations didn’t stop there. Shops elaborately decorated their storefronts, too. Huge stuffed hearts hung from the front of the tourist office. Plump teddy bears sat over doors and windows. Ribbons, bows, balls, birch twigs, greenery, Hansel and Gretel, and more graced pasty shops, jewelry stores, foie gras shops, and restaurants. Walking the streets in the evenings was a feast for the eyes. And I never got full. I could have wandered the streets for days soaking up the creativity and the festive atmosphere.



The rambling streets connect Strasbourg’s main plazas. Spacious Place Kleber housed the Grand Sapin de Noel (the grand Christmas tree), and it was indeed grand. The tree towered over the buildings that embrace the square, its lights providing a festive backdrop to singers, Christmas tree vendors, and hundreds of revelers taking pictures in front of the tree. Lacking a photographer, Mike became adept at aiming the camera in our general direction and getting us both in the frame – mostly anyway!

While the Christmas tree was grand, it was the cathedral that is the imposing presence in the city. Construction of the cathedral began in the 1100s. Today, they have a full time staff of artisans who maintain it, still hand carving replacement pieces (check). The cathedral is a soft pink stone with a spire that is the tallest one from medieval times. The spire soars above all the other buildings and can be seen across the city, but it is so tall that it is difficult to see from the square that it occupies. From the outside, the intricate windows look like stone versions of the lace that is made in this area. The carvings of the cathedral walls provide a textured and imposing backdrop for the small market stalls that huddle around the base. Inside are 17th century tapestries – not my cup of tea, but the artistry was evident – and a clock built in the 1500s on the principles of Copernicus. The clock still works using reproductions of the original mechanisms. We missed the big moment when all the parts of the clock are in motion but we returned to see the small movement that occurs every 15 minutes. And it was small. We waited with the crowds, camera ready, and then – a little, sculpted child rang a bell, somewhere on the top something advanced and it was done – for another 15 minutes. Still, the clock has been doing this for hundreds of years. Mike figured out how to tell the date from a large circle with a woman’s hand pointing to the month and day. The clock was impressive, but my favorite was the ringing bells. I heard them peeling across the still-dark city as I ran in the mornings. Mike and I stood at the base of the cathedral at noon, amidst the swarms of jostling crowds around the market stalls, and with musicians playing for coins, as the deep bell rang from high above. We could feel each strike and the reverberations in between as the sound bounced off the buildings of the square and into each person. It felt like my insides were vibrating along with the ringing bells. We couldn’t hear our own conversation and the musicians sounded small and tinny by comparison. There is something simple and majestic about the deep, rich sound of bells.

And then there were the markets. They were in each square and vacant spot in the city. Place Gutenberg was filled with book vendors – appropriately so. The space around the cathedral was packed with market stalls and an ice rink for kids tired of shopping. But the biggest one was at Place Broglie where a Christmas market has been held in Strasbourg continually since 1570. The market was at once old, new, traditional and contradictory. An archway of green lights and trees announced our arrival at the market place. We saw the lights before we saw the balloon vender selling Christmas tree shaped balloons decorated with Winnie the Pooh. I found myself looking into the faces of Tigger (T-I-double Ger-Er), Piglet, and Eore…in Strasbourg…in France. After that shock, we pushed our way through the throngs gobbling up all things Christmas. Stalls twinkled and sparkled with colorful ornaments hanging or in bins. The ornaments were big and small, round, stars, drops, anything you could want. We weren’t buying ornaments, but just to see the colors, shiny and bright, was to feel happy. Another stall was filled with Christmas lights, blinking, flashing, and dripping in a holiday rainbow.
Do-it-yourself crèches were popular, too. Small and large mangers sat empty and forlorn waiting to be filled with tiny shepherds, wise men, lambs, cows, geese, a variety of Marys and Josephs, and even an elephant. Cities of tiny people waited to be purchased. A Noah’s arc of animals sat expectantly, and a forest of trees grew to their full height of four inches. Many of them found happy homes. And then there were the food stalls – one after another. Mike and I grabbed a hot, spiced orange juice (amazing!) from a friendly vendor (who offered to take our picture) to warm us as we moved from stall to stall, standing and staring at the food: gingerbread people and hearts, spiced breads, kugels, stollens, chocolate covered fruit on a stick, candies, pretzels, glazed chestnuts, macaroons, and so much more. Every corner had a stand selling hot drinks. There was mulled wine either red or white (white wines are an Alsacian specialty), spiced orange or apple juice and hot chocolate. We needed more days and a lot more exercise to try it all! And the shops lining the streets were a feast of food shops, too - fancy pastries (with people lined up inside to buy them), gourmet chocolates, specialty meats, and foie gras. This area is where foie gras started. Mike’s highlight was when we were lured into a local food store by the delightful things in the window and discovered they were giving tastings of freshly grilled foie gras served over sautéed mushrooms with a sprinkle of coarse salt. I have a love-hate thing going with foie gras: I love the taste and hate the way it comes into being, but I have to admit this was good. Just a bite was enough.

We had more than just a bite of the spirit of Christmas. We came to Strasbourg for the markets, but in the end, it wasn’t the Christmas markets that were the highlight. The lights, decorations, happy smiles, gleeful children, ringing bells, and warm drinks on a cold day on a street in Strasbourg, all exuded holiday spirit and that’s the best souvenir we took home.

The Lights of Lyon

The French can do Christmas lights. All of the tiny villages around Cotignac have lights of all colors and designs draped over their narrow streets. In Cotignac, we watched as the main street was closed for bucket trucks to haul workers into the trees draping lights along their trunks. The only puzzle is when the lights actually come on. We still haven’t seen them lit. But when it comes to lights, Lyon has everyone beat with their annual Fete des Lumieres. The Fete is to thank Mary for sparing the Lyonnais from the plague centuries ago. Residents line their window sills with votive candles every December 8. That’s how it all started, but now it is a four day festival that is about all things lit and it’s a big deal.

When we arrived from the train, I jostled my way, pushing and shoving (a taste of things to come), through the tourist office. I gave up actually talking to anyone and settled for the printed program. It was all we needed. We explored a bit of the city, had a good lunch at a local bouchon, and rested before the big opening that evening.


Lyon is hard for me to get my arms around. It is physically positioned along two rivers – the Rhone and Saone. The old town rises on a hill overlooking the Saone and is a maze of narrow streets and charming restaurants overlooked by a large, angular, white Basilique Notre Dame de Fourviere. Lyon is a food center for France and the menus here have a wider variety of fare. In fact, we had to carefully translate the menus. In other cities a plate listed as veal would typically be a cutlet. Here there was veal liver, veal head or even veal foot (yes – foot); the same went for duck and chicken. While Lyon is a very large city (2nd or 3rd in France) it feels mid-sized.
People bustled to and from work and classes. There were tons of shops for home and fashion but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s a bit non-descript – or as non-descript as a French city can be. But Lyon is far from non-descript when the sun goes down and the lights come on.

On the first night of the Fete, the residential buildings had row after row of votive candles on the window sills. Candle light flickered with the wind and was charming but was overshadowed by the monumental lighting of the big buildings.
The Fete includes over 70 “animations” dotted over the city. We literally walked for hours on two nights watching the light shows and we just visited the downtown and old town areas. For me, the creativity was the most impressive. I never dreamed that light could create such experiences. There were, of course, lights strung over streets and buildings flooded with colored light, and there was even the occasional Christmas tree in a square; humdrum when compared to the animations.
Each animation was a location, church, statue, or public building where light and sound combined into an experience. The experience came from either the light pattern itself or from the background onto which it was projected. For example, unexpected surfaces became screens. A ferris wheel in huge Place Bellecour was covered in white mesh and was the backdrop for a film. An enormous round screen in front of Primatiale St-Jean was projected with the surface of the moon and hoisted 15 stories in the air by a crane – over and over again each night.




One of my favorites was the beautiful, classic, marble sculpture standing by the Hotel de Ville. It is, on any day, a powerful piece of art with white horses straining out of the fountain as the lovely woman rides in a chariot above the waves. What is smooth, classic marble by day, like you’d see in dozens of French squares, became flamboyant, garish and alive through lights.
With elaborate lights and computers, each surface of the sculpture took on new colors that changed and moved. The anger of the horses was palpable when communicated through turquoise, orange and pink that highlighted their grimaces. The voluptuous woman regally presided over us all in robes of red, orange and pink. In the end, the sculpture went up in “flames” of reds, yellows and oranges. You could almost feel the heat.


Then there was a large flat pool of water with a simple fountain spraying water into the air that became an infinity of droplets of mist – beautiful, but nothing unusual. Turns out, droplets of water can be a projection surface. We stood on the edge of the fountain with a few hundred of our closest friends and looked intently into the mist. There, a woman’s head, the full size of the spray, emerged and then sank calmly back into the pool. Poseidon with his trident rose confidently out of the water to look over the crowd. It was magic and all from light on water.




The other surprise was how they used the surfaces of ornate buildings around the city to exploit their surfaces of columns, cornices, towers and arches to shift, grow, bulge, recede, break and twist.
Before our eyes, an old church became overgrown with vines that sprouted leaves covering the façade until the church ultimately crumbled and was carried away by birds – all as we watched, staring at the reality of the building.




Lyon’s theater, a large, square, classically designed building, was also lovely but unassuming during the day with its arched entry and arched second story windows crowned with medallions.
But at night, the building was alive and inhabited. The show started simply enough with the outlines of the building highlighted and pulsing. Shifting lights made the surfaces appear to move. Each building element became outlined in light – just as it was in reality – with the lines of columns, pediments and friezes accentuated by fine lines of white light. And then it moved. The building bulged then twisted, plunged and rose. The center began to fracture as though from the inside. It pulsated and moved until finally a face, the size of the building, emerged created from the fine white lines of light.
The medallions over the arched windows became pupils of the eyes and the arched entry was a large mouth that seemed to swallow up the captivated crowd with its moans and growls, until it ultimately exploded into fragments of light. Not all of the animations were as elaborate as these but each pulsed with creativity as light became a medium of art for the masses.




And there were masses, particularly the first night. We stopped to see a fireworks display that rivaled anything in DC. The fireworks were shot from a bridge over the Rhone River and people lined up on both sides for as far was we could see. It was quite a spectacle with the whistle and pop of fireworks flying up or out from the bridge and, in one case, flowing down like a waterfall of white light into the river. Smoke filled the air after the 30-40 minute show. We noticed that the Americans in the crowd were gasping and ahhing as fireworks dazzled overhead while the French calmly watched with cameras held overhead to record the scene. The only thing missing was the 1812 Overture!
After the fireworks, we got stuck in a heavy crowd of young and very old, all pushing their way down the wide pedestrian street. Everyone was polite but, I admit, there were points where it was disconcerting. Thankfully, the second night was much less crowded which made for more pleasant strolling through the busy but not packed streets. There are two more days to the Fete but we headed to Strasbourg for their Marche de Noel – one of the best in Europe. More to come on that! For now, we feel fortunate to have reveled in the lights of Lyon.

Picking Olives and Other Winter Excursions

First there were grapes to be picked and now there are olives. Olive trees blanket the area around Cotignac including several around our house. We’ve had a front row seat as the olives have developed. They started in the spring as tiny, little blooms developing into little, bitty olives like elfin grape clusters. They grew over the summer with the first touches of black appearing in October. First they were black and shiny and are now beginning to shrivel – perfect for picking.

In the last couple of weeks we saw people in the olive groves with small baskets, but we couldn’t imagine that these vast groves would be picked by hand. Periodically, I’d see someone with a net under a tree apparently gathering olives that are shaken off the tree. But for the most part, the picking was being done by hand. We learned that many of the trees died several years ago in an unusually hard freeze. But, the roots were still alive and small trees grew up from the original trunks. The effect is sculptural with clusters of small olive trees encircling an old stump. Groves and groves are like this.

Our rental agent, Ruth Teale, knew that I wanted to pick olives to add to my catalog of experiences. She graciously offered to let me help her with the trees in her yard. How very nice of her! The date was set for December 3rd - if it didn’t rain.

I arrived at Ruth’s house mid-morning on a beautiful, sunny, but cold day. Frost was on the ground and crunched as I walked across her yard. I was greeted by a very enthusiastic Toby – with a pink ball in his mouth. Clearly, I was there to play with him! Ruth warned that whatever I did I should NOT throw the ball or else that’s how I would spend the rest of my day. So Toby followed us around carrying a red ball, or an orange ball, or a black chew toy. He seemed to think that he would eventually find something to entice a throw.

Ruth gave me a basket for olives with gaps in the sides and bottoms so that errant leaves would fall through. I’m not sure how well that worked, but it sounded good. The basked had a long ribbon tied to the sides so that it hung around my neck leaving both hands free for picking. Ruth did the hard part. She spent the day on a ladder reaching the olives in the upper branches. Only the blue of her sweater was visible inside the branches. Because of the cold I quickly decided that the olives on the sunny side of the tree needed to be picked first! There’s really nothing to it. Just grab a branch and pull off a handful of olives and drop them in the basket. If you’re good, the basket will be directly under the branch so that the olives drop right in – hopefully with few leaves. We picked and chatted for two hours. There was never a lull in the conversation as we compared notes on living in France. Ruth, originally from the UK, has been in this area for 20 years, living first in Cotignac and now in Varages, an even smaller village. When she’s not throwing balls to Toby she manages house rentals. Mike and I are thankful every day that we found Ruth. (To contact Ruth, see www.chezdomaine.com)

With frozen fingers and toes, we stopped for a wonderful, warm lunch which Ruth prepared – cream of mushroom soup, shepherd’s pie, salad and fruit. I was sorry there weren’t more trees so I could get another hot, hearty meal like that! We dawdled as long as we could before tackling the last two trees. This time Toby changed his strategy. My basket was on the ground while I picked a few low hanging olives. The next time I looked, Toby had brought a small stick, put it in my basket in the hopes, and was looking at me in the hopes that maybe THIS time I’d throw it. He was great entertainment! By the middle of the afternoon we were frozen again. Black clouds hid the sun making the cool temperatures feel cold and edgy. Fortunately, we finished the trees and had two boxes of olives to show for our efforts. After a warm cup of tea, we set out for the olive mill in Varages as splotches of fat, wet snow flakes fell. We weren’t the only olive pickers that day. Along the road, cars were parked, one after the other, from people working in the olive groves.

So here’s how it goes. Each little village has its own olive mill – the cooperative. The mill opens about 4PM after that day’s picking is done. We arrived early and were the third car in line. Ruth said that in the past she has waited an hour or more to deliver her olives. When our turn came, we unloaded our two boxes and dumped them a larger box with everyone else’s olives. They weighed the difference and found that we’d picked 22.5 kilos that day – not bad. And, a friendly gentleman with scruffy hair and a plaid, flannel shirt gave us a tour of the olive mill.

We were shown to the side entrance and warned to watch our step. The floor was covered with oil and water. They are not allowed to use detergents to wash anything while olives are pressed so that there’s no chance of contaminating the oil. The air was pungent with mashed olives and it was thankfully warm inside. We watched our olives go through a washer and into a large vat where two stone wheels rolled over the olives – pits, stems and all – to mash them into a pulp. This is the traditional method which isn’t used in all the mills these days. This cooperative won a prize in Paris for their high quality oil.



Each batch is tested to ensure that none of the trees were treated too close to picking time. If the tests indicate an inappropriate treatment, the staff go through each person who contributed to that batch, checking trees to find the culprit who can be fined for this infraction. The pulp is slightly heated and used to saturate round pads that are stacked like donuts between metal plates until they are about three feet high. The pads and plates are put into a press that squeezes out olive oil and water. The water is separated and the oil stored in vats where the sediment settles over a three month period. A final machine screens out the smallest particles leaving behind clear, green olive oil – Voila! Ruth will return in February to collect bottles of oil that equate to the kilos of olives that she brought in. She’ll have olive oil from her very own olives!

Olive harvesting isn’t our only cold weather activity. We’re making an effort to be out and about in the sun even if the temperature is chilly. For months we intended to hike Mt. Sainte Victoire – the mountain outside of Aix that Cezanne made famous. Finally, this week we made it. What a journey! It was 12 kilometers long and 600 meters up…up…and up. It was a steady climb with no flat spots. The trail was very rocky with small pellets of frozen snow between the stones. Pine trees lined the trail and rocky cliffs were visible all around. The higher we got the frostier the shrubs became. Even Mike’s hat developed frost on it! The Alps started to peek out, snow covered, in the far distance. They made a stunning ring of white across the horizon. But the higher we went the colder we became with a slight, freezing wind blowing up the mountain side. The climb ended at the ruins of a 12th century priory on top of which a chapel and monastery were built in the 17th century. Just a few meters above the priory, is the Croix de Provence – a large cross that is visible from the autoroute far below. We’ve driven past it many times never dreaming that we’d see it up close. But we didn’t see it for long. When we finally reached the top, we quickly snapped some photos, grabbed a few dried apricots and raisins with frozen fingers and headed back down….fast. As Mike said, the bottom would feel like Miami by comparison. In reality, our “Miami” was only in the high 30s. Those heated seats in the car never felt better! We were proud of our accomplishment, tired and ready to go home. But –

Our washer is broken. Yep. The code d’erreur says that the motor is broken. Ruth is dispatching someone to fix it. They came last week, but, in typical fashion, it worked fine for the repairman. Of course it did. Now it’s broken again. So on our way home, we stopped at the Cotignac laundromat – Le Laverie. We had to laugh as we hauled dirty sheets and laundry out of the trunk of the Mercedes and into the laverie. It felt very Beverly Hillbilly-ish. We were in the real French Laundry! After translating the instructions and starting the wash, we skedaddled to the Café de Cours for warm coffee and tea. We piled wet laundry back into the car to take it home to dry. Not exactly what I was hoping for at the end of a long day of hiking – but, we fell into bed on crisp, clean sheets. Now, that’s the perfect end to a satisfying, frosty, winter day in France.