Why I Need A Kitten

Because, without one, who will ride my Roomba?

Fun Fact of the Day

Apparently, the campus of the University of Victoria, in Canada, is overrun by bunnies. And if they see you have potato chips, they will attack:

The Saddest Little Gold Diggers

Feeling bad about the collapsing economy? How about a little schadenfreude to make you feel better?



(Thanks to C. for the link.)

Inspiration Strikes (Ow)

I would really like to write a story based on this, but I feel like it may have been done.

(Update: Potential title: "Baaad Boys")

(Second Update: Potential line of dialogue: "Okay, men, now get out there and get your goat!")

(Third Update: "Kids these days. . .")

Deep Impaction

Reporting from work, where the farewell emails keep pouring in after last week's layoffs. (By the way, did you know what the new word is? We've had fired, let go, laid off, made redundant, downsized and rightsized. Now, apparently, when you suddenly find yourself without employment, you've been "impacted." Like a molar.) But the thing that gets me about these emails is how cheerful they are. I mean, we're talking about people who have, in the last year, gone through a move, a previous round of layoffs, three CEO changes, a company spinoff and a really lame Christmas party, only to be dumped out into the worst job market in decades. You'd think there would be a certain amount of negativity in their communications, wouldn't you? But no, it's all "I truly appreciate my time here" and "I wish you all the best." I mean, seriously? I know biotech is a small world, and we're all bound to run into each other again, but did no one have "blaze of glory" on their to-do list? Not even a little dig about sinking ships, or the folly of letting go of the people who were doing the actual work around here? Granted, my cube neighbor did book a trip to Phuket, which may have been a subtle comment on her feelings, but I think it was really just that she likes scuba diving.

My Day In Clothes

Waking up-3:30: Nightgown, fleece.
3:30-5:00: Workout clothes.
5:00-Bedtime: Nightgown, fleece.

I am really going to miss being on vacation.

Happy New Year!

I went with the shoe option.

Decisions, Decisions

With the end of my self-imposed buying freeze approaching, I have a very important choice to make: What should I buy first? The way I see it, such a monumental achievement deserves some kind of reward, one purchased online at 12:01 am on January 1st. Naturally, I have some ideas.



It occurred to me recently that the one thing my collection of fabulous shoes was missing (besides more fabulous shoes) was a little black dress to show them off. Far to often, when presented with an occasion for which fabulous shoes would seem to be called, I have been stymied by the lack of an appropriate accompanying outfit.

I like this one for its simplicity, and the fact that it's an additional fifty percent off. So is this one, which is a little bit longer, but I'm not sure about that empire seam.





The other thing I've been doing lately, what with having so much time off work and being totally disinclined to do anything productive, is check out the jewelry sections of various cool websites. Which is how I came across this necklace with blue beads and a tiny gold starfish held loose inside a glass window. Or there's the elegant simplicity of this necklace with a circle of clear glass, or the charming badassery of this tiny chef's knife pendant. Sadly, the AK47 earrings are a little more than I'm willing to spend.




On the slightly more practical side, I've been thinking I need a new carry on/weekend bag, and this one caught my eye. It's a good size, has a removable shoulder strap, and seems like the sort of thing one could carry through an airport in France without looking like a total tourist rube.
Or, on the slightly more eccentric side, there's this, which makes up for in unusualness and sturdy construction what it lacks in shoulder straps and classic style.



And then, of course, there's the shoe option. (There's always a shoe option.) For some reason, right now I want a wedge ankle boot for everyday wear, and they're surprisingly hard to find. (Surprising because you can't throw a loafer these days without hitting an ankle boot, and you'd think a certain percentage would be wedges.) I think I'd get a lot of use out of these; they'd work with pants or a skirt, and I know this line makes really comfortable shoes. The only other pair I found that I liked are these, and I'm not sure I'm crazy about that pinking detail.



They're all good choices, right? So, what do I do?

Final Days!

Four days.
95 hours.
5707 minutes.
342430 seconds.

As you may recall, back in September I instituted a buying freeze, good through the end of the year.

The end is coming.

Strasbourg, Day 6-- Mostly About Food

For our last day in France (not counting the anticipated early-morning stagger to catch a train we are not one hundred percent sure we have tickets for), we made a more detailed exploration of the central town of Strasbourg. It was Sunday, so most places were closed-- restaurants, shops, even the big chain stores. The bakeries, however, were open for business. Apparently, nothing gets between the French and their pastries. Which is understandable, considering the pastries. We were getting pretty attached ourselves.

I believe I have expounded sufficiently only the delightful ancient charming delightfulness of the city at this point, so I'll spare you the effusing and just summarize: half-timbered buildings, touches of snow, river, islands, bridges, churches, cobblestones, setting up of Christmas decorations, Gutenberg.

Then, when the land-based charms got to be too much for us, we took to a tour boat (also, though the snow had stopped, it was still very cold, and the boat was enclosed) on the river and canals that wrap around the old part of the city. The guided part of the tour came through headphones that plugged in by our seats, and the onboard entertainment from a free-range toddler who bobbled up and down between the seats. We rode through ancient locks that seemed to now exist primarily to raise and lower tourist boats, and out to see the buildings of the European Parliament, possibly the grandest assemblage of pointless bureaucracy the modern world has yet to produce, with appropriately architectural buildings (by which I mean ugly, and probably leaking). It was a fine and interesting tour, and by the time we were done it was time for lunch.


We chose a place not far from the boat dock, with an ornately carved front and a menu of what we were coming to recognize as the regional specialties. As it happened, despite our three days of dedicated eating, there were a number of apparently key dishes neither of us had tried yet, and this seemed like the place to do it.

The interior of the restaurant was low-ceilinged and tightly packed with tables. The woman who greeted us put us at one near the door. The place was nearly empty, so we asked to move to another table across the room. She agreed, but a moment later changed her mind and came over to explain, with much hand-waving, that this table, though further from the door, was actually less protected from the draft, due to the way the curtain hung across the doorway. She had a point, so we agreed and moved back to our original table. Overall, it was a less than thoroughly elegant maneuver, particularly since I hit my head on a light fixture both ways.

This was a culinary exploration, and we had a lot of ground to cover. So I ordered the bacon and onion tart, with foie gras to start* and Cameron had a different kind of onion tart for an appetizer and the choucroute plate. That, along with the wine and beer, seemed like it would probably be enough.

I was expecting, since the foie gras here was listed for about half the price that seemed standard at the other places we had been, that it would be about half the amount. I was wrong. It was a full slab of the stuff, like a small piece of bread, accompanied by toast points and little cubes of Gewurztraminer jelly. Cameron's appetizer tart was more like a slice of quiche, with lots of onions, while my entree was almost pizza-like: a thin crust the size of a serving platter, covered with creme fraiche and studded with slices of onion and a generous amount of very good bacon. The choucroute (in the smaller size, I might add) was a plate heaped high with sauerkraut, with two potatoes and five kinds of meat crammed around its edges. With what I thought was heroic effort, we were able to get through the great majority of this feast, leaving only about a fifth of my tart, some sauerkraut and most of the blood sausage behind. But the waitress was not impressed. When we said we were done, she looked at our plates with dismay.

"You eat like leetle boys!" she declared.

Of course, since this was France, the fact that our plates were cleared away had nothing to do with anyone bringing us the bill**. For that we had to signal, which I did, since I had the better view of the dining room. This was apparently also incorrect.

"Non," she instructed me, placing the bill firmly in front of Cameron. "You do not ask for the check. You say, le garcon," she pointed to Cameron, "Le addition pour le garcon, s'il vous plais." Then she had me repeat it, just so we were clear.

Foreign travel is very educational.


We had had grand intentions of sight-seeing and museum-visiting for the afternoon, but after that lunch it was clear that anything more intellectually strenuous than getting me a snowglobe for my shelf at work was out of the question. It was also cold, so bitingly cold that I bought a paper cone of roasted chestnuts from a man selling them out of a cart even though I could hardly even bear the thought of food, just to keep my hands warm. (Besides, roasted chestnuts in a paper cone? How could I not?)

In anticipation of not finding much open on a Sunday night, and in keeping with our record of not really making it out in the evenings, we picked up a baguette and some desserts at a bakery that had already become a favorite, to serve as supplies. We already had some cheese and foie we had picked up at a very fancy supermarket (which was located in a fancy department store, for some reason) as our post-wine-adventure dinner the night before. It was a fine plan, marred only by the fact that the only utensil we had been able to acquire from the front desk was a fork, which is not the ideal tool for cutting and spreading.


And really, that was that. I'm leaving out a lot, not the least of which is the entire return journey, with the train ride that we may or may not have legitimately been supposed to be on, but no one threw us off, through the tiny commuter plane out of the Stuttgart airport and the approximately eighteen security checkpoints in Munich, up to the generous onboard alcohol policies of Luftansa, the nervous moments about how much wine we were bringing through customs and staggering, jet-lagged out of our noggins, back to San Mateo. It was a wonderful trip, and I have only two regrets. One is that I didn't get this blogging done in anything approaching a reasonable amount of time, and the other is that it wasn't nearly long enough.

I think a year would be about right.



*Yes, I realize I have already eaten foie gras on this trip. The point is, I haven't eaten all of it.
**Also true in Germany.

Day 5, Part 2-- More Wine, More Snow

The next place we tried, after the tasting shed, looked to be a larger operation. For example, it had its own building. But the person in charge was out for lunch and it occurred to us that we might be seeing a lot of this for a while, as the French take their lunch breaks fairly seriously. So we decided to have one of our own, and stopped in the next town we came to.

Of all of the cute towns we had been through, this was the first one that was clearly aware of its cuteness. Little shops lined the cobblestone streets, signs directed you to the old and impressive church and a Christmas fair was in the process of being set up in the town square. All morning we had been going in and out of the snow; getting ahead of it only to have it catch up to us again, and when we stopped for lunch it was definitely in the catching-up phase, with winds and a descending coldness. Which is why, when we had only done a partial survey of the local restaurants, I declared that it was time to go inside somewhere warm and picked the nearest place. Which wasn't a bad choice, but given the restaurant's large size and almost-trilingual menu (French, German, English via Babelfish), it did seem to be verging on the touristy. But this being France, that didn't stop the food from being just fine, from my grilled duck breast to Cameron's Stoneware Pot With Four Different Kinds of Meat and About Eight Potatoes Cooked In It. So at least they didn't short us on the portions.

The lunch stop was fine and all, but it happened to correspond with a moment of severe ambiguity in wine route map, where it was clear where we were expected to start from, and where we might hope to end up, but with little to no guidance as to how to connect these two points in space. Apparently, a certain amount of self-sufficiency is expected of wine tourists in France. Also, a GPS.

So, straightforward map usage was, at this moment, out. However, it seemed that if we were to head in the general direction of a place known to the map as Mont Ste-Odile (according to the map symbols, a religious site, and also possibly a mountain), we would be able to reconnect with the route. So we did, but having followed the signs for a while it seemed a shame to turn away from such a clearly-majorish site, so we went on to see what all the fuss was about. At the very least, we figured, we'd be able to get a nice view of the valley.

And we probably would have, since we ended going up quite high in elevation, only the storm we had been dodging in and out of all day happened to catch up with us on the way up, complete with snow, hail and some heavy cloud cover. The sight, when we got to it, appeared to be some sort of old convent, albeit one that had been converted into something involving a restaurant and tennis courts and a large parking lot. We got out, briefly, to look around, but it was very cold and even small hail can be kind of painful, so that didn't last. Still not sure what that place was, but driving up through the snowy mountain scenery was lovely, particularly since I was not the one doing the driving.

Coming back down, we found much warmer conditions and, after a few tries the wine route. Our next stop was the most corporate-looking establishment we found all day, a dedicated tasting room that did not appear to be attached to anybody's house. But even here, the guy working the counter (whose English was excellent) seemed to be actually involved in the operation of the winery (possibly a member of the family), and there didn't seem to be any question of charging for tastings. I did buy two bottles-- as an unabashed fan of the sweeter whites, I have discovered my happy place.

We were barely out of the one cute medieval town when we found ourselves in another one, and barely arrived there when we came upon a string of places advertising tastings. We parked and went in to the first one.

It was a combination home and winery, much larger than the first, and manned solely by the sister of the proprietors. Her sisters, she told us, were away in the south of France on a sales trip, and she had come over to mind the shop and keep an eye on the children. She was generous with her pourings of tastings ("Do you like to try them all? I can go get them all.") and information about life in the wine business, but wasn't able to tell us much about the wines themselves, as she didn't drink. She apologized repeatedly for her English, though I would have described her as fluent. The wines were uniformly fine, and my only regret is that we didn't buy more. We did pick up a late-harvest Sylvaner that reminded me of an icewine, but at a fraction of the cost. We stayed for probably at least half an hour, chatting and tasting in the stone-walled room filled with shelves of wine bottles.

Our final stop was just across the street. It was getting late and we were getting a little tasted-out, but we figured we might as well go into this one more place, what with having parked in their lot and all. Their tasting room seemed to be attached to a small hotel or house, a tiny but professional setup. There was a younger man who took his place behind the counter, and an older man (his father?) who would wander in and out and give orders as to what we should try next, and to demand that the young man break out the box of pretzels. Eventually, he settled in on a stool and took over the conversation, entirely in French, of course, which is why it took a little while to figure out that he was flirting with me. (It was the phrase "Une belle femme," that tipped us off.)


It was getting dark by the time we were done there, and even though we had barely done a quarter of the total route, it was time to head home. After all, you have to leave something for next time.

Wine Glasses

A few places we went to had these squat little green-stemmed wine glasses (see below), and I kind of love them. They're so unpretentious-- wine glasses for people who don't think drinking wine is a big deal.

France, Day 5—Wine Tasting Through the Snow

We found the old man in his shed by following signs from the main road, signs that got progressively smaller and less distinct the closer we got. The man spoke no English and possibly not much French—most of our communication was through German and hand signals. His signs said he produced something called “Rouge de Ottrot,” Ottrot being the name of the nearest town. We managed to hand-wave our way to a tasting, and found it to be a light, fruity red. Six euros later and we had our own bottle, along with the only piece of information I managed to understand out of the conversation, which was that it was to be drunk at 16 degrees C.

Going wine tasting in Alsace was Cameron’s idea; despite having grown up in California, it’s not something I’ve done much of. But we both like wine, and this was a wine-producing region, and the tourist office had a map of a wine route, so it seemed like a winning idea. The key, of course, was getting an early start, and for at least one of us that was not a problem-- jetlag having picked this day to strike Cameron with a vengeance, leaving him wide awake to wander the streets of Strasbourg at about five am. He ended up on a mission to try every pastry in the city, and he also located some car rental companies. They weren't open yet, but it was a start.

By the time I got up, at a slightly more respectable sevenish (because, no matter how jetlagged I am, I have a basic moral objection to getting up before dawn while I'm on vacation*) and we made it out the door, a few snowflakes were floating down, causing me to react with the kind of childish wonder only seen in Californians in rare encounters with actual weather. And, I guess, children. I believe this remained amusing for a while, but I tried to dial it back before it crossed the cute/annoying boundary. By this time, the rental agencies were actually open, and after a couple of tries we found one that was willing to rent us something with an automatic transmission, in exchange for a large amount of money. Europe seems to be a lot cheaper if you can drive a stick shift. And so, armed with an array of maps, we set out into the thickening snowfall, which was quickly transitioning from charmingly fluffy to just thick and wet and cold.

Between the Canadian and the Californian, there wasn't much question of who was going to be doing the driving in the snow (gender roles aside), so I was navigator. Which was somewhat complicated by the fact that the "wine route tour map" we had picked up at the tourist office was kind of non-specific about what actual roads you were expected to take, so we had supplemented it was a full-sized fold-out map of the region, plus another detailed one of the city. Basically, what I'm saying is, it's really quite understandable that I happened to initially put us on the freeway going the wrong direction. But we figured it out within an exit, and it only took a little figuring to get back on in the right direction.


The trip really wasn't about freeways, anyway; we only were on that one for long enough to get us away from the city. Then it was off onto smaller local roads, going through a series of little towns with mounting adorableness. Honestly, there's something about France that seems a little unfair. Does any one nation really deserve to have that much of the world's supply of charming? And they just live in them like they're normal places. At one point we got slightly off track because one of the signs (there were signs for the wine route, though they were infrequent and rarely appeared at critical intersections) seemed to be directing us through a narrow, apparently medieval stone arch.

"We can't possibly be expected to drive through there," we thought, until we had driven a little way in the other available direction and it became clear that this was not the way to go. So back we went, and followed the rest of the traffic through it and into yet another perfect little country town, about the fifth in a series.

Interestingly, almost all of them seemed to have Chinese restaurants.


It took us a while before we actually found anywhere to taste some wine. At first we weren't finding any places at all, and the ones we did find were closed. It was very much the off-season, which can't have helped, and signage wasn't exactly a feature. So I'll admit that I was getting a little nervous about this enterprise as we approached the town of Ottrot.

To call the guy's operation "small" would be to stretch the limits of understatement. He had a shed. And about eighty-five percent of the shed was taken up with wine making equipment and what I believe was "stuff." There was a small counter in the front, where he poured our tastings into square, green-stemmed glasses, and we all did a lot of smiling and nodding.

Honestly, that experience alone would have made the whole day worth it but we weren't anywhere near done. We were just getting started.

*Or, really, ever.

Going Dark, Going Home

About to leave for a very long day of traveling, so no blogging for a while. I'll try to do some writing catch-up en route so I can post when I get home. (Sigh. Do not want to leave!)

By the way, if anyone is going to need some free wifi access in France in the next thirty days, let me know and I can hook you up.

Day 4, Germany to a Part of France That Used to Be Part of Germany

In order to maximize our time in Strasbourg, we got tickets on one of the earliest trains out of Stuttgart. This seemed like an excellent idea when we were making the arrangements, slightly less so when we had to get up in time to return the rental car before making our train.

I wish I could say the trip took us through spectacular countryside, dotted with charming villages where little children came out to wave to the train as we passed. But if I did, I would be lying, because we were traveling through modern southwestern Germany, which lends itself more to subdivisions and industrial parks. So I went back to reading my book, which turned out to be less about racing around the world than about using writing credentials to get a major publisher to pay for a really awesome vacation. I really need to get some credentials.


We arrived in Strasbourg and were immediately charmed. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t fair to Germany; like traveling from Houston to Montreal and judging the countries accordingly. But what can I say, I’m a sucker for France.

We dropped our bags off at the hotel, where the approach to security was of the, “Ya, just stick your things in that room over there. It has a door,” variety. But it was much to early for us to check in, and we had things to see.

I should note that Strasbourg is almost inconceivably cute. Half timbered buildings are hanging over tiny cobblestone streets practically everywhere you turn, with cozy-looking bakeries, charcuteries and weinstubs on every adorable corner. And it has both the French charm and German friendliness, which happens to be a very nice combination. It also has a truly spectacular cathedral.

I would try to describe the Strasbourg cathedral to you, but my knowledge and vocabulary would shortly fail me. So I’m just going to cop out and send you to my friend Marilyn’s blog, as she was there last summer and happens to be an art historian. I encourage you to go and read what she has to say, and imagine me thinking that.

We stopped for lunch at a restaurant specializing in Alsatian dishes, where I realized that it is not only possible, but very easy to eat yourself sick in France, and Cameron was sitting in a place where he could spend the entire meal staring at a huge ham covered with puff pastry. No points for guessing what he had for lunch.

The rest of the day was more of the same; wandering around staring at buildings, then back to check in and rest up, then out into the freezing rain for another huge meal (dinner). By the end of the day, we had decided it was silly to go back to Stuttgart any sooner than we absolutely had to, and were determined to change our return tickets from Sunday night to Monday morning.

Ludwigsburg, Part 3

The second castle in Ludwigsburg, Shloss Favorite, was built as a vacation home for the main castle. It’s about fifty yards away, across a main street. I guess in Germany, vacation must be more of a state of mind. It was set in a large parkland, which seemed to be somewhere locals liked to go to jog, though it looked to me more like somewhere you would be eaten by wolves.

The vacation castle, though attractively detailed and colorfully painted, was smallish, and when I peered in appeared to be set up as some sort of sad nightclub. So I did one short circuit around it and set off to look for somewhere to eat lunch.

The place I found was in the city Rathouse, which fortunately appeared to be entirely devoid of rats. Instead, it had a nice café, where the food was generously portioned and the menu was entirely in German. Of the two items I ordered (soup, sandwich), I probably could have gotten by with one. Though, by the time I had been there an hour and a half and was running late to meet Cameron, what I really needed was a bill. They aren’t big on bringing you your bill in Germany, but this place had it down to an art form. At the time when I was looking around hopefully, long since finished eating, putting on my coat and looking around some more, my waiter was engaged in cheerful conversation with the rest of the waitstaff, his back to me, on the other side of a pillar. After a few minutes, when it became clear that none of the other waiters were going to notify him to my position, and it became clear that I was going to be late getting back, I had to actually get up and go over to get him. In that case, contrary to my American inclinations, I did not leave a tip.


The conference ended in the mid-afternoon, so we had a little time afterwards to do some touristing by car. Guidebook in hand, I suggested the Mecedes-Benz museum, seeing as Stuttgart seems to be the center and origin of the German auto industry, and neglecting the fact that neither of us are car people.

Take away lesson: Two tired people, touring a museum on a subject in which they have not much more than a passing interest, will soon start skipping through the exhibits.

We made it back to the hotel through rush hour traffic without too much trouble, but once there succumbed to the insidious appeal of napping, waking up only in time to stagger downstairs and get some completely non-authentic food from the hotel bar. But that’s fine because this is only the start of the trip. Tomorrow, tomorrow is France.

A Brief Interlude on the Subject of Airports

In order to make our transfer from the flying portion to the train portion of our flight to Stuttgart, we had to find the train terminal in the Frankfurt airport, check in and claim our bags there. That the check-in process was unnecessarily complicated and line-intensive I have already covered. Not complicated, however, were the customs procedures when we got our bags, which consisted entirely of the baggage handler guy pointing us towards two signs that said “nothing to declare” in several languages, and indicated that we should walk between them. There were also signs that said “goods to declare,” but they were blocked off and unmanned. Apparently, it was Nothing to Declare Day in Germany. In short, if you are planning to smuggle something into the EU, I highly recommend the Frankfurt airport.

Also, while you’re there, you should really get some sausages from the stand just down the hall. They’re delicious.

Ludwigsburg, Part 2

Having, in my own way, taken the pulse of the city, I retired to a café, where I had a really disappointingly bad pretzel, like white bread in a pretzel shape, along with some not-at-all disappointing hot chocolate. It wasn’t that I needed the snack so much, but getting it bought me a table in the café for as long as I wanted it, and I was looking for a place to sit and read, so it seemed like a reasonable deal. The book I was reading, The Ridiculous Race, chronicles the attempt by two TV writers to race each other around the world without using airplanes. The irony of reading a book about traveling while traveling, and doing it instead of any actual travel-related activities is duly noted.

Not long after I sat down, I was joined on the bench next to me by what I believe was an old lady, but may have been a man in an old lady costume, based on the voice and bad wig. She (possibly he) ordered some tea and proceeded to read the paper semi-aloud, in a whispery voice, to herself. The waitress, with whom I communicated primarily with hand signals, said “Have a nice day” when I left.

Interesting fact: Cafes in Germany that have outdoor seating do not eliminate the option in November. But they do set out fleece blankets on the chairs.


At noon, Cameron and I met up again, determined that he had more people to talk to and a free lunch to eat, and I was once again set loose on the city. This time, however, I had found a map, and determined that there were not one, but two castles just a few blocks away, including one that I believe I saw described somewhere as “the largest German baroque palace in the country.” This, of course, I had to see.

It was indeed large. If I was going to direct someone to the Residentialshloss in Ludwigsburg, Germany, large is definitely one of the words I would choose. I might also say baroque, but between you and me, I’m not entirely sure what that refers to. If it has to do with the presence of lots of kind of Greek/Roman-looking statues in the vicinity, then yes, definitely Baroque.

I started by wandering around the formal gardens in front of the castle, which you could access by walking through the open gate, just like the locals who seemed to use it as a kind of crosstown shortcut. I don’t think you can expect much from gardens in Germany in November, but I was pleasantly surprised by the roses. It must take a fairly hearty variety to bloom under these conditions, but there they were, blooming away, with top marks going to something called the “Elmshorn.” I recommend it for all your Northern European, late fall, rose-growing needs.

I had expected that was all I was going to get to see of the castle, but as I was making my way along past it I found there was another entrance, also free, that allowed me to go in and explore the huge central courtyard and peer in through the windows at the locked-up palace around it. Also, there was a gift shop, where I was able to purchase that travel essential, the cheesy tourist tchotcka to put on the shelf over my desk. (An mini ceramic beer stein, with the Ludwigsburg castle illustrated on the front and Frankfurt, Munich and Berlin given somewhat shorter shrift on the side.) As I left the castle through the other side, I happened across a small aviary, displaying various Birds of Asia, plus a couple of mourning doves. I hope they had somewhere warm to hide.

Whew! Lots still to cover, and I’m not even to lunch yet. Looks like this is going to be a three-parter, folks.

Germany, Day 3: Ludwigsburg, Part 1

I had grand plans for the places I was going to go and the things I was going to do while in Stuttgart. I had heard of a spa town somewhere nearby, off to the west in the Black Forest, and there was another medieval town highly recommended by the guidebook away to the northeast. In the end, though, tired out by my solo adventures of yesterday, I elected to take the easy way and go with Cameron to Ludwigsburg, the town where his conference was being held.

Cameron was presenting this morning, so we had to get an early start. I understand it’s bad form to show up late to your own presentation. Yesterday he had some trouble finding the place, to the tune of two hours of driving around Ludwigsburg, braving the public payphone system and eventually getting directions from a friendly English-speaking Enterprise employee (all due to some very bad directions from the conference venue). But I was able to benefit from that experience, because we made it there with no trouble at all, and some time to spare for breakfast.

After breakfast, Cameron headed back to the conference, and I took off to explore Ludwigsburg. It didn’t exactly make my guidebook, so I was going in blind, but I managed to amuse myself pretty well. There was a nice little downtown right near the conference venue, with lots of shops, some old buildings with attractive brickwork and even a mall, where I picked up a compilation CD of European bands and a scarf at H&M, having left mine behind in the hotel and regretted it. (I’ve suspended the buying freeze for the duration of the trip, for obvious reasons.)

(Have to leave for Strasbourg now, will resume later, assuming I can find internet.)

Tubingen, Part 2

On the plus side, I did manage to find most of what I was looking for, mainly because if you are wandering randomly over a very small area for long enough, eventually you find everything.

The first thing I found was the marktplatz (translation somewhat unnecessary, as seems to happen sometimes with German). And, in keeping with its name, the weekly farmer’s market was being held there when I arrived. It was all very pleasant and rustic, though I suspect some of the farmers may have been selling foods that they did not personally grow, seeing as they were pineapples (the foods, not the farmers). I wandered around a bit, took it all in, then consulted my map and set off in the first of many absolute wrong directions, and the only one that involved climbing a very long set of wet stone stairs.

For lunch, I went to one of the few places my guidebook was helpful about. (My guidebook, as I have mentioned, is generally uninterested in the greater Stuttgart area.) It was a fine and cozy little restaurant of Swabian specialties, with one elderly waitress who spoke no English and clearly wasn’t starting now. (Myth to debunk: that all Germans speak perfect English. They don’t. Many of them speak only German.) I ordered via the time-honored method of pointing to the only item on the menu with a word in it I understood (“sauerkraut”) and received, to my relief, a tasty lunch of entirely identifiable food items.

After lunch I wandered some more, this time with stricter attention paid to my map. I still got lost, but only because there are so many churches.

I finished my day at the castle that dominates the hill over the old city, where I wasted some money on entrance to an archeological museum where I could not read any of the informative notes on the items. For all I knew, I could have been looking at someone’s collection of cereal-box prizes from 1947-1983. Assuming German cereal companies went in for fake Roman artifacts, including entire amphoras.

So it was four euros down and not in the best mood that I got lost on the way back to the train station, hurrying now because I had to walk from the stop in Sindelfingen back to the hotel, and I didn’t want to do it in the dark. I did, of course; I got the world’s slowest local train to go the thirty miles from Tubingen to Stuttgart, and before I even got on the subway it was pitch black. Fortunately, the route to the hotel was direct and well-sidewalked, and there was an accident along the way that stopped traffic so bad that I was actually going faster than the cars. I realize that sounds like a heartless thing to be pleased about, but at the time it was very satisfying.

As I have mentioned, when I got back I was very tired, so instead of blogging I took a nap. Then Cameron came back from the conference and we went and I had dinner in the hotel bar, because he had already eaten and I was too tired and footsore to be able to be excited about going out and experiencing local culture. I did have some local beer with my club sandwich, though.