Airport Conversations.

Airport Conversations.

I like to meet people.  Interesting people. And when you fly across the Atlantic, you can meet plenty of them.  Easy to ask a question or two and instantly know if the conversation is going to flame on or just flicker and go out with a wisp of curling gray smoke.  Most of the time they flame on, bright and brilliant.  You meet people you never would have met and new worlds open up. Happens to me all the time. Today was no different.

I step into the bus to take us to the aircraft that will fly us to Paris.  Two other guys and I are pressed together like best buddies at a keg party.  A tall white guy, an Englishman in a t-shirt and leather jacket, and a black guy my size, but with biceps he can flex to crack walnuts.  The black guy is from Atlanta, but not really from Atlanta. Born in Florida. We talk football, which he played in high school.  We talk about linemen who are so big they won’t make it through the next ice age.

The Englishman smiles.  He likes football, he says.   That’s pretty much it for his part of the conversation.  Usually, with an English person, I go through the routine of what part of Britain are you from, etc.  But, neither the black guy nor I are ready to give up the pigskin just yet.

I lose them when we get stuffed on the flight, but an hour later when disembarking, I see the black guy again.  His name is Rickey and ex-Army.  I ask if I can buy him a beer.  Foolish question.

Near our gate, there’s a nice, bright, modern bar.  We order Fischer beers. The thin, well-dressed, very French looking bartender, brings us the icy bottles and hands us the drink menu, which is stylishly displayed on an iPad.  I consider an Armagnac to go with our beers, but sticker shock and an upcoming house payment make me settle for the bière.

Just in case you want  to try it, Fischer beer is French, from the Alsace region.  Light, fruity. A good beer for good conversation.

As with so many people I meet, Rickey has an interesting story to tell.  Ten years in the Army, then medically discharged after his arm met a bullet in Afghanistan.  “I’m lucky,” he says, “You wouldn’t believe what I saw over there.  I’d still be in uniform if it weren’t for this.” He’s wearing a dark t-shirt and shows me a scar that rides up from just above his right bicep and over his shoulder.

Rickey is in computer software solutions these days and it takes him all over the world, which he admits is tough on his families.  Yep, that’s plural.  His ex is German.  His current wife is Russian.  He has children from both marriages.  His eyes light up when he tells me about his kids and shows me photos.  His says it tore him up to have to leave again so soon, but his kids, even though they don’t like it, have gained confidence that he’ll be home again soon.  Talented kids.  Artistic. Musical. Multi-lingual. The things we must give up in the pursuit of cold, impersonal cash.

“So how many languages do you speak, Rickey?”

He laughs.  “My wives both speak English so well they might as well have been born in America.”

“So, what did you do in the Army?”

“C.I.D.  You know what that is?”

“Yep.  Investigators.  People I never wanted to meet while I was in the Air Force.”

He laughs again.  “Yeah, I know what you mean, but I tried to be more human. Give you an example.  In Germany there are lots of places placed Off Limits.  Some of them are night-spots. When I knew we’d be cruising the bars, looking for violators, I’d tell my buddies not to go to those places.  Sometimes they listened and sometimes not.  When they didn’t listen, I had to bring them in.  Not my fault.  I warned them.  I have to do my job.”

We finished our beers and loaded on the long flight to Atlanta.

But, that wasn't the only interesting conversation I had....no indeed...

On the flight over the big pond, my seat-mate spoke with a southern accent.  “Texas?” I asked.

He smiles. “Nope, South Carolina.”

Tony’s job also takes him around the world.  “I’m gone about two weeks a month,” he says. “I was just in Brazil.  Before you ask, I don’t speak Portuguese, only a little Spanish.  I go to so many places.  Almost all the former Soviets republics.  If it ends in Stan, I’ve been there.

Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan.”

“What takes you to all those places?”

“Forklifts and other heavy lifting equipment.”  He changes the subject.  “You ever been to India?”

“Never.”

“Interesting place.

“A friend of mine told me the Indians are thieves.”

He cracks a smile.  “Most of the world is basically corrupt.  Bribes are common everywhere.  Some of the countries are ruined by it.  Corruption is a cancer.”

Tony also offered advice about the U.S. and specifically drinking and driving.  “My son was weaving through a road heavily pocked with pot holes.  The cops pulled him over.  Thought he was drunk.  Asked him to blow in a tube.  He said no.”

“If he hadn’t been drinking, why’d he say no?”

“He gave the officer three reasons.  First, he said, ‘I have no idea if your equipment is properly calibrated. And secondly, a lot more things than alcohol can set a Breathalyzer off. Thirdly, if I fail the Breathalyzer, even if it’s bogus, it’s still a matter of record and can be used in court.’”

“So what happened?”

“They gave him a sobriety test….you know, walking a straight line. That sort of thing.”

“And he passed?”

“Sure!  He was clean and sober.”

Letting that information sink in, I had the flight attendant bring me another glass of Armagnac.  Unlike the bar in the Charles de Gaulle Airport, this one was free.

Strasbourg's Notre Dame and MORE!

The huge cathedral casts its shadow over the whole city.

In front of the cathedral, street musicians play The Theme From The Godfather

Strasbourg, the capital of Alsace, is only about an hour and a half away.  Well, unless you have no GPS, and no map.  Then you pick and feel your way along the byways, or pull out your sextant…whoops, only works at night.  Sun shots are tough and even tougher when you’re driving on what in the U.S. would be a practice stretch at the Daytona Speedway.

Germany into France is seamless these days.  The signage changes, the speed drops from blazing to scorching.  Houses in the small towns seem a little more down at the mouth.  Rolling green, wooded hills and miles of open green pasture, strewn with languid cows and sheep don’t change.

I got to the center of Strasbourg in under two hours, which immediately called for cold beer at an outdoor café.   I like an Alsatian brew, Fischer. Fortunately, there are cafés aplenty, sprawling out in the plaza in front of the famous cathedral. 

Quench your thirst and hustle over to the Tourist Information Center, in the same square as the cathedral.

First question:  What do you like to do when you get to a new city?  Take a tour?  Pick out the best of the best from a guidebook?  Pull out the mandatory list acquaintances you don’t even like forced on you? 

Cast off that shadow of shame and doubt.  Be bold.

Gugelhupf - something like a Bundt Cake, in every bakery window.

I say, screw ‘em.  I like to pick out a spot or two that appeals to me.  If you said bars and outdoor cafés you’d be on the right track.  But, also I have to give the deity his/her/its due. Sentences get so complicated when you do your best to appease everyone’s point of view.  I should have added non-deity somewhere, but I do have my limits.

Back to Strasbourg and it’s cathedral.   Can’t miss it.  Center of the city.  A single tower makes it look a little cockeyed, because they never got around to building the twin. Cathedral of Our Lady of Strasbourg is the proper name, but its also called Strasbourg Minster.

Parts of the cathedral were begun in the early 13^th Century, but it wasn’t complete and open until a hundred years later.  Very impressive Gothic construction, over 460 feet high, with huge flying buttresses and lace-like stonework.  One of the many points of interest is inside, at the Astronomical Clock, where the twelve apostles parade before Christ every day at 1230.  Get there early.  The faithful and the gawkers press in like poor relatives at the reading of the will.

“Built” and “complete” are interesting terms.  Places of worship have occupied the site of this cathedral since Roman times, including several previous Christian churches.  Used to be the tallest cathedral in Europe until the Lutherans in Hamburg outdid themselves in the middle of the 19^th Century and built St. Nicolas Church.  Still Strasbourg’s Cathedral of Our Lady is still the 6^th tallest church in the world. And you’re still walking where Roman sandals scuffed the stones.

Want a thirsty experience?  Climb the 330 stone stairs…steep, narrow stairs…to the top.  Worth the gasping trip for a beautiful panorama of the entire city.  While you stroll above the rooftops, note all the graffiti from the Middle Ages.  Etchings crowd around the arched doorways.  Along the way, you’ll get a fantastic view of the flying buttresses.

Yes, there’s more to Strasbourg than a cathedral. There are museums and architectural wonders to keep you entertained, but I went to the heart of the old quarter, called Le Petite France.  Lots of half-timbered buildings.  Right on the canal and a perfect spot to find an outdoor café, bite into some lunch and sample some of the justly famous Alsatian wines or beers.

Most of the buildings in the old quarter belonged to tanners, who made use of the canal.  The buildings date mostly from the 16^th and 17^th Centuries.

Passing out of the narrow lanes of Le Petite France, you won’t want to miss the long covered bridge and the old city towers.  Near the towers, right on the canal is one of my favorite Strasbourg restaurants, L’Ami Schutz. Beautiful interior, yet cozy.  Alsatian specialties galore.

The Covered Bridge, designed by the famous military engineer, Vauban, around 1681, gates within could be opened and the southern part of the city flooded for defense.

Stroll the streets some more. Check out La Place Gutenberg, with a statue of the man himself and one of the most beautiful Renaissance buildings in the city, the former city-hall, built in 1585.  By the way, although he was born in Germany, Gutenberg lived in Strasbourg for ten years or more, developing his printing press.

La Place Gutenberg

Time to wander again, but not too far.  Pick out a bakery.  Eat some macaroons.  Grab a cup of coffee.  Feel more like a beer?  Ok.  No quarreling with that.

With the Cathedral tolling near six post meridian (meridiem in Latin), it’s time to find my car, pay the toll and figure out that taking the highway North means heading toward Paris, even though Paris is west of here.  No GPS, no map?  No problem.