New Year's Eve in Milan

This year, we allowed Blind Booking to choose our destination for New Year's. I was very excited when Milan flashed up on the screen. This was my first time in Italy and I couldn't wait to try the food and see the Duomo.

Antica Locanda Leonardo courtyard.

We took a late flight in and then hopped aboard the Malpensa Express to reach our hotel. Antica Locanda Leonardo is right beside the Santa Maria delle Grazie (home to da Vinci's "The Last Supper) and a pleasant 15-minute walk to the city's center. The hotel shares a 19th century building with private apartments surrounding lovely courtyards. It was one of our best finds to date because of its price, location, and ambience.



New Year's Eve was a beautiful, sunny day. We set out to see as much as we could since many points of interest would be closed on New Year's. Milan certainly gives off a business/commerce sort of vibe. The urban streets are bustling with busy people dressed in suits, banks from every country flank the streets, and the scent of wealth and power is strong in the air. It was a refreshing change of scenery to see the grand Duomo.

Construction of the cathedral began in 1386. The building carried on throughout several centuries until its completion in 1965. Today, it's the third-largest church in Europe. The interior is breathtaking, filled with the light from stained-glass windows bouncing off intricately-designed floors. After a long gander inside, we took the stairs to the top of the Duomo. By now we've had the privilege to stand atop several churches in Europe but this was the most unique experience so far because there were no restrictions; we were literally standing on top of the rooftop spires. Unbelievable.

The Duomo sits upon the Piazza del Duomo. It's Milan's main square and is filled with tourists, peddlers, and pickpockets. We walked with our heads down, bags close, and were still surprised by how aggressively people tried to sell us bracelets and birdseed.

Galleria Vittorio Emanuele

The Gallerio Vittorio Emanuele is a magnificent glass-domed gallery filled with luxury shops. A majestic arch beckons you in from the Piazza del Duomo. Even if you aren't planning on purchasing anything or stopping for food at one of the many cafes, it's worth your time to stroll through and admire the stunning architecture. You must also take a spin on the bull's balls.

Beneath the dome, various coats of arms are depicted as a symbol of unification. There is a wolf for Rome, lily for Florence, a flag for Milan, and a bull for Turin. The tradition goes that you must put your heel on the bull's testicles and perform one spin on top of them for good luck. It isn't just a tourist trap. If you stand long enough, you'll see lots of people doing it-- including the Milanese. I was taking a photo and suddenly an older, distinguished-looking Italian gentleman stepped upon the bull, caught my eye, and spun. Then he spread his arms wide and said, "Prego!" to me. He watched as I performed the spin and, nodding satisfactorily, rejoined his wife.

Take a spin!

Milan's Christmas market was still operating and it was fun to see all of the different items for sale. It's interesting how each country's interpretation differs. I guess it's in ways you would expect. Germany has lots of bratwursts and gluhwein, Brussels provides the beer, and Italy went heavy on cheese, antipasti, and paninis. We picked up some olives and a bottle of wine to whet our appetite ahead of our New Year's Eve dinner.

Boccondivino

Reservations for dinner were difficult to come by, even almost three months in advance. We finally found a place close to our hotel, a charming restaurant with excellent reviews. Boccondivino is in a quiet area on a side street. We were the first to arrive and we received a warm welcome from the manager and a sparking glass of Prosecco. The first of many courses was the pinzimonio: a large offering of fresh vegetables dipped in olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and salt and pepper.

Pinzimonio

Soon the restaurant began filling with lots of other couples and large groups of boisterous Italians toasting each other and laughing raucously. The atmosphere was electric!

I've been to many different dinners with wine pairings. The formula is pretty standard: A glass of wine accompanies each course and it's presented by a knowledgeable sommelier who enthusiastically speaks about the flavor of the wine, its origin, and why it's the best accompaniment to the dish. The course is finished, along with the glass of wine, and the tasting moves forward with the next plate.

At Boccondivino, the process is a little different. There was still a sommelier (a delightful man with a passion for wine and a twinkle to his eyes) and there was still a pairing for every course. But instead of a glass, it was a bottle. Yes, I mean that the ENTIRE bottle of wine was left on the table for refills. We didn't really notice it with the first course but by the second one, we realized that two bottles of wine were sitting in front of us, opened and waiting to be emptied.

"That's weird," said my husband. "Do you think they mean to do that?'

We looked around and noticed that the rest of the patrons were also amassing their own stashes.

"Well, they can't possibly continue to do this for every course," I said. "Maybe you're meant to just have a couple bottles for the whole duration."

That guess was wrong. Course after course continued to arrive at our table. We had everything from cheese and pate to lard and gnocchi (not together). At some point our friendly sommelier stopped giving his eloquent speeches and just eased the next bottle in front of us along with another glass. We became great friends with the couple seated next to us and I think we were shouting in Italian by the end of everything. It wasn't a tasting; it was a downright sloshing.

Suddenly the room darkened and shouts of "Buon anno!" flooded the restaurant. Bottles of champagne were popped open and we ate lentils for good luck. The manager, who by now was red-faced and extra-jovial, shook hands with each patron and wished them a happy new year. Dessert was still on the way and it was accompanied by port or sherry. I can't remember which because I had ceased imbibing about three glasses before that.

Lentils for luck.

By the time our thousand-course dinner was finished, we realized we'd spent almost five hours at Boccondivino. It was certainly a New Year's dinner to remember. As we left, we marveled at the number of bottles and glasses decorating each table. It was surreal and gluttonous. But I suppose the chances of me ever being in Milan for New Year's again are slim, so I guess it's best to do it right the first time. And if 'right' means devouring endless cheese platters, gulping down sparkling whites and ruby reds, shouting with happy Italians, and breaking a wine glass (oops), then yes-- we achieved something.

I don't remember much about our stroll back to the hotel other than it wasn't as cold as it could have been due to our wine coats, we laughed a lot and took many ridiculous photos, and the people in the room next to us were shouting, "Happy New Year!" at the tops of their lungs for several hours into 2013.

Needless to say, we missed the hotel breakfast the next morning but we did manage to make it back out into Milan for another day of sightseeing. But I think I'll save that story for later. Just the memory of Boccondovino has made me woozy.

One Year Later: Essen Beer Festival

We've been very busy the past few weeks! We visited Antwerp again. It was the same as I remember: bustling, slightly gritty, and interesting. We've had some really good luck with restaurants during our visits to Antwerp. This time we had dinner at El Warda, a Moroccan restaurant. The atmosphere was relaxed and jovial, service was excellent, and our food was delicious. We began with a sampler of twelve dips for bread. Each one was unique and it was fun to experience all of the different flavors. We both had tagines for our main courses and then finished off with traditional mint tea and a small dessert.

Moroccan Sampler Dish

We spent the next day slogging through Antwerp's rainy streets. We were mainly just wasting time until our afternoon train to Essen, home of the annual Kerstbierfestival. We attended last year (Antwerp and a Beer Festival) and it remains one of the highlights of our travels. We stopped at two of Antwerp's Christmas markets and then settled at a cafe to get a jump-start on our Belgian beer tasting and fill our stomachs with a nice cushion of spaghetti bolognese.

Taking the train from Antwerp Central Station was fun. The station is beautiful and the regional train we took was a classic style that brought to mind scenes of Harry Potter and the Hogwarts Express. After a pleasant 40-minute ride through picturesque Belgian villages, we arrived in Essen and boarded the charter bus to take us to the high school gymnasium that houses the beer festival. 

Pulling into the parking lot was nostalgic and I thought of us at this time last year, fresh to Europe and still confused about lots of things. My sister was visiting and we had a great time sampling beers we'd never heard of and making friends with other festival attendees. 

O.B.E.R. Festival in Essen, Belgium

Our experience this year was mostly the same although we were more informed about the beers this time. Last year was more of a free-for-all because we hadn't had the time to cultivate our repertoire of Belgian beers yet. After getting our first samples, we wandered around searching for a place to sit among the long tables in the center of the gym. Finally someone left and we snagged a prime people-watching position. Before long, we were joined by a Dutchman and several of his friends on one side, and a Belgian and Englishman on the other. 

The usual questions were asked of us: "Are you here on holiday?" "Will you be staying long?" "What brings you to Europe?" "How did you find this festival in the middle of nowhere?"

With undisguised pride, we informed all of them, "Oh, you know, we were here last year. We're staying in Antwerp tonight. Lovely city. Good food."

Beer and cheese. Yes, please.

Once we established that we could hold our own (ground and beer), the conversation shifted easily between topics including other worthy beer festivals in the region, American television, Dutch and Belgian languages, marriage, and American gun laws. Where else but a beer festival in a high school gym could complete strangers discuss such riveting subjects? 

Last year we met some people who lived in the area. They were very kind and invited us to sit with them at their table. We spent several hours talking and laughing. One of the reasons we were excited to return this year is because of the possibility of seeing them again. We were disappointed when we didn't find them at their usual table as soon as we arrived. 

A few hours into it, my husband got up to retrieve a some more beers and he returned with some winter ales and one of our old friends. He had approached my husband and asked if we were the Americans who sat with him and his friends the past year. We were so happy to see him and he immediately joined us. We quickly noticed that he was without his group so we asked about his good friend and their wives. His expression darkened and he said, "Well, that's a very sad thing. He died a few months ago. Heart attack, completely unexpected." His eyes briefly filled with tears and he wiped them away quickly before taking a sip of his beer. 

It was a very sad thing to hear. We couldn't believe such a vibrant man had been taken before his time. It was almost absurd that he was there last year, in the same room, sitting with us and enjoying life and now he was gone. His friend told us it was too painful for their wives to attend this year because it's something they always did together. He had come to honor his memory and have a few beers in his name. It was a sobering reminder of how short life really is, of how you can be here one minute and gone the next. But it wasn't really his style to be mournful. He was soon telling us about his new grandson and how happy he is to be a grandfather-- another reminder, this time of how life goes on and there is joy for every sorrow. I was very happy to see our old friend, and very moved as well.

Soon it was time to bid adieu to the Objective Beer Drinkers of the Essen Region. We shook hands with our friend and told him we'll see him next year. Then we took the train back to Antwerp but this time we weren't alone, as our Belgian and English friends joined us. The ride back went by much faster and we were a little sad to part ways at Antwerp Central. 

We had a wonderful time in Antwerp and at the beer festival. I want to return every year because there are always new beers to try, new friends to meet, and old friends to see. 

You won't hear from me for several days but I hope you have a very Happy New Year! We'll begin 2013 Italian-style, in Milan! 

Frohes Neues Jahr!

Liege Christmas Village

We visited Liege earlier this year ('How do I describe you, Liege?'). We decided to return for the Christmas Village, the oldest and largest in Belgium.

It was a very frigid day. The sun never shone and the wind was biting but all sorts of food and beverage vendors were on hand to warm the cockles of our hearts. In fact, the lasting impression I have of Liege's Christmas Village is the food and drink. We've come to expect delicious vittles and amazing beer when we go to Belgium and we certainly weren't disappointed. There were stalls touting bratwurst, pommes frites slathered in mayonnaise, hot chocolate made with the finest Belgian varieties, foie gras, and delicious winter ales and fruit beers.

Some stalls were conveniently set up outside of the parking garage, on the route to the main Christmas village. The vendors at these stalls were a little more aggressive since they were off the beaten path. My husband's new obsession these days is sausage. He spends a lot of time wending his way from stall to stall, happily plucking samples off the tips of knives and always offering appreciative, "Mmmmms" and, "Wow, this is the best sausage I've ever tasted." After these endorsements, I see the sausage sellers' eyes grow large and they look at us expectantly, practically bursting at the seams and waiting to shout, "The whole lot can be yours! For a million Euros!"

Most of the time we just walk away, leaving behind very disappointed people who probably don't understand why we were so enthusiastic but didn't purchase anything.

So I wasn't surprised when my husband wandered off and tasted a sample from a boisterous man who insisted I also try some. "Yum," I said, as I prepared to continue our stroll. But it was too late. My husband had already began nodding his head enthusiastically and exclaiming, "Delicious! Incredible!"

The salesman quickly began his pitch in rapid-fire French. I could make out a few words but then had to politely say, "Je ne comprends pas." He only slightly paused before he said, "Ahhhhh... d'accord." Then he continued to speak in French as he described the different kinds of meat used to make his sausages. When we failed to nod or feign competency, he resorted to making animal noises. He pointed at one bundle. "Heehaw, heehaw!" he brayed. "Donkey!" I shouted. "Oui, oui!" he said, even though I'm not sure he understood the word donkey. "Baaaah, baaaaah," he yelled. "Sheep!" we cried in unison.

It went on like this for a few more animals before my husband pointed to one and the man said, "Originale!"

"Ok!" exclaimed my husband. "We'll take it!"

I whipped my head toward him and motioned to the sign clearly stating: 37.75 Euros per kilo. I saw the fear pass quickly on his face and he motioned to Monsieur Sausage that we only wanted a small portion of the log.

"Ahhhh... non, non, monsieur. Demi?" I knew demi meant half and I realized that the sausage could only be purchased as a whole or a half.

"That's fine!" said my husband.
I furtively whispered, "Look at it! Half of that is still going to be almost a kilo. This will be nearly 30 Euros."
"Nah, it won't be that much," he said assuredly.

After a lot of fancy cutting, folding, wrapping, and tying with twine, Monsieur produced our package of sausage and the receipt. 27 Euros.

I saw my husband cringe as he handed over 30 Euros. "Au revoir!" called the man, as he gave us our whopping 3 Euros in change.

We vowed to be more conservative with our money for the rest of the day.

A pleasant 5-minute walk brought us to the Christmas Village. It looked much the same as all of the other markets we've been to in the past month. Rows of stalls lined the Place Saint-Lambert. Wafts of street food filled the air and small bands marched through the village blaring holiday tunes from their trumpets and clarinets.

Liege Christmas Village Band

All the sausage talk had whet our appetites and our first snacks were crusty baguettes with four different melted goat cheeses, and homemade garlic pesto topped with sliced tomatoes. It was absolutely divine and provided the perfect cushion for our first beers.

We chose wisely with a sampler from the Brasserie des Geants. My favorite was the Ducassis, a fruity beer made from real blackcurrant berries. I'm not typically a big fan of fruit beers because they're usually too sweet but Ducassis is an exception. This is the best fruit beer I've ever had.

The perfect snack and most delicious fruit beer!

After quenching our appetites and thirst, we made our way around the village. All of the usual suspects were for sale. Candies, ornaments, wind chimes, scarves, and hats beckoned to us as we passed. It was all interesting but I must admit, we were mostly taken by the food and beer. We took a few more cursory laps to justify another stop. This time it was for chocolate-covered marshmallows.

We came to terms with the fact that we were just going to spend the rest of our time in Liege being gluttons. I think the sausage is what started it.

From the chocolate we moved onto more beer. Val-Dieu is an Abbey beer. I enjoyed the brown while my husband had the Christmas beer. We certainly needed them to wash down the cheesy concoction we ordered from the monk inside the Val-Dieu stall. The best way I can describe it is scalloped potatoes with chunks of ham slathered with gooey swiss-type cheese. Healthy, it was not. But we were already long past the point of return.

The sun sets early here during the winter and we only had time for one more stop at the Brasseri des Geants stall for another Ducassis. Why not?

So what did we take away from the Christmas Village in Liege? Full bellies and a nice, clean buzz from all of the delicious Belgian beer. It's certainly worth the trip.

Nearly a week later, we've only managed to make a small dent in that 30-Euro sausage. C'est la vie, as I'm sure Monsieur Sausage would say.

On the menu at the 'American Trip' stall.

Saga of the Snowmen

Winter is officially upon us! Last year it didn't snow here until very late in the season and even then it was just a dusting. I was very surprised when it began snowing last week! I was even more surprised when the snow stayed on the ground and piled up enough to build a snowman!

My husband grew up in the Midwest so he's an expert at skiing, shoveling, and snowmen. I spent all of my life (before Germany) in the South where I became an expert at swatting mosquitoes, driving Four Wheelers, and eating boiled peanuts. To make up for lost time, I was determined to build my first snowman on my own. My husband stood back on the sidewalk and shouted helpful instructions and encouraging words. We even had carrots and coal handy for the nose, eyes, and mouth. I named him Maxwell.

Maxwell, My First Snowman

I was very proud of the finished product and I posed beside it in a photo shoot in front of the house. I patted myself on the back for a job well done and went inside to warm up and email all of my family and friends back home to brag about my accomplishment.

Less than ten minutes later, my husband opened the curtains facing the front yard to look out at Maxwell. He gasped and said in a low voice, "Someone knocked him over."

I thought he was joking and I was still smiling when I reached the window. Then I saw it: a crumpled, snowy mass with the imprint of the perpetrators' boots. Luckily his face was still mostly intact. I was able to identify Maxwell by his carrot.

Maxwell's Crumpled Face

We stood at the window, our shocked faces reflecting back at us. Ridiculously, I felt the urge to cry since I'd waited so long to build my first snowman and it had been viciously murdered in a few moments. My husband comfortingly put his arm around me and said, "Let's rebuild it."

"No," I almost sobbed. "I've already gotten warm and my toes almost fell off the first time because it's so cold. I can't... I don't have the strength."

He nodded sympathetically and turned back to the sight of the massacre. Suddenly his gaze turned from solemnity to anger and he raised one fist in the air and yelled, "WE SHALL REBUILD HIM!!!" Okay, those weren't his exact words but it was definitely a rallying cry.

He bolted from the room, threw on his coat and gloves, and marched outside to begin Maxwell 2.0. It all happened so fast and I was still standing at the window when I saw him emerge from a corner of the house, pushing a huge pile of snow that was quickly becoming the size of a boulder. I got dressed and stepped outside gingerly as he passed me again, the base growing larger and larger. After another push he turned to me and said gravely, "Get another carrot."

I chose the best carrot we had. By the time I made it back outside, the base was up and it was mighty. He was already working on the middle and colorfully narrating.
"Those little punks will learn not to mess with us! They're amateurs! They don't know I grew up in Chicago!!"

We were huffing and puffing with such gusto that several of our neighbors slowed their cars to watch the spectacle. As each car passed, we eyed them suspiciously and wondered if they (or their punk kids) were the culprits.

I cheered and clapped when Maxwell 2.0 was finally finished. My husband wiped a snowy, gloved hand across his sweating brow and said, "I'm not done yet."

Maxwell 2.0

He erected a "pedestal" beside the new snowman and placed Maxwell's head on top of it. As he hoisted the head on top, he said, "When they walk by, I want to make sure they see what they've done!"

As a final touch, he sprinkled everything with water and declared, "I want this to be here when everything else has melted. It will be a testament to our perseverance in this neighborhood!"

We kept vigil for the remainder of the evening. My husband had his running shoes ready at the door and he was prepared to chase down anyone who attempted to sabotage our snowmen. The night passed uneventfully, except for all of the cars slowing down so the passengers could stare.

After living here for over a year, most of our neighbors will acknowledge us. I wouldn't say they're particularly friendly but at least most of them nod as we pass each other while walking or driving. It took over half a year to even reach this point. Everyone keeps their yards meticulously trimmed and landscaped, and we really do try our best. I don't sweep the sidewalks or wash the windows like a good German hausfrau but our little corner of the neighborhood is presentable.

Oftentimes, people allow their dogs to relieve themselves in our yard and we also discover trash tossed into our yard and on the pathway leading to our door. We try to tell ourselves that it isn't because we're American but sometimes it's hard to think of any other reason  because no one else's yard is disrespected in those ways.

I treasure the experience we have in this country and I feel very fortunate to call Germany my host home. But  I know that even if we lived here forever, we would always be "the Americans" in the neighborhood. I must admit that it felt amazing to finally have a way to say, "You can let your dogs poop in our yard and you can even throw your candy wrappers in front of our door, but you WILL NOT tear down our snowman!"

The spirit of America is alive and well within us!

Incidentally, the original Maxwell fell off the pedestal on his own the next day. All of the snow melted a few days later but Maxwell 2.0 lorded over the yard, tall and white... in a blanket of verdant grass.

Perhaps this little stand will put an end to the dogs and litter in our yard. At the very least, the rest of the neighborhood now thinks we're crazy and that kind of thinking can inspire a kind of fear of its own. All I know is that there will now be a dark spot on that grass and it will forever remind us of December 7, 2012: The day the Americans took back their yard.

Christmas Market Madness

Christmas market season is upon us! I love everything about the markets: the lights, decorations, food, and gluhwein. In fact, I was so excited about the markets that I somehow convinced myself (and then my husband) that the market in Aachen opened Thanksgiving weekend. That Sunday, we drove over to Aachen with visions of sugarplums dancing in our heads.

The streets were mostly empty and we passed a lone vendor selling roasted chestnuts before we came upon the city center. All of the booths were in position but we were a week early. Oops. We stood there in the cold rain as I sheepishly looked at the ground. Suddenly I remembered another market!

"Okay, so maybe I got Aachen wrong. But I know the Valkenburg markets opened today!" I exclaimed proudly.
"What makes you so sure? Did you read about that one, just like you supposedly read about this one?" asked my husband.
"Yes... well, I'm about 78% sure. I was 100% sure but now I don't feel comfortable with my odds. Anyway, we have to pass by the exit on the way home so we might as well check."

With renewed optimism (on my part), we hopped back into the car and made our way to Valkenburg. Signs on the highway pointed toward the Kerstmarkt and I felt as if I'd saved the day!

Peter Pan and Captain Hook made their
way into the decorations.
Inexplicably.

The tiny village's streets were difficult to navigate because of all of the people. At least we knew we were in the right place. After we finally found parking, we paid admission to go into the first cave market. We'd been in the caves before for the guided tours but it was really interesting to see the marlstone walls lit up by Christmas lights and festooned with decorations. I must be honest and admit I wasn't very impressed with most of the wares. I expected handmade Christmas ornaments and unique Dutch items. Instead, there were a lot of vendors offering kitschy jewelry and overpriced (and imported) scarves and hats. Compared to the German markets, it was a little disappointing but the unique setting was a fair compensation.

I certainly never thought I'd be drinking gluhwein in a cave.

Cafe in a cave.

There are two caves in Valkenburg and both have markets for Christmas. We paid to go into the second one to make sure we experienced everything. The second market boasted the same vendors as the first. My advice would be to choose one cave and stick with it, especially since both charge admission. Unless of course you want to continue drinking gluhwein among the marlstone. It's not a bad idea.

The next weekend was the opening of the Aachen Christmas market-- I checked and double-checked to be absolutely sure. We decided to go on Saturday and fight our way through the throngs of people.

Aachen Christmas Market

Everything was exactly as I remembered. The Aachener Dom provided a breathtaking backdrop for the colorful stalls. Handmade ornaments and children's toys, wooden boxes and leather wallets, lace doilies and dainty earrings, a partridge in a pear tree... anything you could possibly imagine was for sale. We spent several hours wandering around and warming ourselves with gluhwein.

Aachen

Even after a year, Aachen is still one of my favorite cities here.

Before we knew it, the next weekend (this past one) was upon us. Because of my market hysteria, I can't let a weekend pass without visiting one. We loved Monschau so much that we decided to return for its market. We were enthralled once again by the half-timbered houses and gurgling creeks. This is what a German village is supposed to look like.

Monschau

We managed to complete most of our Christmas shopping in Monschau. The wares were basically the same as in Aachen-- except for the mustard. I'm not ashamed to say that we greedily re-stocked our supply of Monschau mustard. We bought with abandon, as if we expect a mustard shortage and can't bear the thought of naked bratwursts. Speaking of bratwurst, we stopped at a tiny station with just one man at the helm of the grill. With fanfare, he produced two perfectly-grilled bratwursts carefully decorated with mustard and said, "This is the best bratwurst at the market!" It was the best bratwurst I've ever tasted. Bratwurst are typically served inside a brotchen (roll). I usually don't like the brotchen because it's too hard and difficult to gnaw through, but this brotchen was slightly heated and it crumbled deliciously. That bratwurst alone is almost reason enough to go to the Monschau market.

Roasted Chestnuts!

I also ate my first roasted chestnuts! They were very meaty. Jack Frost was nipping at my nose as I nibbled on the chestnuts roasting on an open fire. My visions of a Bing Crosby Christmas have been fulfilled.

Our next stop on the whirlwind Christmas market tour will be somewhere in Belgium. I feel the need to experience Christmas in the tri-border area thoroughly. And now that we are well into December, I know for sure that all of the markets will be open.

We had our first dusting of snow here on Monday. It didn't stick but it was lovely as it fell. This week the weather has been mostly unpleasant: freezing rain, dark clouds, and cold wind. Fortunately the Christmas markets are lovely despite rain, snow, and clouds. By the end of the season I'll have had my fill of bratwurst and gluhwein. Until then, onto the next market!

Monschau Market, from above.

Rotterdam, Drenched in Wine

A few months ago we purchased some discounted train tickets from Kruidvat (similar to a CVS) in the Netherlands. 12.99 per ticket buys unlimited travel throughout the Netherlands on a Saturday or Sunday. The tickets are good for just a few months and since we purchased three each, we decided to get busy and take ourselves to Rotterdam, host city to one of the largest ports in the world.

The weather was dismal, bleak, dreary, frigid, and gloomy. Mist hung over the city like steam rising from a shower. Except it wasn't steamy; it was freezing.

Misty!

We initially decided to go to Rotterdam for a Swedish Christmas market at the Swedish Seamen's Church. I am overly excited for Christmas markets this year and I thought it would be a great opportunity to get a jump-start on shopping. The church was a 15-minute walk from Rotterdam Centraal and we would normally begin such a short walk with lots of gusto, cameras in hand to take photos of everything we passed. But after exiting the station and entering a massive construction zone, we decided to just take the tram. It was almost impossible to get our bearings because most of the buildings were enveloped by the mist and it was just too cold to be parading around the busy streets of Rotterdam when we didn't really have any idea where we were going.

We took the wrong tram at first but fortunately we realized our mistake after only one stop. Once we found the correct route, the tram ride was just a few minutes and soon we were at the church. Several signs pointed to the market and when we walked in, carolers were singing songs (in English). This gave us false hope because everything else inside was in Swedish or Dutch, which I suppose was to be expected.

We wandered around aimlessly for a few minutes trying to figure out where the actual market was and how we were supposed to purchase items. As we started up a second flight of stairs, my husband looked out of a window and noticed a beautiful garden. Suddenly a man was beside us explaining something in Dutch... or Swedish. We sheepishly replied, "Oh, sorry... we speak English."

"Ah, no problem!" he replied. He began again and told us that it was the largest privately-owned garden in Rotterdam and they were very proud of it. Then he revealed that he was the priest of the church and we followed him the rest of the way upstairs. He stopped at the landing in front of a man with a booth and exclaimed, "This man wants your money!" Then he slapped my husband on the back and left us staring at the booth owner, wondering why he wanted our money and just how much he expected. Eventually he said, "You must buy a ticket and see if you will be lucky to win a prize on this table." So we bought a raffle ticket for a Euro and then the man said, "Open it up! See if you are a winner!" Luck wasn't on our side this time but I can't say I really understood what any of the prizes were anyway.

We continued to the back of the third floor and finally found the "market." It was a sad smattering of tiny booths with a random assortment of goods. Some were selling postcards while others displayed wine glasses. We realized that this market was more of a church fundraiser than a full-blown Christmas market, Germany-style.

Everyone was extremely friendly but overall it was a very confusing experience.

Leaving empty-handed didn't discourage us. We still had lunch to eat and lots of the city to explore. Following our guidebook's suggestion, we chose De Ballentent. It's a waterfront pub-cafe specializing in meatballs. We spent a couple hours there sipping wine and beer and eating meatballs with a pepper and mushroom sauce. They didn't compare to the meatballs we had at Cafe-Lequet in Liege, but they weren't bad.

We planned to go to Delfshaven next. Delfshaven survived the war and is a beautiful area for strolling. We did eventually make it there but not before an unplanned pit stop. A large cardboard cutout of a bottle of wine caught our attention outside of a shop called Jan van Breda. A flurry of activity was going on inside and it drew us in with an invisible vice grip. 

The proprietor greeted us and asked if we were there for the wine tasting. Without hesitation, we said, "Yes. Yes, of course we are." We traded our heavy coats for delicate wine glasses and began our tasting adventure with champagne. After sipping two crisp varieties, we asked the sommelier where he was from in France. He looked at us incredulously and replied, "I come from Champagne, of course!" Of course.

We moved on to Italy, Chile, South Africa, and back to France for a perfect Beaujolias. The tasting ended with some cognac and the only thing I regret about the event is eating some raspberry pate between sips. I just can't get on board with meat paste.

Backpack filled with booty.

Nearly two hours passed while we made our way around the wine shop and we certainly didn't leave empty-handed. My husband had to lug around bottles of champagne, muscat, and one of the most delicious white wines (a Gewurtztraminer) we've had in recent memory.

We spent the next hour walking around Delfshaven. We saw a reconstructed 18th-century windmill and we also learned that Delfshaven is where the Pilgrims tried leaving for America aboard the Speedwell. How appropriate to find this out the weekend before Thanksgiving! The Oude Kerk is where the pilgrims prayed for the last time before departure.

Reconstructed windmill in Delfshaven.

I wish I could tell you more about Rotterdam but the day was quickly darkening and it wasn't getting any warmer so we decided to make our way back to the train station for our two hour ride home. We had been on the train for about an hour when the conductor announced that the next stop would unexpectedly be our last due to one of the trains breaking. A collective sigh went up through the aisles and we all de-boarded. All passengers were immediately shuffled to waiting buses and we continued our journey to Sittard. Despite the setback, I thought the process was very efficient. And other than the clan of pre-adolescent Dutch girls singing along to songs like "Wild Ones" by Flo Rida, it was a pleasant detour.

I wish I could tell you more about Rotterdam. I know there is a lot more to see and do in the "2nd City of the Netherlands" but what can I say? I love wine. Most of the afternoon was over by the time we left Jan van Breda but there is one thing I know for sure in life: Time is never wasted at an impromptu wine tasting.

A fisherman and his bicycle on a dreary day in Rotterdam.

Beautiful Bruges

Life has certainly been hectic the past few months with visitors coming here and our big trip back home, but before we trekked back to the U.S., we made a stop in Bruges.

Bruges is beautiful. People are friendly, the food is tasty, and the sights are amazing. Like Budapest, it was an incredibly photogenic city and I took advantage of my camera as we walked along the cobblestone streets and listened to the ringing church bells.

We stayed at a Bed and Breakfast fittingly called A Dream. It was a quick 15-minute walk from the hotel to the city center. Our host suggested dinner at Den Amand. The tiny, nondescript restaurant is easy to miss because it is slightly off the beaten path. The intimate dining area probably seats less than 30 people and we certainly felt lucky to have secured a table. The menu is imaginative and authentic Belgian fare. The chocolate sampler dessert was heavenly. Portions were large, prices were fair, service was impeccable, and the wine was excellent. Don't miss it if you are looking for a place to dine in Bruges!

The next day was spent walking around the city and taking in the sights. We strolled through the Grote Markt, climbed to the top of the belfry tower, drank some Zot beer at De Halve Maan (The Half Moon) brewery, and gazed upon the sculpture of Madonna and Child by Michelangelo. 

Grote Markt

Bruges from the Belfry

Zot Beer

Madonna and Child in Church of Our Lady

We spent just one full day in Bruges and as we prepared to make the drive back home, we knew that one day isn't enough to devote to this fairy tale city. I'm hoping for a return trip very soon to visit the Christmas market and see all of the things we missed during our brief glance.

So au revoir for now, Bruges. But keep the gluhwein hot for us!