A day in Strasbourg, France

 When I check into my hotel in Strasbourg, the hotel manager insists I visit  St Thomas�s church because �Mozart played the organ there.� My last blog, from Ulm in Germany also mentioned Mozart playing the organ at the Munster Cathedral in that fine German city. Either this has the makings of an urban myth and every town with a Cathedral organ in Europe lays claim to Mozart�s virtuosity. Or, as I prefer to believe, if you�re Wolfgang Amadeus, you get to choose only the best organs in the biggest Cathedrals. 

   St Thomas is certainly worthy of Mozart. It also houses a sculpture by Jean-Baptiste Pigalle dedicated to Marshall Maurice of Saxony in 1777. I love the way the figure of the Marshall stands above his own coffin as the Grim Reaper opens the lid, while a woman and child weep. Hercules, off to the side, can only throw back his head and wipe his brow in a rather exaggerated gesture of defeat. I must order something like that in my memory. Donations accepted.

   On to the Catherdal of Notre Dame, a short communal procession away. Notre Dame is late Gothic in style, built of sandstone with ornate carvings outside and intricate lead-light windows inside. In three languages, signs throughout the church interior give me a religious education sadly lacking from my childhood. I learn all about the Hill of Olives, the Pillar of Angels and the Baptismal Font, and I only had to wait fifty-three years and come 12,000 kilometres to do it. It makes me like Notre Dame even more. I plan to visit again tomorrow, but not at 11am, when the astronomical clock inside the Cathedral is scheduled to do its thing. Not only will it be surrounded with tourists, flash cameras ready, but if it�s anything like the other �famous� astronomical clock in Prague... well, I�ll just check my wristwatch if I need to know the time, thanks. Prague, and Strasbourg, are beautiful, magical cities that don�t need to advertise a clock as one of their drawcards.  

   Strasbourg is probably only second to Brussels in housing important European institutions, including the European Parliament and the Counseil de l�Europe. Which possibly explains why my waiter last night at dinner effortlessly slipped between English, German and French. And he was no older than twenty-five. I hate that. I tried to broaden my Australian accent in the hope of catching him out, but no chance. He was professional, humourous and didn�t once laugh at my fumbling french failings!

   Back to the European Parliament building, pictured at left. The designers would probably say all that glass symbolises �the transparency of government.� I prefer to see it as a metaphor of self-reflection - no matter how hard you look, a mirror of the outside is all you see. Two hundred metres downstream is a tent and a bicycle of someone camping, certainly illegally, on an island. He/she has a wonderful vista of the Parliament across the water. 

   Back in the numerous alleyways of the old town, I chance upon the cake shop, Christian. I stand at the window for a very long time, gazing in awe. It's a gallery of blooming macarons and assorted delights. The Pierre de lune is a mousse of chocolate from Madagascar sprinkled with pistachio nuts and a dusting of icing sugar in the shape of a fingernail moon. The Puits d�armour is a cylindrical confection of almond pastry topped with a mousse of chocolate from Peru, a dollop of raspberry dribbling over the side. My favourite is a passionfruit cylinder cake with a gooseberry on top decorated with tiny pink macaron hearts. Standing outside the shop is more fun than being at the art museum! Eventually I have to move as too many people are wanting to take photos and a man in lycra with all that confection... well.

   In Place Gutenberg, the farmers and producers of Alsace have set up a market. Central is the lettuce pyramid, five metres high, surrounded by wood-framed flowerboxes of growing wheat, rhubarb, strawberries, beetroot... in fact, every type of vegetable imaginable. �Look kids, this is where food comes from!�  

   I particularly like the escargot caravan, the myriad of apple juice stalls and the tarte flambee tent. It all makes me hungry, so I find a cafe, full of hip young locals. 

   Boy, do I stand out, dressed in lime-green cycling jersey, and being twenty years older than everyone else. I have duck rillette smeared across a slice of grainy bread and a salad. Sounds ordinary, tastes delicious. It takes me an hour to eat it, so rich and satisfying. I only leave because the sound of the music is starting to make my ears bleed. Young people today!

   I cycle back to my hotel and have an afternoon nap in a garden chair, a pot of tea on the table beside me, a blanket over my knees, tartan slippers on my feet, dribbling ever so slightly.

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