About four years ago, before we ever decided to move to France, well before Covid, and way before we ever decided to retire early, in a fit of spontaneity, we booked an Airbnb apartment in Strasbourg, France, for several weeks. I think at the time, I had compiled a lot of vacation and I was starting to burn out, so I justified the length of the trip with some form of “I can just work from home if I have to.” I don’t remember how we planned to get Chien-hui out of her nursing job for that long. To make it real, we put money down on an Airbnb and paid for airplane tickets with a pile of air miles I had amassed from traveling for work. In between that day and our actual check in yesterday, roughly four years now, we moved the dates forward several times. I will explain.

But first, why Strasbourg, you may be wondering? We love Christmas time and so we had decided, after seeing so many beautiful photos and videos, that we wanted to experience the cold dry air, the hats, scarves, and gloves, the lights, the bells and music, and even the hot wine and overdose of cheese that is a European Christmas Market. Maybe we’d even get a light dusting of snow, which would make it all so picturesque. We thought that after getting the full experience of what many people feel is the best Christmas Market in Europe, we’d then use the place as a base for exploring. The TGV can get to Paris in only two hours. We’d be equally close to Switzerland, and Germany is literally walking distance from the center of Strasbourg. The high-quality wine regions of Alsace are right here, Champagne is only an hour west, and the vineyards of Baden, in Germany, are an hour east.

But why book four years early? That wasn’t our intention. It certainly wasn’t prescient planning I can tell you that, more so, gross indecision and some things that were just beyond our control. We originally booked only a year out, but knowing nothing about the different kinds of Airbnb bookings or how long stay travel worked at the time, I inadvertently booked a non-refundable Airbnb. Then came the delays. The first time we postponed was during Covid. Understandable. The apartment owner, who was super friendly, but was definitely not going to capitulate and give us our money back, gave us two options: cancel and eat it, or push our dates out. I wasn’t about to lose thousands of dollars and the owner didn’t seem to mind if we wanted to rebook, so we moved the dates by another year out, assuming that Covid travel restrictions would be lifted by then. Then we moved the dates a second time because by that time our long-term plans were starting to take shape. We were going to retire when I turned 58. This time we decided that we’d incorporate the Strasbourg stay into a larger travel plan and reset our visit for summer of 2023. Better weather, grapes hanging on the vines, Christmas-Shrismas. But after a lull in the housing market in Seattle made selling the house less profitable, I changed my mind about retiring and pushed that date out a year to my 59th birthday (which I did stick to). This meant changing the Strasbourg stay a third time. Now the owner was making fun of me. After a visit to Paris and Provence in May 2024, we decided to pull the trigger and sell the house and car and to travel full time, as those of you who follow this blog are aware. The fourth time I reached out to the owner and asked to move the dates yet again, about 18 months ago, we opted to be back here for the Christmas market in late 2025. This apartment is always booked and has hundreds of 5-star reviews, and to get that precious Christmas time slot, we needed that 18-month lead time. He was was as friendly and obstinate as ever.

I think one can look at the past four years as an exercise in flexibility. Or it was a giant cluster*** of indecision and poor planning. Everything I’ve seen and done in the last 18 months has made whatever it was absolutely worth it, this I know. In my feeble defense, at the time, we had no inkling that we’d already be living in France, and yes, it does suck that I still have to pay rent this month in my now empty apartment in Nice. But I did manage to cut the original booking from three months down to five weeks, I think the minimum the owner would let me, thereby recouping at least some of my money. We’ll be up here in the very northeast corner of France for the entire month of December.

With that convoluted explanation, let’s move on to Paris, Reims, and the actual Christmas market of Strasbourg. Prior to arriving in the Alsace yesterday, we were back in Paris last week, truly my home away from home at this point. Chien-hui’s family were traveling in The Netherlands and they decided to take the train to Paris to meet us for a few days. I have written perhaps too much about Paris here in the last year, if that is possible, so I won’t carry on more. The only thing I will comment on is that seeing someone experience Paris for the first time is a special kind of joy that rekindles the barely dying passion I have for the city—gasoline on an already raging palette fire. Chien-hui’s sister-in-law, Julien, had never been before and her energy and excitement at seeing the sites was like seeing it again myself for the first time, too. To think, my first time to Paris was just May of 2024 and I have been to this magical city six times since.

Cecilia, Julien, and Chien-hui taking it all in at the Tuileries Garden

The Clan in front of the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris

After her clan set off back for Amsterdam to finish their tour, we took the train to Champagne, specifically to Reims. I planned three days of vineyard tours as well as seeing the big Champagne houses of Taittinger and Pommery, both known for their Gallo-Roman chalk caves dating to the 400s. But, as it always is with travel, you’ve got to be flexible. One of the smaller grower-producers I planned to visit notified me that they were sick and since they are family-run, they needed to cancel since nobody else was able to meet with us. Then, the next day I got sick. Then Chien-hui a day later. So, the entire first day where I had a car rented to see the vineyards and to visit makers in Epernay, Ay, Mesnil-sur-Oger, and Cramant, as well as a portion of the Vallé de la Marne, had to be scrubbed. Instead, we stayed in our hotel room and we slept most of the day. We awoke in the afternoon famished and after a quick Google search discovered a Vietnamese restaurant right next to the hotel, which meant we didn’t have to walk far in our weakened state. We got right to eating spicy soup. Then back to bed. Chicken noodle soup is weak sauce compared to spicy Phở.

That seemed to do the trick because we were both back on our feet by that evening. We walked over to the famous Notre Dame Cathedral of Reims. Famous for being the place where 800 years of French Kings were crowned. From Charles the Simple in 893 to Charles X in 1825, no less than 33 heads received their crowns there. As we walked to the cathedral, we noticed that the rest of Reims wasn’t so charming, at least architecturally. When I think of northern France, I think of 400-year old wood timbered buildings, charming brasseries, and quaint shops in little alleyways. The architecture in Reims was modern, drab, and in some cases Brutalist, a horrible style of architecture, sorry. But then one needs to remember that the Ardenne region where Reims is located was ground central for both world wars in the 20th-century. Nearly 80% of Reims was destroyed, most of it in WWI. Even the glorious cathedral was bombed. During the First World War, the roof collapsed, leaving only the façade. Today, the gargoyles look like they are puking because when the cathedral was hit, the lead roof melted from the heat of the flames. The molten metal flowed down through the gargoyles, which were designed to remove rainwater from that very roof.

The next day, feeling stronger, we made our way to Taittinger in the morning and had a great guide there who took us through the labyrinth of original chalk caves which run for kilometers under the city. These are the same caves where the people protected themselves during the wars. While hiding under the rubble of the city while the battles raged on, they developed impromptu schools and markets, held weddings, had babies, and otherwise tried to continue with their normal lives as much as they could below ground while the city was being bombed above their heads. Etched into the chalk walls were all kinds of messages in very ornate, perfectly written cursive from the late 1800s. I saw other notes to the future dating to WWI, WW2, and I even saw some from the 1970s.

All the history is amazing but want to know what’s even better? Taittinger Comte Vintage 2014 Blanc de Blancs Champagne. And, I am happy to say we were able to try plenty of this, alongside their other styles of bubbly, along with some beautifully prepared small bites designed to pair with the wines. One I loved, a small glass globe that fit in my palm filled with bright orange sweet potato purée covering small pieces of rare veal and a slice of foie gras at the bottom of the bowl. Paired with the rosé Champagne, it was a Ratatouille moment. Over the top.

That evening we went to Domaine Vranken-Pommery and this was even more over the top. Their caves are deep underground and set up like a massive chalk cave art gallery. There were lights, atmospheric music, carvings, statues, displays of moving Wellies (boots) honoring long-gone cellar workers, which was kind of freaky the way they jumped and danced as if occupied by cellar ghosts. Oh, yes, and there were bottles of wine, but they were almost an afterthought. For me, they were just as impressive. They had mountains of large format bottles—Jeroboams (4 bottles of Champagne), Salmanazars (12 bottles of Champagne)—laying asleep since 1996 waiting for their day to shine. The cellars are so large they have street signs. They have areas carved out of the chalk filled with bottles with the names of their final destination written above in street sign paint: Tokyo, Bristol, Manchester, Barcelona, Sri Lanka, etc. Pommery exports 75% of its production. After we finished the “exhibit” and climbed the long flight of 126 stairs back to the surface of the Earth, we had a three-course dinner with Champagne pairings in their restaurant, Le Réfectoire à Reims. The highlight was their Grand Cru Royal 2015, an obscenely expensive Champagne that I was happy to be able to experience but would not ever be buying unless my financial picture changes for the better.

Chalk caves under Champagne Taittinger in Reims, originally dug by the Romans.

Carvings in the chalk caves at Taittinger

Aging Champagne sur lies, the dead yeast that gives Champagne its bready-yeasty aromas

Art displays in the caves at Vranken-Pommery in Reims

More art in the 25 meter deep chalk caves at Pommery

The stairs to get out of the caves at Pommery

I was sad to miss the grower-producer part of our trip to Champagne. The intent was to contrast meeting with the very wealthy and established big houses with the newer, more authentic farmer-grower-makers, who still have mud under their nails. I think we’ll have to head back on the train soon. One thing is for sure, I love me some Champagne.

So, yesterday, we boarded the TGV and took the 90-minute trip to Strasbourg from Reims. Our cab from the Strasbourg train station to the city center could only get us so close to our apartment because we are staying right in the historic city center, which is sort of an island surrounded by river canals on all sides forming a circle. The multiple entrances, which amount to small bridges over the river at various points around the circumference, are all guarded by the police or army and you must check through. We had to open our suitcases and be searched before being allowed to proceed. They take the security of the Christmas markets seriously. I read recently that the Strasbourg Christmas markets get 2 million visitors each year during the month of December. It isn’t uncommon to see groups of soldiers carrying automatic weapons patrolling the crowds.

Once past the checkpoints and inside, though, oh, the charm. If I missed it in Reims, I was getting it in spades here in Strasbourg. The mix of German and French architecture and style, the X-timbered houses and businesses whose beams sag under 400 years of time but stand proud. We bumbled along the cobblestones with our suitcases, “taka tak tak taka tak taka,” passing amazing window displays of baked good, cheese, bottles of Cremánt (bubbles from Alsace), charming antique map shops, beautiful shoe and clothing stores, until we finally found the door to the apartment tucked away down a small side street. A nice man opened the door and welcomed us. We walked across a small open courtyard to a far corner where we faced my arch nemesis, the stair monster. Barely wide enough to fit a normal human being, we climbed at what felt like a 45° angle carrying our suitcases, made the switch back after the first level and saw the angle steepen even further leading to the second level. In my mind, I hear a Russian accent, “Thighs, strong, like bull.”

The stairs at our apartment in Strasbourg. Chien-hui calls them “Cheesecake stairs” because they look like slices stacked upon themselves.

The apartment is charming, warm, and comfortable. Although, another set of stairs waited for us inside to get to the bedroom and there is no bathroom on the that floor, which meant at my age, I made three trips down them last night. Every step can be your last.

We were finally here! We immediately went out into the streets last night and the first thing we ate, which was so Alsatian, was a smash burger. Ha. I know. But it was the best burger I’ve had since I left the US. Beefy, melty…smashed. Damn, it was good. Then we headed for the big cathedral here (see the pattern?) and found the beginnings of the Christmas market. Only a couple of small blocks from the apartment, the cathedral itself is stunning, and massive, but equally impressive is that it’s surrounded on every side by the massive market. Rows and rows of stalls selling vin chaude, the hot wine with spices that everyone drinks in the Christmas markets of Europe. Turns out it’s a cross between hot boxed sadness and 25 year-old abandoned fruitcake that’s been macerated. They also have hot apple juice if you prefer. There is so much food, most of it some kind of bread covered in melted cheese and bacon or some other form of pork. The smells. The steam. The joyous laughter. There are pretzels, and chocolate, beers, and cotton candy which they call “Santa Beard” in French. There are stalls selling jewelry, leather goods, terra cotta figurines of all different kinds of working characters called Santons that people search for and add to their collections each year. We bought a tiny nurse and a little guy asleep with a bottle of wine next to him as our first two. When you put them next to each other it looks like a scene of severe judgment, or at least concern.

As we passed near a fifty-foot tree decorated with lights there began a timed light and music show. The lights twinkled in time with the classical music and singing. All faces within a hundred meters turned skywards, staring up at the tree capturing all of us who were there. This was the moment we probably had dreamed of four years ago and from that moment I was now in the Christmas spirit. I asked Chien-hui as the dancing lights and music came to a crescendo, “Wasn’t that great?” She said, “Yeah, but my neck hurts.” I guess it was kind of long.

There are at least three huge multiple street-sized markets here and I am guessing probably several smaller ones creating the appearance that the entire city center is one huge Christmas market. The buildings are lit, or covered in ornate decorations, three dimensional bears or owls, and flowers. The windows of all the shops are decorated and overflowing with good things for sale to look at it, or eat, or to wear. Then there is the town of Colmar, which is close and we’ll be visiting their Christmas market by train soon. Did I mention we visited a Christmas market in Paris, and the one in Reims? We are going to be OD’d on Christmas markets by the time we go home. But I can’t get enough.

Christmas market in Paris (Escargot puffs with garlic and parsley)

It has occurred to me that maybe the whole reason for wanting to journey to Strasbourg was to somehow be with my Mom again. It’s been a psychological journey this entire time. All of this seasonal regalia reminds me of her, who along with her husband, John, absolutely loved Christmas. They would decorate their tiny house in San Diego every year with the most beautiful Christmas decorations. Not an inch of it was left uncovered, everywhere you looked were memories, photos, garlands, poinsettias, candles, lights, and piles of presents. It would be hard to find a seat sometimes if there was a party. As an adult, I would come to visit them and I would hear the Christmas music coming from inside as I walked up the driveway. I would knock and the door would open, long hugs, and the smells of Christmas—pine, sugar, cinnamon, pastry, wood, good whisky, her perfume—would greet me, carried by the heat of the warm, welcoming wood-fired stove they burned, and in that exact moment I would be home for Christmas.

She would be in absolute heaven here with us in Strasbourg, overwhelmed by the Christmas charm. But then, she most-likely already is.

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