As we crossed the border into Germany this morning, I noticed an exit ramp to the right marked 'Ausfahrt'. A little ways further, I noticed another, and then another.

My! What a lot of exits to get to the city of 'Ausfahrt'!
I started to envision a bustling metropolis to rival Paris.

It was, in fact, an embarrassingly long time before I finally figured out my mistake and quietly asked JP : 'Umm...What does 'ausfahrt' mean'?"
By all rights, I should have added in a resigned and chastened voice "It's not a city, is it?', but it was all just too humiliating.

As you, Clever Reader, probably guessed immediately, 'ausfahrt' is a German word that translates as 'drive out'.
In short: exit.

And yes, I am a non German-speaking complete doofus.
Thank you for asking.

Luckily, I have the world's nicest cousins here. Not ony can they get by in German, they live on a huge, mega-cool US military base. No German required!
In fact, we spent today completely immersed in American culture. We had lunch at Taco Bell, which Valentine loved. It's her favorite restaurant, ever. And we had a shopping spree at the BX ,which everyone loved. Think Pop Tarts and Dr.Pepper. I bought WAY too much and have no real clue how I'm going to stuff all the gorceries plus our baggage back into the car for the drive back to France. Maybe if we send the kids home by bus...

The only slight imperfection in an otherwise perfect day was the messed-up, hours long dinner at an on-base, non-Taco Bell restaurant. We waited ages to get a table and when we finally did, our waitress turned out to be a sort of odd, slightly manic young person. She wielded a giant pepper mill and shared her name with us by writing it with no less than three crayons, all across the top of our table. Yet despite her mad pepper grinding skillz and constant, desperately convivial chatter, she couldn't manage to get the order straight or convince the kitchen to give us our tepid food in less than an hour.
It wasn't all the waitresses fault, of course. I suspected strange goings-ons in the kitchen that could probably be remedied by a nice long visit from Gordon Ramsay.

Tomorrow, we venture off -base and search for local color. We couldn't have better or kinder guides. They've already proposed such delights as a visit to a castle and attending a local festival, complete with beer and fireworks. It all sounds great and should be lots of fun.

Last weekend, JP and I went off on our own - not a single child in tow - just the two of us! We went cross country skiing and then ate at a restaurant. We haven't been alone in a restaurant for a very, very long time. I'm talking years, here.
We have basically subscribed to the "Why have kids if you don't want to be around them?" school of child-rearing, which I think is a good, good thing. But an occasional break is nice, especially now that the "babies" are 11 years old and eldest will be able to drive in three months...
It was a gorgeous day and the skiing was great. Not that I'm very good at it. I prefer the flat bits and even the least incline makes me edgy. (I am SO not ever going to go downhill skiing. It's a shame, but I just don't have it in me any more.)

Afterwards, we drove up the valley looking for a likely restaurant. We found this one, which was SO unbearably charming that I had to take pictures.


As the sign above indicates
1. We've had a LOT of snow this year
and
2. The restaurant specialises in Savoyard dishes. There are many permutations, but all Haute Savoie cooking boils (ha!) down to this:
a. cheese and potatoes
b. cheese and potatoes with lardons (thick chunks of bacon)
c. cheese and bread
As we had only skied for an hour and not all day, we didn't feel we required a gargantuan caloric load-up, so despite the gorgeousness of the place, as can be further attested to here:

we moved on down the valley, closer to home.

We drove past a little café by the side of the road that we had seen a thousand times. We'd always thought it was out of business, as there never seemed to be any signs of activity. But today, instead of being blocked by parked cars, the front door was actually accesible. And besides tables, chairs and parasols, there was even a life-sized plastic chef de cuisine holding up a chalkboard menu! Who could resist that?

We walked in and and were met by many promising signs that this would be a good place to eat and hang out.

1. We were immediately greeted by a very chubby and cheerful man that was, of course, the owner of the place. It immediately was clear that he and his wife run the place completely on their own.

2. There were lots of clients, all locals. Not a tourist in sight.

3. There was an old gentleman there eating his lunch, feeding his little white dog with scraps under the table. Any time you see locals in a café with their dogs, you know it's a good place to be. That's the sign that it's THE place to be- everyone's home away from home.

It wasn't fancy, by any means. In fact, it was the epitome of a small café/bar/restaurant in a tiny village. The tables were linoleum with paper place mats. The decor consisted of posters for a local accordeonist, a hefty gentleman with an impressive walrus-type mustache and a beret. You could buy his cds at the bar for 11 Euros each.

In fact, it was the French version of small-town diner in the middle of the United States about 50 years ago.

There had been two specials of the day, but the owner/cook told us that he was out of mussels and only had steak left. I was disappointed, not being a big meat fan. So, he very kindly had a look in the kitchen and decided that there were actually enough mussels left for a "small portion", which turned out to be fine for me.

There was a pâté en croute as a starter. Then the main dishes, simple and served with a big basket of tasty fries to share. And dessert was a smashing coconut raspberry torte. It was all very simple and amazingly good.

After we were served, the owner came back out of the kitchen and sat down at a table to hold court. He told stories and jokes and kept quite a good ambiance going. He even offered us free glasses of his homemade plum eau de vie (fruit brandy). It was very strong and the glasses were too full. I could only manage one sip, so JP had to drink his and then most of mine. It wouldn't have been good manners to leave any.

It reminded me a bit of that time in Peru when my professor had to eat my plate of goat entrails as well as his own plateful, because I couldn't manage it and we couldn't insult our hosts...

I went to the dentist on Friday. It was pretty much a repeat of what went on last year at about this time. I went hoping for a quick fix. But, as usual, the fix turned out to be the slow and painful kind. My " small lost filling" was actually a huge hole with an exposed nerve at the bottom....same old, same old. It was pretty much a replay of what I went through about a year ago, when I begain this blog. Have a look at the entry for March 30, 2006.

So, I’m back and only lightly medicated. Not that I have lots to blog about. I wasn’t feeling up to much over the weekend. We went out to lunch on Sunday. NOT to Happy Donald Hamburger House, but rather to the girls’ favourite: Le Restaurant du Chine. It’s air-conditioned and boasts a completely over-the-top Chinese restaurant décor complete with lanterns, plastic bonsai trees that light up, bead curtains and red everywhere.
How was the food? Surprisingly good! And it was nice not having to listen to my nine-year old threaten to throw herself under the wheels of a passing Land Cruiser.

Near our house is a small outdoor restaurant called “L’Aval”. Like many of its kind, it’s just a small stand about as big as the average bathroom in the USA. The actual cooking is done outdoors. The tables and chairs are plastic lawn furniture from Ghana. In less fancy establishments, the furnishings are made out of sticks tied together with goat hide. . They sit right at the edge of the street, so you don’t miss out on any of those exhaust fumes. What really sets L’Aval apart, though, is the décor.
Right next to the tables, there is an old white toilet bowl. I about caused an accident the first time I noticed it. I should have kept my eyes on the road, but I was mesmerized. “Is it being used as an ashtray? Spitoon? Rubbish bin? Planter?? Yes! I think I definitely see stems of something poking out of the top…..Ooops! About hit that chicken. Better quit gawking.”
Further investigation under less hazardous circumstances (I walked by) showed that while plants are indeed growing in the toilet bowl, they are just weeds. But let's be honest, would sticking begonias in it really improve it that much?

The next time I have to coerce Alexa into good behaviour, I’ll threaten her with a dinner of bat stew at L’Aval, at a table right next to the weed-filled toilet.