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We’re back in the States now, and I realize I nearly forgot to mention the time I came this close to getting into a fist fight with a Belgian chocolatier. We were buying truffles and, having already bought a bag of ten or so, I asked her if I could buy two more. “That’s not the baby-style chocolates,” she said, with what I thought was a pretty haughty tone.
“Are you kidding me?” I thought. And, “Who are you calling a purchaser of baby-style chocolates?” Against my will, I started to tighten my left fist (or “Mjolnir,” as I like to call it) into a hammer-like ball of pride-protecting thunder.
Fortunately, my lizard brain kicked in right about then and re-processed what she’d said, which turned out to be “That’s not the way we sell chocolates.” (They sell them in 100 gram increments, or so she claimed.)
OK. More reasonable. Or at least less flat-out insulting. I relaxed Mjolnir until it was more like a hand-type thing again, and I went outside to cool off with a heavily sugared pastry treat and some mayonnaise.
Anyways, for the rest of the trip, that became the phrase we used for everything that was a little different than the way we roll state-side. For example:
Baby-style: Can I have my espresso to-go?
Euro-style: Cool your jets, you big baby. No paper cups. Take a seat. Or are you too much of a baby to have your espresso here?
Baby-style: Soda with ice, please.
Euro-style: This drink is cold enough. Who needs ice? What, are you afraid you might actually taste something, Mr. Baby Man?
Baby-style: Um, would you mind not tailgating me at 140 kmh?
Euro-style: I will tailgate you across three countries if that’s what it takes to get you to get out of my way, you gigantic American baby person.

We spent a swell morning in the town of Gouda today, where my 9-year-old daughter offered up this memorable quote:

Daddy? I forget. Oh wait — I remember. Daddy — compared to Gouda, American cheese is vomit.

And I say, if that’s all she’s learned, this trip has been a huge success.
The longer we’re in Europe, the clearer it is that Walt Disney owes all of these countries like a bajillion dollars in copyright violations. For example…

…this lovely townhall (stadhuis) built some 600 years ago (plus or minus) all but demands to have Tinkerbell fly over the top and smack it with a sparkle-pop.
In addition to great food and beautiful buildings (and some incredible stained glass from the 1500s), Gouda reminded me that one of the best parts of revisiting spots from your childhood is finding things you didn’t even know you were looking for. I was heading back to our car to pay for another hour of parking when I came across this:

As a kid, I just loved these Dutch street organs, which we routinely found at the mall in downtown Den Haag, with someone shaking a cup of change in time to the music. I haven’t seen or heard or thought of one in decades.
Hello, old chum.

When I was seven, my folks moved our family to Holland where we lived for the next five years. A big motivator for this trip has been my longstanding desire to make that return to wooded Wassenaar with my wife and kids — a little journey back to Narnia, to smell old smells and eat old treats.
Because I was a kid back in those days, almost all of my key food memories are snacks, and ever since we entered Belgium, I’ve been knocking items off my list like some revenge-driven dude in a Clint Eastwood flick.

Frites met (fries with mayonnaise): check.

Meat croquettes (“What’s in them? What’s in them? We don’t know!” laughed our waitress who confessed she never ate the stuff): check.

Cassis soda: check. (OK, seven Cassis sodas: check)

Poffertjes (micro-pancakes with powerdered sugar): check.
Pankoeken (crepes-like macro-pancakes): check. Stropwaffles (molasses ‘n waffel/cookie treat): check. No photos for either of these, unfortunately — they went too fast to capture.
Just about all that’s left is jonge (young) Gouda — you can get Gouda cheese in the States but it’s almost always smoked, with all the Gouda (pronounced with a Yiddish-esque “chhhh”-ouda)-ness blown out. Jonge Gouda’s a whole different taste sensation. If heaven was made of cheese, it would be thin-sliced jonge Gouda.
Jonge Gouda, I’m coming for ya….
Addendum….

Jonge Gouda: check.
Addendum to addendum…

A slower-moving stropwaffle.

Likewise, this pankoeken with kiwi was eaten in 14 seconds rather than the usual 10, giving us just enough time to snap a quick pic.

Lovely afternoon on Tuesday. The highlight was a 320-step climb up that 13th Century Brugge belfry. Here’s what the tower looks like by day:

We adults were quite winded. Our 6- and 9-year olds were pretty much unaffected by gravity. They practically floated to the top. On the way down, I tried to convince my youngest that we were actually heading up to the top now and nearly there, nearly there. He seemed to almost buy it. Or at least, to buy that I bought it. Below a certain weight, gravity appears to be substantially a state of mind.
The square looked lovely from about halfway up:

The only thing marring the view was the presence of my nemesis, the Portsmouth City Youth Band Brass Ensemble. If you look closely, you’ll spot them in the bandstand. Why do they think it’s so funny to follow me around the world, performing “Theme from Goldfinger” wherever I go?
Portsmouth City Youth Band Brass Ensemble: Total. Jerks.
In other news, all the legends are true. The people of Brugge really are paved with gold:

We’ve run into lots of crazy laws here in Europe. For example, did you know it’s a crime to transport livestock in a Volkswagen Passat?
This is one law I agree with, however:

The locals here in Brugge tell me it means “Please don’t wear a derby hat and shovel coal onto my lawn.” Who can argue with that?

Most of today was spent racing from Colmar to Brugge — our version of the Gumball Rally (I like to think I was part of Cobra Team).
In France, every cute little village was noted with a sign by the road featuring a lovely drawing of that town’s gem — a church or a castle or the town square. While we didn’t actually see any of these cute little towns in person, we did get to see several excellent drawings of cute little towns zip by at 130 kmh.
We got to Brugge right around dinner time, with the rain suddenly starting to fall in thick, gloopy drops. Our hotel’s in the old town and, as it happens, it’s on one of those fifth dimensional side streets that you can only find by driving in reverse. After a few loops around Old Brugge in the rain playing my new favorite game (“Sidewalk or Road?”) we came in for a safe landing and lugged our luggage upstairs.
A quick dash through the downpour took us to Brugge’s spectacular market square and a great meal of mussels (a regional specialty) and shrimp croquettes here:

This building was named back in 1303.
After dinner, we didn’t particularly mind getting soaked on the way home with views like these:

The belfort dates back to the 1200s and has 47 bells, which were a’ chimin’.

A dry view of a wet town. (As an aside, my mom tells me that she went to dinner on this row years back. After they’d spent a while puzzling through where to eat, they learned that all these restaurants serve from the same kitchen.)

As I mentioned a little earlier today, we’ve driven from Switzerland and the snow to sweltering France. Crossing over (with less than a wave from the border guards) we were struck by how much the countryside in this part of France looks like good ole Northern California.
For the last two nights we’ve been staying in Colmar — a lovely Alsacean city ribboned with canals. Here’s an entirely color-inaccurate shot of the “Little Venice” part of town:

Colmar!
As also mentioned earlier today, Colmar is the proud birthplace of Bartholdi, the creator of the Statue of Liberty. Three years ago, they produced a replica that happens to be a short stroll from our hotel.

Mini-Lady Liberty directing traffic.
After a day of canal rides, street wandering, and excellent, heart-imploding food (everyone tried the escargot, including the kids — if you haven’t had ’em, they’re basically a butter/garlic delivery system, a.k.a.: yum) we escaped the brutal heat by checking out Colmar’s Museum of Toys.
I’d always heard that celebrities were much more accommodating when you run into them abroad, and that was exactly what we found with Harrison Ford, who’s so incredibly nice, he’s apparently agreed to carry a name card with him at all times.

Harrison Ford: nice guy.
It was a fantastic museum, and I’m not just talking about the air conditioning, although let me just say: Wow. That was some well-conditioned air.
A few other highlights….
This monkey broke our heart:

Sad monkey.
These fellows didn’t actually know how to play their instruments, but they more than made up for it with attitude:

Rock and roll animals.
And I’m pretty sure I’ll be having nightmares about this guy for the rest of my life:

What is this creature and why does it haunt my dreams?

Trips like these afford you a lot of time to stop and think about things. I’ve been using that time to develop a new musical theory. It’s a little hard to put across in “coherent sentences,” but it boils down to the idea that all truly great songs end in “Hey!” For example: “The Dreidel Song.” Also, some versions of “The Birthday Song.”
This new idea of mine may be partly influenced by the fact that I’ve been spending a lot of time with kids on this trip. Or mebbe it’s something about the 90+ degree clime we’re experiencing here in beautiful Colmar, France (birthplace of Frédéric August Bartholdi, creator of the Statue of Liberty). Or maybe, just maybe, I’m right.
Speaking of things I may well be right about: I saw a sign in Switzerland that I’m pretty sure said “please don’t dress up like a dog and poop on my lawn.”

Having spent a week or so near moutains, on moutains, and occasionally in mountains, I’ve reached the conclusion that mountains are a good thing. Especially the high mountains — the ones with glaciers and whatnot. In case you haven’t seen that sort of mountain for a while, here’s what one looks like:

Mountains.
There’s lots to like about mountains:

• They put things in perspective (particularly size-wise).
• They break up the sky into interesting shapes.
• They’re fantastic places for planting a flag and/or having a bowl of soup.

For all these reasons, I’ve decided that my hometown back in the SF Bay Area really ought to get a high moutain. Preferably by the time I get back.
At first I thought we should start a petition to have one made out of landfill. But now I’m thinking, hey, the Swiss have a lot of mountains (seriously — I stopped counting at forty!). They probably have more than they need, if we’re really honest about it. Can’t they spare one?
So what say you, good Swiss-folks? Brother, can you spare an Alp?

A bright smiling extremely helpful East German woman — the designated English speaker at our local pizza shop — explains that she comes to Switzerland every summer because the East German economy is compeletely thrashed. She tells us, still smiling, that the last year or two it’s been worse there than it was during communist times. I’m rooting for her.
Elsewhere, an angry man with a silly mustache pulls his car up besides us as we’re parking. He barks at me in high-speed German. I say “Hunh?” Then he jumps back into his car, tears around the corner, parks above us, and throw down some more unkind compound words we can’t understand. Odds are he’s Swiss. Still, I can’t tell if he wants me to move my car or give him Poland.