Autobahn Part 1: Deutsche Ville?

Getting France and Germany to agree on anything is no mean feat. The fact that one nation is guided by a dour, PhD-toting, Russian-speaking, quantum physicist whilst the other follows a mercurial charmer whose greatest claim to fame is a supermodel on his arm says it all really. Which probably explains why Strasbourg, seat of the European Parliament, has always had something of an identity crisis. In a good way. Straddling the German-French border, Strasbourg is the kind of place where a hearty schnitzel goes down nicely with a fine Bordeaux red.

Nice digs. Since the building in this town count their age in centuries, finding a way to squeeze modern comforts into an ancient attic nook takes a few nifty folds of the space-time continuum. That's where that quantum PhD comes in handy. And this comfy bed is where the supermodel comes in handy. See, that's what I mean when I say fusion at its best.

Time for a bit of exploration. Which is easy seeing as the city fits nicely onto a little island. The hard bit is deciding whether breakfast is going to come from the boulangerie or the bäckerei.

With magnificent early spring weather like this, why bother bailing out those pesky southern neighbors and their annoyingly nice beaches.

Towering 142m (the church that is, not the individual who is lucky to make 1.42m in a good pair of heels), the Strasbourg Cathedral was actually the tallest building in the world for over 200 years. Even today, it still ranks as the 6th tallest church in the world.

Magnifique!

Prachtvollen!

And now that the novelty of Google Translate has worn off, back to the rollicking color commentary for which this blog is famed. In a Charlie Sheen kind of way. Judging by the prevailing architecture, this could be the German part of town. The best way to find out is to take a seat in a cafe and see if the menu takes 40 minutes or 40 seconds to arrive.

Inside the cathedral is as impressive as the outside. Given Rock's lack of fine ISO skills, you'll have to take it on faith. Hey, it's a cathedral after all.

This snazzy astronomical clock comes pre-loaded with all the hottest apps. Solar eclipses? There's an app for that. Planetary orbits? There's an app for that. Procession of Christ and 12 Apostles on the dot at 12.30pm every day? Darn right, there's an app for that.

Notwithstanding the advanced horology on display, this is a church after all and it's always worth remembering who winds the big clock.

Probably not the place for Rock to revisit his stalled career as an organist.

It's hard to project a worldly air when everyone and their dog speaks a minimum of three languages.

Easter in Europe is a big deal, and not in a Walmart-ish "let's cover a whole aisle with garish cardboard cutouts and blocks of congealed high fructose corn syrup" kind of way. Here every display is lovingly crafted with real eggs and fresh flowers.

Spring is in the air, and apple strudel is in the stomach. Quite an agreeable combination.

Euro chic! Hang on, better check to make sure this is the French side of town first.

Georges Bruck does good duck.

They call this part of town Petite France. Mei used to fit right in, before she downed that pork knuckle with sauerkraut.

One of the many bridges that connects the island of the old town with the mainland of the almost as old town.

Things seem to move slower in Europe. Must have something to do with the fact they put a patisserie on every corner, and in every patisserie they load the window up with a must-stop-and-try selection of goodies.

If you look very carefully, you can see someone up there below the flagpole with a can of blue paint, just in case those CDS spreads widen a little further and it comes time to cast a few of the more tarnished gold stars loose.

There's that useless mono-lingual dude again. Luckily for him, European education policy factors Anglo-Saxon stupidity into the curriculum and ensures the entire populace speaks flawless English.

French-style pizza looks suspiciously like Italian-style pizza. Fortunately, it looks nothing like Pizza Hut-style pizza.

Turn right for bratwurst, left for coq au vin. Go straight ahead and then circle the block again if you're like Rock and can't decide.

The quaint canals weave their way between the timber-clad houses, a scene that has been unchanged for centuries. Much like this blog really.



It never seems to matter what time of day it is, the cafes are always buzzing. This is, after all, the home of the University of Strasbourg, the biggest in all of France. Doesn't matter which of your many languages you choose, skipping lectures on a fine spring day translates pretty easily into any of them.

In a town like this, it's easy to forget which century you're in. Until someone parks a garish pink Hello Kitty Mobile right smack bang in the middle of the picturesque cobblestone street. Good one.

As the sun sets, the whole city flocks to the outdoor eateries that line every street. Following the crowd never looked so good.


Bicycles are the primary mode of transport in a city that wasn't really designed with the latest Mercedes e-class in mind.


A rustic tartine shop is the perfect place to get a taste of the region. It's also the perfect place for Rock to practice his German: ein Coka-Cola, danke. And his French: deux Coka-Cola, merci. And his English: let's just make it three dude.

The mighty cathedral is even more spectacular at night. Thank goodness no one could agree whether this is a German part of France, or a French part of Germany; hard to blow it up if you think it might be on your side of the trenches.

The locals get ready for a big night on the town.

Parlez vous Deutsche?

Standards in Europe are a little more, shall we say, lofty than those back home. Here two stars gets you an immaculate loft room complete with LCD tv and a city views, back there it gets you a decrepit Motel 6 tucked between I-80 and a parking lot.

Next stop, the lake towns of Meersburg and Lindau, assuming Rock is man enough to handle a stick shift at 160 km/h. And that's just the slow lane...

Prelude and Fugue in D(eutsche) Minor

At the peak of the bull market, the big debate was whether New York or London was the center of the financial world. That heady era may be long gone - these days an oyster card and tube map replace the limo and chauffeur - but there is still a palpable rivalry between the two great bastions of global finance. Round one goes to the City; the hotels are a cut above the typical Manhattan shoebox.

Olde World charm meets Newe World curves. The Andaz on Liverpool Street blends modern architecture with even more modern prices. Thank goodness the pound isn't what it once was.

Liverpool Street Station on a sunny spring day. Say what? Sunny? Two visits to London in the space of two months, and sunny both times? That's like the The News of the World leaving Rooney alone for two days in a row.

Those Brits sure do tell it like it is.

Don the robes and get ready to read for Latin. Welcome to Oxford, a town that's been running exams longer than half the world's countries have running, period. Or full stop.

Your Empire may have crumbled, those pesky colonies may be better at every sport you ever invented, and those ruffians across the Atlantic may have chucked your tea in a harbor and removed all the superfluous letters from your language, but by golly if anyone tries to invade your scone shoppe you'll be ready in your mighty tower!

Not your typical student hangout.

Christ Church, Oxford. To study here you need at least a Prince in your lineage, although if you're feeling shaky about your A-levels having a King on file is probably a good idea.

Apparently this dinning hall doubles as Hogwarts in its spare time. Not that the students here would stoop to such low brow entertainment. A lively debate on the early-form iambic pentameter in Canterbury Tales or an after-class refresher on campanology will suffice, thank you very much.

God Save the Queen! Because these elegantly attired, but patently nonthreatening, guards in bowler hats certainly won't be up to the task.

Funny how it's always empty until the week before finals.

So this is why Latin is required, so you can read the hymn book. And here I was thinking it was so Carl Linnaeus wouldn't be completely replaced by wikipedia.

In the U.S. you can buy sweatshirts with your alma mater's logo; here memorabilia is a little more refined than "Go Irish, Beat Trojans". Try "Go Moses, Beat Pharaoh" instead.

Even the student dorms hearken from a more civilized age. Like when Beer Pong was Mead Pong.

The preferred mode of transport by students the world over. Complete with chain guard to prevent damage to one's robes on the way to supper.

When this old chap started teaching physics, the big bang was something that happened to the Oxford crew if they were unlucky enough to lose to Cambridge in The Boat Race.

Apparently this dude pioneered the study of the brain. Unfortunately for him, the real path to fame involves wandering into the path of a falling apple instead.

This is probably the only botanic gardens in the world where the majority of the population can read the labels on all the plants.

Are you serious? That's the Department of Statistics?! I can tell you, at the 95 percent confidence level, that this is the poshest stats department in all the world.

This is indeed a rare sight - a physics lab that doesn't consist of a drab concrete building whose decay parameter is matched only by that of the meagre research budget... and Iodine-123.

And it's Drummond-Heathcote-Willoughby coming in now to bowl from the College End... and taking his strike now is Ernle-Plunkett, still fidgeting nervously on a duck. And oh my, he's clean bowled him, right between middle stump! Dear oh dear he's made a right meal of that, has young Ernle-Plunkett. Out for a duck yet again, I dare say this young batsman has all the makings of a fine future captain of England.

Spring time means exam time. You'd think in almost a century of higher learning, the Oxford student body would have come up with a better technique than the venerable all-nighter.

Just to prove the town is more than stuffy academic corridors, Jamie Oliver has brought his... uhm... colorful language to town. Oh, and he brought his restaurant too.

Turns out majors in mid-12th century Romanesque art aren't necessarily the hot ticket they once were. Welcome to the real world folks.

Speaking of business, the Andaz makes a refreshing change from the Tallahassee Marriott Courtyard. At least the internet here doesn't require a 28.8k modem to connect. Of course, it does cost 28 pounds, so there's always a tradeoff.

Next stop, the Continent. It's nice to board a form of transportation that (a) doesn't require an obligatory scrotal exam, (b) doesn't require spending longer on the tarmac than in the air, and (c) actually has space for all the carry on luggage.

And just like that, one quick tunnel later, it's the City of Lights. The Hotel Balzac on the Champs-Élysées makes a fine launchpad. Why is that the Palace of King Louis Vuitton I out the window?

Ah, Paris.

Even the subway signs are works of art. In New York they outsource the artwork to the Astoria graffiti artists.

The national pastime in France is sitting in cafes and watching the world go by. Or in this case, watching another American hurry by like he and his blackberry are the world.

Spring in a city that has seen so many it's lost count.

At least here you don't have to worry about some maniacal yellow cab turning your fluffy baguette into fresh pita.

A bridge fit for a king. Or a president, assuming you have a supermodel wife on your arm.

So this is where it all started. This guy could get a Happy Meal a Michelin Star. Seriously, 26 stars and counting, how many does one man need?

Ah, Paris. Did I say that already?

In Paris you don't get a room, you get an embankment.

Sunset at Notre Dame. Some sights never get old, just ask Monet.

Where's my impressionist filter when I need it?


Who let this impatient American in? Just because Starbucks can crank out a latte in 24 seconds doesn't mean you should.

Sunset over the Seine. It doesn't get any better than this. Well, until you navigate to pretty much any other blog that is.

Night on the Champs. At least at night you can't read the price tags.

Boo, hiss! These guys are about as French as a McDonald's french fry.

They don't call her La Ville-Lumière for nothing. Just like they don't call her Mean Mei for nothing.

Just in case you need a car to go with that new Louis Vuitton.

Nice digs. Too bad the wake up call is scheduled for 6am. Where's my 35 hour work week?

Next stop on the whirlwind tour of non-bankrupt European nations, Frankfurt, the financial capital of Europe.

Frankfurt may be all about high finance, but what little remains of the old city does have some charm. What little remains of this blog post, however, does not.

Not a bad place to unwind when the market is going against you. Which let's face it, is pretty much every day if you have Rock's stockpicking talent.

Just to remind you that building an exotic financial model is not the same as making something useful to put in a boat and ship to your customers. But gosh darn it, it sure is more fun.

Forget the Apple shop folks, the real action is at the Maggi store. Start camping out now for the eagerly anticipated midnight release of Cream of Mushroom 2.

A rare sight in Europe. A building that is less that 300 years old.

The old and the new. Unlike Paris, the emphasis here seems to be on the new.

How convenient, they were kind enough to place the opera house right at the foot of UBS. Now private banking clients can go straight from their vaults to their private balconies just in time for the opening act.

One bank to rule them all.

The mighty Debit and Credit towers. This is about the only place in Europe the two are actually equal.

The after work crowd spills out onto the streets of Mainhattan after another tough day of bailing out their prolifigate neighbors.

That's it folks. Next stop, the real holiday.