Mapping the path

Around the Rhine

Day 5: Strasbourg 

We awoke docked in the historic city of Strasbourg. I pulled back the curtains in our cabin and peered through the morning fog to take in the sight of… shipping containers. Maersk, Kline, NYK Logistics. For the next two days, on our last stop on the Rhine, we would be docked across from a row of shipping containers.

In addition to being the long-time capital of Alsace, and now the capital of Grand Est (a region created in 2016 encompassing Alsace, Lorraine, and Champagne-Ardenne), plus the official seat of the European Parliament, Strasbourg boasts the second-largest port on the Rhine and the fourth largest river port in France. The city’s many canals and waterways, and its role as a nexus of French and German culture, have helped make Strasbourg an important manufacturing and transportation hub. And so, a warning: May contain shipping containers.

After breakfast, we boarded a bus and took a circuitous route to the city center, first passing Parc de l’Orangerie, a large city park dating from the 17th century. Along with its pleasant tree-lined paths, a tiny zoo, and lakes big enough for boating, the park is also the home of a breeding program for storks, a symbol of Alsace. Storks traditionally spend their summers in the region, then travel to Africa for the winter. The stork population became threatened in the 1970s, and in 1983 France undertook a re-population program that has returned the birds to the trees, chimneys, and rooftops of Strasbourg and other Alsatian towns. The bus took us past a row of clipped trees opposite the park, each topped with a large stork nest. Behind them, on the roof of a large, stately home, I could see a stork standing in its nest — snow white, wings dipped in black.

We continued on to the European Parliament building. Strasbourg is one of four capitals of the European Union (EU), along with Brussels, Frankfurt, and Luxembourg. Sessions of the European Parliament — the legislative branch of the EU — are held in the modern, glass-and-steel building. The site is also home to the Council of Europe, a 47-member organization founded in 1949 to enforce international agreements related to human rights, democracy, and the rule of law.

Next we passed Palais du Rhine, built after Germany’s victory in the Franco-Prussian War as the official residence for the Kaiser. The building is huge and imposing, projecting dominance through its neo-Renaissance architecture — and not just dominance but a sense of permanence, a mountainous pile of cement and stone rooted forever on this ground. The grand circular garden that fronts the palace was once called Kaiserplatz, but with the shifting fortunes of Alsace is known today as Place de la République. C’est la vie in Alsace.

After another 15 minutes winding through the city, we arrived at the southwestern entrance to Grande Île (“Big Island”), Strasbourg’s city center. Surrounded by the Ill River and an offshoot canal, the island was classified a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1988 — the first time an entire city center had been given that honor.

Directly in front of us were the Ponts Couverts (“Covered Bridges”), a collection of three bridges and four towers built in 1250 to provide defense for the western approach to the city. The roofs of the bridges, which gave defending soldiers some additional protection, were removed in 1784. By then, the towers had been made somewhat obsolete by the Barrage Vauban, to our left, a dam designed by celebrated French military engineering genius Sébastien Le Prestre de Vauban, whose fortifications remain all over France. Built in 1690, the dam’s primary purpose was to enable flooding of the land south of the city in the event of an attack. Visitors today can walk through interior of the dam and see copies of sculpture from Strasbourg Cathedral and neighboring Palais Rohan.

We stepped across the bridges and through a carpet of vibrant autumn leaves into the Petite France district. This charming collection of half-timbered houses and narrow, cobblestone streets was once a working-class neighborhood of millers, fishermen, and tanners: Many of the buildings here have open lofts that were used to dry hides.

Petite France was also the location of a famous hospice for the syphilitic, established on the island in the 15th century. When Charles VIII of France successfully invaded Naples in 1495, the wanton celebrations of his troops resulted in a sudden and pervasive outbreak of syphilis. Too ill to fight, many soldiers were brought to the hospice in Strasbourg, and the epidemic spread quickly through central Europe and Great Britain. In fact, the name of the Petite France district itself is derived from the hospice because at the time, syphilis was known as the "French disease.”

A few minutes after our tour guide relayed this bit of trivia, a ruddy man from the group approached her excitedly, as if a moment he had been waiting for had finally arrived. This was his time to appropriately discuss a topic no one he had ever met had wanted to discuss. Friends, co-workers, perhaps his wife had all heard it and had all turned away. He stepped forward and grinned as he gained her attention. “I want to talk to you about syphilis.”

“Oh! OK!” the guide replied with stiff cheer. I turned quickly away. Only one of us was getting paid to listen to a litany of, well, burning questions about syphilis.

But enough history. Our group had been off the bus for 20 whole minutes and had entered zero shops! This oversight soon would be rectified.

Heading in the direction of Strasbourg Cathedral, we stopped in shops with sweaters, souvenirs, and decorative arts. We spent time in an antique store that was unlike any other I had visited, where items on display didn’t feel like spare parts long neglected in a garage but treasured artifacts, carefully curated by a keen-eyed proprietor.

We passed several shops stuffed with local delicacies in novelty sizes: giant wheels of nougat, enormous rounds of cheese, and large loaves of gingerbread. And we saw, pressed to the windows of several bakeries, the famous gugelhupf, a type of bundt cake that is often mixed with raisins, almonds, or even cherry brandy. The cake (which, incredibly, also goes by the names kugelhupf, guglhupf, gugelhopf, kouglof, kougelhof, and kougelhopf) has been a fixture of special occasions throughout central Europe for centuries.

Next we walked by St. Thomas’ church, a large, hall-style church (in which the nave and aisles are roughly the same height) built between 1196 and 1521. Ironically, just a few years after that 325-year investment by the Catholic Church, St. Thomas’ was converted to a Protestant church, and is now the main Protestant church in the city. Strasbourg Cathedral, mirroring the political and cultural struggles between France and Germany, was converted to a Protestant church during the Reformation, then was handed back to the Catholics when France regained the city in 1681.

We caught a quick glimpse of the mighty cathedral and its octagonal north tower. (A south tower was planned but never built, perhaps due to worries over whether the land could support the additional weight.) But we decided to look for lunch before stepping inside.

I had scouted three well-rated Alsatian restaurants in the area around the cathedral, and we settled on a homey place called Winstub le Clou. The atmosphere in the restaurant was Old World Grandma’s House in the Woods. Framed drawings of traditional Alsatian scenes decorated the wood-paneled walls, along with pots and pans, tea cups, and dishes decorated with ducks and roosters.

I ordered the bratwurst and sauerkraut, the German staple that came exactly as advertised — a simple but satisfying plate. Marianne had the pot-au-feu, a French beef stew and one of the true classic dishes of France. But we declared our friend Karen’s pork tenderloin in a mustard sauce with buttery roasted potatoes the winner at the table. Here again, in the Alsatian cuisine of Winstub le Clou, German and French cultures blended seamlessly.

Fueled for the afternoon, we headed back to Strasbourg Cathedral, a high Gothic masterpiece (with significant chunks of earlier Romanesque architecture) built in stages between 1176 and 1439. At 466 feet, It is was the world’s tallest building between 1647 and 1874, and remains the sixth largest church in the world. It can be seen as far off as the Vosges Mountains, which supply the sandstone that gives the cathedral its pinkish hue in daylight.

It is a proper Gothic masterpiece, in both architectural style and existential mood. This building of such imposing size is adorned with delicately thin columns, florid decoration, a blossom of stained glass, and hundreds of figures tucked into the tympanum over each doorway. It is the beautiful work of a madman left with a drawing pad and far too much time, doodling ever-smaller figures and features into the remaining open spaces, adding embellishments upon embellishments, but with a mathematical care that brings symmetry and harmony to overwhelming complexity.

Inside, the cathedral seems even more immense. Huge tapestries along the nave block the open space and give the room a feeling of incredible height. A hefty suspended pipe organ dating to 1385 looms above as you enter. The few particles of light that filter into the gigantic hall do so through treasures in stained glass. The Emperor Windows, a collection of five windows made in the 12th and 13th centuries, depict 19 emperors of the Holy Roman Empire in stately robes, graced with colorful halos. During World War II, these masterpieces and other stained glass in the church were removed and stored 85 miles away in a salt mine near Heilbronn, Germany. After the war, the U.S. military outfit celebrated in the 2014 film The Monuments Men returned them to the cathedral.

One of the cathedral’s biggest attractions is its 60-foot Astronomical Clock, one of the largest in the world. Unfortunately, while we were in Strasbourg, the south transept of the church was under renovation, and we were unable to see this marvel of math and engineering. The clock was built between 1838-1843 and is actually the third such clock to be housed in the cathedral. It indicates the time of day, solar time, day of the week, month, year, current sign of the zodiac, phase of the moon, equinoxes, leap years, and the position of several planets.

At 12:30 p.m. each day, the clock is set into motion. One angel near the main clock rings a chime, while the other turns over an hourglass. High above, figures representing the various stages of life pass by Death as he tolls his bell. One level above that, the Apostles pass in front of Christ.

Our group did a bit more shopping, then made our way over to a restaurant called Le Gruber, where there was an arranged wine tasting held in the basement dining room. The woman leading the tasting was fun. She pinched her English words with great energy through a heavy accent, substituting “W” for “R” like Elmer Fudd. We tried the Alsatian standards — Riesling, Gewürztraminer, Pinot Gris, and the one “wed wine,” Pinot Noir — paired with cheeses, sausages, and the ever-present gugelhupf.

The skies had begun to darken when we emerged from Le Gruber. With a little more time to spare before we had to get back to the ship, we strolled down Rue des Grandes Arcades, a wide boulevard brightly lit with fashionable shops. While Marianne considered the offerings in a clothing store, I stood outside facing Place Kléber, a large square with a Christmas market still under construction.

A few weeks after this simple scene, a 29-year-old Strasbourg native of Algerian ancestry named Chérif Chekatt opened fire on the market with a revolver, killing five and wounding 11 others. Chekatt, who had a long history of criminal activity, was known to French police as a “gangster-jihadist” — radicalized in French prisons — and had recently pledged allegiance to the Islamic State. After fleeing the scene in a taxi, he was killed in a shootout with French police following a manhunt involving 700 officers.

Such a short shift in time — from the mundanity of a husband waiting idly for his wife outside of a shop, staring into a darkened market square under construction for Christmas, to a festival of lights and cheer turned to madness and terror and death in a matter of moments.

We circled the block and returned back to the cathedral as fog began to creep back across the city, obscuring the top of the tower as it settled in. The lights of the cathedral reflected off the moist air and cast shadows in all directions across thousands of little elements on the church façade. Maximum Gothic.

With the remaining tour group, we walked south off the island, through little pedestrian streets and across the Ill River, the shop windows like beacons of warmth on a brisk evening.

Back at the ship, we got our itinerary for the next day in Baden-Baden, the first detour of the river cruise. We then sat down to what was called an Epicurean Dinner, featuring courses paired with California red wines brought by Janet. She described the wines to our fellow passengers as dinner progressed.

In the company of the actual winemaker, our table may have had access to more than the allocated number of bottles. We stayed late — until about 10 p.m. — caught up in engaged conversation. All other passengers had left the dining room when I noticed the lights had been turned very bright, the staff were stacking things with great purpose and volume, and there was now a vacuum roaring away close by. We took these not-so-subtle hints and headed for our rooms.

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