Thanksgiving in France and Switzerland

My Thanksgiving dinner last year was a burnt panini in some crappy truck stop in the middle of nowhere in eastern France.

But I’m not complaining. But really, how hard is it to mess up a panini, much less burn them for 20-odd people?

The reason I was in the middle of nowhere in France was because I was on an hours-long bus ride to Switzerland – where I had one of the best “Thanksgiving” dinners of my life.

I’d never been to Switzerland before, and I would like to say my arrival involved snow-capped mountains, friendly border police and clanging cowbells, but it was a nondescript little town where we made our crossing at 2:30 in the morning.

We checked into Balmer’s Hostel, one of the classic student haunts and backpackers’ hangouts in Interlaken. I was able to comprehend that the curtains reminded me of tablecloths at an Italian restaurant before I passed out on my bed in a room with five of my friends.

The next morning – the day after Thanksgiving – I awoke to one of those fabled perfect Alpine days.

I looked up to the three towering mountains above Interlaken: the Eiger, the Monch and the Jungfrau (Europe’s tallest mountain).

My roommate from Paris and a few of my friends took a bike ride to Thunsee, one of the two “Laken” (lakes) we were “Inter” (between). Along the way we passed glacier water and more majestic scenery.

We later jumped off a cliff without parachutes or bungee cords and were back in Interlaken in time to eat a feast at Balmer’s.

I’ll explain how I hurled myself off an Alpine cliff without dying at some later date.

Walking back into Balmer’s fresh off the adrenaline rush of a four-second freefall arrested by a single rope, my friends and I joined the rest of the students with whome we were studying in Paris and got table assignments.

It’s a tradition at Balmer’s that a Thanksgiving meal is served every year, and as much as I love other cultures’ foods, after two months in France, I was ready for some traditional American food.

And did Balmer’s ever deliver.

We were served heaping portions of turkey with mashed potatoes, gravy, vegetables and even stuffing rolled into a pair of golfball-sized portions.

All of that was capped off with seemingly unlimited bottles of wine (but maybe that was just because some of the female students were shamelessly flirting with our male server so he’d keep them coming.

A few of us guys might have been egging them on...

Once we’d fully stuffed ourselves, drank our wine and eaten our desserts, we headed downstairs to the night club/bar that is under Balmer’s and is one of the few night spots in the town.

Beers were two for $5, and we drank our fill, then we hit the dance floor.

Several hours later, when the club closed and the tryptophan overcame the effects of drink and the endorphins from dancing, we all made our way to our beds.

They’d given us little beer mugs with graphics reading “I had a great time at Balmer’s.” When first handed mine, I thought it was a bit cheesy. Just before the lights went out, however, I glanced at the cup and smiled. Cheesy? Maybe. Dead-on? Yes.

World Cup Celebration

In the 30 minutes it took us to check into our hotel and get situated, Munich went from a ghost town to a carnival.

Game One of the 2006 World Cup had just been won by the Germans in Munich, and everyone was out to celebrate.

Two blocks from my quiet hotel near the English Garden the crowds swarmed the thoroughfares, which had all been shut down for the occasion. Soccer jerseys and national flags shone brilliantly under the streetlights. It was like they had come out of the woodwork – everyone was represented.

American sports teams can't win a championship without a riot breaking out, and that was what I expected. But the opposite occurred. I watched Brazilians loosely marching past Germans, French, Costa Ricans, Americans, English and a host of other nationalities. But everyone was more interested in sharing a drink than throwing a punch.

Standing with my back to a small park, I heard a noise behind me and whirled around. A young German man staggered toward me, a German flag painted on his cheek. He held two of the wonderful 1-liter glass beer steins. He made it a few steps past me and looked around, as if he was supposed to meet someone. He apparently gave up, because he simply shouted “Prost!” and banged the steins together. One shattered, so he shrugged, dropped it and took a hit from the one that was still intact before walking on.

I saw the Mexican fans and mingled with them for a bit, happy to use my Spanish. I paraded around with them, watching German cops showing themselves to keep the peace, but not having to do anything. Someone had started one of the European soccer songs and a fan kicked a ball to one of the cops. He gamely juggled it a few times before another fan took it away and dribbled down the center of the six-lane street.

It occurred to me that something was wrong. I was at what I imagined was the biggest party Munich had seen in some time (I could hear the sounds of revelry from blocks away), and I was without beverage. Fortunately, the Germans are ever close to their excellent beer, so I bought a Lagerbier Hell because I thought the name was funny and joined the crowd again.

Out of the corner of my eye, I heard a bunch of shouting and saw people running around in circles. Was this the fight I had been wary of earlier?

No. It was about 30 German students who had spilled out of a bar touting “exotische drinks” and now stood in the middle of one of the tiny alleys – which were the only vehicle routes open at the time. The ringleader raised his beer, and they all knelt down. He shouted what I took to be a soccer cheer in German, then counted ein, zwei, drei. Then his followers jumped up and danced around, chugging their beers.

And they let one car through. Then they repeated the process. I moved closer and saw that they all laughed hysterically, their cheeks glowing from the alcohol. They repeated the revolution several times before a carload of Portuguese were stopped. In the middle of the chant, a huge Portuguese flag appeared out of one of the car’s windows. The Germans laughed as they finally let the car go and shouted, “We’ll see you in the semifinals!”

All good things must come to an end, and as two columns of Polizei in green combat uniforms and black vests marched toward the impromptu roadblock, I stuck around to see if it would end peacefully or in teargas.

Using the logic the human brain unleashes only after considerable alcohol consumption, the ringleader calmly explained why it was absolutely necessary that they continue. Caught up in the festive mood, the police officer allowed them to continue, but kept most of the partiers on the sidewalk and ensured that about 10 cars could bass between songs.

The party started to break up after another hour or so, and I headed back to my room. Soccer fans now sat at outdoor tables, finishing the last of the night’s beers. Someone had thrown confetti all over. Broken glass lay everywhere along with the other evidence of partying.

I saw a couple of guys in lederhosen helping an almost-unconscious comrade into the backseat of a car before I stepped into my hotel and dropped into bed.

And by 10 the next morning, the streets were spotless, with only the most stubborn piece of confetti attesting to the fact that the previous night had been real. That’s German efficiency.