Question street

"Quick!" said Trina. "It's time for us to go to Strasbourg, for your belated birthday treat."

The very first thing I saw as we pulled into the station were three policemen with yard-long guns strolling down the platform. On our way to our hotel, we passed a one of the city's many "Ici caniniste" yards, which are small gravelled areas where dogs can shit.

And that, all over in the first half hour, was the worst I saw of Strasbourg. Even the tramps are civic-minded: a sleeping man woke up to make room for us on a bench in Place Kléber, then brusquely told a fellow gentleman of leisure "There's a bin over there," when the latter was about to walk off leaving a polystyrene cup on the bench.

We wandered into the old town. On our way, we were approached by some students who were raising money for charity by asking us to splat them with custard pies.

We quickly found the best bar in town, L'Artichaut, with its mixture of well-dressed twentysomethings, elderly locals, wiggers, and a huge black dog which wandered around proprietorily. We asked the barmaid to recommend a dark beer; when it arrived, it looked exactly like two pints of Coca-Cola but was in fact a rich, honey-flavoured Belgian beer.

But the prices! Two 50cl beers came to €11. Fortunately, the local offy provideed much cheaper ways of opening the doors of perception.

We walked to Germany; it's less than four miles away. We stood together, I in France and Trina over the border, and asked a passing German to take our photo.

Behind us you can see evidence of a local custom in which lovers engrave their names onto padlocks and fasten them to the bridge over the Rhine. You can always come back with a hacksaw I suppose, if necessary.

We walked a little way into Germany. Despite my profound, lifelong respect for German culture, I can't help it that, to me, the German language sounds ridiculous. We read out the street names and notices in an authoritarian and dictatorial voice.

Back in France, we explored a profound enquiry: is there an equally good but cheaper bar? And lo! We found a barge on the river where they sold Edelweiss for €2,40 (albeit for a Euroskimp 25cl measure).

We said our reluctant goodbyes to the city, promising to return. Paris felt coarse. A sex shop advertised "cabines automatiques €1"; but a hotel, continuing the German-as-ridiculous motif, had an amusing name.

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While we were in L'Artichaut, the jukebox started playing what started as an innocent sounding-piece of American swing music, but which turned into the most profane piece of music I've ever heard played in public. It's not safe for any but the most liberal workplaces.