How do you say “I need a turkey roaster” in German? That was one of many questions I asked myself during the days prior to our American Thanksgiving in Hamburg. The turkey-roaster store helpfully pointed me in the direction of the local “Fleischmarkt” to order my whole “Truthahn” (turkey)… “Ja, Frau Crawford, how many kilos would you like?” Gulp, sounds like a drug deal! (in America the only things measured in ‘kilos’ are illegal drugs!). I hoped for the best in ordering 6 kilos - the butcherette was in good humor helping me with my apparently unconventional order – while I tried to avert my eyes from some of the more gross-looking German meat products sold there! The father-son owners at the local grocery store cheerfully accommodated me with specially-ordered fresh “Preiselbeeren” (cranberries) and extra-jumbo “Sußkartoffeln” (sweet potatoes). I worked two simultaneous calls on my cellphone plus one helpful shopper in trying to determine the closest thing to a gravy mix.

To round out our menu, Sally imported some Stove Top stuffing, turkey bags, and canned pumpkin in her luggage. Together we managed a typical feast of roasted turkey with all the trimmings: mashed potatoes, gravy, sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top, cranberry sauce, stuffing, homemade Bisquick rolls, and a salad. Knut brought zee wine, Mehmet & Klaudia brought zee sodas, Soenke carried around the big bird for me, and the culinary chaos began!

Before dinner could be served, we of course needed a good Thanksgiving arts & crafts activity. How about whipping up some turkey hats…pilgrim hats… Indian hats, even?! Yup, I provided the colored paper, feathers, googly-eyes, scissors, and tape….. our fine guests provided their own Picasso instincts. The idea was first met with some dismay, but the spirit of competition soon took over, creativity blossomed, and each hat grew ever more complicated and wild. Malik won the Thanksgiving hat contest with a freestyle concoction that was something of a Peter-Pan-Meets-Squanto look. Antje (Soenke’s mom) came in a close second with her fire-engine red, I’m-A-Chanel-Pilgrim creation.

We adorned the huge dining table with autumn-themed tablecloths, an expandable paper accordion turkey (thanks Mom for sending!), turkey placecards…..but wait! NO turkey napkins! We made up for the omission with some colorful paper pilgrim & Indian pictures taped to the wall (again, thanks Mom), and shiny autumn leaf garlands on the staircase. My non-American guests observed the décor with no small amounts of amusement.

When everyone was finally seated at the table in their outlandish Thanksgiving headgear, Soenke’s dad began the turkey carving and I explained a little about the history of the American Thanksgiving. I observed that this was a holiday which everyone, everywhere could agree upon (everyone is thankful for something!), and hence it reigns as my favorite American holiday. I was reminded of our international turkey bash one year ago in Paris, another fabulous event and also the night of Soenke & my first kiss. This year, we had an international lineup yet once again…. 5 Germans, 1 Turkish-German, 1 Moroccan, and 2 Americans!

Following the dinner I presented the Thanksgiving Quiz: 10 tricky turkey questions … with English and Deutsch versions. Malik the Moroccan was victor yet again, with 8 correct answers (more than…ahem…our other American quiz-taker!).

This year’s pumpkin pie dessert, served with whipped cream and sprinkled nutmeg, met with FAR more enthusiastic response than last year in Paris (note: foreigners generally do NOT have the same nostalgic appreciation for pumpkin pie as Americans do…i.e., they think it’s WEIRD!). However, Sally’s apple crisp seemed to be the preferred post-dinner sweet!

Photos of the night follow:

Tom the Turkey & the butcherette:

Stuffing Herr Tom:

Headgear on, ready to eat!

Me with my Isaac Mizrahi design…..

The cleanup Pilgrims step in to help:

Once upon a time there was a sweet little California girl who partied like a rock star and looked like a movie star (think: full length leather coat with fur collar and cuffs)….no, that’s not me……this would be Teresa Rodriguez Williamson, author and diva who jetted her way to Europe this month to do some whirlwind research for her fine new book “Flying Solo: 50 Top Destinations for Women”. We planned a crossing of party paths in Paris in order to conduct some important diva-esque business… oops, I mean PLEASURE.

Teresa’s savvy press credentials scored her some tricky digs at the unthinkably chic and luxurious Hotel de la Tremoille, smack in the heart of Paris’ “Golden Triangle” in the 8th arrondisement. While she was rubbing elbows with the likes of Givenchy and Chanel, I was wandering a bit lost up in the north part of the 8th trying to locate my postage-stamp size, not-so-tricky, 2-star hotel: the Madeleine Opera. In its defense, I enjoyed a peep show view inside neighboring Parisian apartments and was only a stiletto-stumble away from both the Printemps and Galeries Lafayette mega department stores.

Methought that Teresa might enjoy a surprise Thanksgiving dinner, considering she was busy scouring the land of baguettes and brie while her family enjoyed turkey and sweet potatoes back in the homeland. I rang up American ‘chef’ Jim Haynes, a double-decade resident of Paris, who has been cooking up weekly Sunday dinners at his flat for whoever would care to join. For 25 euros, we got all the turkey/stuffing/pumpkin pie and accoutrements, including cheap wine and beer, that we could inhale. While his flat is built for two, on Sunday evenings it is normally crammed with about 50-60 of his most intimate friends and soon-to-be-friends (like us!). Our boy James Montague joined us, having become a wild fan of American cuisine after my own Parisian Thanksgiving dinner last year during our raucous days of French school.

Monday found us waxing a little more française at the touristy-but-historical Café Les Deux Magots in St-Germain-des-Prés. We rubbed elbows with the ghosts of Hemingway and Sartre, while Teresa sampled the assortiment du fromage (assorted cheeses) and I savored the signature salad.

But wait, did I glimpse one of those faaaaaaaaabulous little signs… “Le Beaujolais Nouveau est arrivé!” ?!?! Oh yes, it was only days after the 3rd Thursday in November, and so the sweet new wine of the season was HERE. I recalled wistfully (blurrily…vaguely…) the outstanding night of Beaujolais Nouveau carousing just one year prior, when around 15 of us unwittingly packed into a popular gay bar in Paris, drinking bottles upon jugs of the sticky sweet wine, miraculously bursting into ever-more-fluent-French as the night went on, hoping we’d find our way home before class the next morning.

But, I digress. On this day, one year wiser (and with the memory of that hangover not so distant), I responsibly ordered just one little glass of the Beaujolais Nouveau and vowed to stay out of gay bars.

Between walking tours with Paris pro Antoinette Azzurro, Christmas shopping at Printemps, and glasses of champagne on the Ile-St-Louis, the afternoon was packed with pure pleasure. Our decadence continued late into the night as we lingered over Moroccan cuisine and practiced our best Arabic (excluding the swear words) at the posh El Mansour in the 8th. After a few glasses of French white, we shared our deepest scandals and toasted the glorious future…

By Tuesday, Teresa was ready for some hands-on book research… and what’s more hands on than a Parisian massage?! In the spirit of our Moroccan meal the night before, I spirited her away to the exclusive and exotic Aux Bains Montorgueil, the Moroccan-hammam-with-a-French-twist, hidden in the dark hallways of 55 rue Montorgueil. The spa itself is gloriously decorated with the finest Moroccan techniques – colorful, geometric tilework known as zellij, intricate plasterwork, wrought iron candleholders, heavy wooden doors with traditional iron knockers…all enhanced with fragrant incense, cinnamon orange slices, mint tea … so very ‘Arabian nights’! Our two hours of pleasure began with a leisurely stint in the eucalyptus-infused steam room, followed by a totally naked exfoliation experience at the accomplished hands of Wafa and Fatia, a hot rinse under a waterfall-like showerhead, and a freezing dunk in the gorgeous underground pool. The crowning glory was the argan oil massage, a totally sensuous rubdown using the highly-prized, fragrant oil of the Moroccan argan tree.

My escape to heaven ended abruptly with notice of the time. It was 1pm, and my flight back to Hamburg left Charles de Gaulle airport at 3pm. The masseuse had advised me to “let zee argan oil enreesh zee skeen az loong az c’est possible”, so I skipped the shower, slithered into my clothes, tied a scarf chicly around my wet hair, tossed some supermodel sunglasses onto my makeupless face, kissed Teresa adieu and headed for the train!

After a combo-pack of comical calamities, enhanced by the French handwritten love letter slipped to me by an amorous young Parisian dude, I managed to miss my flight by about 17 seconds. Tears at the gate did not help (I tried). I talked myself onto the next flight to Frankfurt, which routed me on to Hamburg and back into the arms of my fabulous man (who took one whiff and exclaimed “babe, take a shower!”).

Last I heard from our world-traveling diva Teresa, she was fighting off would-be suiters in Prague…an absinthe in one hand and a Chanel bag in the other!

We will meet again!

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My 2-star digs…:

…but ever so well-located!

Teresa travels like a proper diva:

Teresa, Jim, James & I enjoy the Thanksiving festivities:

Paris sparkles!

Living the luxe life at Aux Bains Montorgueil: