Strasbourg, the Rapture, and Me: A Sunday Morning Apocalypse (with Croissants)

A misty morning in Strasbourg had me questioning everything—from my cult school flashbacks to whether the rapture had actually happened.

I woke up far too early for a Sunday and hopped on a train to Strasbourg. When I arrived, the place was eerily quiet—like a ghost town. Lately, it feels like apocalyptic themes keep sneaking into my life here. Or maybe it’s just my brain serving up some leftover trauma from my cult days back in 6th grade.

Yep, you read that right. I was in a cult. Surprised? So was I. It wasn’t until my thirties that I realized it. I blame that experience for my reaction to Strasbourg.

Stepping off the train, I was convinced the rapture had come and gone, leaving me behind. That is, until a very drunk woman, still rocking her outfit from the night before, stumbled into view. Then I was certain I’d been left behind.

Back in my cult school days, we had a “portable TV cart”—you know the one, with the ancient VCR that never worked right on the first try. We’d spend at least 15 minutes watching the teacher wrestle with it before the movie would finally play.

I vividly remember three movies from those days. The first was Old Yeller, which scarred me for life. The second was some anti-abortion film designed to terrify us into compliance. And the third? A dramatization of the rapture.

The visuals are still burned into my brain: abandoned cars on highways, people floating into the sky, and one woman left behind, clutching her hands and dropping to her knees, realizing it was too late to repent.

Eleven-year-old me thought, “Well, at least she gets her pick of cars now.”

So, that’s how my day in Strasbourg started: wandering the quiet streets, replaying these memories, and half-expecting to stumble on some real-life proof that the rapture was, in fact, real.

It was a quiet, misty morning in another golden autumn. I wandered along the cobblestone streets of Strasbourg’s historic Petite France district, snapping endless photos of the timber-framed houses adorned with cascading flowers. One house, in particular, caught my attention—its reflection shimmering in the still waters below like a painting that had come to life. I must’ve taken 20 pictures of that one house alone, completely obsessed.

Strasbourg felt like a private sanctuary, a place where the blend of French and Alsatian charm revealed its most intimate side to me. I took time to pause, breathe, and absorb the magic of a city waking slowly in the embrace of a misty morning. (So romantic, but it is France!)

But as soon as those tourists woke up from their Saturday night pajama parties, they were out causing waves in the water and making noise in the streets. I wasn’t deterred. I chased the perfect angle of the Strasbourg Cathedral, its intricate spire piercing the sky like some divine monument reaching for heaven. It loomed through the mist, powerful and ancient, commanding the plaza as it came alive with the buzz of the waking city.

By that point, I was starving. I decided to “fetch me a croissant” because apparently, I woke up that morning as a character in a Victorian novel. I found a cute little breakfast café with outdoor seating, only to be chased inside by a wall of secondhand smoke. Romantic? Sure, if you’re into Eau de Marlboro.

The food was great, though, and I left a nice tip—only to get absolutely reamed out by the guy at the register. For what? No clue. Maybe my tip wasn’t up to French standards, or maybe I violated some sacred unspoken café code. Either way, I walked out feeling like I’d just been personally cursed by the spirit of Strasbourg.

It would have been a very rapture like ending but, the morning was too good to ruin by overthinking. Why stick around and let the day’s weird vibes pile up?

I headed straight for the train station, boarded the next ride back to the safety zone of Offenburg, my new home base! Jesus would never find me there and no onw else would either. I was under the radar. Maybe we all are?

As the train rattled on, I couldn’t help but write her a letter.

Dear Strasbourg,

I wasn’t expecting this, to be honest. You were supposed to be a dirty stop by—a glance at your pretty face before I moved on. But then Sunday morning happened, and you pulled me in, quiet and slow, like some kind of French seduction I didn’t know I’d signed up for.

Honestly, when I first arrived, I thought the rapture had happened. The streets were empty, the world felt deserted, and for a moment, I was convinced I’d been left behind. I even started looking for signs—a pile of abandoned clothes or cars with open drivers side doors on the bridge. But then, out of the mist, came a drunk woman in last night’s outfit, teetering her way down the cobblestones. And just like that, I knew: nope, I wasn’t alone.

Or if I was, she was left behind too. I made eye contact and smiled, just in case I needed to come back and befriend her. To my knowledge, I have never been through rapture before so I was covering all the bases.

Other than that feeling, the morning was magic. Your timber-framed houses in Petite France, their reflections shimmering in the water, had me obsessed. I probably took a hundred photos of one house. And your cathedral? Rising from the mist like some divine beacon, its spire practically poking heaven. (I would say more here but we barely know each other). I couldn’t stop chasing you, trying to capture every detail.

And then—the tourists. They woke up, and suddenly, our private little moment was over. Neither of us liked the new company and you went dark on me. You turned to rain and even though I wasn’t ready to give up on you yet, I needed a break. Hunger sent me to a riverside café, where I “fetched me a croissant”.

When I came back, you got all weird on me. "Who were you with?" you seemed to ask. "You don’t normally talk like that." Honestly, I didn’t have time to explain myself. You’d turned into one of those exes who barely knows you, doesn’t text for months and then gets mad when you go out for coffee.

Still, I couldn’t be mad at you. The morning had been too beautiful, too surreal. It felt like you’d given me a glimpse of something sacred. In those moments, it felt like you and I were the only ones left in the world. Maybe that’s what the rapture really is.

But then reality crashed back in—tourists, cigarettes, angry waiters, your accusations about my speech—and bam, I am back on Earth, wondering if I imagined the whole thing.

I’m not sorry I didn’t stick around to find out. Nope, I don’t regret leaving. Sometimes, you’ve just got to know when to make a graceful exit. And honestly, Strasbourg, we both needed some space.

Catch you next time (if the REAL rapture doesn’t get me first).

Regards,
Jolene

P.S. That house in Petite France with the perfect reflection? Yeah, I’m still obsessed. Try not to be jealous.