Chläpper Gässli - Slap Alley

The Chläppergässli (Slap Alley) has two mothers, both responsible for its meaning. 
One traces the word to Chläpper — those open-handed slaps that leave the cheek glowing red, framed in a kind of involuntary portrait. 
The other mother meant the clatter of shoes on cobblestones. 
That hard, unforgiving paving is found throughout historic Basel.

Have I mentioned that growing up in the Baselbiet (Basel Countryside), I had exactly one ambition before I even hit puberty? 
I wanted to become a proper Basler. Full stop. 

Well, that only half worked out — the genuine Basler lilt still eludes me. 
But Basel did teach me the qualities that made me Canada-ready. 
The openness toward people and borders, the faintly British-tinged Basler wit, and above all the foundational conviction that Baslers only joined the Confoederetia Helvetica under mild duress.

Canadians rarely appreciated being called "Americans" abroad. 

When I first set foot on Canadian soil 46 years ago — Montréal — my first impression was: "This looks just like Europe.» 

My second mistake: "WOW, North Americans are so incredibly friendly.»

It wasn’t until the border crossing at Toronto Pearson Airport, heading for a flight to New York City, that I felt the difference between America and Canada up close. 
The U.S. customs officers? Oh, good grief.

I'm getting off track.

We were just strolling through the Chläppergässli, remember? 
In Baseldeutsch — and in Basel itself — there exists a category of words that are friendly-aggressive: loaded with menace, but rarely escalating to actual violence.

Language, or more precisely rhetoric, has an artistic hand. 
Some words immediately conjure vivid pictures of what they mean and what consequences they carry in their luggage. 

I remember a friend I used to roam the nights with as a teenager in Basel. 
Back then, the Steinenvorstadt was gang territory — youth gangs, proper ones. 
And as friendly coincidence would have it, the two of us had the irresistible pleasure of running into one. Every single time. 

The encounter grew unsettling and somewhat fist-forward rather quickly. 
It was mainly my friend who received several arguments directly to the face, while I was still attempting to talk the roughnecks down — deploying rhetoric, a touch of irony, trying to make them look faintly ridiculous. 

It didn’t work. 
The fist found my companion’s face anyway. 
To be fair, he was a head shorter and somewhat more lightly built.

He can tell you — at some personal cost — exactly what a Chläppergässli feels like. 
And how a visit can rearrange your facial expression.

I just needed to get that off my chest. I am so sorry. ;-)