Nuremburg,
Germany
Latitude
49˚ 44 N
December
11, 2017
It was a
full week of Christmas markets, some of which exhilarated and some of which
disappointed—foremost being Nuremburg.
Oh, the pitch, but oh the let-down.
I may have been expecting more, but I found the market to be lackluster
at best, although is a very nice city.
In fact, as I write this I can barely remember it at all. What does that say? Perhaps it’s a case of “been there, done
that,” but Nuremberg markets itself as the oldest Christmas market in the
world, yet it lacks the sparkle that other markets have. It goes to prove that a name alone—like VERMONT—can
market itself very well.
But...but…there
was Rothenburg ob der Tauber…and that excused all others. From the moment I rounded the corner from the
train station and saw the walled in city of this reconstructed Medieval city, I
felt that that I had swallowed sunshine.
I purposely arrive late in the day, an hour before twilight would
overcome the city, when that magical blue light would appear in photos. The hour had an exhilaration of victory
because this was the Fantasy Land, the ultimate Disneyland wet-dream of every
boy’s dream of what a German Christmas market should look like. In that frosty December dusk I plunged into
the village, past the high stone gates with a large white star illuminated atop
the highest tower.
It was St.
Nicholas Day and I’d arrive just in time to see the good Saint enter the town
square, followed by a group of children all carrying lit lanterns. The Saint spoke, the children sang, the giant
tree set against the Rathaus set the tone for the rest of my stay. Oh, I could feel
battalions
of calories marching towards my bloodstream as I perused the stalls. Nuts, and candies, and schneeballs, Rotheburg’s specialty, and Elisen lebkuchen--German gingerbread--which I’d discovered
a few days earlier and did not need to know about, homemade stollen and marzipan. But I was
disciplined and only ate one small slice of stollen. Rothenburg is a reconstruction of what
existed before January 1945 when Allied bombs obliterated the city. In the
evening’s early dark, the cobbled streets that wound through town came alive
with Christmas trees and buttery yellow lamplight. It seemed a place of perennial Christmas, but
I imagine it’s not so.
The
Japanese know about this place. The town
was full of them—alone, in pairs, in groups, on tours. There must be a “book” with the places
Japanese are supposed to go to. There
are heaps of times I never see one; other places are full of them. Paris.
Venice. Brugges. Obviously Rothenburg ob der Tauber.
On my last
two days, I went first to Bamberg which had not sustained damage during WW
II. Their Christmas market was plain and
simple and just nice in its simplicity.
The next day I left, traveled to Frankfurt and had four hours there
before taking the train to Strasbourg.
Four hours gave me enough time to walk to the inner core, track down the
Christmas markets which zig-zagged through the restored old center. For this year, at least, I’d had enough of German-Christmas
Markets and while the markets were nice, there was nothing special about
them. I was looking forward instead, to
Strasbourg and Paris to see what they do differently from the Germans.
I would
like to return to this place, in the fall, during nice weather. I’d like to do some walking in vineyards and
hike around the walled in city. In some
ways, I’m missing out of a place by coming to it only at dusk. But that is why I’m here. Christmas markets. December in Europe.
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