Ulm

The Saturday before my parents arrived, Jonas spent the weekend working in Baden Baden and Shar worked a full eight hour shift and had her work Christmas party right after. So I took advantage of the one remaining free day of travel on my Eurail pass and set off for the city of Ulm!

It was my first big trip to a new city solo. I’d had either Shar and Jonas or Katie by my side for at least a part of every day, but after becoming a rather accomplished solo explorer while Katie was in bed either sick (Bruges) or jet lagged (Prague), I felt I was ready to take on a new place entirely independently.

I arrived in Ulm with only a vague idea where I was headed, got off the train and ran smack into Einstein’s birthplace. So far, so good. I next found the main shopping street, taking full advantage of the ability to go in to whatever shop I wanted whenever I wanted for however long I wanted. Soon the shops ran out and I had reached my destination: the Christmas market, standing boldly in the centre of which was the Ulm Cathedral, boasting the highest church spire in the world!

My first stop was the tourist info where I got a city map with details of all the best places to visit. I started by tackling the Christmas Market. This one was easily 25 times the size of the one in Pforzheim and there were probably 100 times as many people. The crowds were huge and I was far too timid to order food somewhere with a long lineup where I might hold everyone up. It took me a good 45 minutes before I came to a bratwurst booth where I could calmly and clearly order bratwurst and a gluwhein without a crowd of people turning to stare at me when I tried to speak German (something that happened often). So I ate and wandered the rows upon rows of booths. The items for sale at this Christmas market were more unique, fewer wooden crafts and more glasswork.

The best part of the Ulm Christmas Market, I soon discovered, was the Christmas mug. I had to pay a deposit for the mug when I got my drink, and could return the mug for my money or keep it as a souvenir. It seems every Christmas market in every city makes a new mug every year. This mug was cream coloured with an artist’s rendering of Ulm’s Christmas market and most famous landmarks. I kept the mug (beginning a pattern that would later see me arrive back in Vancouver with close to 10 different Christmas Market mugs that now line the kitchen window).



View of the Christmas Market from the cathedral spire

Next I wandered into the cathedral and bought a ticket to climb the spire. I made it all the way up to the main viewing platform and got a gorgeous view of Ulm and the Christmas market below. The middle-aged Germans I passed on the way up finally made it to the top and then whipped out little bottles of alcohol from inside their jackets. Soon I noticed they weren’t the only ones: everyone else up there was doing the same thing. I couldn’t help but feel I had missed something.

After making my way back down I left the main square where the Christmas market was being held and set off to explore the Fishermen’s Quarter. This is the old section of town, full of cobblestone streets, footbridges and a half-timbered house that leans dangerously into the river. I found the old city wall and walked along the water that divides Baden-Wurttemburg from Bavaria for a long time.

By now the sun had set; I made it back to the Christmas market just as all the twinkling lights came on. A group made their way to the steps in front and began to carol. Soon voices rang out from all corners of the market, joined in unison, as they sang the songs of old.

Pforzheim Christmas Market

On November 22, the Pforzheim Christmas market officially opened! Despite the rain, Shar, Jonas, Karen (a Canadian visitor!!), and I went to check it out. It was the first German Christmas market for Karen and me and we wanted the full authentic experience.

Carols filled the air on one end of the market and a brass instrument band played on the other. We strolled the aisles, enchanted by the wares for sale at every booth. Traditional German crafts and Christmas decorations were for sale at almost all of them, a lot of which I’d never seen before. My favourite booth was set up like a cabin and inside sold every traditional wooden German Christmas craft imaginable. I fell instantly in love with the smoking men, little wooden German figurines who, when incense is placed inside them, will emit a continuous stream of smoke from their mouths. Absolutely adorable!

Fresh candied almonds made the air smell sweet as we admired the variety of food available. Crepes, waffles, a dozen varieties of bratwurst, gingerbreads, even more varieties of mulled wine and every traditional German food and dessert imaginable. We joined the longest line which turned out to be for Swedish Langos, the Christmas market fad of the moment. A Lango is a big hunk of dough, rolled flat and deep fried then covered in one’s topping of choice. We all got Nutella. After four months of Beavertails in Ottawa, I have to admit I wasn’t impressed with the Lango. It was more dough, less topping than a Beavertail and after being deep fried the dough sat out and cooled before the topping was put on, which resulted in most of it falling off instead of being absorbed in. If anyone has $250,000 startup for bringing Beavertails to Germany I expect it would a very profitable investment.

We ended the night sipping gluwhein (Oma’s recipe!) beside the outdoor skating rink in a little wooden booth. So quaint and so delicious. Our first Christmas market experience was pure delight.

Forest Ruins

 

After church on a miserable, grey Sunday, the three of us set off into the forest in search of an old ruin. As the rain turned to snow and then back again and our toes and fingers threatened frost bite, we wandered through an ancient cemetery and along a crumbling fortress wall. Nestled among the trees stood a small chapel, built in honour of some nuns who had escaped captors in the Middle Ages after hiding under a rock slab on that very spot. The chapel itself was still in use, hauntingly tidy and silent. The refuge under the rock slab still exists, untouched.

Christmas Preparations

Back in Pforzheim!

Katie and I made it back to Pforzheim after 13 hours on trains. We spent the next day wandering Pforzheim and sent Katie off at 5:45 am the morning after to catch a fast-speed train to the Frankfurt airport.

Later that day Shar and I caught a train of our own to Stuttgart for the best shopping in the province. Though it was only November 19^th, the Christmas ice rink and a scattering of food and gluwhein stands were already set up. I was mesmerized by the first appearances of anything Christmas Market-related, but Shar encouraged me to hold onto my Euros for the time being, promising greater Christmas-y things lay ahead.

As we strolled the city, Christmas preparations were evident everywhere. Massive cranes and heavy-duty machinery hung lights on trees and the main city street was overtaken with an expectant, festive atmosphere. Department stores played Christmas music and shopping malls were decked out with more gold and red décor than I’ve ever seen in one place. The only thing missing: snow!

First Starbucks Christmas drink of the season. Lebekuchen latte, anyone?

Monaco

We spent the very last day of our month-long European adventure in one last country: Monaco! The rain clouds, which gathered during breakfast, kindly held on to their droplets until the sun set as we boarded a bus back to France. The daylight hours were spent exploring the beautiful port city of Monte Carlo.

Monaco is known as one of the richest countries in the world. Everything about this city is dripping with luxury. After getting off the bus (a rather humble way to arrive in such a city), we walked the palm tree lined path up to the famous casino. The casino lobby is so fancy, the roof painted with absolutely stunning Renaissance scenes. I was far too intimidated by the grandeur and abundance of money to attempt any photographs!

From the casino we walked to the port full of cruise ships and multi-million dollar yachts. Designer shops lined the other side of the street. The hillside in front of us was dotted with beautiful Mediterranean-style homes and modern high rises. A fair lined the water’s edge and we bought crepes made by a late-middle aged man in a sparkly muscle shirt who danced aggressively to 80’s pop. The arcade games were full of ridiculous prizes: blackberries, car keys, legs of ham. We climbed the steps up the edge of the cliff to the Prince’s Palace which offered magnificent views of Monte Carlo. The flag of Monaco flew from every possible surface: red and white, just like Canada.

Old men in fancy long coats teetered around the city on canes and offered us directions to the bus stop just in time to avoid the onset of the rain. By the time we made it back to our hostel a full-blown thunderstorm was underway that continued straight through the night and was still raging as we caught our train back to Germany.

Medieval France

Two different days, two different medieval towns in the hills surrounding Nice.

Despite the fact that one could spend forever in Nice, never leave, and still feel totally happy about life, the area surrounding Nice is also full of cool little hidden spots.

We went to St. Paul de Vence our second day in Nice; it was about an hour’s bus ride out of downtown. Situated beautifully atop the highest mountain peak in the area, this intact medieval village has stone walls still standing. There was nothing new in this beautiful little village, it all dates back centuries and centuries. We had to share the narrow streets with few others (probably the biggest perk about travelling in November), and there was plenty of space for us to slip in and out of shops and cafes, all housed in original stone buildings. Some of the ancient homes were still inhabited by families. We spent the whole day wandering the town, taking in the views and the novelty of the place.

The next day we spent the morning in the village of Eze, the more famous medieval village and far more touristy. It was smaller and more expensive. Though this village was built atop a cliff on the edge of the ocean, all the views were blocked by expensive hotels and cost 12 Euro for a beer if we wanted to glimpse the sea. The beautiful gardens we could see halfway down the cliff full of steel animal sculptures could only be accessed if you were a guest at yet another 5-star hotel. Eze is, however, conveniently located halfway between Nice and Monte Carlo, so the hyper-tourism of the village is understandable.

The best part of Eze is the “Nietzsche Trail.” The story goes that Nietzsche was just another struggling, unknown thinker who went to stay at the seaside for inspiration. Everyday he would walk from the seaside up the hill to the village of Eze. It was while walking this path that he had the inspiration that would make him famous. I am sorry to report that I was not struck with any sudden flash of inspiration during my walk uphill, other than that Nietzsche must have been a pretty fit old dude.

Eze turned out to be a rather strange experience for us after we were chased by admiring (?) Frenchmen through the village, they having the upper hand as far as the town layout was concerned, thus taking us a rather long time to shake them. We were later hollered at by landscapers going over the edge of the cliff to trim branches who swung their ropes at us in an effort to make us literally fall before them. Finally, an older American tourist became disgruntled that the public bathroom charged their 40 cent fee in Euros and not American dollars. All in a morning’s work.

Nice

Nice was, for lack of a better adjective, so very nice. Though we were skeptical of visiting a summer getaway destination in November, we ignored the questioning looks of haughty Parisians upon hearing of our next destination and took the 6 hour train all the way south. I’m glad we did!

We left the grey and stormy Paris early in the morning and watched as the landscape beyond the train window slowly began to change. First the clouds disappeared, then mud became sand and soon leaf-less winter trees were replaced by palm trees. The last hour two hours of our train journey were entirely along the coast of the south of France, past Marseilles, Cannes, Toulon.

We’d been hearing mentions of the Villa St. Exupery hostel in Nice since our very first stop in Prague so we booked two beds, despite the trek up the hill to the hostel. From the train station we took the tram a few stops and got off and waited until the hostel van picked us up and drove us up the hill. Located atop a mountain, the hostel used to be a nunnery, with chapel and stained glass windows still intact. Because the hostel is sort of isolated and difficult to get to, it seemed everyone made the trek up the hill for dinner and there was a real summer-camp feel to the way strangers sat at communal tables and became best friends by the end of the meal.

Our first day felt like a dream. We shed the parkas and rain boots, meandered through the Old Town and lounged on rocks beside the sea, where we were gently sprayed by the incoming tide. We climbed to the top of a cliff on the edge of the sea and could see Nice to our right and Monaco to our left. The remains of an old chateau are still there and we counted mice scurrying around ancient foundations at an archaeology site.

The weather was warm, over 20 degrees in November, and all along the beach people were shedding clothes and going for a swim. We ended the day shopping as the sun set and what had appeared to be plain white sculptures during the day suddenly glowed various bright colours. The Christmas decorations were hung along the streets, which seemed so silly in such a tropical environment, but cast a nice glow and we popped in and out of stores beneath them. The day ended early, which remains my only complaint about travelling in November, but didn’t bother us since the day lit hours had been so fantastic.

Paris

There's the Eiffel Tower...sort of

The Paris that we all adore from afar died one hundred years ago. This was the conclusion I reached upon leaving the City of Lights after a four night stay. Some pretty talented and famous people lived in Paris, I suppose…once upon a time.

Of all the places we visited Paris was my least favourite, the most expensive and really the most drab. The people, while not as rude as we were told to expect, could certainly not be called friendly. The weather prevented us from climbing the Eiffel Tower (what would be the point if the clouds blocked all views of the city?), the Musee D’Orsay lost it’s power halfway through our rushed self-tour (Van Gogh is difficult to appreciate in the pitch black), and the near hurricane winds and rain made it impossible to visit the gardens at Versailles, which I was most looking forward to. The almonds in Katie’s milka turned explosive in her mouth (they turned out to be pop rocks after all) and I lost my favourite sweater.

Perhaps I would appreciate Paris more if my budget was greater, my French more advanced and the sun came out to visit for at least a few hours. As it is, there are far too many beautiful places in Europe I have not experienced to give Paris another chance anytime soon.



Katie, near drowned, on the Avenue Champs Elysees



Feelings re: missing out on the Gardens of Versailles due to the weather

Bruges

I watched the movie ‘In Bruges’ in Bruges and hated it. But despite my personal feelings towards the dark humor and abundant violence, we wouldn’t have even known Bruges existed if ‘In Bruges’ wasn’t Katie’s favourite movie, prompting her to both fall in love with Colin Farrell and plot Bruges as our mid-Eurotrip destination. I still I haven’t encountered anyone who’s heard of the city apart from the movie, so if you’re one of the rare few, bravo to you.

Bruges may be the most romantic and adorable city in the world. Tucked away in the corner of the self-admittedly strange country, Belgium, it feels like a fairytale. The average tourist was a middle-aged European, who enjoyed sauntering the endless cobblestoned street, admiring the windmills along the canals and exploring the museums. Every building and street in Bruges is either old and beautiful or hides something old and beautiful (like the fancy modern Coast Plaza hotel, which houses ancient church foundations in its basement). It was simply my favourite place that we visited. I think three things contributed to that: 1. I had no expectations, 2. it felt like our little secret, and 3. Belgian waffles, Belgian chocolates and Belgian frites.

While we were in Bruges, we were told constantly that Belgium is a strange place. My opinion of Belgium is based solely on our stay in Bruges, and while there, we encountered nothing that would cause us to disbelieve that assertion. The three very strangest things that we encountered on our entire month of European travel all took place on our first night in Bruges.

1. We somehow got caught up in a parade. Well, we heard it, approached it and joined in, so I suppose that’s how. It was led by three brightly dressed German men, each playing a marching band instrument of sorts and wearing a very hairy and very fake moustache (though the trombone player’s was glued to his trombone, not his face). It was fun and ridiculous and they had a crowd of a few hundred people following them, dancing along. The parade winded through the city and we somehow failed to notice that all participants were roughly the same age and seemed to know each other. We were at the front of the crowd and followed along when we were herded through the front gates of a medieval castle and down into the basement. It wasn’t until everyone around us took off their coats revealing black tie attire, and we ran to the end of the hall searching for an exit only to find the fancy party itself that we realized we had made a dreadful mistake.

2. Walking back to our hostel after escaping from the parade, we passed an old cathedral hidden by the dark and heavy trees in front, lit only a little by a solitary street lamp nearby. As we passed, I saw movement in the shadows of the cathedral, near the entrance, and then a figure emerged from the shadows headed straight towards me. It was a surreal moment. Here we were, two young North American girls purposely lost amongst a maze of medieval streets and alleys, about to face off with a figure from the shadows that, as far as I could tell, no one else had noticed. The figure that emerged was hooded and wore a monk’s robe with rope tied around his waist. In his hands he carried a board of some kind. As we stood, transfixed and horrified by the shadowy figure, he turned from our path and hit himself on the head with the board. Then he did it again. And again. It soon became clear that he either had not noticed us or did not care about us, instead keeping to himself, walking back and forth in front of the cathedral entrance, in and out of the shadows, hitting, hitting, hitting himself in the head. The next day we were informed by our tour guide that Bruges has no monks.

3. We shared a room with a sleeping Mexican who snored louder than a chainsaw and was seemingly incapable of waking up. He slept through water on his face, pennies chucked all over his body, being wacked repeatedly on the face with a sleeping bag, multiple of my screams at the top of my lungs, bass from the club down the hall so loud that it shook the beds, and our door slammed as hard as I could muster, which was loud enough to wake the skinheads down the hall who emerged with the intent to murder. Our entire dorm room was awake and in hysterics at four AM, after trying for hours to shut him up unsuccessfully. So outrageous was our night that Katie and I later met two dudes in Paris who had heard the story of our unwakeable Mexican.

I loveloveloved Bruges. It gets an A+.

Amsterdam

We loved Amsterdam. Of all the places we visited it was the one that reminded me most of home.

Three things struck me about Amsterdam:

1. The bikes

They are everywhere and dangerous and will mow you over in an instant. Everyone who had been to Amsterdam before us warned us of them, so we were well prepared for their tyranny of the roads when we finally witnessed it ourselves.

I was fascinated by the quirks that come with such a bike culture. The bike locks, for example, are heavy iron chains covered in some cutely-patterned fabric and appear absolutely impenetrable. The make up of the canals is apparently 1/3 ancient waste, 1/3 water and a middle layer of 1/3 bicycles. All canals are cleaned out annually by a crane with a big claw at the end which digs deep and comes out unfailingly with dozens of bikes attached. We heard of a game the locals play to see who can make the largest splash when an unlocked bike is thrown into the canals.

2. The utter lack of impressive buildings.

Our tour guide with the Free Europe tours explained that the frugal Dutch could never justify the construction of elaborate buildings if they did not suit an economic purpose. Indeed, the Royal Palace, (the name an indication, perhaps, that no other need ever be built) was covered entirely in green construction plastic and scaffolding. It lacked the decorative tarp that usually covers such buildings in Europe, showing an image on top of the building it is covering beneath. We never heard a single Amsterdamer complain about it.

3. The wonderful canals.

Amsterdam is known as the Venice of the North. At least half the places we visited had expansive canal systems running through the city, and claim a similar sort of reputation, but Amsterdam’s was the best developed. They even had a current, which meant no stink!

I suppose it would be near impossible to visit Amsterdam and not comment on the Red Light District or the weed industry. (Side note, did you know the Amsterdam coat of arms is a triple-X? Hmm, chicken or the egg?) Seeing it all was educational, I suppose, but I can’t say any of my opinions were changed by what I saw, I just saw it all legalized, which makes it cleaner and safer.

The Hague

The Hague (or Den Haag as the Dutch call it) is admittedly not a typical stop for the average young North American backpacker. It was, however, the location I was most looking forward to on our entire trip.

The Hague is a sort of unofficial world capital for international human rights, a kind of social justice headquarters. It is the location of the United Nations International Court of Justice, which deals with, well, issues of international justice. It is also home to countless similar organizations, governmental, inter-governmental and non-governmental. Most interesting for us was the International Criminal Court (ICC), for which we had to go through a lengthy process before our application to visit was approved.

So, for one aspiring human rights lawyer and one potentially aspiring human rights lawyer, our journey to The Hague was a sort of pilgrimage.

Our visit to the ICC was scheduled for our second day in The Hague so we spent our first day exploring. The Hague is beautiful. We bought a map of a city walking tour, which took us all over. The Hague is an undoubtedly Dutch town with international flare. After the drought of sidewalk cafes I’d experienced in Germany, The Hague was like quenching a long thirst. Adorable little bakeries and cafes were everywhere and most of them offered High Tea, which I heard was because of their close proximity with Britain. The cobble-stoned shopping streets had shops which sold elegant cigars, ancient maps and antique books. Everything was loved and well-cared for. Even the Pizza Hut had chandeliers and elaborate Renaissance-style carved moldings. (While we stood outside laughing in disbelief, a woman on a bicycle wondering what the joke was about stared at us a bit too long, crashed her bike into the curb and fell hard in what looked to me like slow motion. It was hard to help when neither of us spoke a word of each other’s language, so we helplessly stood back while she hollered and her daughter yelled back.)

We wandered along the numerous canals in the mornings as fog blanketed the city. We ate pannekoek for lunch and fries for dinner. We sat on the swings in the gardens of the Queen’s current working Palace. We explored the newly built high rises the Dutch are so proud of but bore us Canadian visitors to tears. We toured the elaborate Parliament buildings and shopped for gifts. We chased pigeons in squares and watched swans float along the canals. We even tried to catch a glimpse of the Prime Minister as an aid held open the door of his office and a black car sat outside waiting.

I loved this city of helpful people, quaint historical shops and international influence. I would love to return in the summer, when the beach, which is a twenty-minute bike ride away, opens for surfing and strolling along the promenade. But a visit in the fall was just as beautiful; fall-coloured trees and foggy canals.

Our second day in town was spent at the ICC. Before sitting in the visitor’s gallery of the court, we got to join in on a tour organized for Master’s of Law students specializing in European Law at the University of Luxembourg (and just declined to mention to anyone that we had barely got our B.A.’s). We got multiple informative sessions lead by ICC staff and met a judge, a feisty blonde middle aged woman from Belgium.

Sitting in the court viewing room was a surreal experience. The court room was small, and held no more than twenty people: prosecution, defense, judges and witness. The man on trial was being tried for multiple war crimes.

The viewing gallery was separated from the court room by a thick pane of glass and held double the amount of individuals as were in the court room. A curtain was drawn in front of the middle pane of glass so as to protect the identity of the witness testifying. The voice of the witness came through our head sets garbled and distorted. The view shown on the TVs (which gave a live stream of various angles of the court) distorted the face beyond recognition. The identity of this witness was completely protected.

The Hague is a quaint little place where big world decisions are being made. I'm so glad we made it there.

Sachsenhausen

On our third day in Berlin, Katie and I took the S-bahn to Oranienburg, a quaint suburb that was home to one of the Nazi-built concentration camps, later used by the Communist Soviets as a work camp for the Nazis they had captured. Unlike the more famous camps, such as Aushwitz, Sachsenhausen was not an extermination camp, but a concentration camp. Though massacres and human experiments did take place in Sachsenhausen, it was not the camp’s primary purpose.

The inmates of Sachsenhausen were worked, starved and made to live a hellish nightmare. There’s probably no one reading this hasn’t been informed of what life was like in a Nazi concentration camp, so instead of explanations I will give my impressions.

As we walked along the path leading to the main entrance gates, we were bordered by fences on either side, one cement and the other chain link. Beautiful bright orange and gold leaves hung over the tops of the fences and made the walk in rather beautiful. The air was crisp and birds chirped all around us. It was a perfect serene fall day, a gift that I suppose not even jailers can deprive their prisoners of.

After passing through the main gates inscribed with the infamous Arbeit Macht Frei (work will set you free), and crossing past the no-man’s land, where anyone escaping would have to pass and anyone caught there would be immediately shot, I found myself standing in front of a half circle field. This was the roll call field, where roll call would be conducted twice a day. Often inmates would be required to stand on it for hours on end or do endless pointless movements as punishment. The ground was barren. So many feet have trampled this former patch of grass that it has never grown back and remains dirt to this day. It was also as hard as walking on cement. The usual give of a dirt field was long gone, the dirt having been packed down as countless feet trod upon it. In this case, the evil effects of what took place in the camp have even inhibited the earth’s ability to renew itself.

Directly in front of me, about 100 feet away, stood the former location of the gallows, where prisoners would be hung for various reasons. The gallows were set up in two deep rounded holes, conveniently the same size as an evergreen tree trunk. Every Christmas the jailers would set up a Christmas tree in one of the two holes, celebrating the birth of a life on the exact same spot that so many were taken away. Was this meant as a mockery to the inmates? Was it to further humiliate the many Jewish prisoners? Or was the Christmas tree simply placed there out of convenience, the jailers unaware of their own hyposcrisy? It served to remind me that the jailers were just as human as the inmates, celebrating their nation’s holidays as any other German would. Realizing they were human and not monsters, just as we all are, made it ever the more disturbing.

We like to think we are far removed from the atrocities of the Nazis and that such inhumane hatred could never again manifest itself the way it did in the past century. But those responsible for these acts were human, as we are also human. Only a few years ago one of the remaining barracks, number 32, which housed primarily Jewish inmates, was firebombed. We need to remember we are only one great hate away from the irrational manifestation of such fear and anger. The proper response to such a danger is not fear, which makes us irrational and all the more susceptible to manipulation, but integrity, involvement in the democratic process and keeping our leaders accountable. It was Plato who said “the price of apathy towards public affairs is to be ruled by evil men.” If members of a democracy refuse to allow such things to occur, they simply will not. No man can stand up against the citizens of an entire country, and this citizen will never allow a Christmas tree to be placed at the same location as the gallows.