At the wobbly, unworldly age of nineteen I threw caution plus every last dollar I’d saved and ventured to Europe with my high school girlfriend, Irene. Irene was to be the key to opening up Europe to me thanks to her German heritage. We dreamed of flying to Germany, finding our feet firstly staying with her relatives then making our way around the rest of Europe. We were also a little scared, so many different languages and at that time a different currencies every third day.
Her parents, Erica and Werner had escaped the mess of post war Germany for the chance of a new start in a foreign land half a world away. I’d listened to her family speaking a hard guttural language in their delicatessen not far from where I grew up. The shop was a meeting place for many of these uprooted Europeans determined to forge a new life half a world away. It was also a place to find nostalgic European brands of forgotten foods which comforted and reconnected them with their earlier lives.
The cheapest flight to Germany in 1974 was on Christmas Day, we took it. We left a warm sunny Melbourne to be greeted by unfamiliar flurries of snow and subzero temperatures at Frankfurt airport the following day, Boxing Day. I’m wound up inside, out of my comfort zone and as nervous as all get out. I will be unable to communicate and much will depend on Irene. We are greeted with broad smiles by Irene’s relatives, Gerd and Traudl who are roughly ten years older than us. Real adults. Gerd steps forward his greeting will be my first test. “Darwin is kaputt “ I look blankly at him ? What the hell does that mean? it hardly sounds welcoming. He says it again trying a different emphasis. My facial expression hasn’t changed, I still have no clue what he’s on about.
That meeting on Boxing Day 1974 would become an indelible milestone in my life. It was also a tragic day in Australia’s history when Cyclone Tracy wiped the city of Darwin off the map destroying everything in its path. We were totally unaware that our Singapore airline aircraft had flown just in front of it. With every anniversary of the cyclone my mind would drift back to that Frankfurt meeting and what has become my German family. The years have slipped by, faster than we wish. I’ve watched their children over regular visits grow from children to adults forging their own path in life. I’ve been welcomed and spoilt by Gerd and Traudl in three different homes in the city of Karlsruhe over the fifty year journey. We joke that all parts of Europe can be easily reached from here. And I’ve proved that true, starting adventures in every direction from their home. So where is all this rambling leading me ?
When the fifty year anniversary arrived it was a no brainer that I would try to celebrate it where it all started. Kylie was able to come long and join the celebrations. Singapore airlines carried me to Frankfurt just as they had fifty years ago. They were then a fledgling international player. That has certainly changed, today they are one of the world’s best airlines. But on this latest flight a half empty plane meant that I got my business class flat bed in economy. I stretched out on a central row of four seats. Kylie sat in a shorter row intermittently watching movies and dozing. We arrived feeling remarkably fresh for such a long flight. A late afternoon train to Karlsruhe and a brisk walk on a well trodden path led us to Gerd and Traudl’s home in the early evening gloom. The night air so sharp and cold it caught your throat. Soon we are greeted by Gerd and Traudl with the same warmth I experienced all those years ago.
Traudl had festooned the house with posters of our many catchups over the years. I could have been embarrassed by the number of times I have visited my European family but I am so proud and wear it like a badge of honour. It has been my window into European life and the things that happen to everyday people over the years. Far away in Australia we get snippets of news but little of the real impact of things like the Ukraine refugees, Russian gas supply impact, the ongoing wars in the Middle East and the stream of refugees flooding Europe from Africa.
An easy example of this first hand experience was in 1989 when Gerd was sent by the post office to the old East Germany to help to oversee the unification of the Germany Post. His stories and the pride that normal German people had in reunifying their country was real. It was a massive undertaking and one which financially cost the country much more than they initially expected but thirty five years later the standard of living throughout the whole of Germany has improved. So you see I have had a front row seat to these changes through my friends in Karlsruhe.
I was once told that guests are like fish. They start to go off after a few days. So we read the room and on day three headed to Berlin. It’s six hours East by train and you can feel the edginess of this experimental city as you wander the now unified streets. It’s an eclectic mix of ultra modern buildings (mostly built where the wall once stood) and restored, repurposed or rebuilt postwar buildings.
Away from the tourist overload of checkpoint Charlie, the Brandonburg gate and the other historical buildings you will find the not so ritzy neighbourhoods, the grittier, real Berlin. Small gems of independant shops showcasing someone’s artistic talents or quirky ideas. No wonder artists and free spirited folk have gravitated here since unification. To me it is like New York where being different is not just accepted but applauded. In an ever expanding vanilla flavoured world it’s terrific to be surprised and questioned. It seems to happen here more often than most cities.
We stay in the district of Mitte and get to sample a nice mix of the neighbourhood’s eclectic food types. A traditional German diner with slow cooked German pork hock complemented with gravy sucking potato dumplings helped keep the cold at bay. Another freezing cold night was schnitzels and horseradish mustard with lashings of warm potato salad on the side that screamed momma’s cooking. Finally we escaped back to a light Asian stirfry to ensure our clothes would continue to fit us.
One night we slipped into a small basement jazz club called Konstantin fabric schlot. https://kunstfabrik-schlot.de/ The door opened to a bustling room full of enthusiastic punters all out to hear some big band music. We weren’t disappointed as a line of twenty musicians snaked their way onto the stage and burst into a groove that had everyone moving and tapping away. Enough for all music genres including a couple of schmalzy, jazzed up Christmas songs. A foot tapping young guy belts out a rendition of Frank Sinatra’s ‘baby it’s cold outside’ and it stays in my ear on high rotation for three days.
Prague, it’s on everyone’s must visit list and a week before Christmas it’s heaving with a human mass of tourists. There is no doubt it is one of the prettiest cities in Europe. We make our way through the cobbled streets to our hotel near the Charles bridge. The bridge is ground zero for tourists and you feel yourself being drawn into an inescapable funnel of humanity as you stumble towards the tower and bridge entrance. We find ourselves in a bottleneck at 4pm as a city lamplighter works his way across the bridge manually igniting the old style gas streetlamps which flicker a moody yellow. Who would have thought that this mundane job invented to feed the tourism hype and instagram influencers could cause such a crowd. It had all the push and shove of a football final crowd.
Another morning we rise early and climb the stairs of the astronomical clock as it strikes 9am to view the city from on high, a patchwork of terracotta tiles and high steeples. The breeze at the top is direct from the North Pole, biting cold and sharp enough to catch at your throat. There’s a certain pleasure in opening your thick coat and letting the cold air hit your lungs after so many overheated cafes and hotels.
Our ‘escape the hoards in Prague’ day is to a town a couple of hours South called Cesky Krumlov. I had visited here in 2001 with Robyn when cycling through the Czech Republic. Since then there has been a tourist explosion of this quiet yet pretty town especially by the Chinese. Almost everyone on our bus is Chinese and it’s very evident as we walk the river path to the castle that the town is a big ticket attraction for them. We have a mix of history in and around the castle plus a nice quiet stroll further up the hill away from the masses into the forest and bare hibernating farmland awaiting the end of winter and the promise of spring.
The reward for all of this walking is a warm cinnamon donut called a chimney, cooked by turning it on a stick over fire before sprinkling it with cinnamon sugar. You can eat it by pulling off sections or for the truly decadent you can fill it with ice cream and sprinkle with chocolate. I showed some restraint, I don’t know why ? Then it’s a kransky sausage with a piece of brown bread and mustard. The kransky with its tough outer skin and hearty meat inside mirrored the people of Czech who overall seem to be much tougher and rougher around the edges than their bratwurst eating German neighbours.
Three trains and a full day is all it takes to be back in Karlsruhe ready to head to Hinterzarten for Christmas Eve. The rental truck is loaded with everything you would need for a full winter and we chug off towards the mountains. As we climb out of Freiburg towards the Black Forest it begins to snow. Light flakes at first then a flurry till there is a dusting on everything. We are unpacked and settled into our apartments before the heaviest of the snow arrives.
Christmas Eve morning and there is 20cm of dry snow on everything. German technology and that Germanic call for order means that machinery soon clicks into gear with streets cleared, footpaths brushed and even the paths to each home diligently cleared without one person being carried away in an ambulance.
When I had initially announced I would hopefully visit in December Gerd had immediately booked snow for the 23rd of December and sunshine for the remainder of our stay. I can thoroughly recommend his contacts. I am unsure if money changed hands but all went smoothly. We had transported enough food to feed the whole village and cared little as to what was happening outside our timber clad apartments. There was a walk before dinner to build an appetite. There was a great banquet with my German family and others where we crashed glasses and wished each other a very merry Christmas. Old stories were retold and everyone laughed politely, even heartily if they had forgotten the punchline.
I was dragged out into the fresh alpine air by Stefan and Benny marching me 8 kms around the fairytale Hinterzarten countryside. I was even embracing the cold which wasn’t so bad with the sun on your face but I was quickly drawing up the zipper on my jacket when we entered the fir trees. All this exercise only helped to make room for more Christmas celebrations and on and on went the cycle.
Actually the best experience was when Stefan offered me his snow bike. He was sure I knew everything about electric bikes. I know nothing. So with ultrawide tyres which stick in any conditions and somehow float across thick fresh snow I ventured out. It wasn’t as easy as I expected and after 6 kms I had the vague suspicion I wasn’t getting any assistance from the motor. I demounted and inspected, prodded and searched and finally found a button that sprung lights and speedo into action. Suddenly the cycling experience was notched up to warp speed. As long as I peddled the electric motor joined in the fun. I was confidently crackling across icy crud and when I lacked the technical skill to steer it responded by drifting off the track into thick fresh snow. I quickly ran out of confidence and stopped peddling. The motor did the same and we abruptly came to a halt in a snowdrift. The bike had been happy to navigate when I had self belief but threw in the towel the minute I did. I literally got cold feet after that and generally stuck to the bitumen. Occasionally I ventured back into the white stuff but the bike had already recognised my limitations.
If you are visiting Europe at Christmas it would be churlish not to be in Paris for New Year’s Eve. So early one Sunday morning thanks to a fast German train we are in Paris in two and a half hours from Karlsruhe. I told you, it is the centre of Europe ! What I hadn’t realised was that half the universe also thought it a good idea. The sky was grey, the streets were Sunday morning bare and it was eirily quiet. It lead me into a false sense of belief that no one was around. Wrong, they were all just sleeping off Saturday night.
Come Monday the streets were jampacked and every Monument and museum had lines of tourists snaking for hundreds of metres in every direction. A walk to Notre Dame highlighted just how many people had similar thoughts. There were literally thousands of people milling about all wanting to visit the recently reopened cathedral after the devastating fire in 2019. Australians have never been a society known for their acceptance of queuing. We left.
We walked and walked, mostly along the Seine, mostly with about a million others with similar thoughts. We saw half the Eiffel Tower the rest shrouded in fog. The Louvre from the outside and somehow enjoyed an hour of harassment from an army of Africans selling bling bling. Their words not mine but it summed it up. Paris is littered with monuments of commanding size often gilded in obscene amounts of gold. They seem to have a rather unequal quantity in comparison to any other city in the world. Were they really ever that great ? Or were they just good looters.
Traudl had recommended visiting the Galleria Lafayette. Little did I know it was a famous department store but two blocks before reaching the front door it was hold onto your wallet territory. The shop windows were full of animated scenes of Christmas with elves and others busily preparing gifts. Inside the store people were throwing down house loan wads of money to buy designer this and that. I’ve seen frenzy shopping before but not at this decadent level of opulence or feverish enthusiasm. Yet not far down the road others less well off were sleeping in subzero conditions in flimsy tents along the Seine and city doorways.
We revisited a nearby restaurant for New Year’s Eve. Often a mistake but many were closed. The waiter was forcefully pushing the expensive ‘celebration dinner’ complete with copious quantities of drink. We nodded ok like the original tourist suckers and immediately felt duped. The food was also second rate in comparison to their previous delicious offerings. Normally it would impact your whole mood for the night.
However our table was set amongst a large group of older singles out on a blind date and the promise of ringing in the new year with a complete stranger. The woman organising the whole setup fussed about trying her best to make it all work but there was a reason some were on their own. For starters one guy rocked up in a fleecy hoody whilst all around him women had obviously spent hours grooming themselves to look like their final year school photo. Shimmering stockings, tight black skirts it was all happening and almost a crackle of kinetic energy in the air when they crossed their legs. Another potential candidate was wearing a jade knitted jumper his late mother had knitted, at least it didn’t have gravy stains on it like our fleecy man. There was the guy trying just a little too hard and mostly with woman whose facial expressions screamed “I could have been at home, in bed, sipping cocoa and finishing that book.” A few of the other women’s eyes darted around the tables trying to determine the best option amongst thin pickings.
It was interesting and sad in equal amounts although the guy closest to us was looking pretty happy with himself. He arrived well organised and she nestling into to his chest until they could find a room. Yes there was enough hope and positive vibes to give the place a celebratory mood. But we were never going to make it to midnight even with twice our normal intake of liquor. We walked the streets back to our hotel and watched the gala occurring at the nearby Arch de Triumph on the television till we both fell asleep. Yes, well before they started counting in the new year.
Our escape from the Paris hoards involved an early train to Rouen in Normandy. Yes whilst everywhere people were trying to get home from their overindulgence on New Year’s Eve we skipped to the station for the short ride to Normandy. I had visited the city two years ago on my bike and liked it a lot.
Rouen didn’t disappoint. It was only waking when we arrived but as we wandered from the station to the trail of gothic churches spiking the skyline we came across others clear of head on New Year’s Day. We walked into Rouen cathedral as morning mass was in full swing. I have not a religious bone in my body however the choir was in full voice and the congregation spilt beyond the seating into the main section of the cathedral. The service was all sung and occasionally a couple of underlings marched through the congregation holding giant candles aloft and asking for volunteers or maybe human sacrifices ? Joking, but Rouen’s history of burning rebels, like Joan of Arc at the stake meant that no one dared speak out of line.
The imposing cathedral in Lyon.
We are due to leave Paris for Lyon when we finally manage to gain priority access to the freshly reopened interior of Notre Dame. It’s cold and steady rain in the Parisian streets but with our train leaving at midday it’s now or never. With our heads bent scouring for the deepest puddles we push into the wind and make it there around 8am. The forecourt which was bursting with thousands only a few days ago is bare. A little, well a lot of rain has scared the religious lot indoors. Inside the cathedral communion is being taken. Again I’ll tell you that I’m not religious but the chanting and singing lifts the ambiance of the place just like the home supporters at an English Premier league game. I don’t wave my umbrella above my head nor do I start pointing at the opposition supporters however the beauty of the refurbished cathedral and the atmosphere has me. Till I’m back outside bending into the weather.
I’d always wanted to visit Lyon, in fact I’d passed it in trains many times. This time I’d find out why it’s often called the gastronomic capital of the world. We’ve signed up for a food tour and our guide Tony is a great guide, he was informative on Lyon’s long history of produce and its connection to the spice route from Venice. He was passionate and spoke easily as we strolled from bouchon to bouchon eating, talking and drinking red wine to be polite. All would seem normal except for the fact that Tony is Mexican and is speaking English in France. Yes read that again and wonder in amazement like we did.
The tour finished with the consumption of various types of local candy and thimbles of various styles of local lemonchello. Mandarin, lime and lemon. My favourite was the mandarin and it worked a treat on my indigestion. Finally as he left us he produced small gift boxes of cake, a local sweetish bread spiked with festive pink, sugary almond pieces. Later over a cup of tea I feel my teeth ringing like the nearby cathedral.
Food is high on the list in Lyon. No visit would be complete without a wander through the Lyon halles, the marketplace showcasing the best on offer in this big city. You wander and spy something enticing before buying it and finding a table to consume your goods. Of course wine accompanies most of this. Tony had said that acidity enhancement rich offerings.
Our highlight happens in the meat department whilst admiring the authoritative manner in which an older woman orders her meat. She directs the butcher from one section to another. Four slices of Wagyu beef so marbled and pale it was hard to believe it was beef. Actually at €300/kg more like gold. Then liver, various cuts of beef steak and lamb. The butcher never cutting till she signalled the thickness was satisfactory with an authoritative nod. His knife slicing with the ease of a guillotine.
That was when another well dressed elderly couple gestured for us to step forward to be served. “Just looking” doesn’t translate well but the woman stuttered an acknowledging reply in English. This was their butcher, she announced proudly. I dare not ask for how long, later they mentioned of having lived here since the 1970s. She had spent a few years working at Renault speaking English and still continues her English class with four other woman. Her husband had worked in chemicals with ICI. They both spoke a good smattering of English and you immediately could feel the unified respect and bond they had for each other. A chance meeting and suddenly we were in deep conversation in the middle of the market aisle.
The stories of our different lives went back and forward. She told a story of having been sent from her home in the Alsace region at the age of 8 to study in Holland at the request of Princess Juliana of the Netherlands. The Princess, soon to be Queen Juliana was wanting to help young students recommence their broken studies post war. What a colourful and full life this woman waiting in the queue at the butcher had enjoyed. And then we said our farewells and sat nearby to eat an array of local cheese, sip another red wine and reflect on the chance conversation whilst our new friends pointed at all things meaty for the coming week.
Lyon was everything it promised and more. Away from the capital, Paris and its monuments that draw the world’s masses to pose and posture, I felt Lyon to be a truer version of France. The locals showed acceptance and pride. Fifty years go I would not have had the discussions I have enjoyed on this trip. Back then an attempt at communicating other than in perfect French was met with a brusk “Non” and a feeling of being dispatched. In a far more cosmopolitan world with English being the universal language even the French have had to bend a little. I’ve rekindled my love for France. Best I learn a few more words. Best I also learn to show a bit more restraint at the boulangerie, he says as he waddles to the train back to Karlsruhe. The 50 year anniversary has been a joyous affair and I’m so glad I made the effort to come and celebrate a lifetime friendship.
Come on, give life a slap, JeffSent from my iPad