About Lesli W.

Yogini, photographer, writer, wanderer, wonderer, philosophizer, dog's best friend, reluctant but sometimes sparkly introvert, curious one, believer in magic.

How to eat an elephant: on riding 90 miles in Vermont on a rainy long weekend in July*.

*Note: no elephants were harmed in the writing of this blog post.

Desmond Tutu famously said that it is best to eat an elephant one bite at a time. Having spent a small amount of time in the presence of elephants and much of my life as a vegetarian, it is ill-advised (the food choice, not the lesson).


Several weeks ago, a friend and I started talking about distance cycling and bike-packing. He’s a long-haul kind of cyclist, where I am a weekend warrior, riding 5 or 10 miles, sometimes 20 or 30, depending on my mood. I’ve done a handful of 40+ mile (~64km) rides, but with no consistency or methodology. So when we started talking about the Cross-Vermont Trail, which had recently added a new bridge and some additional bike path sections, the ride sounded long but nice. It was more of a passing conversation and felt like more of an aspiration to me.

Somehow, the conversations turned into reality, then gear accretion. So now I was the proud owner of panniers and a new light set (add, later, fenders and additional rain gear!). And if you have the equipment, well, you’ve got to use it…


The Cross-Vermont Trail is a self-described “patchwork quilt”: ~90 miles (~145km) in 12 stages of trail and road, stitched together to traverse Vermont and follow the Wells and Winooski rivers from the town of Wells River to the banks of Lake Champlain in Burlington. It goes along gravel roads and wooded fire roads, country lanes, scenic bike paths and (where absolutely necessary) routes 2 and 302. Click here to see the route in its entirety.

4th of July weekend seemed to be a good opportunity to take a stab at it. In my head, we’d do it in cozy legs: 30 miles a day, see some pretty covered bridges, eat some ice cream, do a little antiquing and town-wandering in between the segments. The plan evolved to riding it in 2 legs, bisecting the journey in Montpelier (note: pronounced “mont-peel-ier” to my non-native New England dismay and discomfort).

Reality: more legs than ice cream. Add in the gods of inopportune monsoons piling their own thoughts onto the subject.

So we ended up riding the first half (~40 miles or so) on day 1, somehow dodging the showers that were forecast; even seeing some much-appreciated breaks of sun. The ride was mostly pleasant: pine and gravel fire roads through old rail trail sections, manageable hills, nice river views, and few people about. Okay, there was the very stupid wipeout after I lost traction on a washed out sandy patch (a mere flesh wound…). And there was the sketchy stretch of route 2 in Marshfield or Plainfield with fast traffic, a surface that had been graded for repaving, and tight, gravelly shoulders which made for a nerve-wracking 10 or so miles (especially after one big truck with a trailer made a WAY too-close-for-comfort pass).

Perseverance pays off, though. Entering the charming city of Montpelier proper via their carefully-manicured bike path, wending across old railbeds, then riding squarely through the center of town, made the band-aided knee and those scary asphalt memories melt in moments!

Between the lingering haze from the Canadian forest fires, the heavy clouds, and what felt like 900% humidity, that night the air felt impending. Impending What was the question. We didn’t want to find out, so made the decision to wait out the rain, spend an extra night here, and play tourist for a day in Montpelier (mont-peel-ier).

Montpelier was quiet. Eerily quiet, in fact. We had passed the Barr Hill distillery on the way in, lending itself to ideas, as did the post-ride bees knees cocktails. So to dodge raindrops, we wandered around the city, visited Barr Hill for history and honey gin (their story is worth a visit on its own), and took in a weird matinee (Asteroid City) at the adorable Savoy theatre (their real buttered popcorn is also worth the visit!). I can’t imagine a better way to spend a rest day.

The ride: Day 2

When the early morning wake-up call featured light showers, I was worried that the day might be a washout that would see us pedaling for 11 hours in the rain. But somehow we again dodged the worst, and by 7:30 the streets were drying and the showers stayed at bay.

I don’t know which leg of the ride I enjoyed more. The 2nd half was more road than trail, but the roads were dirt or gravel and transported us through farms and quaint neighbourhoods, over wooden bridges and along the Winooski river. In some spots the hills won, and my pride hurt more than my legs. Climbs aside, the ride – roughly 50 miles of it – was rewarding and inspiring in so many ways. I’m grateful to the weather for cooperating. I’m grateful to my riding partner for being patient and supportive and funny. I’m thankful for the CVT association for building such a nice trail network. We encountered smiling cyclists and courteous locals throughout the day, even a trio from Canada who were on day 9 of a huge loop through Vermont and Mass.

There’s always an elephant. Take small bites…

The bites: I spent the 2 weeks prior to the trip dodging raindrops at home, stealing short rides when possible, and pounding on a trainer in my living room after work (saddle-time, as it were). I took what was in front of me on each leg of the ride and tackled each section of the ride: the rolling hills and gravelly and slippery parts, even the hardest climbs, one by one… It wasn’t the longest ride ever, or the most difficult, but when we finished with a quick view of Lake Champlain and were met (us sweaty and probably a little stinky), by a smiling chatty driver who piled the bikes in the rear of the van and shuttled us back to the car in Wells River, it all felt just a little bit perfect.

The skies opened up during the car ride back, and I thought, as we watched a bear run across the highway and the postcard-esque New England scenes flash by: I feel good. I’d like to do this again.

Isn’t it ploverly?

Last summer, I signed up to volunteer at the Parker River National Wildlife Refuge. Each year, the endangered piping plover comes back to the shores of the Atlantic to nest and breed. Currently, it’s thought that there are only roughly 8,000 remaining. In. The. World. So it’s significant that nearly 25% of those come back to my home state to nest.

Papa piping plover, checking me out as he forages for lunch

Parker River each year runs a Plover Warden program to help protect their nesting grounds. Largely, we are the hall monitors of the beach, reminding beachgoers (despite the GINORMOUS signs) that the beach is closed. The 6-mile stretch of pristine beach with its protected dunes is perfect nesting grounds, hence the beach is closed from the beginning of April each year through early August (even through greenhead season!), or when the last of the fledglings go. Only 1 of 4 eggs make it from nest to flight. In short, it’s our job to help them get there.

My first encounter on my first day last year included a pair of entitled locals and their dog who were indignant that they were not allowed to walk down the pristine beach. But you can’t even see the nests, local Karen said. Ken piped in and asked when the wardens’ hours were. Hand on my walkie-talkie, I persuaded them to cooperate, and they finally relented. It is Federal land after all. Nor are dogs allowed.

The guy with the drone was nicer, but still confused as to why endangered birds, whose primary predators come from the sky, would feel ruffled by an ominous robotic sky creature humming around and spying on them from the blue.

This year’s encounters have been more tame. In my official volunteer t-shirt and fluorescent hat, I’ve been able to ward off most would-be violators just by being a tad obvious, and most people I’ve encountered are genuinely curious – some even passionate – about the birds. Not so much the obnoxious college kids camped out in pop-up tents just beyond the (again GINORMOUS) signs, feigning ignorance when nabbed by the plover police, “we thought nobody was checking.”

So far, we have about 33 nesting pairs, with 16 or so active nests after some storms and predators took out a swath of nests. This weekend, the refuge noted that some hatchlings have emerged. Over the next weeks we’ll expect the little fuzzits to begin scooting around the beach. This little guy is from one of last year’s broods that, sadly, didn’t make it after a spate of coyote binges.

So if you encounter a sign, a volunteer, or even just a plover… please tread lightly, as nests are camouflaged and the little ones need as much help as possible. No kites, no dogs, no bikes, no feet… just for a few more weeks to give these guys a fighting chance at fledging!

Zoom in… can you spot the plover sitting on its nest in this photo?

Watch this space. I’m hoping to get some plover-ific pics as the little ones emerge.

Adventures in Campania Part II, Amalfi Coast: Sun, steps and seafood!

[Did you miss Part I? Click here]

On the other side of the hills, through some tunnels and around some hairpin turns, one pops out on the Amalfi coast. Coming from Napoli, it looks as though you’ve disembarked in another land, even though it’s not 60km away. The greenery contrasts against an azure Mediterranean Sea. The cliffs drop off to reveal a rugged coastline dotted with castle-like lookout towers used by locals nearly a thousand years ago to defend themselves from pirates.


We booked a B&B in Positano for a couple of nights. Actually, above Positano in a small village called Montepertuso. It seems to consist of about 137 houses, a church, two restaurants and a bus stop. It’s perfect. These towns were built vertically from the sea up the hillsides. But what we hadn’t considered was the fact that there are approximately 1500 steps from Positano up to our perch.

Montepertuso from our B&B balcony. Bonus points for spotting the surprise in the photo.

We decided to explore somewhat horizontally that first day… traversing over to the trailhead for the Path of the Gods, or Il Sentiero degli Dei, we managed to hike the path all the way from Montepertuso to Bomerano and back. For the record, “horizontal” is relative in these parts.

Words cannot do justice to panoramas we encountered along the way: the jagged rock formations, caves, terraced gardens, carefully-placed villas, and the sheer cliff faces that seemingly melted into the sea below. We did the hike backwards, so had to wander about a little village to find sustenance, and were rewarded with some great eggplant parm to help fuel the 2nd half of the hike. The decision to hike back rather than wimp out and take the bus proved to be a good one: the views from the “high path” were even grander, walking through the long grasses that lined the trail was meditative, and the late afternoon light contrasting with the fog off the water was surreal. Truth be told, my legs grumbled a bit when we missed a bus from Nocelle and walked the last 3km or so. But all in all, I think this hike falls on my list of favourites. Total distance 22+/- km round-trip. Definite accumulation of adventure points on the day!

These coastal towns are connected by a local bus route, so the next day we were off to Amalfi proper, and from there the town of Ravello for its terraced gardens and medieval estates. Castles and breathtaking views? Yes, please. Bright blue skies and more spectacular views greeted us as we marched through the impeccable Villa Cimbrone (a fancy-shmancy hotel that opens its gardens to tourists)…worth every penny of the entrance fee. Between the architecture of the villa, cloister and crypt (replete with grand piano), the views, and the serenity of the place, this won our hearts more-so than the tourist-thronged streets of Amalfi.

But even an accidental tourist has to get one of Campania’s giant lemons topped with local lemon sorbet! (when in Amalfi…)

Once back in Positano, we were faced with the dreaded steps! There is a local bus that takes one from the bottom to the top, but that schedule is haphazard and it seemed silly to wait around for a bus that may or may not come… so up we climbed, and I lost count somewhere in the neighbourhood of 11 gajillion. The reward came at dinner, where we stumbled into the family-run Donna Rosa, a surprising little restaurant with charm spilling out from the kitchen onto our table! A nice way to round out the day.

Positano, from high on the hill

The following day, we planned to hike the Sentiero Panoramico, a loop high above Montepertuso. Essentially, mostly UP… But the weather gods had other plans. A shift in the skies was upon us, and the looming clouds promised a treacherous journey on a hike already deemed hard by the guidebook. So we opted to do a short climb up to Il Buco, a hole in the mountain with very cool views from this weird geology. What goes up must come down, so we hiked down the same steps we had climbed up the day before, and wandered around the streets where Kardashian sightings aren’t uncommon (no paparazzi to be seen this day). At no more than 17C, there were still several bikini-clad people on the beach, selfie-ing it up as if the season were in full swing. I cannot even imagine what this place is like in the middle of summer!

With dark clouds looming, we managed to grab our bags, grab a bus, and grab cover under a car park before the storm raged for real: Jupiter ushering us out of Positano with a bang. And so the days of the Amalfi coast come to a close with bonus points for bright blue skies, breathtaking views and challenging-but-worth-it hikes. Also fennel liqueur (where does one find some?!)

We stayed in a different section of Napoli on the last night, in a nice B&B run by a zealous host (whose mother made the most fantastic Italian pastries for us for Easter breakfast!). We were bowled over by her hospitality, which proved a wealth of excellent suggestions for the evening, including the best seafood experience of the trip: ‘a Figlia d’o Marenaro. The local favourite being the zuppa di cozze, a pile of steamed seafood over bread, with a zesty fra diavolo drizzled over the lobster. It did not disappoint!

Homemade sfogliatelle, courtesy of our host’s mother

So I left Naples with a better spirit than I entered. Maybe it was the last supper. Perhaps the Mediterranean air seeped into my pores. The eggplant parm and the homemade sfogliatelle and the hiking and the company surely didn’t hurt. They say you need at least 10 days of vacation for it to really feel like a holiday. I was on Day 9 and headed for a couple of nights in Istanbul to finish off my adventure.


I’ve written a lot about Istanbul, so I’ll not go into explicit detail here. Suffice to say it was a nice couple of days wandering about this weird and wonderful city. I’d intended to visit the Rumeli Fortress, a castle situated on the banks of the Bosporus, but it was closed (until next time!). I still managed to eat a traditional herring sandwich at a fish boat on the Golden Horn. I wandered through Gülhane Park and stumbled across a gray heron rookery. I explored Taksim Square, and later the Egyptian spice market. I even watched the Iftar unfold in the park between the Blue Mosque and Ayasofya. And my B&B, the lovely Hotel Empress Zoe where I’ve stayed each time I’ve visited, was a warm comfort. The city has gone through major renovations in the year and a half since I’ve been here, and seeing the old city walls and newly-restored ancient monuments was a treat.


So, no, it wasn’t the warm and sun-soaked holiday I had envisioned. But all the same I’m grateful for the ability to travel. I’m grateful for a world full of food and culture and historical ruins and relics and museums and landmarks and sweeping vistas to explore, and a team back at the office holding down the fort while I took this much-needed break (but not so much for the Lyft driver who got lost at the airport on his way to shuttle my jet-lagged body home).

Until next time, world… the wheels are already spinning.

Adventures in Campania Part 1, Napoli: Rabid football fans and teeming tourists

I’ve been mostly strapped to a computer for much of the past 6 months. Longing for sun and nature and quiet, I had my sights on the Maldives or somewhere equally blue and green. I’d intended on travelling solo to just recharge, but when my tried-and-true travelling companion said he had a week off around Easter, I slotted some PTO on my calendar before things got even hairier or before I melted down completely. Either was in the realm of possibility.

The negotiation on where to go began: We ruled out the C places due to logistics (Crete, Canaries, Cyprus…) and many of the M ones too since he’d been there before (Malta, Madeira, Mallorca…). This left a host of other letters, but with caveats: an easy hop from Central Europe, doable in a week, spring or better weather, and a place by the sea. So a quick check of the extended forecast (20-ish seemed decent enough at the time) and not enough time for me to dig and discover led us to agreeing to disagree but settling upon Naples. I knew nothing about the place, save Vesuvius and Pompeii. With visions of pastel-stuccoed villas and terraced cliffside villages in my head and no time to do more research than buying a guide book the night before leaving, I embarked on my latest escapade thoroughly unprepared.

The itinerary was roughly formed: I’d arrive on Saturday, spend a couple days acclimating, then C would join me for adventures: Vesuvius, Pompeii, a jaunt to the Amalfi coast, and I’d top off the trip with a couple of days in one of my favourite cities on the planet: Istanbul. I don’t know why but the crossroads of the Silk Road call and the uniqueness of the place balances me. Onward.


Part I: Napoli. The trip began with a couple of surprises.

Surprise #1: To my exhausted horror, Naples on a Saturday night when you are expecting a seaside Italian escape is like wandering into someone’s bad joke. The cars, the grime, the NOISE, the tourists! It was essentially the opposite of what I needed. I cried and contemplated leaving. Really.

Surprise #2: Napoli is on track to win its first all-Italy football championship in 30 years. Buildings and stairways are painted in the team colours. Roads and alleyways are draped with flags and team jerseys and banners and streamers and photos of the players. The streets are lined with vendors selling every possible permutation of fan memorabilia: shirts and hats and knick-knacks…even Napoli underwear! Din aside, it was charming to see a city rally around its team as much as this one. Even Boston (where I live), one of the most sports-happy cities on the planet, could learn a trick or two from the Neapolitans.

Instead of leaving immediately, I plotted a minor escape: The next morning I boarded a ferry to a small island called Procida. It is Ischia’s little cousin, and perhaps Capri’s bastard stepchild. In other words, off the tourist map and a perfect outlet from the blue-and-white cacophony of Napoli proper. I spent the afternoon wandering the hills and climbing old fortresses. It’s said that you can reach anywhere on Procida within 6000 steps. So I did a good deal of marching around, ate a rather disappointing seafood plate for lunch, and breathed in the sunny spring seaside air. Mediocre food aside, this helped my mood immensely.

When I got back to Naples, a shower and a good night’s sleep prepped me for a walkabout. Since they have managed to pave everything from the sea to the foot of Mt. Vesuvius, save some teeny lots for lemon trees, it struck me that the correct direction to go was up to get a proper lay of the land, as it were.

Mt Vesuvius and the bay of Naples as seen from Napoli

So up I climbed, and found a little neighbourhood with a nice bakery from which I purchased some local Taralli, and a cheese shop where I got an assortment of local cheeses. These would come in handy as snacks for the week ahead. Once C joined me in the afternoon, we climbed even higher: up the umpteen bazillion steps (read: 416) to the top of Vomero Hill by Castel Sant’Elmo and took in the views. Even from here, Vesuvius looms large and slightly sinister in the background, as if it’s biding time until its next go.


Campania trivia #1: While Mt. Vesuvius left its mark in AD 79, and several times thereafter, the entire Bay of Naples is an extension of the Phlegraean Fields just to the west. Essentially this means the bay and its surrounding area is a supervolcano. Tick-tock.

With the requisite views and city walks out of the way (and an excellent seafood dinner in our bellies), the following morning we boarded a train to Pompeii to see the ruins. A front was coming in, replacing the blue skies with cooler temps and strong winds… gusts which kept many of the houses closed in Pompeii, so the experience there was more about dodging tourist traffic and less actual enjoyment of the site. Cold and bothered, I was not as impressed as I anticipated being. (Note: throngs photoshopped out of some of the photos.)

We had heard “all the stuff is at the museum” enough times to plan a half-day at the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli (MANN) to see the stuff that used to be in the houses and squares, the statues and the artifacts. Turns out that the mummies were actually in a different corner of the Pompeii site and we never got to see them.

Campania trivia #2: There were at least two major towns buried by Vesuvius. Pompeii gets all the hype because it was large and is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but the structures there were mostly destroyed and much of the wood and organic matter has decayed over the centuries. Its wealthier suburb, Herculaneum, caught the brunt of the pyroclastic cloud, then was encased in ash and rock which preserved its structures much better than Pompeii.

So after the museum, we boarded another train to Ercolano (the modern-day commune built atop the buried city of Herculaneum) to see the ruins there.

Hercules does not disappoint. And so, wandering the more intimate (and way less crowded) ancient city of Herculaneum, we were able to see some intact homes and shops and even a bakery with millstones and a huge pizza oven, if pizza were a thing at the turn of the 1st century AD! Vesuvius looms large here, like a ticking clock.


Enter pizza. Napoli is said to be the birthplace of pizza. Or the motherland of the thin crust Neapolitan in any case. So, erm, when in Rome… We set out to find what is deemed to be the best pizza in Naples. I’m from New York originally, so it’s fair to call me a pizza snob. The verdict? Sorbillo’s is undoubtedly the best pizza I’ve had in years! Is it worth a trip to Naples just for the pizza? I’ll leave that entirely up to the reader.

The highlights? The Toledo metro station is a work of art. The food: pretty good (the pizza, excellent!). The lemons: immense. Steps per day: more than double. Day trips to the islands: a must!

Exit Naples. With pizza and ruins in the rear view, I was glad to see the skies brightening (along with my mood) as we departed Naples for the Amalfi coast.

Stay tuned for Campania Part II: Positano (and ponder what comes to mind when you hear the words Amalfi Coast).

On the first day of Weihnachts…

I’m sitting in a Belgian café near my flat, drinking chai and pondering the season. I returned a few days ago from a couple of weeks in Aachen which was thankfully slightly more play than work, albeit fraught with logistical calisthenics. But we’re in these times, so it’s par for the course, I guess. Life as a rollercoaster.

I decided to do this trip last-minute, to visit friends, see the Aachen Weihnachtsmarkt, and mostly to get away from the Novemberness here. Having spent nearly 3 months there last year, it was something of a homecoming. Aachen is a warm, charming cobblestoned city surrounded by Nadelwälder (piney forests) and fairytale villages. I probably romanticize it too much but castles and old stone architecture do that to me.

Somehow, the garbage weather kept itself at bay while I had time off, thankfully raining the heaviest buckets whilst I was working, giving me ample time for traipsing the city under gray, but mostly not-downpouring skies. Then, the snow…

It was a whirlwind trip with no real agendas, save mid-week days filled with work and meetings. So I balanced those hours by enjoying cosy dinners at friends’ homes, exploring museums, wandering the cobblestoned streets, savoring hot cups of tea – and glühwein, sampling Weihnachts delicacies (and declaring Reibekuchen the winner!), all the while breathing in the mineral spring-tinged air. For me there’s something healing about being in this city built atop a network of ancient hot springs and rich mineral deposits.


So in the spirit of the holiday, here’s a synopsis of my world for a couple of weeks in early December…During my lightning trip to Germany, Aachen gave to me:

Eins taste of Eierpunsch. This German version of eggnog is served warm and topped with sahne (cream). Sipping Eierpunsch amongst the throngs and din at the Weinachtsmarkt at the Aachen Dom, surrounded by buildings commissioned by Charlemagne and alongside a dear companion I hadn’t seen in too long, marked the end to a perfect day exploring Aachen’s neighbourhoods.

Zwei different kinds of Glühwein: This warm and wonderful mulled wine is served by myriad vendors across the city in fanciful mugs, each commemorative of that year’s Weinachtsmarkt. Glühwein comes in white and red. Jury is still out on which I liked more!

Drei (maybe more) different Christstollen. Each bakery has its own secret recipe, and every Aachenite has their own favourite. Whichever you choose, the marzipan in the center is like finding hidden treasure!

Vier Weihnachtsmarkt. I landed in Düsseldorf, took a train to Aachen, checked into my hotel and promptly crashed for a much-needed nap. Mid-afternoon, I was pulled out of sleep by a friend calling to invite me to a neighbourhood Christmas market in nearby Würselen. Over the course of my trip, I went to Weihnachtsmarkt in Burtscheid, Stolberg and of course the star of the show at the center of Aachen.

Fünf Reibekuchen… That first night, at the Würselen Christmas market, we were about to get something to eat and I noticed a man carrying a steaming plate of a potato pancake-looking thing. They looked simply lecker (loosely translated: YUMMY!) Turns out it was a Christmas favourite called Reibekuchen, made from grated potatoes and onions, fried and served right out of the pan with applesauce. We managed to sample them at each of the Christmarkets… More, please!

Sechs kilos of Aachener Printen that came back to the States with me (Okay, maybe I exaggerate a little bit). Printen is one of the delights for which Aachen is famous. Think gingerbread, heavy on the ginger and crunch, add some kraüter (herbs; each Printenbäckerei has its own proprietary blend), and top with almonds, hazelnuts or chocolate, then serve with tea. The challenge, of course, is to be frugal with the ones I don’t give away and conserve until I can get to Aachen again. Everyone has theirs, but my favourite is the Klein Printenbäckerei.

Printen display in a Printenbäckerei

Sieben(hundert) visions of a king…it was late in the 8th Century when Charlemagne began wintering in Aachen. Once he was coronated King of the Frankish Empire, he built a stunning palace (now the Rathaus) and the Aachen Cathedral (Dom) here. One cannot go more than a block without seeing Charlemagne’s influence on the city (or a likeness of him, for that matter!).

Acht (or more) Aachener Thermalquellen, or mineral springs. There is a network of mineral springs weaving its way beneath the streets of Aachen. With the largest hotspots (as it were) in the Elisenbrunnen and Burtscheid areas, there are public fountains where you can wash in the stinky-but-purifying waters.

Neun (or so) cobbled and enchanting streets, leading to and from the center of town, winding their way around the main attraction: the Dom. Each of these streets looks like it was pulled straight out of a storybook, the old buildings, ironwork, Gothic architecture, fountains, shops and cafés lining the pedestrian streets. Annastraße, Jacobstraße… the Rommelsgasse and nearbly Hühnemarkt, with its Römischer Portikus, a Roman arch looking like it was dropped there from another world until you remember that Aachen was a Roman spa town in the 1st Century AD.

Zehn (probably more) weird relics housed in the Aachen Cathedral Treasury. This museum houses the significant treasures of Charlemagne’s church and was added, with the Dom, as the first German UNESCO World Heritage site. Per the website of the Domschatz, According to legend, the reliquary treasure in Aachen goes back to a gift from the Byzantine Emperor to Charlemagne. Among the relics are Jesus’ swaddling clothes and the loincloth he wore on the cross. It’s no surprise, then, that Pilgrims flock to Aachen to see these treasures in particular, and it is apparently quite the pilgrimage event when they are placed on display. While I did not get the opportunity to see those relics, I was able to view some just as morbidly fascinating: called the “three small relics”, these reliquaries are purported to house a piece of clothing from the Virgin Mary, a loincloth from Christ, and a garment worn during his scourge. In addition, there were oodles of oddities here, crowns, jewels, and other gold carvings including another reliquary in the shape of a large golden arm, housing the bones of Charlemagne’s forearm. Full disclosure: I’m not Catholic, nor do I understand how relics are certified and attributed to their original owners. Fact or legend, these treasures are fascinating nonetheless.

Elf Tore. Not to be confused with the seasonal toy- and mischief-makers, there once were elf, eleven, gates (Tore) along the old city’s wall. Today, only two city gates remain, impressive and substantial, and two of the reasons I adore this city: Ponttor (to the North) and Marschiertor (to the South). Both of which I visited several times during my trip to get my medieval castle-y fix.

Zwölf (and more) new memories. Am zwölften weihnachtstag (on the twelfth day of Christmas) I won’t have received birds or maids or gold rings or lords or pipers… But I came back feeling grateful and hopeful, enough to tide me through the season and ‘til the next escapade.

The trip was both too quick and just right, leaving me sated with cobblestones and monuments, gothic spires and bronze fountains, medieval gates and 19th Century façades, printen and stollen, food, friends, their dogs and their families…just what the holiday spirit calls for, in any country, in every language.


Frohe Weihnachten. May your holidays bring joy and light, food and warmth, family and friends, peace and simplicity, and may all the wishes on your list come true.