On the first day of Weihnachts…

Posted on 12/23/2022 by Lesli W.

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.

Sieben(hundert) visions of a king…it was late in the 8^th 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 1^st 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 19^th 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.

3 months of limbo: an experiment in working, remotely.

Posted on 11/06/2021 by Lesli W.

This summer, I finally made good on a thing I’ve been considering for much of the past decade. I schemed with my widely-distributed network of friends, examined my pandemic-induced sense of falling and failing and detachedness and isolation, considered my untethered lifestyle, consulted my supportive and completely remote team at work, and was encouraged by some enthusiastic (and possibly slightly envious) friends at home… I spent 3 months travelling (and working) elsewhere. The emphasis on elsewhere meant that the where needed to be as far away from here as possible given the circumstances.

I set out to see some places in Europe I hadn’t been, and at the same time visit the friends I hadn’t seen in ages. The trip culminated with a stay at a friend’s house and morphed into some subsequent weeks of working remotely from there. Since a large part of my immediate team is in India, the fact that I was in a much closer time zone meant we could have more meaningful meetings and collaborate earlier in their day. Since I was working a different shift, it meant I had time in the mornings to explore Aachen and its surrounds before beginning my day (on India time) and continuing as the US started theirs.

I started the adventure with two weeks off. I visited a friend in Amsterdam and explored a wee bit of Holland in a haze of pandemic-fueled anxiety. I went to Belgium, again visiting a long-time dear friend/co-adventurer to see different aspects of life and leisure there. When my time off was ending, I travelled to Berlin with the intent of meeting a friend there, and again seeing the city through her eyes. We used our yoga to minimise the disappointment that bubbled up when that visit didn’t turn out at all as expected.

As I travelled and saw those I hadn’t seen in eons, I was feeling more welcome away than I was at home, which was part of the impetus to get out of Dodge in the first place. To dodge Dodge, as it were.

From Berlin I went to Aachen, where my experiment in working remotely began in earnest; it’s here where the unintended extension of my trip unfolded. It went something like this: I simply wasn’t ready to go home yet.

A friend who was watching my flat back home told me that it looked as though I had been kidnapped, time stopped, a used coffee mug forgotten in the sink (I wouldn’t discover this until I returned home and the seasons had turned). And maybe I had been, in a way; kidnapped that is: the thought of returning was more paralysing than the thought of staying, even without adequate outerwear, shoes, pants or (especially) a place to spend the next 8 weeks.

And so I undertook the task of finding temporary lodgings that wouldn’t a) break the bank or b) be too far from the immediate surrounds which were growing on me. I was stressed out and my options were waning as my impending departure date grew closer. My stabs in the dark of finding a place to stay somehow corroborated my poor aim and kicked me in the gut for good measure. Yet against all odds, and as I ran out of options, a personal philosophy reared its head: things work out, just not the way you expected. 48 hours before I was scheduled to fly, it was a near-stranger that came to my rescue. A friend of a friend with a house to lend, asking very little but kindness in return for his generosity. I am still beyond grateful.

These weeks, turned months, abroad meant I lived out of a suitcase and slept on a borrowed bed, cooked in a borrowed kitchen, foraged salad and berries and herbs in a borrowed garden, and woke each day on borrowed time.

I started writing this post weeks ago from the terrace of that borrowed house…in a country where I had only a smattering of friends, a handful of useful words and phrases in the local language, and a suitcase full of chocolate and other consumables that I’d intended to bring home with me weeks prior when my return ticket was supposed to return me to the States. Staying, ironically, felt a bit like I was running away.

To me, Corona-time has felt like a swirling mass of social anxiety, where the rules change by the day and any social awkwardness is put under an electron microscope: my every cell felt on-edge these past months, on the verge of Something Very Bad about to happen. Heeding that, I’d been cautious to exceedingly careful with interpersonal contact. Still, the weeks of travelling and staying with friends were more “peopling” than I’d had in nearly 2 years. I’d been awkward and amateurish with friends, near-terrified of public spaces (especially in Holland, where I’m still not convinced they think COVID is even a thing), and more reclusive than one normally would be on a semi-extended holiday abroad. All the while, I was thankful that Germany seemed much more organised against this mad bug.

And so, on the terrace as I was writing, a silly quote from my college freshman roommate swam into my mind: wherever you go, there you are. Me, in a borrowed house a few blocks from the Aachen Tierpark, where the he-wolf lost his mate and now howls at night trying to find her. Indeed. Here I am.

There’s the Tierpark and also a Bauernhof nearby, giving the air a certain je ne sais quoi when the wind shifts, and the greenery makes one feel like the heart of the city is several kilometres, not blocks, away. I’m working remotely with a laptop and a portable monitor and headset so the neighbours don’t think I’m completely mad. But dodging reality while creating something of a parallel reality is a little weird. Because at the end of the day, regardless of time zone, it’s still me at the end of the Teams meeting or email thread or WhatsApp call, avoiding dealing with the Bathroom Project and the batshit crazies where I’m from, and the local news cycles and the Physical Therapist and the Dentist and the Gynecologist and probably more ists than I’m aware exist.

Wherever you go, there you are. On a terrace, near the zoo, 1000-year-old churchbells ringing out periodically. It’s not bad, here, except that the mad ramblings in my brain are along for the ride as well.

These borrowed or stolen weeks of working and wandering were wonderful, if I’m honest: mornings before work there was time for a walk to the farmers market and chai from the coffee truck, all manner of local goods on offer: cheese and ridiculously fresh produce and local baked goods and regional specialties. Other days I’d walk in the nearby Nadelwäld, following the Eselsweig into the trees, watching the fog lift off the fields, horses grazing in their paddocks without a care.

I met additional friends of friends, coffee friends and friend-friends, the latter with whom I’d go hiking and apple picking and farmers marketing and walking in the days and weeks to come. I think I romanticized the simple-ness of it all, because much of my existence for those weeks was really just about walking and going to the market and the forest and working and making supper and crashing so I could do it all over again the net day. It didn’t suck.

And as the weeks unfolded, I revelled in the quality of life, the simplicity and wholeness: I didn’t drive, I barely even rode a bicycle. Rather, walking the cobbled streets daily, I passed centuries-old city walls and the even-older cathedral. I rinsed my hands in the city’s warm and sulfuric mineral spring fountains, bought yogurt in glass jars and Eier by the half-dozen from a guy with a cart at the farmers market. I picked lettuce and herbs from the garden, made applesauce from the apples we picked on the weekend, and brewed tea with the sage and rosemary and mint.

One morning, a few days before I was to fly out, I was walking through the pine forest with a heavy heart. The morning was also heavy with what felt like change in the air. In an instant, a low fog materialised and weaved its way through the pines, momentarily grabbing my ankles and stopping me in my tracks. The birdsong, the horses whinnying in the distance, the needle-muffled footsteps… it occurred to me not for the first time in recent days, that these small moments are precious. These Nadelwälder would never be the same as in this precise moment. Me either.

Being a guest in others’ lives made me think deep about the long-lost art of hosting. In French, the verb accueillir (to host) also means to receive or greet or welcome. In German, it might be Gastfreundschaft zeigen…the word freund rings clear. Of all the things I learnt on this trip, the strongest lesson was how to receive and be humbled by an outpouring of graciousness by so many who really didn’t have to do a thing. It was a profound contrast to the 18 months of compounded inquiet and trepidation I had escaped, no idea if traces of that would remain when I returned.

So that was the middle part of the story. I took one more sojourn at the end of my stay: I went back to Turkey, unexpectedly solo, and experienced more warmth (human and atmospheric) than I could ever imagine. With that, I left Europe with a renewed faith in the goodness of strangers, realising at the same time how much I needed the independence of that last adventure…Aachen’s hot springs somehow still pulsing in my veins.

My yoga practice has taught me about balance, and the eternal tug-of-war with the concept of enough. This trip taught me lessons in receiving rather than always giving, in letting the Universe set a trajectory rather than charting a course, in seeing what transpires rather than injecting will into an outcome…

Lessons learnt from 3 months in limbo:

Bring the warm coat…it will come in handy!
Friends come out of the woodwork and surprise you when you least expect it (and need it most)
Don’t get attached to an expectation; we are part of a machine that is in continuous motion
Make the most of, and work with, what you’ve got…
…You can make do with much less than you think you need
Friendship is neither transactional nor always balanced, but it is reciprocal
Being an introvert in a pandemic comes with its own echelons of social anxiety that the rest of the world doesn’t quite get (and you’re not required to explain)
There are more strangers with warm hearts than with ill intentions
Show up: physically and intentionally
Be deliberate: with words, integrity, intention, respect, vulnerability, action, generosity
Accept acts of kindness and pay it forward