Tag Archives: castles

On the first day of Weihnachts…

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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.

Ponttor
Ponttor
Marschiertor

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.

On castles and forests, fairytale villages and quite a lot of chocolate.

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When I think about Europe, what arises is the semi-fascination I have with castles and old brick. I gravitate towards cobblestone pavements and the shells of old architecture as much as, perhaps, to the stories and secrets and folklore these contain. And so, rather than sites and landmarks and tourist hotspots, I wanted to experience the essence of Belgium in its culture and villages and the warmth of its red brick. All credit is due to my adventure-spirited Calvin, who (as he does) interpreted my indecisiveness and planned us a route through Belgium that Lonely Planet couldn’t have possibly outdone.

But first, the Ancestors.

Our ancestors are totally essential to our every waking moment, although most of us don’t even have the faintest idea about their lives, their trials, their hardships or challenges. –Annie Lennox.

My grandfather arrived on Ellis Island from Russia, via Poland and then Antwerp, on a ship called the SS Kroonland. The Red Star Line had a fleet of these ships; immigrant ferries, really, that transported fleeing Europeans to a land of new opportunities. On 12 December, 1921, Josel Widra travelled with his mother and siblings on a 10-day transatlantic journey that would seed my New York roots.

So when I was deciding where I’d go from Holland, I set my sights on Antwerp as a starting point, as this is where my travelling genes were pollinated. Maybe.

It turns out that the Red Star Line had a helping hand in the processing of emigrants as well as the shipping. There were lodging houses and disinfection stations and days, if not weeks, of waiting and cleaning and more waiting and more disinfecting. This, after many days’ journey in crowded trains, all the while the passengers were inspected (for lice and disease and of course proper paperwork) at each step of the way.

While I unfortunately didn’t learn any specifics of my grandfather’s emigration (the museum’s research room was closed due to COVID), I did learn about the collective journey, and thus emerged from the experience with more questions than answers about the lengths that a solo mother (my great-grandmother, Tillie), went through to ensure a safe passage from Eastern Europe to a new life on the other side of the ocean.

The hardest of my hardships pale in comparison.

Exploring.

As is our bent, C and I explored Antwerp on foot, basing ourselves in the center of the old city by the Cathedral of Our Lady, a brilliant and towering Gothic church which served both as home base and a lighthouse of sorts when our (read: my) navigational skills failed. We sampled local beers (thumbs up) and local sweets (ditto), perused local art (Rubenshuis), learnt about local legends (Brabo), and experienced a unique sort of local hospitality that I have not yet categorized in a Soup-Nazi-meets-Falafel-King experience that we’re not soon to forget (yet resulted in some of the best falafel I’ve ever had!).

The city is equally charming and confusing, its architecture is an ad-hoc mélange of step-gabled beauties and 1970’s mishaps, with a surprisingly large red light district that cuts a swath across the gray concrete near the harbour. Leaving, I was relieved that the Belgians seem to be taking this pandemic thing more seriously than the Dutch, and I looked forward to exploring both the Belgian countryside and its fairytale villages. Also pralines.

Napoleon was here.

My personal guided tour of Brussels and its surrounds began in the municipality of Rixensart and had us trapising through the lovely trails on the grounds and surrounds of the Château de La Hulpe (trees! flowers! gardens! ponds! and a castle! 5⭐) and then the magnificent remnants of the 1000-year old Villers Abbey.

“Si je n’étais pas l’homme representé dans mes images, j’aimerais être l’oiseau. J’ai toujours envie de m’envoler, de bouger, de partir dialoguer avec le vent.”

Folon

A short ride away, we explored the battlegrounds at Waterloo, my American education’s rendition of European History glaring in its unenlightenment, and then Brussels proper, where I was as equally stymied by the arbitrary architecture as I was in Antwerp. Even more strange was the reenactment of some obscure tradition we stumbled into at the Grand-Place, involving giant puppets, a speech, a parade, and some ceremonial carrying of cheese (or an egg or something) to Greece. I may have some of these details slightly wrong.

We perused the fantastic Cook & Book, saw Mannekin Pis (because, Brussels), and ate gaufres (ditto). After 1/2 a day, a torrential downpour and not enough castles, we were headed to Bruges.

Des pralines et les rues pavées.

The quintessential image of Belgium (in my head at least) is of the medieval cobbled streets and picturesque canals of Bruges. Apparently, after its main waterways silted up (500 or so years ago), Bruges lost out to Antwerp as a major trading/shipping city and this setback ended up preserving the area: its medieval façades remained virtually intact as other Belgian cities gentrified, and Bruges was spared most of the damage from WW1 and WW2 that other cities faced. Today, to say that Bruges’ centuries-old architecture delights and enchants is an understatement.

So we wandered, delighted and enchanted and content, through the rues pavées, over canals, along the river, and in and out of praline shops (n.b., we managed to find the absolute BEST pralines in Belgium)…my only regret of the trip was not buying an entire kilo, as we also managed to consume the lot by the end of the week.

And into the hills…

Fairytale villages, eclectic architecture, historical battlegrounds and loads of chocolate behind us, I had no idea what to expect for hiking in the Ardennes, except that it was to begin with a kayak trip “on that river by the castle”. I had seen pictures, and wanted to experience it for myself.

Fast forward, and we’re kayaking down a semi-bloated river which only weeks before had been the scene of horrific flash floods and unfortunate casualties (life and property). And while the cranky shoulder did complain, the sight of a castle as I’m kayaking down a tree-lined river in the heart of the Ardennes with one of my favourite people on the planet really put into perspective what’s important: the best things in life aren’t tangible, but instead are stitched together from these feelings of warmth and belonging, of peace and ok-ness even whilst floating on a river with a throbbing shoulder thousands of kilometres from home.

(photo courtesy of Chris G.)

The day continued with another castle (la roche en Ardenne), some of the best strawberries I’ve had this season, local beer, Dutch cheese, some borrowed butter, and deep sleep in fresh country air. More kudos to my tour guide for finding us the most precious and absolutely picture-perfect maison d’hôtes in a former farmhouse situated in the heart of rolling farmlands and quaint country villages.

We rounded out this leg of the adventure with a hike: it should be mostly flat…it’s just the perimeter of a lake, after all. Famous last words, but a quite enjoyable 15km trek around the lake/river, its ups and downs testing our wander-weary limbs. The climbs were technical, the views were lovely, and at the end of the day, its two adventurers were sweaty, muddy, hungry, but nonetheless sated…

So I said au revoir to Belgium, leaving things on a to-do list for next time: more hikes, a 1-month sojourn in said guest house to hunker down and study French, more storybook towns and ditto castles.

Next stop, Berlin: Unexpected detours and an experiment in remote work.

Balkan Doživljaj, final chapter: All roads lead to…Istanbul?

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I’ve just spent 2-1/2 weeks travelling, bouncing between historic stone towns wrapped in ancient fortresses and a mesmerising display of what happens when nature gets to push its boundaries. I spent time in Croatia and Montenegro, and then a couple of drive-throughs of the Bosnia end of Bosnia and Herzegovina (passport stamped 2x, but it feels a little like cheating to “count” a country without really seeing it). Croatia, and to some extent Montenegro, draws cruise ships to its ports, but thankfully many of the wonders of both are too far inland or too small to be considered “worthwhile” destinations.

Worthwhile is in the eye of the beholder: I’ll always gravitate towards that which is lesser-known, farther-flung, not-as-trodden, ditto obscure; grateful for the opportunities that health and employment and relative freedom afford.

Before going home, I further bounced to a stopover in one of my favourite cities, Istanbul, where I set my sights on seeing things I hadn’t in my previous visits here. In all its own ways, this city mesmerises. On so many levels, it’s where East meets West and where secular meets orthodox. The Adhan, call to prayer, echoes in the streets at its regular cadence, the chants melding with the city’s din. In the market crowds, suited or Levi’s- and T-shirt-garbed urbanites jumble with burqa and niqab and headscarf-clad women to create a kaleidoscopic patchwork of cotton and silk and wool and skin.

It is an architecturally fabulous city, elaborate and historic mosques and the 5th-century Walls of Constantinople that surround the oldest parts of the city, juxtaposed against the gleaming downtown bridges and myriad shops…there’s a sweet shop on nearly every corner selling a regional favourite – Turkish Delight.

I spend my first afternoon reacquainting myself to this old town neighbourhood – Sultanahmet – known primarily for the Blue Mosque and its neighbour, the Ayasofya (or Hagia Sofia), an Orthodox cathedral-turned-mosque-turned-cultural museum. It’s the latter I’m intent on seeing this day. The mid-day tourist crush has diminished and I breeze in without much wait. It is immense, and an engineering wonder on its own…(the interior height of the dome is an astounding 55.6 metres high). (Re-)built as a cathedral in 537AD, it was considered a pinnacle in Byzantine architecture. Once the Ottoman Empire did its thing in the 1400’s, Ayasofya was converted into a mosque (in the process, the spectacular mosaics were plastered over). Today, the structure serves as a museum, and as such, we see a restoration of the old Orthodox tilework with Christian works contrasted against the elaborate mosque décor, including 8 massive calligraphic discs depicting the names of Allah, the Prophet Mohammed, and other related messengers and bigwigs (thus concludes my knowledge of the Islamic hierarchy). At present, the Turkish government is arming for a fight with the UNESCO folks, as Erdoğan is angling to turn the museum back into an active mosque.

Next morning, I hop a bus to get on a boat that takes me on a water tour from the Golden Horn (Istanbul’s old trading port and current and bustling waterfront) and into the Bosporus Strait, the waterway that serves to connect the Black Sea with the Aegean, and one of primary reasons Constantinople was a key trading post along the Silk Road. There are reminders of Istanbul’s place in history scattered throughout the city, like the Obelisk of Theodosius or a little stela, almost hidden between a tram stop and the crowded entrance to the Basilica Cistern, called the Milion Stone, marking the “zero point” to everywhere else that was important in the Byzantine era, with distances. Constantinople was the center of the modern world and this stone told you how far away the place you wanted to go was from the only place that mattered. It’s these little wonders that just add to the magic of this city.

Istanbul is the largest city that sits on the cusp of two continents, the Bosporus separating the European from the Asian side of the country. And from the water you can definitely see many of the historical influences in the variety of architectural styles. Grand mosques, old and new; modern industrial eyesores, marble palaces, red roofed stone houses built into the hillsides, pretty painted neighbourhoods that look like something from a travel magazine… And, to my delight, a castle! As we make our way down the Bosporus towards a stop on the Asian side, I see a massive fortress on the European side. The Rumeli Fortress, I learn, is one of several fortresses here. It’s not really surprising, knowing something of the history of the region, and these are now (all!) at the top on my list of what to see next time I return.

The Golden Horn is a natural harbour, and as we come into port, it warms my heart to see some of its resident dolphin population. This harbour was once bubbling with fish and these dolphins’ ancestors, but here, too, they’re sadly feeling the impact of overfishing and pollution.

We’re at port and I bid farewell to the hungover Finns I met onboard. My next stop is what’s becoming an annual pilgrimage to the Mısır Çarşısı, the old spice market, where I acquire enough Turkish Delight, cheese, olives and biber salçasi (a thick red pepper paste) to eat like a Turk for a while back home!

My remaining hours here fly by – I walk back towards my hotel along the water, watching the fishermen cast their lines in the channel where the Golden Horn meets the Bosporus. On the way, I wander through the lovely Gülhane Parkı and make it back to my neighbourhood. It’s all becoming more familiar to me; even the human traffic jam I encountered at the spice market seemed amusing, and I had a laugh at the situation with strangers in the crowd.

Dinner is at a cosy little place lit by hundreds of Turkish mosaic lamps, then I meander back to my B&B a bit slower than necessary. Early the next morning, I do a last wander around Sultanahmet before the crowds arrive. I patted some stray dogs, got adopted by a cat, had a fresh-pressed pomegranate juice and then brekkie in the lovely B&B courtyard before starting the journey back to the real world.

In a blink of an eye, I’m on a bus, reflecting on the string of encounters I’ve had in this strangely enchanting city. The bus is taking me back to the airport, and to the air ferry that will magic me over the continent of Europe and then over the sea that separates this continent from mine. Sitting next to me is a smiling woman from Kabul, here in Istanbul for a few days of shopping. Back home, she teaches Arabic. In broken English, hand gestures and Google translate, we shared a little bit about ourselves. Then she WhatsApp calls her teenage son in Kabul so he could meet me. The world is so much smaller than we are led to believe (and parents around the world will forever be embarrassing their teenagers, I think). People are people, regardless of their wrapping.

When I travel, I try to come home knowing more than I did and seeing something new or from a different perspective. Sometimes it makes me question the rat race, makes me more worried about the rabid consumerism that spreads like a virus, makes me want to work harder to find that balance between work and play, where play should win out but doesn’t always…

Until next time, Istanbul. I’m readying for the next adventure…

Read the whole Balkan Doživljaj story here: Part I: Arrival | Part II: Into the Mountains of Montenegro | Part III: Fleeing the Russians for the Countryside | Part IV: Nature, Fog, and Maybe Going to Hell | Part V: In Which I Split