Europe: 10 Photos of France So Far

My experience here at Le Jean de Moine Farm has been patchwork. Much of it has been uneventful, hardly worth writing a blog about. My days have been full of sunlight and rain spattering through the forest, the warm pungent odor of goats, the burn of stinging nettles, the satisfying squelch of muddy wet shoes, the frosty beauty of stars through a steamed-up window pane, and the hearty flavor of homemade sourdough bread. Here are some photos from the past few days.

The festive streets of Luxeuil-les-Bains, complete with random picturesque castle in the distance.

Shanie and Till breaking out the six-strings.

Alejandra being "ethnic." (The quesadillas she made were amazing.)

More Luxeuil-les-Bains.

The pastry shop in town looks delightful… so I bought a chocolate-creme-braid-pastry thingy.

My hippie friends: Till, Shanie, Christine, and Alejandra.

Dramatic statue of St. Colomban, founder of the monastery in Luxeuil-les-Bains.

The "Total Recall" tagline is unreasonably funny to me in French. Something got lost in the translation....

A picnic by the lake! Notice the homemade bread and cheese.

I forget to take photos of myself… Shanie snapped this one to help me remember the beauty of France!

Europe: How to Milk a Goat

I’ll bet that every one of you woke up this morning thinking, “I hope the Traveling Mandolin posted that blog about milking goats that she promised! I have wished and dreamed my entire life to learn this art, and finally I have my chance.” Fortunately for you, your dreams have come true. I offer you, in nine easy steps, the goat-milking process.

1. Gather the correct materials. You need a nanny (the billy goats don’t take too kindly to being milked), a couple of pails, a strainer, some cheesecloth, and really good quadriceps muscles (crouching turns my legs to jelly after a while).

2. Wash the pails in boiling water to sterilize them, then take the buckets to the stable.

3. Wrangle your chosen goat into a corner, with her rump against a wall. Crouch down, placing your knee in front of her body in a (futile) attempt to keep her from running away. Place the pail beneath her udder and pray that she’s in a good mood. Hold her collar or horns at first to make sure she stays put.

4. With your forefinger and thumb, press firmly above the nipple of the udder. You can feel the milk pooling under this little tourniquet. Squeeze the rest of your fingers on the nipple in succession, pulling on the udder at the end to get the milk to squirt downward instead of sideways onto your pants.

5. If the goat is calm, put a hand on each side of the udder and alternate milking them. If you get into the rhythm of it, it’s quite meditative. If the goat is not calm, continue milking with one hand and holding with the other.

6. When her nipples run dry, slap her udder hard several times to stimulate more milk flow. At first I was timid about this, but after I saw a baby goat nursing, I realized that my hand could never deliver more damage that a kid slamming his skull into her as hard as he could. Continue milking and slapping under she is dry.

7. Spend some time petting and cuddling the goats. Several of the goats here are quite friendly, visiting me when I’m milking others, or even when I’m milking them, to deliver a nuzzle on the cheek.

8. Carry the milk inside. Take a small circle of cheesecloth and place it inside a strainer. Pour milk from the bucket through the strainer into another bucket to get out the goat hair, straw, and dirt.

9. If you’re brave, the milk is ready to drink. Otherwise, warm it on the stove to sterilize it. You now have delicious, fresh-from-the-goat milk to pour on your muesli, thicken your soups, or turn into delicious camembert cheese!

~~~

Europe: Life on a German-Run French Hippie Goat Farm

Getting ready for breakfast

It’s day three of my time here on Le Jean de Moine Farm (named after John the Monk, who lived here about four hundred years ago). Since my first crazy meeting with Till, things have calmed down a lot and my days have fallen into a relaxed pattern.

The building bears the date 1634, so I assume that’s when it was built. It hides out on the side of a wooded mountain, brought to life smack-dab in the middle of the Thirty Years’ War. Made mostly of stone, the house has been plastered and re-plastered a thousand times, its roof supported with wooden beams draped in an impressive swath of cobwebs. Walking upstairs to my room is a careful exercise that involves ducking through the five-foot-tall doorways (people were a lot shorter back then) and feeling each foothold on the steep, uneven stairs. We get our drinking water from a shallow well in the cellar, and there is not much insulation anywhere in the house, making it feel like an airy, well-kept barn instead of a house. Still, we have the comforts of home, including electricity, wi-fi, and indoor plumbing.

Till has transformed the property from a picturesque old house to a hippie hideout. Random artwork crowds the walls, banners and bandanas flutter from every wire, goat skulls and rusted tools of unknown use pile up everywhere, and every day I notice a new carved wooden face peering out at me from somewhere I didn’t notice before— beside the sink trough, over the doorframe, behind the cumin on the kitchen shelf. Till often plays music, on the computer or on his guitar, and I fool around on the piano every once in a while.

There are six of us altogether: Till is most often found smoking a cigarette or making cheese with the goat’s milk. He is the kind of person who makes a pseudo-hippie-farm possible: laid-back, but willing to order people around and organize things.

Tomas is also German. He's a friend of Till's, and has paused here in his constant nomadic travels of the world. On my first day here he baked a huge batch of sourdough bread in the bread oven. He wears round wire-frame glasses and has a nice gentle sense of humor.

Christine is the third German. Petite and soft-spoken, she has curly brown hair and a nervous expression. She just finished her studies and is trying to make some life decisions about whether she wants to have her own farm.

Alejandra is from the Yucatan in Mexico. She dresses in bright patterns and pretty skirts, cooks amazing salsa, and has a friendly round face.

Shanie is Alejandra's girlfriend from Israel. She has a curly Jew-fro, a washed-out look like she's high all the time, and a sweet smile. They are a very affectionate couple. When both of them are in the kitchen, the meals are certain to be fantastic— so they do most of the cooking.

The kitchen (notice the spice jars with lids nailed to the ceiling)

My typical day is this: first thing in the morning, everybody (except me) drinks coffee out of mismatched mugs. Then we grab the milking pails and head to the barn where 20 goats mill around in the straw. We spend a good half hour milking them (that deserves its own blog entry), then haul everything back to the kitchen. Till makes breakfast for everyone while some of us strain the straw and goat hair out of the milk. We bottle some, leave some in a pot for cheese, and pour some directly onto the muesli.

We begin each meal by joining hands and observing a minute of silence. I pray during this time; I have yet to ask the others what they do. When we all make eye contact, we shake each other’s hands up and down and shout, “Bon appetit, grand et petite!” followed by giggling. Every meal is sumptuous: homemade bread and cheese, jams of all kinds, leftover hummus and bean spread, and the muesli. So far everything has been vegetarian, but I’ve hardly missed the meat.

The view out my window

The rest of the morning is dedicated to various kinds of work, from herding the goats down to pasture to making cheese to hauling wood to the porch. We have lunch around 3, usually some kind of hearty soup. I spend my afternoons trying to catch up on blogs, write to everyone, and wander the property exploring its nooks and crannies. Supper is often at 8:30 to 9, with the same ritual as every meal. Then everyone hangs out, playing music, working on their own projects, or doing dishes, until bedtime.

I’ve never been on a farm with this kind of relaxed routine, and it’s taken some getting used to. Once I figured out that I didn’t have to be helping every second, I started relaxing. This morning we ruthlessly pruned a jungle of raspberry bushes, and now my arms are striped with thorn scars and burning from the rash of stinging nettles, but the garden looks so much better, it’s all worth it. I have already decided something, living here: I am going to have a garden someday. Hopefully a big one. It’s a lot of work, but it’s worth it, in so many ways.

Tomorrow, I hope to tell you all about my newest skill: milking goats!

One of the many birds at the farm

~~~

Europe: Through the Alps, on to France

Ready for an adventure?

Saturday, 25 August, 2012

I said goodbye to Salzburg through the window of the classiest train I have ever ridden. Couched in an ergonomic seat with a friendly display screen showing the train’s location, speed, and expected arrival at each upcoming stop, I was ready to begin my 9-hour travel day from Austria to France. My route would lead me through the heart of the Alps, and, as you can imagine, I was pretty excited.

The Alps are something that most people look at and say, “They are indescribable.” Believe me, I’m tempted. Even now, sitting at my desk staring at the words I type, I try to remember what I saw, and try to scrape the words from my memory in a way that will even touch the glory of the landscape.

Many of the Alps look like “ordinary” mountains: massive hills of pasture and woodland reaching up to delicate points before sloping downward again. However, many of the Alps are impossibly vertical. They do not slope; they jut, thousands of meters up, divided peak from peak by jagged silver lines of rivers that score through the stone. They cut the clouds apart like butter with their tors, reaching out of the grasp of the trees that feed on their slopes. 

They are still, like a predator frozen just before it attacks. They are solemn and lonely in the rain, but glorious as a baby’s laughter when the sun washes them and lights up the houses spotted across their green sides. Fleecy mist floats among them. Waterfalls tumble off them. And I, sitting in my train car with a million distracting reflections to fight against, tried to photograph them. I mostly failed, but I’m happy with this shot:

The train also sailed me past a lake, of the purest turquoise I’ve ever seen, mirroring the roots of the Alps that bank right up to their shores. Clouds blanketed the tops of the mountains, reflected dimly in the water.

When I hopped off the train in Zürich, I had seven minutes to get from platform 7 to platform 15. Fortunately, it was a short walk, and I plopped down into the seat of a train with an alarmingly pinkish-purple color scheme. I was on my way to France.

It was only then that I realized how familiar the German language has become to me. Even though I still barely understand a word of it, it falls on my ears without offense and I have learned to get the gist of it. French, however, sounded completely foreign, even though I studied it in high school. It took my brain a while to adjust.

The landscape was unremarkable from Zürich onward, so I read a little of Perelandra by C.S. Lewis (put this on your “I must read” list if you haven’t already) and found that the muted gold sunset reflected the description in the story. Then I plugged in my earbuds and inhabited my own thoughts. Toward the end of the day, on a one-car local train, I listened to Duncan Sheik’s Phantom Moon CD, which is mellow and rather haunting. So it was that when I stepped off the train in the small station at Lure, France, I felt quiet and relaxed.

I stood by myself outside, glancing around at the streetlights, hoping that each car driving by was my ride. I thought over what I knew about Till, the owner of the goat farm: she seemed laid back, trilingual, and fairly traditional. She had gotten good reviews. All I had to do was wait, in the stillness of the night with the slashes of dark clouds silhouetted against the last bit of light on the horizon. 

That’s when I heard the squealing of tires. A rust-red car roared into the parking lot, turned sharply, and barreled straight toward my spot on the curb. My only thought was, “Okay, this must be Till…”

A tall man with a short mohawk and a ponytail of dreadlocks sprouting from the back of his shaved head leaped out of the driver’s seat and rushed toward me, calling, “Welcome to France!” I held out my hand and was about to say, “Hi, I’m Lisa,” but before I could, he grabbed my shoulders and kissed each of my cheeks. A girl had jumped out of the backseat and she squealed a welcome to France as well, accompanied by more kisses. A third girl said hello from the backseat as the guy threw my backpack into the trunk, and by that time, I was in shock.

Next thing I knew, we were screeching down deserted country roads, winding the rough asphalt at 100 km, and I was leaning back praying that we didn’t crash and wishing I had a working seatbelt. I had been snacking on candy all day, and so my adrenaline hit a massive high. I was glad it was dark so the others couldn’t see my crazed wide eyes and my hands gripping my knees. 

At last we wheeled into the tumble of buildings that is the farm. I caught glimpses of barns, random outbuildings, and a garden, but I was distracted by the string of Christmas lights spanning the driveway, with a sign beneath it saying, “Welcome Home Everybody.” 

The guy, as it turns out, was Till. My American prejudice had gotten in the way of me figuring this out, and it took me until the next morning to do so. Within minutes he showed me to my room: a spacious attic with a skylight above my bed that looks up to the stars. Then downstairs I trotted (the wood floor bowing dangerously under my steps) for dinner that one of the girls cooked. I learned everybody’s names. I learned there were six of us here. I ate the eggplant stir fry, and then, dizzy but relieved, I crashed on my mattress and didn’t stir the entire night. I was now in France.

~~~

Europe: One Last Day in Salzburg

Friday, 24 August, 2012

I strode out the apartment door on a mission. I had some Salzburg sights to see, and I was getting a late start from sleeping so late. It was time to catch the bus, hop out at the city center, and get this day off the ground.

Then I looked to the stretch of farmland to my right, and moody clouds, leftovers from the storm the night before, brushing the peaks of the Alps. Thoughts of the bus flew from my head, and I just started walking toward the open land.

The roads around here are twisty, and I ended up winding my way through several small villages, in between walking the open road and gaping at the tapestry of mountains spread out before me. I said hello to cows and skirted the edges of cornfields and watched as the mountains unveiled their beauty to me with each little turn I took. 

The Alps around Salzburg are different from any mountains I have ever seen. I’m used to the Smokies, massive rolling hills cloaked in green; the Rockies, bones carved from the earth, jutting up in impossible peaks; the Cascades, evergreen at the bottom, bare snowy tips. 

The Alps here are a mix of everything. Looking at one mountain is an adventure for the eyes. They are covered in patches of texture with no pattern to them: water-splash shapes of trees, swatches of green meadows, rills of bare rock, cliffs of all angles. Their silhouettes are unique, jagged as the line of a seismograph. One day, I hope to return and do some hiking in them for real, but you never know where life will take you.

I wandered the country roads for well over an hour, and by that time, I was close enough to Salzburg that I realized I might as well hoof it. Waste money on a bus when  could just walk? I should say not!

Of course, without a map of the outlying areas, I got pretty lost. That’s hard to do when there are so many huge landmarks (mountains, castle on the mountains...). But I excel at getting lost. Still, it was little more than an hour before I found myself against the river, which oriented me to everything else, and, after a brief salad break at My Indigo, I ended up at the huge fountain in the courtyard next to the Salzburg Cathedral. Here I indulged in reading again, finishing The Secret Garden. I will now forever associate that book with Salzburg.

What next? More hiking, of course! Georgi had told me about a view that I couldn’t miss, pointing it out on the map. As I climbed the paving-stone streets toward the ridge of the mountain that supports the castle, I realized that I wasn’t out of breath as I was two days previous. Maybe I’m getting used to climbing mountains. But how can I keep up this skill when I’m back in Missouri?

I retraced a bit of my trail from two days ago, but diverged at a place that I hadn’t realized was a hiking path. This led me to the view that Georgi had told me about. I thought I had seen amazing views before. This was all the amazing views put together. I was so delighted I felt like laughing aloud, so I did.

Oddly enough, it was staring at Salzburg through a viewfinder that made me realize that it is a fairy-tale city. Seriously, this is the city you put in a movie, with the nice white buildings and all the church spires and the simple but majestic castle perched on the very top of the mountain. Somebody should make a movie about the city! And call it “The Music of Sound,” or something like that.

I spent the rest of my day wandering, as I am apt to do. I explored the walking path that runs by the river, which was milky brown from yesterday’s rain. I visited the Hauptbahnhof and bought my ticket to France for tomorrow. I said a little farewell to the Mirabell Gardens, and nodded my goodbye to the city center.

My time in Salzburg is drawing to a close. Anybody could spend a lifetime here, getting to know every detail of its beauty, but I’m happy that I’ve had three days. Tomorrow I’m going on to France, where a new adventure awaits. Auf Wiederhesen, Salzburg!

~~~

Europe: Rambling in Salzburg

I've been without wifi for a couple of days, so here's a blog to start catching up!

Wednesday, 22 August, 2012

On Wednesday morning, Michaela drove me to the Amberg Hauptbahnhof, my jumping-off point from Germany. We said a warm goodbye, I bought a (surprisingly cheap) ticket, I wished Zack luck, and then I stood by myself once more on the station platform, ready to head out into the great unknown. Three weeks of Germany were behind me, and I felt ready to experience another culture, although I guessed that Salzburg wouldn’t be different from a tourist’s perspective.

You read about my day in Salzburg in my previous blog. But I wrote that before I got sick. Yes, I got sick in a hostel— for the second time in my trip to Europe. I think it was food poisoning of some kind, and it wasn’t too severe, but I got very well acquainted with the hostel’s toilet. At last, dizzy with nausea but exhausted, I was able to fall asleep. 

Thursday, 23 August, 2012

Fortunately, I woke up feeling washed out, but much better. A kind couchsurfing host had written me, so I spent my second day knowing that I had a place to sleep (a fact that had been doubtful the night before, since most of the hostels were booked Thursday and Friday). 

For most of the morning, I sat by a modern sculpture in front of an impressive-looking domed building and read “The Secret Garden,” a book I had enjoyed immensely as a child and still rather like. Then I ate some lunch (a self-serve salad for less than a euro!) at a place called My Indigo and contemplated what to do. What should one do when one is lugging a heavy backpack all day and is still a bit weak from vomiting the night before?

The answer was abundantly clear: go on a hike! (Hey, at least I didn’t try to rent a bike or something silly like that.)

The hike route I found was labeled on the map as “Easy Hiking Tour.” I forgot to translate that into Missouri speech: “Strenuous climb up extremely steep angles and/or ancient steps.” As I slogged up paths that should never occur on a hike labeled “easy,” I was glad that I hadn’t attempted a trail considered “difficult.” To top it off, the weather was unseasonably hot— somewhere in the 90’s. I haven’t been that completely soaked in sweat like that since Cornerstone. Still, my legs will obey me when I ask them to, and although I was nearly faint with heat, I floated along on happy memories about a day when I was similarly drenched in sweat: the day I became a fiancée.

The views were worth it, of course, but, like any hike, it was more about the journey. I appreciated the tall, thin trees and the little birds darting through them (although I’m driven crazy that I don’t know any of their names). At one point, two antelope bounded across my path, and I was so excited I nearly hyperventilated. Glimpses of the city kept me looking for the next break in the trees.

By the time I was done with the hike, I realized that sitting down was probably a good idea. I found a nice place to sit and relax…

Or, alternately, be completely overwhelmed with Baroque architecture. The Salzburg Cathedral is a marvel of engineering, even though it was built in the 1600’s (yeesh, Europe and their newbie buildings). Every inch is decorated, and the art on the walls, contrary to many cathedrals I’ve seen, are museum-piece quality. I spent a good two hours sitting in a pew, just taking everything in, then slowly walking down the side hallways staring at the masterful oil paintings of the Stations of the Cross and stories from the Bible and from saints’ lives. 

I finished off the day by sitting in the Mirabell Gardens, a manicured park with decorative lines of red and yellow flowers swirling into patterns between statues and well-clipped grass. I blew a whopping 1,20 euros on a strawberry ice cream cone, which I savored while watching the tourists pose like the statues for photos. Then I read more of The Secret Garden, which just seemed appropriate. Aside from my daily Bible readings, I haven’t actually read anything since I left home. I get lost in books, and when I want to be awake to my surroundings, I keep my head up and my eyes open, preferring to listen to music. But today, washed out from the hike, it was good to read about gardens while sitting in a garden.

Now it was time to hop the bus and find my way to my couchsurfing host’s house. Georgi said he would be home by 8:30, so it was getting dark as I boarded the bus and took my seat. Soon I noticed large raindrops splattering against the windshield, and streetlights glowing glossily. 

A few seats away from me, a woman offered candy to a mother and her toddler. The toddler grabbed the piece with a hearty high-pitched “Danke!” The woman proceeded to dig around in her purse, offering every piece of candy she had. The mother tried to get her to stop with no luck, and by the time she and her son stepped off the bus, his fists were stuffed with paper-wrapped sweets.

Fortunately, the correct bus stop was well-marked, so I felt confident hopping off to a stop with the airport behind me, residential complexes in front of me, and a vast stretch of farmland to my left. I pulled out my umbrella and noticed lightning flashing off in the distance to my right. 

Slowly I walked in the direction of Georgi’s apartment, but I found myself distracted: I stared at the nearest mountain, which jutted up into a jagged polygon of stone, black against the almost-black sky, tipped with two tiny points of light. As I watched, thunderclouds rolled onto it, shrouding the top from sight. In the distance, I saw the mountain’s brothers, indistinct in the darkness. I glanced back to my right just in time to see a crack of lightning illuminate the Alpine peaks for an instant. The rain spattered down and thunder roared in the clouds above me. I hurried to find the apartment.

Georgi welcome me in, let me dry out, and fixed supper. We ate tomato-cucumber-white-cheese salad (a staple from his home country of Bulgaria), tortellini, and big bowls of ice cream. He showed me how to fold an origami rose, suggested some places to see in Salzburg tomorrow, and then let me crash on his couch. I shut my eyes at 11:00 and didn’t wake up again until 9 the next morning.

~~~

Europe: The Hills Are Alive...

It's Mozart!

You guessed it, I’m in Salzburg! Sitting in my hostel room, stretching my neck and wishing I’d brought a smaller backpack instead of a purse for a day-bag, I am content to be in Mozart’s home place. I’m trying to weigh how much I should gush about Salzburg. So far, I’ve only spent three solid hours of walking around the city and the neighboring hills. But three hours is enough to tell me that I love it here.

When I first arrived, I got lost on the way to the hostel and wandered around a part of town that looked depressingly like the worst of American cities: generic buildings, fast-food joints, and lots of erotica shops. Resetting my course, I headed toward the city center, and immediately was swallowed up in historical Europe again: age-darkened paintings on the side of the buildings, cathedral spires crowing out the cityscape, and a Medieval castle perched on the bluff above the town. Tourists flocked the streets, and merchants sold their wares while buskers played their tunes. I even saw a statue of Mozart... that turned out to be a person! When I dropped some cents into his tip jar, he handed me a Salzburg postcard.

I made a beeline for the castle, pausing to gawk at impressive fountains and cathedrals that rose to dizzying heights. I wound my way up stone-cobbled paths, sweating profusely in the heat. Finally, I reached the top of the massive hill (in Missouri we’d definitely call it a mountain), but I didn’t actually go into the castle (it cost money). I continued along the ridge of the hill, and I’m glad I did.

It was just a simple paved path with nice trees all alongside. I found my way up a little side path toward some old ruins, and I felt like I had stepped into a scene from Prince Caspian. The stillness of the old walls, the grass growing up in the courtyard, gave me a sense of stillness. A crow, shiny black with white eyelids, blinked at me.

I wandered around the path loop, and that’s when I really saw them for the first time: the Alps. They rose above the plain, so big that I couldn’t comprehend the scale, rocky and jagged, but soft-looking through the haze of atmosphere. I sat on a bench and soaked it all in.

I did some more hiking, then wandered back to my hostel, and here I am, wondering if it’s too early to go to bed. Tomorrow is another adventure in Salzburg, and I can’t wait.

~~~ 

I am disappointed by how short my photos fall of the Alps' glory.

~~~

Europe: Some Thoughts from the Halfway Point

Today marks the exact center of my trip to Europe: three weeks behind me, three weeks ahead. I can’t believe that 22 days have passed since I said farewell to Zachary at the Greyhound station. Much of it is a blur, lost in the meditation of bike riding and trip-planning and Skyping with family and snapping beans. Much of it is vivid, soaked in northern sunlight, resting on my tongue as cold soups and cheese on bread, curling into Gothic buttresses and red-roofed villages spattered among the hills like wildflowers. 

This is my last day at the Laubmüehle farm. I’ve had a really great time picking up skills and soaking in Bavaria, but I’m also excited to be headed to Salzburg, Austria tomorrow.  It’s the Sound of Music town, Mozart’s birthplace. I hope to spend two full days, then head to the next farm, in France. This is assuming all my travel plans will come together, which is never guaranteed. Life is always an adventure.

Despite the Europe snobbery of many world travelers I have met (“Oh dude, Europe is so mainstream— you should go to Thailand instead”), I think it’s a great place to branch out to from the States. I feel like my perspective has gained another dimension and like I’ve connected with my roots a bit more.

Tonight I baked chocolate chip cookies for everyone. They turned out a bit different than I make them at home, but I am pleased. Goodbye, Laubmüehle. Hello, rest of my trip.

~~~

Europe: A Whirlwind Tour of Nuremberg

Up on the castle wall

When I came to Europe, I knew things would be old. I expected impressive dates: “This city was started in 1147.” What I didn’t expect is that cities would be so old that nobody knows when they started.

Nürnberg is one such city. It’s first mentioned in 1050, but obviously something was there before that. And from the moment I stepped through the doors of the Hauptbahnhof, Nürnberg screamed at me, in all its glory, that it has been around for a thousand years.

The history of Nürnberg is fascinating, but I will let Wikipedia do the talking for me. Take the time to read it. It’s incredible.

Nürnberg is a place where the past is alive in the present, where people live in buildings that look just like the stereotypical German houses that you see in picture books and historical movies. It’s a city with a castle, a Medieval wall, and paving stones on most every street. The buildings are huge, but they are dwarfed by the church spires that jut out all around the city. Tourists and natives flock the streets, but only a few cars are allowed inside the city walls. Music— jazz, gypsy, anything the buskers can play— permeates the air. A river, the lifeblood of Nürnberg, flows through the center of the city, channeled in a canal that reflects the buildings. Nürnberg, center of trade routes in the Middle Ages. Nürnberg, unofficial seat of the Holy Roman Empire. Nürnberg, half-obliterated by the second world war.

St. Loren's cathedral. No photo could do it justice.

I spent a full day wandering the city, and I could have spent much longer. Let’s begin with the churches. There seem to be dozens. Everywhere you go, you see another church. Each has its own set of wonders, from gold-leaf altarpieces to ceilings that seemed to be three hundred feet tall. St. Loren’s was my favorite, with dark, heavily fluted columns that rose up like redwoods around me, joining into branches of intricate buttresses. 

Zack and I took a guided walking tour from the tourist information center, which was only 10 euros, plus two more for admission to the castle. Our guide, with a sunny hat, a floral dress, and a pleasant German accent, took us around the city, sharing stories, explaining significant buildings. She bought the eight-person group a box of lebkuchen (gingerbread cookies). I breathed in the spices as she explained that Nürnberg was a central point of the trade routes from the east. When a shipment of spices came in once a year, merchants opened booths for three days so everyone in town could buy as much as they wanted. Then the merchants packed up the spices and sent them elsewhere. 

The guide pointed to a cathedral dedicated to “Our Lady” and told us the history. The town was originally in two sections, one on each side of the river. When the city expanded, they consolidated the two parts. The only problem for them was, the local Jews were now in the middle of the city, rather than at the edge. Nobody wanted the Jews to be there. A king, Charles IV, wanting support for his bid for emperor, promised to turn a blind eye if the people wanted to evict or slaughter the Jews. The people readily agreed to support him, and they evicted and massacred many people. Later, Charles IV took the money stolen from the Jews and built this cathedral. It was sobering to hear such a story, looking at the intricate architecture, the beauty that came out of that evil. The world is a sad and confusing place.

This is a "little choir."

More run-of-the-mill buildings...

On we walked, passing countless landmarks, from tombs of benefactors to a hangman’s tower. She pointed out the houses, noting the significance of their building material. The foundations were built of stone, but most were then constructed of wood and plaster. She said that “stone rich” is a still a term in Germany today, originally meaning anyone rich enough to build an entire house of stone. She also pointed out “little choirs” (projections from the building) which held altars to Jesus and Mary. Some were basic, and many were ornate. They were attached to buildings separately so someone who moved could take the little choir with them. 

Next, it was time to tour the castle! After getting some incredible views of the city from the castle wall, we were led inside. She showed us the entryway where the emperor and his entourage would be received, and then took us the courtyard place that only the higher nobles could go. She also pointed out the lock on the massive door, which had a keyhole large enough to slip a small sausage through. People often got locked outside at night (if you missed the curfew, you had to sleep at the gate all night). Merchants asked for coins to be shoved through the keyhole, and they would return a small sausage. These have become a Nürnberg tradition, called Nürnberg sausages. 

Another run-of-the-mill fountain...

A prominent feature of the castle was a chapel, divided into three parts: a lower part for the lower nobles, a second story for the higher nobles, and a separate box for the emperor. She then led us through the various rooms: a banquet hall, a parlor, the emperor’s bedroom, a playroom for children. I wondered what any of the Holy Roman Emperors would have thought, seeing a bunch of lowly tourists parading through his bedroom.

After the walking tour, we visited the Albrecht Dürer house. Unfortunately, there weren’t any of his original works, but there was an interesting interactive display about his studio, as well as a lot of information about the time period, his life, his paintings, and his radical thoughts. I even got to see a woman making a woodblock print, which she gave to me for free.

Much of my day in Nürnberg is marked by vivid senses: watching stained-glass light sift through the dust motes a hundred feet above my head. Eating Nürnberg sausages and potato salad off a tin plate. Hearing and watching a group of people marching for some cause as they waved signs and chanted, “Freitag! Freitag!” (That means “Friday.” I’m still confused.) Harsh sunlight on my face as I squinted up to see the spires of a church. The whispered silence of a hundred people trying to keep quiet as they toured a cathedral. The sense of history permeating every step I took. 

Nürnberg is so beautiful, it makes me cry. I’m glad I got a chance to spend a day with this city, even though it would take a year to see it all.

Thank you, Nürnberg.

~~~

Europe: Off to Nürnberg

If all goes as planned, today I’m leaving for a short trip to Nürnberg (Nuremberg, to anyone who is not German). Expect lots of pictures when I get back!

~the Mandolin

Europe: How to Make a S'more… in Bavaria!

I thought I knew what a marshmallow tasted like. I thought I had experienced the wonder of s’mores in their greatest form. Friends, I was sadly mistaken. Not only is Germany better at sausage and sauerkraut, it’s better at s’mores. I am not kidding.

Here is how to make the best s’more you’ve ever had.

Step 1: Buy some Butterkeks. If you took mild, really buttery shortbread and turned it into crackers, it would taste like this.

Step 2: Buy German chocolate. Even the cheap stuff is better than your wildest dreams.

Step 3: Buy marshmallows. At first, they are unassuming. They appear to be mere lumps of corn syrup designed for stupid fat Americans who demand to eat their own fare when they are overseas. Think again!

Step 4: Build a fire.

Step 5: Toast the marshmallows. Here is where the real surprise comes: instead of burning or blackening, the marshmallows caramelize. If you stick one of them directly into the hottest part of the fire, it will bubble, melt, and turn that golden brown you thought only perfect marshmallow-roasters could attain. In just minutes, it is transformed into a lightly crisped lump of the most amazing stuff you have ever put in your mouth.

Step 6: Place the marshmallow on the butterkek with some chocolate, and dare to place the deliciousness in your mouth.

Step 7: Die of awesomeness.

I thought s’mores would be best in America. I was wrong. You win, Bavaria, you win.

I got a sudden attack of euphoria moments after eating this s'more, and forgot to take more pictures.

~~~