RUNNING ON ICE.
White lights glitter on a thicket of pine trees, the night sky is black velvet, and below are the tiny glowing booths selling handmade scarves the size of shawls, puffy woolen sweaters, and lacquered toys. The cobblestone streets glisten with snow flurries. People in furry parkas and fat mittens greet friends and laugh together at the Gluhwein stands while they drink hot, mulled wine and snack on roasted chestnuts. This is the Christmas Market in Freiburg, Germany, a romantic, Hallmark event held every December for centuries. I have brought my groups to these sparkling markets for over 20 problem-free years. But this year will be different.
My group threads their way through the crowd, past the spiral cake and hot sugared nut stands and I follow. I stop to see an old friend, Horst, who has had his booth here since the 1980s. His suede, lambswool lined house slippers are the warmest I’ve ever owned and at 18 degrees, I wish I were in my cozy Hotel Barbara lounge wearing those slippers, clutching a warm mug of coffee and reading a good book.
“I hear you left a poor lady back in Mannheim!”, Horst says as I approach the booth. Someone in my group has shared the news. It was true. A lady traveling with me fell in the Mannheim train station and broke her femur into an “L” shaped toothpick. Surgery and rehab will keep her in the hospital for quite a while, and she will miss the entire European Christmas Market Tour. Yes, I tell him, a hard way to start a trip. He crosses himself and wishes her a swift recovery.
“You’ve been a guide for over 40 years so you know, things like this happen. Every day in your job is like running on ice.” I nod in agreement. It’s a good analogy. No matter how well I plan, stuff happens. People break bones, hotels burn down, and weather impacts everything. He asks me what markets we will visit from Freiburg in the next few days.
“Basel, Switzerland; Strasbourg, France, then on to Munich,” I tell him. Basel and Strasbourg are only an hour or so by train from Freiburg, which makes the town a good location for day trips. Munich is several hours to the east and near the Alps. Horst and I trade news of our families, the politics and economics of our countries, and he brags about the success of his town. I look around and see prosperity everywhere, full shops, well-dressed and fed residents and sparkling jewelry stores, very different from when the town, a rough and tumble outpost, was folded into the Hapsburg empire in the 14th century. Customers arrive at Horst’s booth and I say goodbye.
He wishes me well and hopes to see me again as I move off in search of a 7 inch wooden Christmas tree that will say, ‘Some assembly required’ in German. “Be careful on your run tomorrow morning, Horst says. “The flakes will turn to ice overnight.” Horst knows I run every day.
I walk into the heart of the city and down to one of the tower gates that remains from the Medieval era, the 1300s and 1400s. The town was once walled, like many towns of that time, to protect it from marauding gangs or foreign armies. Today, nations invade nations, but back then, one village might attack a neighboring village over land or water rights or for no more reason than the theft of a goat. In any case, it is the common folk who do most of the dying. The streets today are tidy, well-swept cobbles quite different from the mud lanes of 500 years ago when human waste, table scraps and dead rats were thrown out of windows and left to rot. Because of this, disease was rampant, bubonic plague common, and people were lucky if they lived to 50.
Much of Freiburg was destroyed during World War II, either intentionally by the allied air force or accidentally by the German Luftwaffe when they mistook it for a French city. The main church, however, called the Munster, was largely undamaged. The old pile of red sandstone sits like a huge snoozing cat in the middle of a large open square where the daily market is held, as it has been for centuries. The Gothic style church, with its pointed, arched windows, high ceiling, and spacious statue-filled entrance, is the focal point of the town today, as it always has been. Its one lacy stone spire soars into the night sky.
The stained glass windows are the true gem of the 800 year old church. Liquid rubies and emeralds set in a filigree of lead, they tell the stories of the unions and families of long ago Freiburg, A golden pretzel signifies the bakers’ guild and a dark gray anvil the farriers’ guild, just two of the organizations that helped build the church. Some of the windows are dedicated to religious themes, but many are displays of secularism. And they are glorious in celebrating everyday life.
The people of 1400 lived short, difficult lives, each day filled with uncertainty, trying to keep their balance as they ran on the icy perils of their lives, disease, wars, childbirth and starvation. Their best days are represented here in the stunning stained glass windows, their moments of glory and recognition. The glass creations were saved from destruction during WWII by the brave actions of church workers who removed the windows before the bombing started, despite orders from Hitler that the windows remain as an act of faith in the German Air Force’s ability to protect the city. Ironically, Goering’s German Air Force, the Luftwaffe, was not only incapable of shielding the town, it also bombed Freiburg by mistake.
I stroll alone and watch the street trolleys trundle lazily along, the only vehicles allowed in the pedestrian zone. The ban on autos while allowing the trolleys makes the town center unique, cozy, comfortable and inviting. The street is lined with cafes, sidewalk tables and chairs, bookstores and specialty shops, bakeries and department stores, yet it is all snug and walkable making it one of the most livable cities I know. Freiburg has no Eiffel Tower or Big Ben as an icon to show the world but it has a charm that doesn’t need such symbols.
I sit at a cafe and enjoy a steamy mug of cider and a coconut macaroon, bought fresh and hot from a street vendor. From the cafe table I see the lighted beacon of the church spire, the gate tower with its huge clock, and the piling snow flakes on the cobbles. The moment is relaxing, peaceful, because I can’t see the future. I’m unaware of the monster snow storm burying Munich, our next destination, in several feet of the white stuff. I don’t know that all the trains tomorrow will be canceled and we will be stranded in Stuttgart, where, during the busy Christmas season, I’ll have to find last minute accommodations and a dinner restaurant for my travelers. The 19 degree temps will not help.
Before we leave the next morning, I will go for a jog on the frozen cobbles, as Horst predicted. The events of the day will be more ‘running on ice’. I will enjoy the jog, dodging minefields of shiny black, ever rebalancing, looking ahead for danger, and hope not to fall.
