I want my own Christmas this year. It hadn’t occurred to me until now how hard it can be to break with tradition. My daughter, my very busy two job, always on the go, forty-one year old child is concerned about dwindling family togetherness. But this story isn’t about her. It’s about her mother. ME. The one who dares to take off on an airplane to fly to her fields of dreams during the holidays. The only one who will not be at Pat’s on Christmas Eve. Be it my own feelings of guilt or the perceived resistance to my plan, I must say it again, out loud this time.
“I want my own Christmas this year.”
But before I go on, I have to report that Pat and Mother and Peter, the main traditionalists in this family, have given me a thumbs up.
“How brave of you,” Pat said on the phone the other day.
Mother told me to have a wonderful time; we decided on January 3rd for a lunch date during which I would tell her all about my trip.
Peter’s blessing showed in his silent acceptance of the travel brochure I printed for him. Not a single snappy – or snapping – remark about missing the reading of his memoirs. Of course I have read all the stories he included in his calendar – his gift to everybody – three times already; I’m his sometime editor and consultant, probably because I started on the road back a few years before him.
The road back. That’s what it’s all about. Memories. Recapturing the images of my teen years. Taking photographs of places that were battlegrounds or love nests or maybe just steps into the future. Leaning against old walls that witnessed my dreams and disappointments. Walking in the footsteps of playmates. Listening to the echoes of familiar songs.
When I narrow it down I realize that I am driven by one main desire this season: I want snow. Lots of snow. Snow as far as I can see. I want to taste snowflakes, throw snowballs, listen to the crunching of my boots on a tight snow pack, smell a freshly cut snow-dusted fir tree, sit on a bench in the silence of a gray, snow-heavy winter morning. In a way, I think I want to snow over all my California Christmases. Sunshine, palm trees, artificial wreaths, snow from a spray can, Silent Night over loudspeakers, multi-colored lights that chase each other around store fronts to be swallowed by cavernous interiors of Westfield Malls.
Yes, I desire snow. And it looks like only German snow will do. That’s why my first stop is Nünberg, the city of toys, the biggest Christmas Market in Europe. Nürnberg guarantees snow, and the city makes an effort to keep its holiday village of 200 vendors traditional. Plastic garlands and canned music are not allowed, neither are amusement park rides or war toys or Styrofoam cups. The first evidence of this “little town of Christmas” is preserved in the Germanic National Museum on an oval wooden box, bought at the Christmas Market and inscribed with the year 1628. Today the wooden stalls with red and white striped canvass roofs are filled with toys, tree decorations, candles, foods and souvenirs. While the promise of roasted chestnuts, sugared almonds, fresh gingerbread, hot cider, and mulled wine linger in the air, the “Christ Child” appears on the balcony of the 600-year old Church of our Lady. And from the white roofs in the brochure I understand that snow is ever-present during the holidays.
A three-hour train ride whisks me away from Bavaria to Heidelberg. I’m told that I might have to be content with old snow and slush, so I’ll have fun slipping and sliding through Old Town. I used to do that 50 years ago when I went to school there.
Heidelberg, too, has a Christmas Market; 140 stalls are distributed over five different locations along the mile long Main Street. No cars allowed, only scarf-wrapped, steam-breathing shoppers, slush-defying window gazers and frozen-toed chestnut poppers.
Heidelberg is the city in which I first saw James Dean in “East of Eden.” It is the city where I watched Dizzie Gillespie blow out his cheeks and where I kissed the trumpeter Don Ellis by the river on a frozen December night. I fell in love in Heidelberg and I gave birth to my son there.
My first Christmas Eve away from home was a crazy beer and pizza frenzy in the Sole D’Oro across the street from the Church of the Holy Spirit. I was a wild child then and I suspect that I miss that part of me now, too, along with my youth. Along with snow-capped old walls.
I remember one of my most embarrassing winter moments. Shivering in a short, bright red, fake fur coat I walked home from Cave 54, a jazz cellar, in the early morning hours. I stalked through icy streets on high heels, shaking my head now and then to rid my long blond hair of melting snowflakes. Realizing that I had forgotten my house key I threw stones against my landlady’s bedroom window until she woke up. She climbed down three dimly lit flights of stairs in her nightgown to open the door for me. In her anger she mumbled that I was dressed like a hooker. Looking back I cringe; Frau Gehrig was right.
The third city I am going to visit is Saarbrücken. I’m not familiar with it, the way I am familiar with Heidelberg; I don’t look forward to it, the way I look forward to Nürnberg. I’m just going to pay a debt. My parents are buried in Saarbrücken; I wasn’t there; my stepfather’s granddaughter made all the arrangements. I don’t know her and don’t know where she lives. I have only seen her as small child when she came to visit us with her mother. I imagine that I will study the map of the cemetery, find grave number 021 and lay a small bouquet of hothouse flowers into the snow in front of the gravestone. I’ll say goodbye and ride the train back to Heidelberg to celebrate Christmas Eve with a five-course dinner at the Hotel Ritter, the most romantic and one of the oldest hotels in the city. Afterwards I’ll walk across the street to the Church of the Holy Spirit. I’m hoping for new snow and an organ concert.
On Sunday I’ll fly home. My head will be filled with antiquity and my suitcase will be overflowing with trinkets and books and yarn and chocolate. When I land I’ll step into that no-man’s land where the mind struggles with the concept of past and present. A giddy disorientation that follows long flights. German words might crowd my lips, but I’ll smile at the traffic on 101 and say, “It’s great to be home.”
I’ve already asked my daughter to pick me up. A compromise of sorts. Ten o’clock at night. A late Christmas gift exchange while I pull my feet out of the heavy boots and give a condensed account of my trip. I’ll promise to be at Pat’s next year for the traditional Christmas Eve family get-together. I’ll be forgiven. Or maybe there is nothing to forgive.
“I want my own Christmas this year.”
But before I go on, I have to report that Pat and Mother and Peter, the main traditionalists in this family, have given me a thumbs up.
“How brave of you,” Pat said on the phone the other day.
Mother told me to have a wonderful time; we decided on January 3rd for a lunch date during which I would tell her all about my trip.
Peter’s blessing showed in his silent acceptance of the travel brochure I printed for him. Not a single snappy – or snapping – remark about missing the reading of his memoirs. Of course I have read all the stories he included in his calendar – his gift to everybody – three times already; I’m his sometime editor and consultant, probably because I started on the road back a few years before him.
The road back. That’s what it’s all about. Memories. Recapturing the images of my teen years. Taking photographs of places that were battlegrounds or love nests or maybe just steps into the future. Leaning against old walls that witnessed my dreams and disappointments. Walking in the footsteps of playmates. Listening to the echoes of familiar songs.
When I narrow it down I realize that I am driven by one main desire this season: I want snow. Lots of snow. Snow as far as I can see. I want to taste snowflakes, throw snowballs, listen to the crunching of my boots on a tight snow pack, smell a freshly cut snow-dusted fir tree, sit on a bench in the silence of a gray, snow-heavy winter morning. In a way, I think I want to snow over all my California Christmases. Sunshine, palm trees, artificial wreaths, snow from a spray can, Silent Night over loudspeakers, multi-colored lights that chase each other around store fronts to be swallowed by cavernous interiors of Westfield Malls.
Yes, I desire snow. And it looks like only German snow will do. That’s why my first stop is Nünberg, the city of toys, the biggest Christmas Market in Europe. Nürnberg guarantees snow, and the city makes an effort to keep its holiday village of 200 vendors traditional. Plastic garlands and canned music are not allowed, neither are amusement park rides or war toys or Styrofoam cups. The first evidence of this “little town of Christmas” is preserved in the Germanic National Museum on an oval wooden box, bought at the Christmas Market and inscribed with the year 1628. Today the wooden stalls with red and white striped canvass roofs are filled with toys, tree decorations, candles, foods and souvenirs. While the promise of roasted chestnuts, sugared almonds, fresh gingerbread, hot cider, and mulled wine linger in the air, the “Christ Child” appears on the balcony of the 600-year old Church of our Lady. And from the white roofs in the brochure I understand that snow is ever-present during the holidays.
A three-hour train ride whisks me away from Bavaria to Heidelberg. I’m told that I might have to be content with old snow and slush, so I’ll have fun slipping and sliding through Old Town. I used to do that 50 years ago when I went to school there.
Heidelberg, too, has a Christmas Market; 140 stalls are distributed over five different locations along the mile long Main Street. No cars allowed, only scarf-wrapped, steam-breathing shoppers, slush-defying window gazers and frozen-toed chestnut poppers.
Heidelberg is the city in which I first saw James Dean in “East of Eden.” It is the city where I watched Dizzie Gillespie blow out his cheeks and where I kissed the trumpeter Don Ellis by the river on a frozen December night. I fell in love in Heidelberg and I gave birth to my son there.
My first Christmas Eve away from home was a crazy beer and pizza frenzy in the Sole D’Oro across the street from the Church of the Holy Spirit. I was a wild child then and I suspect that I miss that part of me now, too, along with my youth. Along with snow-capped old walls.
I remember one of my most embarrassing winter moments. Shivering in a short, bright red, fake fur coat I walked home from Cave 54, a jazz cellar, in the early morning hours. I stalked through icy streets on high heels, shaking my head now and then to rid my long blond hair of melting snowflakes. Realizing that I had forgotten my house key I threw stones against my landlady’s bedroom window until she woke up. She climbed down three dimly lit flights of stairs in her nightgown to open the door for me. In her anger she mumbled that I was dressed like a hooker. Looking back I cringe; Frau Gehrig was right.
The third city I am going to visit is Saarbrücken. I’m not familiar with it, the way I am familiar with Heidelberg; I don’t look forward to it, the way I look forward to Nürnberg. I’m just going to pay a debt. My parents are buried in Saarbrücken; I wasn’t there; my stepfather’s granddaughter made all the arrangements. I don’t know her and don’t know where she lives. I have only seen her as small child when she came to visit us with her mother. I imagine that I will study the map of the cemetery, find grave number 021 and lay a small bouquet of hothouse flowers into the snow in front of the gravestone. I’ll say goodbye and ride the train back to Heidelberg to celebrate Christmas Eve with a five-course dinner at the Hotel Ritter, the most romantic and one of the oldest hotels in the city. Afterwards I’ll walk across the street to the Church of the Holy Spirit. I’m hoping for new snow and an organ concert.
On Sunday I’ll fly home. My head will be filled with antiquity and my suitcase will be overflowing with trinkets and books and yarn and chocolate. When I land I’ll step into that no-man’s land where the mind struggles with the concept of past and present. A giddy disorientation that follows long flights. German words might crowd my lips, but I’ll smile at the traffic on 101 and say, “It’s great to be home.”
I’ve already asked my daughter to pick me up. A compromise of sorts. Ten o’clock at night. A late Christmas gift exchange while I pull my feet out of the heavy boots and give a condensed account of my trip. I’ll promise to be at Pat’s next year for the traditional Christmas Eve family get-together. I’ll be forgiven. Or maybe there is nothing to forgive.
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