Returning from a walk around the Eibsee lake at the base of the Zugspitz, I checked the Christmas market schedule posted on our hotel bulletin board. The market was open till 8 p.m., but the only event listed was “Schmankerln.”
I asked Nicole, the assistant manager, “Was ist ‘schmankerln’?” She fumbled for a moment, looked at the others working behind the counter. “Schmankerln is …”
“Food?” I asked.
“Yes, but it’s more of a, well, you know … Bavarian Schmankerln!” she said with a laugh.
Finally, Julian, the hotel owner, said, “It’s like tapas. Small portions.”
Later I found the translation online: delicacies.
As anyone would do, I immediately decided to eat all the Schmankerln at the market. This would be the best Christmas dinner EVER!
We started with bratwurst and gluhwein, of course.
Moved on to Schupfnudeln, fried gnocchi-like noodles with meat sauce, cheese and sour cream.
Gulasch soup with rye bread.
Mmm … creamy raclette – melted cheese on potatoes.
More soup. Pumpkin, usually my favorite. Disappointing.
Tony finally got embarrassed and went back to the hotel. I wish I had a dollar for every time that’s happened.
Moving right along … possibly the highlight of the night: a crepe with camembert cheese and “Preiselbeere” jam. I had never heard of preiselberries before, but they taste similar to cranberries.
Clearly I was too caught up in this Schmankerlfest to tuck that piece of hair back under my hat.
Next stop, hot roasted chestnuts. Yum!
By this time, the Schokohütte didn’t appeal to me, but I had to soldier on. Dark-chocolate covered strawberries. Surprisingly refreshing!
A bite of Summer’s marshmallowy Kussmix wrapped up the tour of Bavarian tapas.
Against my better judgment, I let Mike convince me to take a snowboarding lesson at the Hausberg. Years ago in Turkey, I gave snowboarding a whirl with my friends, Steph and Sarah. We laughed our way through a ridiculous lesson with a Turkish instructor who didn’t speak much English. I remember falling face-first and sliding halfway down the hill till my coat was completely full of snow. Nobody would blame me for not wanting to repeat history. And yet I did.
I wish I could say this lesson turned out differently. Actually, the biggest difference was that I tended to fall backwards instead of forwards. Twice, I got some good speed going only to do a full body slam on my back, rearranging all my vertebrae and whacking my head on the ground. Good thing I was wearing that stylin’ helmet.
Still intact before heading up the mountain. That’s Kelli, our instructor, on the far right.
Tony rented skis and hit the slopes while Dad, Mike, Summer and I took the snowboarding lesson.
Dad’s helmeted and ready to go. In the gondola on the way up.
Summer at Kinderland. Yes, we took our lesson at Kinderland.
Go, Dad, go! Stop, Dad, stop!
My favorite part of the lesson – lunch!
Pear schnapps – seriously? What are we, 17?
Dad and I bailed on the second half of our lesson after he did a cartoon-style roll down the hill, kicking up snow and lodging in some deep powder. (You gotta admire the guy. At age 66, he tried snowboarding for the first time. A fantastic skiier, he admitted snowboarding wasn’t his forté.) He and I stayed here at the D-9 Restaurant, edrinking hot chocolate and coffee and resting our weary bodies while Mike and Summer continued to tackle the mountain.
Tony makes one last run to the bottom of the mountain. We took the gondola down.
Kelli is clearly proud of Mike and Summer and disappointed in Dad and me.
A visit to Garmisch is never complete for my family without an evening at the Frauendorfer Restaurant. Wedged in at long tables, we chatted with other guests, watched awkward tween boys perform traditional Alpine dancing, listened to live accordion music and yodeling, and gobbled up delicious Bavarian specialties.
We have no idea what was in these shots, but they knocked my socks off.
The weather turned nasty on Friday, so we hopped on a train to Austria and spent the day in Innsbruck.
On the train.
Even though the freezing rain smeared my mascara every time I looked up, there was no avoiding it. Stunning medieval architecture with painted facades and whimsical wrought-iron shop signs lined the pedestrian zone, which led us to the Goldenese Dachl (Golden Roof).
This isn’t a great photo; my fingers were frozen.
Mike and Summer taking shelter under the Golden Roof (Again, numb fingers lead to poor composition.)
This magnificent Late Gothic oriel window roofed with gilded copper tiles was built in 1494-96 to commemorate Maximilian I’s marriage to Bianca Maria Sforza and served as a box from which the court watched civic festivities in the square below. The house behind, completely rebuilt in 1822, was previously a ducal palace (the Neuer Hof), formed by the conversion, at some time after 1420, of two earlier burghers’ houses. The lower balustrade is decorated with coats of arms, the open balcony above with 10 figural reliefs. The Golden Roof is made up of 2,657 gilded copper tiles.
A small Christmas market offered up some of my favorites: bratwurst with mustard, waffles with berries and whipped cream, and hot mugs of spiced wine. We browsed in the market, walked down to the river and then warmed up in a coffee shop before heading back to Germany.
Entering the pedestrian zone at the Triumph Gate (built by Empress Maria Theresia in 1665).
Bundled up and dizzy with excitement over the pristine Bavarian wonderland, we tackled the Partnachklamm hike on our first full day in Garmisch. Just a short distance from our hotel, we parked at the Olympic Ice Stadium, built for the 1936 Olympics and home to an annual ski jumping competition. We followed the river on a cleared trail past vast fields of unspoilt snow, postcard-perfect log homes with lace curtains and antlers over the doorway, fence posts capped with tall snowy towers, and evergreens powdered white. Occasionally, a branch would shake off its load, sprinkling us with snow (sometimes with a little help from Mike).
In the stadium.
Walking to the gorge.
After about half an hour, we reached the Partnach Gorge.
The gorge, carved by a mountain stream, is about 70 meters (230 feet) long and up to 80 meters (260 feet) deep. A path carved into the rock weaves up and down, in and out of tunnels, along the sheer rock faces dripping with icicles. We could imagine the danger faced by 18th-century residents of the valley who sent firewood through the gorge on timber rafts down to the town of Partenkirchen. In fact, a crucifix marks a memorial for men who lost their lives in the river. In 1912, the gorge was designated a natural monument.
Summer escorted Mom back through the gorge to catch a gondola to the top, while the rest of us continued the hike. The gorge trail emerged in a beautiful forest, where a steep track led to several guesthouses.
We ultimately reached an altitude of 888 meters (almost 3,000 feet) for lunch at Forsthaus Graseck, a gorgeous guesthouse decked out like my parents’ basement (lots of pelts and antlers). After warming up with gulasch soup and gluhwein, we caught the gondola back down the mountain.
Since arriving in Germany about 24 hours ago, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m home. I was born here and graduated from high school here. Overall, I spent more than six years of my life in this country. Emerging from the Munich Airport, we had to walk through a Christmas market – light snow, holiday music, twinkly lights and the familiar smell of bratwursts grilling – to reach the car rental agency. Ahhh … home.
Tony was awesome behind the wheel, despite a four-month break since he last drove and despite living in India, where they drive on the wrong side of the road. As a navigator, I was less effective and we took a circuitous route to Garmisch. That wouldn’t have been a big deal except that the snow started falling in earnest about 30 kilometers from our destination. Fortunately, we arrived with no problems and checked in to the Garmischer Hof, a cozy little hotel with traditional Bavarian decor.
After unpacking, we found a comfy spot in the lobby and had just ordered beers when the rest of our clan showed up: my parents, my brother, Mike, and his wife, Summer. We spent the evening in the guesthouse restaurant, catching up and making plans for the week.
As you may know, my happiness often hinges on breakfast, and the Garmischer Hof didn’t disappoint. My eyes filled with tears of utter contentment when I bit off a piece of crunchy brotchen spread with soft nutty cheese. Seriously, I cried over the cheese. “You gotta love a country that eats salami and Nutella for breakfast!” said Tony.
Here are a few shots of the Garmischer Hof, our home away from home for nine days.
I just released my LAST ESL class of the semester. Do I sound excited? Because I AM! Students come to school for a half-day tomorrow, and then we’re OUTTA HERE. Woah. That was a lot of capital letters.
Anyway, my third-grade English learners sang “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” which required a bit of vocabulary building: reindeer, shiny, glow, “call someone a name,” foggy, Christmas Eve, sleigh, glee, “go down in history.” Thanks god for YouTube because my iPod chose this exact moment to die, but I quickly found the song online.
We sang it several times before flipping over the lyrics page to do one of the silliest activities of the year: The Rudolph Mad Lib. I had retyped the song, leaving cleverly placed blanks. Previously, before they knew why they were doing it, they had chosen words in different categories and made a list. Today, they copied the words from their list into the song. Hilarity ensued and chaos reigned for awhile. Everyone had the opportunity to sing their song to the class.
My favorite was “Rudolph the red-nosed hippopotamus.” That had them rolling on the floor.
Another enlightening moment from this class was the discovery that most kids know the song in their home language. The Korean kids stood up and sang it exuberantly in Korean.
Best of all, I learned how to say “Rudolph” in Korean: Lutorpa. Isn’t that fantastic?
Months ago, Tony and I had seen Amritsar, India, on a travel show and were entranced. We decided to check it out ourselves over the long weekend following Thanksgiving. With four fellow teachers in tow, we boarded the train at the New Delhi station early last Friday morning.
Jan and Tony at the station. (We worked with Jan in Shanghai, and here we are together again at AES!)
Visualizing news footage of Indian trains with passengers pouring out of the windows and piled high with people on the roof, our expectations were low, to say the least. We were pleased to find comfortable seats with plenty of legroom, a bathroom that was clean and stocked with toilet paper and soap, and food service surpassing that of U.S. domestic airlines (which doesn’t say much, I know). We received large bottles of water, tea, cornflakes (with hot milk!), bread with butter and jam, and a hot meal made of something unfamiliar but tasty. Later I learned the prime minister’s wife was onboard, which may explain the impeccable service.
Tony, who usually stuffs his 6-foot frame into tiny airline seats with an outpouring of cranky comments, kept saying, “I LOVE the train. Where else can we go by train?” After six hours, our love for the train was a bit less passionate, but it was certainly much, much better than we had anticipated.
After grumbling about working on Thanksgiving, I happily got home from school that evening and packed a bag for our weekend excursion to Amritsar. Located about 260 miles northwest of Delhi in the state of Punjab, Amritsar is the spiritual center of the Sikh religion. It’s also just a short drive from Wagah, a village that was split in 1947 with the end of British rule. Independence brought Partition, so the eastern half of Wagah went to India, and the western half to Pakistan.
Wagah is now home to the main road border crossing between the two countries and an unusual ceremony that has closed the border each night since 1959. The Border Security Force of India and the Pakistan Rangers engage in a series of choreographed marching, foot-stomping, high-kicking, head-wobbling, thumb-gesturing bravado before lowering the Pakistani and Indian flags in perfect unison, shaking hands and shutting the gates.
Shortly after checking in to our hotel in Amritsar, we hired a taxi to the border. Our driver dropped us off, pointed us in the right direction and told us to meet him at that same spot after the ceremony. We joined the throng on a road lined with vendors selling snacks and souvenirs. At the security checkpoint, we ladies breezed through and watched Tony slowly ebb forward with the sea of men until he finally emerged for his pat-down by a camouflage-clad guard. We passed through another security area set up for VIP foreign passport holders that spat us out at the “Foreigners Gallery.” Among the VIPs were several other teachers from our school!
Crowds on both sides of the border filled the stands, shouting nationalistic slogans and waving the flags for their respective countries. In India, an image of Gandhi overlooked the pre-ceremony revelry that included energetic dancing to Bollywood tunes and cheers of “Hin-du-stan!” Just a few yards away in Pakistan, the country’s first governor-general, Muhammad Ali Jinnah, watched Muslim spectators divided into gender-specific sections, alternately chanting “Pak-i-stan!” and playing Koranic verses.
We couldn’t see the goings-on in Pakistan very well. However, the Indian activities were perplexing enough to keep us riveted. First, two female guards marched dramatically from the staging area to the gate. Next, several guards lined up at a microphone. One at a time, they took a deep breath and then hollered what sounded like, “Goooaalll!” in an apparent competition to stretch it out the longest. Eventually, they all marched (a bit out of sync) to the gate and back, stomped a bit, led the crowd in more cheering and ultimately opened and closed the Indian gate a few times. I assume the Pakistani guards were putting on their own version of the show until they opened their gate. (Note to other countries considering this type of ceremony: The Pakistani gate slides open, which is much more dramatic than the Indian gates, which swing open from the middle.) When both gates were open and the guards had faced off with some clomping and shaking of their pleated headwear, they took the ropes from the flagpoles and simultaneously lowered the Pakistani and Indian flags. Flags folded and carried away, a guard and a ranger exchanged a quick handshake and a smile before slamming the gates for the night.
According to news reports, the confrontational ceremony was toned down starting last year to reflect the desire for better relations between the two neighbors. The vibe on our side was definitely one of pride and giddiness more than anger, but who knows what tensions rippled below the surface and beyond the gate?
I had hoped to pose with the guards following the ceremony but the surge of Indians with the same plan dissuaded me. Instead, I snapped a few shots of the rapturous crowd and made a quick escape.
Here’s a video of our experience at the Wagah border.
Here’s some old BBC footage featuring Michael Palin on the Pakistan side of the gate. Much nicer production quality than mine!
Ironically, Michael Palin also starred in the Monty Python sketch, “The Ministry of Silly Walks,” which I’ll post here just to amuse myself. (Another teacher pointed out the irony!)
