Holidays & Weihnachtsmaerkte

It's the holiday season again--I know it's official because I've had my first eggnog latte--and I'm reminiscing about Germany. Talk about a country with Christmas spirit. The place is like a living bedazzlement of holiday spirit.

I was in Germany for Christmas time a few years back with my now-German sister (I tease, but she's been living there for over 3 years, so it seems almost so) and I felt like a giddy (albeit semi-drunken) child walking through a living Christmas story. All I knew from her beforehand was to expect "Christmas markets! Gluhwein! Christmas markets!" It sounded wonderfully cheesy, and festive, and right up my alley.

Of course, I wasn't disappointed. Christmas markets and the delicious delicious gluhwein that comes with them were our main priority on that visit, and in three cities we hit countless numbers of them (and had countless mugs of gluhwein, which is probably why all these numbers are countless...)

The markets, I quickly, if coldly, found out, are made up of tons of wee portable stands that sell anything from Christmas ornaments, to scarves and gloves, to a million kinds of wurst and other large forms of German meat, to handmade holiday decorations, to, most importantly according to my giddy sister, gluhwein. Ahh, gluhwein: hot, spiced wine that, best yet, can come mit schuss--with a shot! I mean, this country knows what it's doing.

You get the gluhwein at any number of Christmas market (or Weihnachtsmarkt) stalls in a cute mug like this

(note: cute Alpine gnome sold separately)

that you pay a pfand (deposit) on--usually all of 1 or 2 euros--so at the end you can either keep the mug or get your deposit back. I'm not sure how frowned upon keeping the mugs are, but I like to think it's an acceptable practice. Let's just say that after 3 or 4 (or 7...or 8...) gluhwein, each with a shot of amaretto, the bitter cold of Berlin is no longer an issue and Christmas seems like the best holiday ever. (Also everything you buy seems like the best idea ever, which is not always the case later when you find 3 stollen--essentially German fruitcakes--and 85 wooden Christmas ornaments among your purchases.)

Of course we enjoyed more of the German holiday spirit than just the gluhwein. No, really. We enjoyed the childlike fun of it all, too, such as:

 

how they set up a makeshift snow mountain in Potsdamer Platz for you to ride down in an innertube and relive your tobogganing days;

 

how they turned a classical statue into the center of an ice skating rink and the TV Tower lawn into the site of a giant ferris wheel;

and how even the most historical of monuments...

 ...were somehow imbued with the holiday spirit.

I'm in New York City for the first time this holiday season, and I'm looking forward to it; but Germany, gluhwein--how I'll miss you...

Injured...

I have an injured foot :(
Which means two things. 1. I can't run, and I like to run. And I just got these awesome new Adidas running pants and was eager to race through Central Park in them.
2. I'm pretty much stuck inside. Which means all I want to do is travel. To Venice

where every window has a view of vivid buildings and busy streets,

where window boxes have flowers made of glass,

 

where even the water is colorful.

Or to Austria

 

where the gardens make me feel like I've traveled back in time,

 

and the narrowest streets have the most spectacular mountain views.

But I'll just have to wait for my foot to heal and be nostalgic until then.

A Very Bubbly Weekend: Champagne, Day 1

I've been spending a lot of time indoors lately, enjoying

my mantel,

found art,

my view,

espresso,

and memories of France. France is the European country I haven't yet lived in, but know I will someday. I love the ear-tickling language, the strong cheese and delicate baguettes, the stand-offish pride of the people, the calm but cutting edge fashion. And the champagne, oh the champagne.

The last time I was in France was when my sister and I were living in Berlin and decided we needed a French-speaking, champagne-filled weekend adventure. Inspired by our grandma (who loves champagne, fresh baguettes, and blooming flowers, among other things), we decided Epernay and Reims, in France's Champagne region, were exactly where we needed to go. A quick Air Berlin flight to Paris, a night's sleep in Montmartre, and an hour train ride to Epernay brought us to our destination. And by 10:00am,

we were saying hi to Dom. And ready for our first champagne tasting.

*(I apologize for the quality of this and all of the following images. I had dropped and broken my digital camera the week before, so we had to make due with two 90s-style disposable cameras for this trip.)

We were excited to do our first champagne tour transaction completely in French to get ourselves in the spirit. Which also meant that we splurged for the 18 euro Moet et Chandon "Visite Imperiale"--a tour of the caves that would conclude with two glasses of champagne instead of just one. Hey, when in Champagne...

The Moet et Chandon posters in the reception area were some of our faves,

but the caves were the real highlight.

We learned (for the first of at least 10 times, in both English and French) the champagne-making process, the history of champagne, the inordinate amount of deaths suffered by cellar masters (it's pretty poor air quality down there), and that Moet codes its champagnes (see the chalkboard writing?) with numbers that only the cellar master knows to prevent anyone from stealing their precise methods and recipes! How very top secret of them.

Our so very French guide showing us the various sizes of bottles--all full and all for sale. (I'll take the rehoboam size, please.)

After the caves, it was time for the real highlight: the tasting. Which is where my sister and I discovered that we were the only people under 50, the only ones not in a tour group and/or on a honeymoon, and the only ones who opted for the two champagne tastings. Everyone might have looked at us a little funny at first (why aren't they in school? why are they drinking so much?), but when our tulip glasses of bubbly rose came out after their singular glasses of brut were finished, their expressions all turned to those of envy quite quickly.

Alas, so long, Moet.

Upon leaving, we realized we might have spoiled ourselves by tasting Moet et Chandon first--could anything else be quite as good? Well, there was only one way to find out.

We headed to the Perrier-Jouet chateau just down the street, but sadly, it was temporarily closed.

So after a quick lunch of baguettes, fromage et 1 euro champagne (we kept it classy on our off time), we moved on.

Next along Avenue de Champagne was Lang-Biemont, where there were no caves to tour, but there was a mademoiselle so unhappy to serve us that we inched out of there as quick as possible (but not before completing two tastings, bien sur).

Next was Maison Mercier, whose laser-guided car tours were probably our favorite of the trip. (Sadly, our trusty disposable cameras weren't able to capture any decent images of this Disneyland-esque champagne tour extravaganza.) They also had in their reception room

the second largest tonneau in the world--it holds the equivalent of 213,000 bottles of wine! (Who's ready for a sip?)

The tours and tastings were concluded with a visit to Champagne de Castellane. I don't remember the particulars of this visit, but that's probably due to the massive amounts of champagne I had already imbibed. And the two more 1 euro bottles we bought for a rainy dinner in our hotel room, complete with more baguettes, fromage, and a viewing of Nouvelle Star--the French version of American Idol. The first of three days, this was exactly what we had hoped for--the perfect vacation if you're looking for a laid back, small town, bubbly escape.

My Life in a Car: The Last Day

I arrived in Nashville the night before with high expectations and left without any of them being satisfied. But so it goes when you're moving across country, not just traveling with all the time and money you could want at your fingertips. I wanted, for example, to see The Grand Ole Opry, the Loveless Cafe, and perhaps just some country-singing-looking folks. I saw Motel 6 and the local Wal-Mart, a place, ironically, that I had vowed 6 years ago never to step foot in again. But so it goes when the boy tells you that Wal-Mart will take any returns (even when it didn't come from their store...ssh) and you--correction, he has an overpriced, unopened pack of Nicorette you've been trying to return since California, and you really really want a new pair of headphones. And a Subway giftcard.

After that two hour long ordeal--because they'll let you return anything, but by god they'll make you wait in line to do it--we headed onto the road for what would become 23 straight hours of snow, ice, fog, and everything in between. This is what it looked like leaving Nashville

And this is what it looked like in Virginia, West Virginia, and the teeny part of Maryland we passed through as well

See the thing was, the going was so slow through these ungodly conditions that by mid-afternoon we knew we had two choices: stop for the night roughly two hours outside of New York and face possible blizzard-like conditions the next morning; or drive through the night and reach the city in time to unpack at the first sign of daylight. We chose, fueled on by hourly coffee breaks at gas stations like this

 to drive through the night.

And unpack at the first sign of daylight? Well, "daylight," slowly but surely, turned into 10 am. Unfamiliar with "turnpikes" and "tolls" and "parkways" as we were, we inadvertently got in a wrong lane on the New Jersey turnpike and ended up on a two-hour detour of New Jersey just four miles from entering the Holland Tunnel. We then got re-lost in TriBeCa, trying this time to make it onto the Manhattan Bridge, and by the time we parked in Brooklyn, vowed never to drive anywhere near New York City ever again. Luckily, we wouldn't have to. We were home.

My Life in a Car: Day 4

This day was brought to you by...Graceland!!!

As you can probably tell, I was more than a little excited. Not that I'm a down and out Elvis fanatic--I don't know every album he ever made or anything--but there's something about Elvis that can't help but make you giddy. Anyway, I did my homework and found out that the last tour of the day at Graceland was at 3:30 and that the whole place was closed on Tuesdays in the winter. Well, it was Monday, so we only had one shot at this and we had to get going early. We were greeted, of course, by snowy grayness and frozen-over bikes.

(See the icicles? The California girl in me was awestruck.)

Our drive out of Oklahoma and into Tennessee looked, almost exclusively, like this

and this

(Good morning!) and this

I felt like I were in a snowy forest wonderland during those slow, morning hours. I mean, who knew that part of the country could be so beautiful? It made me want to leap out of the car, bound through the snow, shake the boughs of the tree, throw snowballs in the air, and make endless lines of dancing snow angels.

But, on we went. After another lunch of Subway (I'm started to feel like I should get paid for endorsements here...) and a scenery change from snowy forest to dry suburban ground, we finally reached Memphis and--tada!--Graceland.

We made it by 3:00, splurged on the "Platinum Tour" instead of the mere "Mansion Tour" (which didn't even take my begging and pleading the boy--he wanted to see the planes), bought the obligatory cheesy souvenirs in the overpriced gift shop (I mean who doesn't need a $10 Elvis beer cozy?) and let ourselves be ushered into the shuttle, complete with audio guide for each of us, that would whisk us off to the mansion...across the street. It was perhaps at this moment, sitting in the shuttle as we waited for the light to turn green and realizing that I could, easily, have walked over there already, that I knew I loved Graceland.

Arrived and unloaded, we were instructed not to take pictures outside the mansion yet, but rather to rush inside. (The rules of guided tours never cease to amuse and puzzle me.) I don't want to ruin the place for those of you who haven't visited and/or plan to, but I have to share some of my highlights.

The living room, and the first room your audio guide instructor tells you to view. I now want peacock stained glass as my room divider...

Me, going down the stairs to the basement rooms. Yes, the ceiling of the staircase was mirrored. Yes, I was in love.

My absolute favorite room. It's got everything a person could need, after all--a monkey, a lightning bolt, a harsh color scheme, and a couch the size of most apartments. Not to mention not only one but several sunk-in TVs for everyone's viewing pleasure.

My second favorite room--matching fabric on the couch, pillows, walls, and ceiling. Somebody hire me Elvis's interior designer stat.

The Jungle Room. I would leave it at that, but then you would be left without the knowledge that the aptly chosen green carpet is not only on the floor, but on the ceiling as well.

After seeing his living quarters, we were guided to the racquetball house in the back (the wonders don't cease here, I'm telling you), the pool and garden, and the garage-turned-award room.

Just one hallway of one of the award rooms. The boy was even awed.

I aspire to have a similar self-portrait one day...

And finally, some more awards before we were finally allowed to take pictures of the outside.

We then got shuttled back across the street (to my giggling delight) to tour Elvis's Automobile Museum, his two custom airplanes, an Elvis in Hollywood exhibit, a Fashion King exhibit, and two others that we didn't make it to (well, opted not to go to). I found the cars and motorcycles, which ranged in colors from pink to purple, hilarious, complete as they were with audio commentary by Lisa Marie; the boy loved the planes (where, we learned, Elvis had a bar installed but only for his guests--Elvis didn't like the taste of alcohol but did love Diet Dr. Pepper and Poland Springs water).

Sufficiently fulfilled (or in the boy's case, Elvised-out) we opted to leave and continue on our merry way to Nashville with the hopes of only one more day standing between us and New York City.

Farewell, Blingdom.

My Life in a Car: Day 3

I had one lasting impression of Oklahoma City from this trip and it was this: gray.

 

See what I mean?

We spent Day 3 in Oklahoma City visiting family, doing what little bit of shopping there is to do there--in near-blizzard conditions nonetheless--and drinking margaritas. Uneventful, but a much needed pit stop before the unanticipated ridiculous amounts of driving we had ahead of us. And before the next day's destination: Graceland!

The highlight of the day (besides the margaritas) was the fancy-schmancy hotel room the boy's dad reserved for us. The hotel was brand new in the OKC, and our suite--complete with fully equipped kitchen, living room, huge bathroom, and walk-in closet--was bigger than our Brooklyn apartment would be! No Motel 6, no stranger's hairs on the sheets, no worrying about the car being stolen. A good stay all in all.

My Life in a Car: Day 2

As it was nearing the end of Day Two, I realized I'd peed nowhere but in gas station bathrooms, I'd eaten Subway three days in a row, and I'd sworn there was someone else's hair in our motel bed the previous night. Sometimes roadtrips aren't so glamorous. (Especially since we managed to make each other so paranoid during the night that someone would break into our car, that we both woke up every few hours and peered out the peephole, like a couple of criminals on the run, at the car that was parked--and alarmed--right in front of our room, thus getting very little sleep.)

The glamorous part comes, however, when you arrive at places like this

 

The Painted Desert and Petrified Forest were our scenic detours for the day. I wanted to add Roswell, New Mexico to the list (I was a bit of an X-Files fanatic growing up...), but the boy wasn't so excited and the 4+ hour detour wasn't so enticing.

I had been to the Painted Desert once before, as a displeased teenager along with my displeased twin sister and my amazingly enthusiastic aunt. We actually loved the trip and the views, we were just displeased at life in general at 16. Still, all I remembered was thinking that what I saw looked like someone had watercolored the earth in front of us, so I was eager to see it again.

 

I wasn't disappointed. Since we decided to cut out Roswell, we spent a little extra time in this National Park and got to see some landmarks I hadn't seen on my previous visit. Like The Tepees,

natural, amazing hill-like cones of rocks and minerals (thank you, handy welcome brochure) that look like someone took a paintbrush across them and swathed them in giant blue, purple, and gray stripes. They also reminded me at times of a landscape out of Star Wars...

Lastly, we got to see our first glimpses of petrified wood, which the boy was the most excited for I found out later (boys really think differently than we do, don't they?).

 

 

 

See the petrified wood? It's the bright red bits scattered throughout the hills. Such amazing stuff--even close up it makes your brain oscillate between thinking, "It's wood!" then "No, it's stone!". Here's a close-up

And a necessarily cheesy photo to end the adventure

 

Next stop? New Mexico, whose state sign you've got to love

Enchanted? 

Maybe the miles upon miles of flat, increasingly snow-covered landscape that made up the entirety of our views of New Mexico would do the trick. It's an interesting state to drive through, though, because it really is so far from everything man-made (at least along the I-40). I couldn't help but feeling like I were somehow transported back to covered wagon, cowboy and Indian days. As a self-proclaimed city girl, I'll admit, it was a nice little change of pace.

Alas, we had to trudge on through the night to make it to Oklahoma City and to the boy's family's home that night, which meant driving in conditions like this 

for over 6 hours. When we (and I say "we" perhaps a bit loosely since I did absolutely none of this driving) weren't hunched over the steering wheel driving a mere 45 miles per hour because of the less than 25-feet visibility, we were following as close to the convoy of passing semi-trucks as we possibly could in order to use their much more powerful lights to actually see through the sea of fog and onto the road in front of us. Inevitably, the trucks would charge ahead at 70 mph and we'd lose them, left to the fog, teary eyes from staring so hard into the dark, and no rest stops in sight. At 2 am, Oklahoma City couldn't have come soon enough.