One more round to say good bye.

Berlin - Stolzenburg - Neu Karin

Opel Corsa 1994 - 355km

Five days overdue, crammed into a two door Opel Corsa loaded to the roof, we finally left Berlin. My eagerness to get our trip underway meant I couldn't appreciate the moment for what it was. It had been a frenetic few weeks: prizing ourselves from the clasp of German bureaucracy; sorting our possessions into what we would store, send, sell or pack; preparing our apartment for sub-letting; organising a farewell celebration... Difficult enough at the best of times, with a newly mobile ten month old spreading slobbery destruction wherever her chubby fingers could pry, it felt like trying to coax a donkey into a match box. Somehow though, we had done it. Now we sat, surrounded by a worrying amount of stuff, strapped in and ready to go. Our destination: New Zealand.

There to see us off were our neighbours, people who over the past seven years had become our beloved community and our kids' best friends. We had met in our communal Hinterhof or backyard, striking up small talk over the rush of the passing S-Bahn and the sodden sand "ice creams" which our children thrust into our hands. Over the years - with barbecues, poker nights, sleepovers and birthday parties - we created many happy memories and lifelong friendships with our "Backyard Gang". This wonderful, eclectic crew, as well as the many other friends I made in Berlin, were what made it so hard to leave.

After a final round of farewells in at least six different languages, we waved through the gaps in our luggage and set off, tooting as we lurched around the corner. We were off - albeit in the wrong direction. We had a final round of farewells to make which, especially for J, would be the hardest of all. We were headed north to Stolzenburg, an 800 year old village ringed by corn fields and sunflowers close to the Polish border, for one last visit to J's beloved Grandparents. 

The night before we were to leave I sat as I had so many times in Oma's living room, sweating on the couch in front of the blaring radiator. Between shots of ice cold vodka and gulps of wheat beer I listened once more to stories of their life in the GDR."It wasn't a perfect system, but it was our system." Oma said with a jut of her chin.

"Ah Chris my boy," said Opa shakily pouring me another Schnaps "so jung wie Heut kommen wir nicht mehr zusammen." (we'll never meet again as young as we are today). Even though I had heard the saying countless times before, this time it caused a lump to form in my throat.

After a hard farewell the following morning, we made the familiar drive along the roaring A20 to J's parents house in Neu Karin. This rural village with a population of around 60 inhabitants had often been our refuge from city life. Most notably during the Covid lockdown, which we spent in one of the holiday apartments, next to a cherry tree in the garden. The stout thatch-roofed house, which J's father designed himself, is where I spent my first German Weihnachten and many thereafter. It was a warm welcome to Germany (literally thanks to the large crackling oven, underfloor heating and triple glazed windows), a comforting feeling which never wore off. Juicy roast rabbit, bubbling polish soups,a basket of fresh Brötchen every morning: the large wooden table in the Wintergarten is the centre of orbit in this house.

Over the many visits I have grown to appreciate the surrounding area - the stern yet charming villages centred around a reed-ringed pond or centuries old church; the groomed rolling fields home to fox, hare, deer and hawk; the lofty cathedrals of Beech forest; the splashes of wildflowers and tangled black berry which fray the edges. I always found a welcome familiarity in the stillness here, despite the ever present *whoom whoom whoom* of the wind turbines.

With access to wi-fi once more, the next couple of days were spent crossing the t's and dotting the ö's before our departure. It was also where we would hand back the keys to the cramped yet convenient Corsa, which we had borrowed for the past couple of months. From now on we would be travelling by train, carrying everything we need (and more besides) in our backpacks. Fortunately we did have time for one last trip to the Ostsee - specifically to Rerik, a strip of white sand and tussock just a 15 minute drive from the in-laws house - and one last dinner of fish and fried potatoes.

Not people for overt displays of sentimentality, the farewell from J's parents was mercifully undramatic. Standing in front of the rundown station building in Neubukow, there were half made promises to visit us in New Zealand. Unlike her step-mother, J's father, perhaps concerned about rising gas and fuel prices, was reticent. Right on time our red Deutsche Bahn glided into the station.

As we departed, our kids waved to their Oma and Opa through the smeared window. I felt suddenly guilty removing them from the world they knew and loved. What lay in store for them between here and the waiting arms of their grandparents in New Zealand? We had four months and 18,000 kms to cover before that moment arrived. As our train gathered speed, I took comfort in the knowledge that, no matter what happened, when we return to Neu Karin we would find the thatch roofed house surrounded by fruit trees exactly as we left it.

Starkbier Celebration

East of the Isar in Munich, amongst the chestnut trees on the fabled Nockherberg hill, stands the Paulaner brewery, complete with beer hall and beer garden. As far as beer drinking establishments go, it's not the most picturesque nor the best value for money in Munich, but once a year in March, this hill becomes a pilgrimage point for many a beer swilling Bavarian. Every evening for about three weeks, the space inside the cavernous beer hall fills with tuba’s toots, trombone’s parps and cymbal’s clash as the crowd sways and laughs and sings along to the cheesiest ‘Schläger’ hits. Decked out in their finest Tracht they swing their giant Stein-krugs of dark, malty beer, and devour mountains of pork, chicken and Spätzle. This is Munich’s fifth season - Starkbierzeit!

With 17th century origins the beer festival takes place during Lent, which is usually a time of fasting and penance observed by catholics directly after the sinful celebrations of Fasching (Carnival). During these hungry times, the nutritional value of beer takes a greater importance (they don't call it liquid bread for nothing). Münchner monks of old, seeking greater sustenance, decided that a fuller, maltier beer would fortify them more effectively against the crisp temperatures of early spring. You can't fault the logic, but fasting monks quaffing beer with an alcoholic percentage of 10-12% obviously had the upshot of some rollicking good times. Eventually this tradition transformed into an annual festival and these days all of Munich’s breweries hold their own Starkbierfest. The original though, and definitely the most legendary, is that held at the Nockherberg.

Each year the beer is brewed especially for the occasion. The legend goes that to test the beer, the monks would pour some on a wooden bench and then sit down to drink a mug of the syrupy brew. Once finished if the bench stuck to the seat of their trousers on standing up, it had passed the test. I can not attest to the validity of this claim, what I can confirm is that after one litre of Starkbier, it can be hard to get off the bench at all.

Throughout the year there are countless beer festivals to be found in Bavaria, from the most obscure Dorf-fest to the largest festival in the world - the legendary Oktoberfest. All have their place, but it seems the Starkbierfest on Nockherberg holds a special place in Münchner's hearts. Partly because it is not overrun by tourists. Many locals will avoid the Oktoberfest at all costs, complaining about the inflated prices, overcrowded tents and the profusion of horrifically drunk tourists. At Starkbierfest on the other hand, most of the horrifically drunk people are locals, which at the very least makes it feel a little more genuine. It seems Starkbierfest encapsulates what a beer festival really means to Bavarians. It is a centuries old celebration of their unique culture, music, joie de vivre and of course, perhaps most importantly, their love of beer. As one local shouted beerily in my ear “the Wiesn is for the world, Starkbierzeit is for Munich!”

The Art of Wallet Washing

 Packing my well-wrapped two month old daughter in her buggy, so only her pink squawking face is bare, we leave her sleep-deprived mum to enjoy the peace of an empty apartment and trudge into a the bluster of a grey February morning. It’s Aschermittwoch or Ash Wednesday, an important date on the Catholic calendar and so an important date in Bavaria. It means that the festivities of Fasching (Carnival) have finally drawn to a close, and the 40 pious days of Lent have begun. According to local tradition, if you wash your wallet in the Fischbrunnen fountain at Munich’s Marienplatz on this day, it will be full for the rest of the year. That’s a good enough incentive for me, so with wallet and baby suitably stowed, and a two hour window before her next meal, we start down the Nockherberg hill towards the historic centre of the city.

Passing the empty Paulaner Biergarten the yellow tower of the brewery comes into view below us. Emblazoned on the tower is the Paulaner monks head, and the axe of their sister company Hacker-Pschorr. These companies are two of the so called ‘Big Six’ which dominate Munich’s multi-million euro brewing industry. These days they’re both massive operations, a long way from their traditional origins of centuries ago. Nevertheless I find the rich smell of yeast, hops and barley bubbling away has a way of warming the heart. It seems my daughter does too, as her indignant hollering soon subsides into sleepy gurgles.

After about ten minutes we reach Reichenbachbrücke, a bridge crossing the Isar river. Flowing from the Alps in the south to the Danube in the east, the river has been used as a means of transporting wares since prehistoric times. The Romans built bridges across it, extending their trade routes and influence north. The people they encountered here were probably pagan Celts called the Boii. As with other parts of Europe, paganism was eventually replaced with christianity, and the local traditions hijacked by the church. Seen through the skeletal trees to our left is the brooding castle-like form of the double-towered Maximilians Kirche, staking the church’s claim in no uncertain terms on the rivers banks. The water rushing beneath our feet is the colour of storm-clouds today and carries with it a snarling wind. We hurry along the bridge taunted by the call of crows.

Continuing along Ohlmüllerstrasse, we pass the neo-gothic spire of the red brick Mariahilfskirche to our right. One of countless catholic churches which rake the sky above Bavaria, standing testament to the state’s lasting relationship with the Pope, one of whom Josef Ratzinger, or Pope Benedict XVI, was Bavarian himself.

Catholicism is an integral part of the Bavarian identity, important because it separates the once independent kingdom from the protestant “Prussians” (Breiß) in the north. Many Bavarians will hasten to point out that Germany as a nation has only existed since 1871 and that before that point the southerners were really quite content taking care of their own affairs. After the power shifted to Berlin, the German Empire was soon drawn into World War One, thus turning the page to a horrific chapter in German history. Although the picture of the crazed Kaiser dragging his reluctant subjects into the great war is far from accurate, there remains an undercurrent of resentment in Bavaria towards the ‘foreign’ masters in the north.

Across the river and we are in the trendy Glockenbach quarter. Today, being a Feiertag or public holiday the boutique stores and cafes around us are closed. The streets all but devoid of the usual bearded and bespectacled bohemians. It seems in Bavaria even hipsters aren’t above taking days off.

Crossing Gärtnerplatz, I start to wonder if we’re the only people who left the house today. The often bustling space is almost devoid of life. In summer, students will laze in groups on the grass, acoustic guitars, bicycles and beer bottles scattered around them. Today though, our only company is a dishevelled old man with a bulbous purple nose. He’s sitting on a bench with a tetra-pak of red wine in his gloved hands. He nods, mumbling in our direction as if giving us permission to pass.

As we cross the deserted market place Viktualienmarkt, the bells of St Peter’s church begin to toll marking the hour. The church is Munich’s oldest. In fact the current structure which like the historic centre itself is mostly a post war reconstruction, stands on the remains of an 8th century monastery that pre-dates the city. One theory is that it was these monks that gave the city its original name,“bei den Mönchen”, or beside the monks. Passing under the iconic church tower we arrive at Marienplatz where a huddle of tourists are busy taking photos in front of the neo-gothic town hall, and probably wondering why nothing’s open.

Beside the Fischbrunnen a small crowd is gathered around the fountain. A nearby Hacker-Pschorr beer stall has been set up. Yes, it’s 11am but this is Bavaria where they literally drink beer for breakfast. In Munich there’s always someone ready to cash in on tradition, and beer of course is a sure-fire way to make a buck or two. Beer and… farm animals, as it turns out. At least that is the hope of the old man in lederhosen, checkered shirt and a forest green woollen jacket standing beside his bicycle on which a large white goose is perched. As we arrive a tourist, terror slowly seeping into her smile, poses for a picture beside the giant glaring bird. I withdraw my wallet, making eye contact with neither man nor goose. On the opposite side of the fountain, a television crew are packing up their equipment, probably after filming the city’s Mayor washing the treasury bag which he does every year. Removing the cards and the few notes and coins from my own wallet I plunge it into the frigid waters and swish it around a little, trying to look like I know what I’m doing.

A little later, homeward bound on the tram, freshly washed wallet in my pocket, and baby beginning to grumble in the pram, I’m already beginning to doubt the effectiveness of my wallet washing technique. Perhaps I was too rushed? I didn’t even get into the corners. Pondering alternative methods of filling my wallet, I find myself calculating the costs of a bike and a goose.

New Years Revelations

 Despite its best efforts, the dusting of fresh snow is unable to conceal the evidence of last night’s festivities. Empty beer bottles and spent fireworks emerge as stubborn as chimneys, and faint smudges of ash are still visible through the thin white coat. A sulphurous fug clings to the crisp morning air. As we walk, a slightly frazzled squirrel bounds across the path in front of us and scrabbles up a nearby oak tree. Craning his head back, he inspects us warily as we pass. But he needn’t be afraid, the time for pyrotechnics has passed. The sky today is blue and still. It’s New Year’s morning in Munich.

I can understand the squirrels trepidation. I as well was caught off guard by last night’s celebrations. I rub the fresh blister on my thumb. Somehow I had been lulled into the sense that Germans were a sensible and serious folk, not prone to overt displays of emotion. Last night though, this ill-informed generalization was blasted skywards where it exploded into a million, techni-coloured fire-balls.

The first surprise came after dinner, when our host decided it was Bleigiessen - or lead pouring - time. A popular Silvester tradition where walnut-sized lead figures resembling various animals and objects are placed on built-for-purpose tea spoons and melted over a flame. Once the soft metal is completely liquified it’s tipped into a bowl of cold water. The resulting snap-hardened shape is then taken and analysed for clues as to the person’s fortunes for the upcoming year. Obviously there’s a lot of room for interpretation and, as we discovered, one person’s flamingo can quite easily become another’s grim-reaper. If there’s any confusion, a book is usually provided to help with the correct divination. Having studied and discussed these mangled pieces of metal for long enough, convinced there was no major storm clouds forecast for our immediate future, (apart from the poor soul left contemplating her tiny figure of Death) it was time for another New Year’s tradition of murky origins. The viewing of a peculiar British comedy named “Dinner for One”.

Why this 1960’s production has become so popular in Germany is a mystery as dark as the workings of Bleigiessen. Nevertheless, since first being aired on New Year’s Eve in 1973 it has become the most repeated television programme in history and a treasured part of the Silvester evening programme.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BN9edpdCH7c

The gist of the story: a woman, Miss Sophie, celebrates her 90th birthday alone, seemingly unable or unwilling to process the fact that her four invited guests have died long ago and therefore have not shown up. Her butler James, serves their empty places with food and alcohol, proceeding to knock back all the glasses each time Miss Sophie makes a toast (which is often). In the process James gets completely hammered while Miss Sophie enjoys her evening seemingly oblivious. Slap-stick comedy scenes ensue which seem to tickle the festive funny bone of Germans no end. Perhaps a clue to the shows popularity lies in Miss Sophie’s catch-phrase: “The same procedure as every year.” With a history like Germany’s, I guess it’s good to have some things you can count on. If that happens to be a delusional 90 year old british woman enjoying a meal with imaginary deceased friends while her butler gets shit-faced - who am I to judge?

After this slightly bewildering cultural experience, there were only a few minutes remaining before midnight. So with fireworks and freshly filled glasses of Sekt in hand we ventured out of doors. Once on the street I noticed that many others from the surrounding bars and apartments were doing the same. In fact all throughout the city the streets, parks, bridges and balconies were slowly filling with revelers. Every one of us braving the cold for a single purpose: to set the sky alight in a communal release of pent-up pyromania. Coming from New Zealand, where the most extreme fireworks get is writing profanities in the air with a sparkler, I knew I had to make the most of this opportunity. So, unsheathing a 1m long rocket from it’s plastic case, I strode bravely forward, eager to prove my pyrotechnic abilities to my new friends.

Following the lead of our neighbours I thrust the stick attached to one of our rockets in a pile of snow, pointed it heavenwards and proceeded to light the funny-looking red fuse. As the new year grew ever nearer, the frequency of the skyrockets, which had been illuminating the sky all evening, began to build. Perhaps because of my excitement (and slight inebriation), I was having trouble getting the fuse of my rocket to light. More and more rockets were being set off all around me, growing in both number and intensity. Zehn, Neun... the countdown began, I could feel the expectant gazes of my friends behind me. Why wouldn’t this fuse light? Above our heads it was starting to become impossible to distinguish one explosion from the other, ...Sieben… the lighter was growing hot in my hand, the fuse was still not lighting! ...Fünf, Vier… Suddenly there was a voice from behind me “Die Schutzkappe, nimm mal die Schutzkappe ab!” That wasn’t a funny looking fuse I was trying to light, it was a safety cap! I ripped it off and lit the wick which instantly spat into life with a hiss ...Zwei, Eins… Success! My rocket flew into the sky adding to the symphony of explosions. ...Frohes Neues Jahr! The night sky filled with a thunderous symphony of light and sound, I could almost picture Richard Wagner appearing in the clouds like Mufasa, sternly nodding his approval. Frohes Neues Jahr indeed.

This morning in stark contrast though, the streets couldn’t be more quiet. The city knows when to party, it is of course famous for perhaps the biggest party of them all, but when the fest is over it quickly slips back into its sensible Haus-schuhe. My first Silvester in Munich provided some surprises, and what better way to start the new year in a new city. Like the snow was attempting to do this morning, I decided to wipe the slate clean of everything I thought I knew about this city and its inhabitants. I would treat the new year as a blank canvas on which I would let Bavaria reveal itself on its own accord. And, most importantly, next time I’ll remember to remove that damned safety cap.