Packing my well-wrapped two-month-old daughter in her buggy, so only her pink squawking face is bare, we leave her sleep-deprived Mama to enjoy the peace of an empty apartment and trudge into 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 river's 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.
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 are 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 marketplace 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 states it was this monastery 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.
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