Alpine Family Dreamscape
A Merry Munich Christmas + six months of Substack! // In my headphones: CAN—Moonshake (1973)
The six-month anniversary of Faux Pas happened to fall on Christmas Eve this year. Thank you, readers, for giving me someone to write to about whatever escapades and misadventures I get up to. Your kind, curious and constant readership inspires and challenges me daily. Happy reading and happy holidays!
Christmas in Munich is celebrated on the twenty-fourth—not dinner on the twenty-fourth with gift-opening on the twenty-fifth, nor dinner and gifts on the twenty-fourth and stockings on the twenty-fifth. No, Christmas in Germany is celebrated on the twenty-fourth, period. On the twenty-fifth, the Germans go out walking.
According to my aunt, there is a special train that runs to T. from Solln on holidays and weekends only. Therefore, we arrived twenty-five minutes early, making us exactly on time. I must admit: Being in Munich with my German family is odd. All of the mannerisms I came to delight in when staying in Berlin are suddenly no longer exotic, but by heritable proximity must now be familiar. While waiting for the train, we bought tickets and discussed the possible crowdedness of the train cars, how we should have packed lunch because the shops are closed on Christmas Day and where we must buy water immediately when we step off the train so as not to forget. My aunt personally apologized for the prior lack of sun in the city since we first arrived; my mother exclaimed how beautifully transformed the city is under a blue sky; my aunt apologized for the sun not having made an appearance sooner.
I cannot help but feel a stowaway in a foreign land. Having observed German habits for the better part of three months, it is high time I put my reconnaissance to the test. As such, I did not talk to my seatmates on the train. I stared at every newcomer for far too long. I tucked my coat beneath my legs, and I did not take up more space than I needed. I dressed sensibly today, too; I wore knee-high ski socks under my jeans, a thick woolen scarf around my neck, and I did not forget my gloves. When my aunt said she brought an extra pair, I was proud to be wearing mine.
But who am I kidding? I am fooling no one. I only packed these gloves out of a desire to please. I would not have stationed myself at platform three for seat-finding maximization if my aunt had not thought ahead. No, my Germanness does not come across in manner, or even in appearance—I refuse to wear the colors of moss that are so popular here, and I’ll choose style over practicality any day. Saying things like “the rules are the rules,” and “we must be on time” are antithetical to my very being!
Though my German inheritance does not come across in the quotidien, it finds expression in the land. The wide snowy plains set against the stark line of tall pines gently cupping freshly fallen snow in their branches, the low rolling hills, the slanted wooden fences, the grey peaks in the distance, the long-haired ponies dutifully finding something to eat under the hard-packed snow, the gingerbread windows of the chalets in the distance, this is the Germany I adore! On the one hand, I am the Captain von Trapp of Munich. On the other, I don’t even speak the language, let alone the culture. Feeling rather unmoored, I embarked on a walk around the lake with my family, marveling at the sequin snow and laughing alongside the charming sledders on their wooden toboggans. We could have been in any alpine town. That is, until we arrived at our destination.
~
Upon entering the chalet, I was accosted by stacks of designer luggage and my own reflection mirrored in the beige marble walls. I ascended the shag-carpeted marble staircase to traditional Bavarian Christmas tunes playing softly from hidden speakers stationed discreetly around the house. Our host was a man with shoulder-length white-grey hair, blown out to perfection. He wore a Bavarian jacket and was proud of it; I could tell by the silver wolf’s head shoe horn and traditional alpine hat atop the coatrack in the corner by the bathroom. The blueness of his eyes brought to mind the fluorescent blue light of the indoor pool to my left.
He called up the stairs to his wife, and a shaking brown chihuahua came stumbling down the stairs. Upon closer inspection, I saw the dog wore a Valentino rockstud harness, spikes and all. A woman in her early sixties wearing a maroon vest made of fox fur, suede leggings, a red Valentino belt and stiletto ankle boots awaited me with open arms at the top of the stairs. The fabric of the couch behind her displayed reindeer print, and ice grey carpeting covered the floor from marble wall to marble wall. I knew not what to make of it all.
Indeed, I did not have to. Having been the first of the family to bravely ascend the stairs, I was swept up in introductions, making my way from one outstretched arm to another until I reached the arm of a boy standing under the arch of the kitchen entrance. He did not offer his hand but looked smilingly on, so I extended mine to him to introduce myself. He shook it warmly, and after introducing my siblings, I walked into the dining area, where I was already being offered champagne, or tea, if I preferred.
The mother and daughter of the man with silver hair made their way downstairs, and the boy brought tea and cakes on a silver platter from the kitchen. Whereas he wore loose jeans and an untucked faded grey button-down, the daughter wore leather boots and a long black leather skirt, and her shirt and fur-trimmed coat were both hued bright green. She was remarkably nice. I regretted not being seated closer to her at the table, though all that were present were amiable. Her grandmother spoke only German, and the girl doted on her all tea-time long. It was an alpine family dreamscape, made all the more vivid by the red and green fur across the table, which I could only make out if I peeked my head around or between the giant holly berry centerpiece. As the boy came round and round to pour champagne and sparkling water, it gradually became clear he was not part of the family but was part of the serving staff instead.
Though that little wooden table played host to a collision of planets on a scale quite like the Big Bang, the conversation flowed somewhat comfortably.
“Ach, the politics there are just atrocious.”
“How do you mean?” my mother asked cautiously.
“We live in Florida, in South Palm Beach,” our hostess replied. And easily switching between railways of thought said, “We met him personally, you know.”
“Who?”
“Donald Trump.”
“And what do you think of him?”
“Well, at first I thought his hospitality was good. We were staying at Mar-A-Lago, you know. But then the whole thing went to the side of the road. I convinced one Cuban-American girl, at least. I was very proud of myself for that. After he won the election, I think she was depressed for days. I did that! And that Elon Musk! He wants to be president of the solar system, I think!” she said with a merry laugh.
The subject eventually turned to my upcoming ski trip to northern Italy, and the hostess asked about my boyfriend.
“Is he a prince?” she asked, with all seriousness due such a question. “It is so remote in that part of Italy. He must have a castle there, then?”
I replied in the negative, and she began to speak about Milan’s continuing relevance and her house near it. The conversation then turned to goodbyes, as we had a train to catch. At some point, the table had split into two, with one side speaking in German about German politics (this side consisted of the father, the daughter, the grandmother and my aunt), and the other half (of which I was part) speaking English.
It was only natural for our hostess to have joined the English half. She made no secret of her affection for our great and patriotic country.
“In Germany, nobody flies the flag,” she had said after the talk of Florida. “We are discouraged from being patriotic, of course, given our shame.”
Before we sat down to feast on seven-layer tiered coffee cakes and lebkuchen from Nuremberg, she declared, “We do our table-settings American-style.”
“Everyone asks why I do it up so crazily,” she said, referencing the needlepoint placemats with images of reindeer and gifts layered under silver platters, atop which sat small paper plates with Santa Claus’s commercialized face smiling up towards the heavens.
“I bought all of this stuff in America!”
~
📍The town of T., Bavaria, Germany
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Such a perfect description.