Ça geht’s in Turckheim
On the train from Italy to Switzerland, the sound of surrounding speech changes from lilting Italian to the brushing swish of German. German is so soothing to my eager ears after so long without hearing it. I’m surprised that I can understand a random word or phrase chatted out between stately female friends or hunched, plugged-in students. With German floating in the air, I imagine laughter and games in clean farmhouses where dinner is served exactly at five in the evening without fail. Meanwhile, the train bullets through one of the most beautiful regions of the world with snow-capped mountains piercing over hill-hugging villages and sprawling silver lakes.
I spend the night in Basel, the place that I think of as the Tower of Basel because it is for me a place of language confusion; the border of the different languages I know. One time, I arrived at the Basel Bahnhof and, attempting to order coffee and a pastry, I started with French, then English, then stumbled into German. Although I’m sure the woman behind the counter had no idea where I might be from, somehow the items I attempted to ask for were provided and purchased.
Der Basler Weihnachtsmarkt is in full swing in the border city, so I walk there and for blocks all around I’m immersed in the magic of Christmas. There are even people roasting fondue dogs over actual campfires. And there is a little fairytale forest for children, der Märchenwald, with real glass and wood workshops and tiny goggle wearing faces bent in serious concentration. The small train that winds around the little forest is as populated by giant-looking adults as children. There is an enormous Nativity pyramid with fan and figures moving, candles at the sides, and even an acrobatic toy Santa Claus making death defying turns high in the air. Walking the crowded pathways, I find two mechanical moose singing in German over the sign of a pub house. Ah, the magic is truly alive in Basel.
The next day, I take the train and then the bus to find Ziefen, Switzerland: the little town the ancestors of my great-grandmother Pansy Stockton immigrated to from Ripaille in the Savoie on the southern shores of Lac Léman. I walk the country path up the hill to Die Reformierte Kirche St. Blasius where, once upon a time, Hans Jacob Rippas was sexton and bell ringer. The baptismal font is still there with its engraved date: 1687. Yes, some of my ancestors would have been baptized in that font, including Hans Jacob Rippas. The church reminds me of the Globe Theater in London with its old style of wood bench pews so ramrod cramped together. It is an untouched place, untouristed, and I like it this way. There is artwork from the 1300s that has not been restored. It’s “in the authentic.”
Because it was illegal to leave Switzerland, Hans Jacob Rippas left everything behind, literally. Fleeing in the middle of the night with just what they could carry, he and his young family, and a few other young families, made their way west to the new world for a better life.
I wonder why he chose flight over fight. He certainly did a lot of amazing things as a Lutheran pastor in the New World.
The next day, I arrive at the train station an hour early to meet my son. Despite the fact that our meeting point was general and a bit vague, there he is right away.
My son is a man now. And not just a man, but a man I like. Creative, encouraging, fearless, inquisitive. As strange as this sounds, he is something of a mentor to me. You don’t get to choose those who encourage you. They make themselves apparent. It turns out they can be your own children.
“You don’t have to feel creative to be creative.”
“You create your life. You taught me that.”
“No fear, have faith; no excuses, just do it.”
I keep paper and a pen nearby when we talk on the phone.
And now we’re walking together down the historic streets of Basel. I should say he’s walking and I’m jogging to keep up with the tall, long-legged, energetic man he’s become.
We take a train to Turckheim, France. It’s where we’ll stay for a couple of days to have a little pre-Christmas together before I return to the United States.
You don’t hear a lot about Turckheim. It’s in the Alsace region, which feels very different from the world of Provence and Rhone Alps that I’ve been traveling in for so many weeks now. Even though the language and signs are in French, it looks a lot like Germany with the Xs and unparallel lines and rows of windows in the bright colored timber frame buildings with their pointy tops.
It’s a walled Medieval town, a place inhabited by Germanic tribes since before the Romans. We walk through its entrance portal: la Porte de France (French Gate) and into a fairytale world. The cobbled street winds past a gift shop, pâtisserie, boulangerie, and restaurant all bedecked in stately, real fir Christmas trim and leading to l’Hôtel de Ville. In front of this city hall, there is a park and gardens filled with storybook tiny houses and the wares of le Marché de Nöel des Lutins (Christmas Market of the Goblins). It feels like we’ve stepped into Seussville.
Directly across the street from the goblins Christmas market and the city hall is l’Hôtel des Deux Clefs where we’ll stay for the next few days. Built in 1540, the four-story building has chess sets out ready to play, cushioned couches and chairs among books, antique odds and ends, and winding staircases that make it feel more like staying in someone’s family lodge than a hotel. It’s like you’re in your strange aunt’s old attic and it’s cool! Plus, she sets out a big spread of food each morning in a beautiful dining area.
It was the Statthof zum Schwartzen Alder (the state house of the black eagle) back in 1540 and until the French Revolution when the region became part of France and the building was renamed Aux Deux Clefs (of the two keys), which referred to the two-headed eagle, a symbol of the Holy Roman Empire. Since the French Revolution, the Alsace continued to be passed back and forth between France and Germany, becoming part of France “for good” (whatever that means) in 1945. So, it is truly a mix of both. In the Alsace you can greet someone with the question: “Ça geht’s?”
Checked in and freshened up, we venture out of the historic hotel and into le Wiehnacht’s Stewala in the lower level of l’Hôtel de Ville. It’s not a typo. The inverted vowels are the correct spelling. At Christmastime you can go inside le Wiehnacht’s Stewala to have vin chaud ladled into a cup and cookies and sit at festive tables among the traditionally decorated live fir trees and people of the town. We are all waiting for sunset when l’allumeur de réverbère (the lighter of the street lamp), dressed in black with a black hat and holding a torch, leads a line of choir clad children down l’escalier d’honneur (the steps of honor) from an upper story of l’Hôtel de Ville and to the advent wreath to light a candle and then down a pathway to the giant Advent Calendar. The Advent Calendar is three life-sized house facades of three-stories with neat rows of windows: one window for each day in Advent. A long pole is needed to open the shutters of the top windows. It’s the fourth of December, so three lighted windows are open already. The fourth opens today to reveal an image of a saint or a symbol of Christmas and its story is told.
Once the Advent Calendar parade and ceremony is complete, the crowd of all ages begins to thin and we make our way to Le Stewala Caveau Restaurant for an elegant, delicious dinner and lively, analytical conversation.
At 9 p.m., we meet le Veilleur de Nuit (the Night Watchman) in front of le Corps de Garde, a historic building with a fountain in front that is right next to our hotel. Dressed in black attire from another time, le Veilleur de Nuit wears a tricorne (a hat with a brim turned up on three sides), and carries a halberd (spear battleax), horn, and swings a real-flame, old-time lantern. The rectangular lantern box is quite large and produces an impressively bright light. The Night Watchman leads the assembled group on a tour of the walled town, as he does each night during Advent, stopping along the way to tell stories and legends. He asks a lady from the group to hold the lantern while he talks and then everyone sings the song of le Veilleur de Nuit, handing the lantern back while everyone sings “Merci beaucoup.” One of the times, I get to hold the lantern! Le Veilleur de Nuit has been watching over Turckheim since the 16th century.
The next day, it’s fifteen minutes on the train to Colmar. There’s a spread of six different Christmas markets in Colmar, so we use a map as a guide. One market is inside a building, another is dedicated to food, and the one at la Petite Venice is for children. The next day is Sankt Nikolastag, so we split up to find presents to put in each other’s shoes overnight. Then, we go to the bridge to watch Saint-Nicolas arrive by boat on the canal. Soon a choir of children seated in rows floats in to sing traditional carols.
While having a quick bite to eat, I check my rail app and discover that the last train to Turckheim left ten minutes ago. Oops.
There are many things I admire about my son and this is one of them. He’s not angry. He’s not concerned. “Want to find out what it’s like to walk from Colmar to Turckheim?” That’s something he’s very good at doing: seeing an adventure in what could be a setback. He says that it’s fun to be in this situation with me because he knows that I’m up for the challenge. I check the distance. It’s about four miles, nothing we can’t handle. Alone, the darkness of night would concern me, but with my son, I feel safe. We walk and talk through the suburbs of Colmar. And soon we’re in the country and it’s pitch black. There is light ahead, a red, glowing light. Soon, we see a parking lot and it’s full. The light is on top of a wide building and it says: “Buffalo Grill.” What?! For just a moment, we feel like we’ve been transported back to middle America with its buffet-style restaurants and parking lots filled with cars adjacent to a hotel. I rub my eyes. How is this here?
“It’s their secret,” I say. “They really live just like we do, but they hide it from us, so that we’ll keep coming for the tourism.”
We continue walking and soon we’re back in the 16th century lodge playing a game of chess before bed.
In the morning, we find our little gifts and candies in shoes and boots. Merci à vous, Saint-Nicolas!
There are many caves in Turckheim, but not the kind you’re thinking. Wine caves. The region is a major wine-growing and producing area as evidenced by the terraced vineyards in the foothills of the Vosges mountains and the numerous caves open to wine tasters. The Cave de Turckheim advertised a wine tasting on la Fête de Saint-Nicolas that includes sampling special cookies, manalas, made on the day of Saint-Nicolas. So, we walk through the “portal” of la Porte de Munster and to the wine cellar. It is a beautiful place. There are people behind a counter waiting to give tastings. After storing our things away and hanging our jackets, we sit at the counter and sample a variety of wines. The Gewürztraminer is my son’s favorite and mine is the Pinot Gris. The young woman speaks of the pierres, the stones, that keep the water, storing it, to give to the roots of the vine plants. It’s a very poetic thought.
Too soon, the whirlwind European Christmas Market visit with my son is coming to an end. He’ll fly back to London from Basel in the wee hours of the morning and I’ll take a late afternoon train to Paris to prepare for my own return to the United States.
First, the train takes us back to Colmar for a hearty traditional Alsatian lunch at the busy and friendly Meistermann Restaurant. We eat les Bouchées à la Reine du Chef (chicken puff pastries) avec Spätzelés (Alsatian Spätzel pasta and egg sides) and apple tartes and coffee for dessert.
It is never easy to say goodbye to my children. There is always a pull, like my heart’s walking around outside myself, and when we part there is a void.
It’s in my darkest moments as I wonder about my purpose and value and agonize over the choices I’ve made that one solid thought provides consistent bright light. My children, my daughter and my son. They are not perfect people, no one is, but I like them. They’re positive and optimistic and want to be part of something good. They are an unregrettable, irrevocable contribution I’ve made to the world. When I think about them, any challenges I’ve faced, any failings and misfortunes fall away.
I find a seat in the train so that I can see my son who is sitting on a bench watching me go. I wave from the window. I’m not someone who cries easily, but the tears start falling as the train pulls away. When will I see my son again? In London? In Santa Fe? Having no idea is the hardest part.
Next Two Months in France: Over Paris
This is #24 in a series of stories: Two Months in France. Follow the links below to read the other parts of the series starting with the first:
1. Santa Fe Depot Departure
2. Return to the Great Lady
3. Shakespeare and Company Bookstore
4. Paris Stroll
5. Paris – des heures exquises
6. Train to Thonon-les-Bains
7. Château de Ripaille
8. Getting up with the Birds: Lac Léman to Lyon to Lille
9. Navigating to Avignon
10. In the Walled City of Avignon
11. Inside the Rich Ochre of Roussillon
12. Up the Steep Calades to Gordes
13. Retraversant à Fontaine-de-Vaucluse
14. Diving Deep in the Closed Valley
15. Défense de marcher sur l’eau
16. Tout Seul in Carcassonne
17. Théâtre de Poche in Sète
18. Climbing into Vallon-Pont-d’Arc
19. On ne peut jamais revenir à Antibes
20. Arrivant sur le toit à Villefranche-sur-mer
21. Excursions au bord de la mer
22. Vivant à Villefranche-sur-mer
23. If on an autumn’s day a walker