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| Fireman, taking two kids to see Santa at window #19 |
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| Here we come, Santa |
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| We're here Santa |
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| Ho Ho Ho |
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| Show me, Mr. Fireman |
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| See you later |
Good Evening Herr Goethe!
Some of my days here are consumed with history, with reading and writing, with the past. With you, Herr Goethe. Yesterday was not one of them. Though I should have made today – Monday – my day of rest, since the museums are closed, I decided on Sunday. Well, I didn’t really decide, just didn’t get dressed until afternoon. Sat on my bed knitting, watching Christmas shows on television. And after I had draped myself with all the layers of clothing that I could carry before toppling over, I just walked the nearby streets for a couple of hours.
At three in the afternoon – 1500 hours – every day during the Advent season Santa appears at a window of city hall and gives gifts to a couple of children selected from the crowd. The windows of city hall are like the windows in an Advent’s calendar – numbered and decorated; when the window of the day opens Santa appears, chats with the child, then sits on the window sill for a few moments, waving to the crowd at the Christmas Market below. What makes some of these windows more interesting than others is the location. Dec. 19th is on the second floor. Punctually – ah these Germans and their punctuality – at 1500 hours – a fire engine lifted a child, accompanied by a fireman, to the window. I heard a few hohohos, there might have been bell ringing, but that could have been in my imagination, (I’ll have to go back, maybe on Dec 24, to pay closer attention.) From the ground I watched what must have been gift giving, and questioning, and other Santa-like maneuvering, until it was time to bring the earthlings back to earth. What fascinated me was the young fireman’s attention to the little boy in his charge. He talked with him, showed him various parts of the fire engine and then, with the mother’s consent (I heard her ask where to) he lifted the boy into the cab and after he had seated himself, took him on his lap, and the driver slowly drove away; I assume just up the street a bit, around the corner. It was, I think, what makes for good relationships and good memories for both, child and man.
At that point, for me, it was time to pay a visit to my lentil soup friends for a late lunch. I had been craving hot soup since I had arrived in Weimar. Twice before I had stopped at the edge of the Christmas Market where two young men ladle soup with a smile and the willingness to engage in a friendly, touristy conversation. “Where are you from?” “ I love your accent.” (One of them had spent some time in London.) “Your soup hits the spot.” “Yes, we do have napkins.” They give you real china soup plates if you want to eat at the stand, right there. I crowded in with a frowning, elderly, male slurper, a young woman in designer clothing, who missed her mouth and had to engage three napkins to clean up her act, teenagers in love – one plate, one spoon. I was waiting for them to feed each other, but had to be satisfied watching them take turns spooning. The most fun was a young couple with a little boy in a stroller. At least I thought the child to be a boy; it is hard to tell with all the bundling. The parents ate quickly, comforting the unhappy child between each hasty spoon full. I don’t know if the child was hungry, or cold, or uncomfortable, or spoiled, but even though the parents spoke a language I didn’t recognize, their concern was familiar to me; the scene reminded me of my early parenting years, when my son had to endure similar outings because “fresh air is good for the child.” And, by the way, note to my young lentil friends, “Your soup - high sodium content and all – is delicious.”
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| My Lentil Soup Friends |
Carefully folding my almost unused pale yellow napkin, letting it disappear into my backpack, I continued my walk. Ah yes, napkins are a rarity in Germany, still. I remember years ago, when I took my granddaughter to the places of my youth and we broke into hysterical laughter at the sight of a half napkin at the bottom of a basket. We both reached for it before the waitress took away the remains of a hard roll. I do, generally, appreciate the frugality and sense of environmental protection, but my mouth has not yet learned to internalize all of my food groups, especially the whip cream covered ones and the soupy ones; my tongue sweeps across my upper lip, periodically – like a windshield wiper at its slowest speed – in an effort to minimize waste and/or achieve cleanliness.
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| Santa chats with passer-by |
My next victim was Santa. A Santa. This one I met in front of Hotel Elephant. His helper guarded the stash of candy he handed out. Every once in a while Santa returned to the bag and filled his pockets with chocolates. I don’t think he saw me as a friend; he turned his back toward me whenever I tried to take a photograph. I followed him for a while, noting his antics as those of a townsman who, during the off-season, was just an ordinary citizen. People seemed to know him. I even expected him to indulge in a glass of hot wine with the customers at one of the many Stand Bars. I made the word up, Herr Goethe. We writers tend to do that, don’t we? I fashioned it after the expression for the coffee stops everywhere, those tiny tables on poles, at which one stands to drink coffee. Stand Café is the name. (I still haven’t found the Umlaut symbols and the accents on my laptop, but the spell checker knew how to correct this one for café.)
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| Santa takes a stroll through the Christmas Market |
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| C'est moi |
When Santa disappeared into the Sunday afternoon crowd I asked a passer by to take my picture, then I warmed myself at a public fire, listening to Posaunen, trombones that blew Christmas carols. My only embarrassing moment of the day came when I tried to drop money into the instrument case that stood, open, at the edge of the Buehne (good grief, I’m having senior moments in my language salad; what is the English word for Buehne? Ah yes, it is stage.) I only had 50 cents in change and expected the container to be strewn with Euros. As I bent forward I realized that the trombone case was totally empty. I almost withdrew without dropping the coin, but I felt all trombone eyes on me and let go of the puny offering. Well, either I was the only one who even gave a few cents, or I was the only one who mistook the open instrument case as depository for charitable giving. I walked away quickly.
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| The Band |
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| A place to warm my feet |
The last event of the darkening afternoon was a stop at the Weimar Haus, the place with the Disney version of a walk through history behind closed doors. I did not take the walk again, but I planted myself in front of a photo automat. Jay Leno has some cute sketches with people in photo booth that talk. They make me laugh. “Please touch the tip of your nose.” I almost expected this machine to say: “ Why do you look like a bag of potatoes?” I was prepared to answer: “Because I am wearing all the clothes from my suitcase.” But this isn’t actually a booth. You stand in front of it while it takes several photos of you. Then you pick a design you like, add a caption, throw 3 Euros into the money slot, and it prints out a postcard with your face in the middle. I was wearing my new red cap, picked an image of the famous faces of Weimar, added “Dichter und Denker in Weimar! (Poets and Thinkers of Weimar) then tried to make small talk with the serious clerk at the counter. She did not find me very amusing. However, I had had a wonderful afternoon, and when I saw ME to the right of YOU, Herr Goethe, I declared it a perfect afternoon.
G.
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| And here we are Herr Goethe - Face to Face :) |
P.S. How do you like my new red cap, Mr. G.?
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