Sankt Martin's Fest

Sankt Martin’s Fest

Travel is an interesting concept and fairly new.   Used to take months to get to Europe from the New World. Three generations ago, as a young man, my grandfather rode from Florida to South Carolina on a mule.  The U.S. was mostly rural.  Travel meant going to the closest big city, only ten or twenty miles at the most.

Now we hop on a jet and go from the heart of the United States to London in about seven hours. Another hour and a half gets us to Berlin or Rome.

Somehow, local travel has become less attractive, or maybe we just take it for granted.  A shopping trip.  A local museum that’s not as grand as the Louvre or the Prado.  Bragging rights to how far we've been and sights that eclipse the local venues.

For me, living and traveling in Germany is different.  I don’t feel the need to go far. Maybe it’s because I’m an American and everything is new. A fest that’s been going on for centuries is a fresh flower in my traveling garden.  It may be only an hour away, but it’s an adventure.  Which brings me to the village of Sankt Martin and their yearly festival honoring the saint.

A lovely old town.  Solid stone buildings.  Flowers decorating every window ledge. Cobblestone streets. Sights that make your camera click every few paces.  Streets clogged with smiling people and baby strollers, the scent of roasting chestnuts and grilled Bratwürst permeating the air.  Vintners, with doors thrown wide, serving half liters of their best, at prices less than you’d pay for a small glass of vin ordinaire in the States.  But, all is not just Brats and street food.  Wide doors of old hewn oak open to sprawling arrays of foods, from potato dumplings to wild boar goulash and fried schnitzel and heaps of vinegary potato salad.

But, it’s not just a festival of plentiful food and drink.  There’s a deeper reason the town opens up every year and with a name with ‘saint’ in front of it, of course it has its roots in the Catholic faith.  Germans are not ashamed their open faith may offend. No prohibitions on whole towns celebrating this saint or that.

But, now, let’s get more specific.

Martin was a Roman soldier who ripped his cloak in half to share with a beggar during a snowstorm. While he slept, he dreamt of Jesus and later became a bishop.  In the past, on 11 November, the tradition used to signify the end of the seeding of wheat and the killing of fatted cattle for  Martinmas beef.  Didn’t see any cattle being slaughtered, so it wasn’t the Christian version of Ramadan.  But, each year the celebration continues.

People flocked for the food and librations and at the local Catholic Church, riders came for the blessing of their horses.

Although the town of Sankt Martin carries his name, the celebration carries through many parts of Germany and France.

Of course for me, it’s always the people.  We sat at a long plank table to enjoy Würst und Schnitzel, potatoes in many forms, and luscious green salads, along with pint sized glasses of red wine.  Our table neighbors heard us speaking English and thus ensued a long conversation of their son who lives in the U.S. and questions about what brings us to Germany.  My wife is a teacher and so was his wife, seated across from him.  Her husband and I sat in silence as teacher-talk took over.

Then it was time for another conversation with the folks on the other side of us and when they left, yet another conversation, all the while switching between German and English and a smattering of both when one of us lacked the vocab.

Often, when friends come from the States to visit, they have their hearts set on visiting the whole of Europe.  “How long do you plan to stay?” we ask.

“Oh, about a week and we want to go to London and Berlin and Rome and Madrid.”

“How about we drive an hour down the road?”

They look disappointed. But, wait until they taste the wine and meet some Germans and suddenly their thirst for travel blossoms and that photo op in a slew of big cities will never again quench their thirst.

Under the green lights of a Weinstube, here's a famous sweet and soft St Martin's pretzel.

Yes, the grapes are already harvested, but this is still wine country!

A Culinary Walk in the Country: But Not All Walks Are Equal!

Last Sunday, I joined friends on a culinary walk near a small town in the German countryside.   Here’s the setup:  six kilometers, up and down hills, with a station every kilometer or so, serving delightfully tasteful specialties, and local wines.   Drink fab wine and walk for a stretch, with a series of nosh palaces along the way?  Hell yes, thought I.  Where’s the downside?

It’s a sunny day, with temps in the mid-50s.  We drive about an hour to get there.

In Germany, parking is always an afterthought.  Germans build sleek, fast automobiles their automotive engineers rightfully point to with pride.  But, parking?  You vish parking?  Hier?  Phere a couple of Tho-sand people komm zu essen und trinken? Have you lost your Nudeln?

Well, yes, ra-ther.  Drive around.  Finally guide the car up a hill where wild sheep get nosebleeds.  Park .  Slalom down to the center of the village.

Now for wine and food.  I rub my hands together in anticipation.

We pay our tribute, grab our empty wine glasses and step forward, where the line of hopeful eaters weaves and bulges and keeps us away from the food.  The day grows slowly more chilly, as I begin to notice while the line creeps forward at the pace of a pensive sloth.  But, oh, well, the day is sunny even with the now piercing chill turning my fingers to something normally thrown in a whiskey tumbler with Scotch and soda.  Not to complain too much.  The crowd is friendly.  And, when we search for a place to sit and eat our wurst and pommes frites and steak-on-a-stick, people smile and accordion together to make room.  I sense this will remain a happy crowd unless the wine gives out.  Judging from the expansive vineyards, there’s no chance of that.

Steak on a Stick

 I’m on my second glass and afternoon is still only a whisper past morning.  I down the last fragrant drops.

Time to begin the hike.  Thankfully, the next stop is only a short distance, on level ground.  More sausages.  More wine.  Still sunny.  No sweat.

 Then the slope changes for the worse.  Radically. Uphill. Steeply.  My wine is beginning to slosh.  I soon regret my last cigarette from forty years ago.  The thighs are getting a little tight, but stalwart that I am…

 More uphill.  If it gets any steeper, I expect Sherpas to lead the way.  And, now the sun it seems has something else to do.  Disappears faster than a virgin at an orgy.  Also, the wind picks up.  Oh, well, I’ve reached another wine and food comfort station.  This time it’s planked salmon roasting around an open fire.  The seductive aroma wisps through the crowd.

 But, at this point, the unpleasant chill transforms itself into a vicious wind with icy intent.  The lines for salmon are longish, as in a thirty-minute wait longish.  But, the fire is mercifully open, so I find a spot and thaw my fingers.  Right before the sleet begins.

Then wind picks up to gale force.  Tents flap and babies cry as the multitudes huddle together.  My companions and I plot an escape from this madness that the Germans call spring.

Then the sun comes out.  Should we go or stay?  While we dither, the sun’s fire dims again and the wind runs rampant, with accompanying sleet.  Decision made.  Downhill.  Fast.

Some brave souls stagger on.  I silently wish them luck and wonder at their stoic determination not to die a frozen death.

We make it back to the car and terminate the day’s outing a few hours sooner than expected.  No planked salmon either.

However, there is some recompense to this dreadful day of man versus weather.  Through sleet-blinded eyes, I manage to notice the scenery is gorgeous.  Get your mind out of the gutter.  Nobody’s going topless on a day like this!  I’m talking about the grassy, emerald hills, the graceful lines of winding trees, and white bushy blooms that signal a faint hope of spring.

 The day is far from wasted.  In short order I’ve grown to once more appreciate sunshine’s golden blessing, and to reacquaint myself with delicious wine and roasted sausage.

But the real star of the show today is the spectacularly beautiful German countryside. 

No more wine?  Don’t be foolish.  A well-stocked wine cellar awaits.  Also a roaring fire.

Culinary hikes are shelved for another day, and next time a German tells me spring is here, I’ll know he’s either a wild eyed optimist, or the same guy who told me parking was no problem.