quite a bit milder, and I found myself less prone to weather-induced funks. Which was nice for anyone who had to live with me—namely Shayla. As quirky and scenic as Germany was in the fall, it turned whimsical and ethereal in the winter, particularly in the small towns and villages, where snowplows were scarce and salt was even scarcer. So the beauty was somewhat unevenly balanced with danger. Germans were so intent on protecting the grass that grew along the side of the road from the damage salt might cause that they were willing to sacrifice their cars in the process. I wasn’t quite so generous with my own wheels, and the lack of road upkeep scared me so much that I actually bought myself a large box of salt and sneaked out into the street at night to keep at least my part of Germany safe from slips and accidents.
Shay and I had risked life and limb driving up to Marzell to go sledding on a couple of occasions. Marzell was a small village fifteen minutes out of Kandern—fifteen straight up minutes. Because of the difference in altitude, there was often snow galore in Marzell when it was gray and rainy in Kandern, snow enough for Shayla to wear herself out dragging her sled to the top of a hill and squealing down to the bottom, then dragging the sled back up again. I’d never really understood the appeal of spending so much time and effort climbing only to enjoy a fraction of the time sliding, but Shayla seemed to love it, so I was happy to stand at the bottom, cheering her down the hill and telling her what a great job she’d done when she got there.
Christmas in Germany was a sight to behold. It seemed each of the larger towns in the area hosted elaborate markets that lasted all of December, filled with stands displaying ornaments and other items made by local artisans, wooden toys, live manger scenes, lots of fatty food, and hot spiced wine. We took Bev along to a Christmas market in Gengenbach one afternoon, as much because we loved her company as because we didn’t quite know how to get there. I’d heard that it was one of the more beautiful markets in the area, about an hour from home, so off we traipsed on a sunny afternoon, the three amigos out to conquer the world.
Darkness had fallen by the time we reached the medieval city, and the crisp night air was saturated with sounds and smells that made my heart sing and my mouth water. We walked down narrow cobblestone streets in search of the main square, past crooked homes with half-timbered facades, through alleyways that practically rustled with the whispers of centuries past. It was an enchanting fairyland that drew us in, and we walked slowly, hushed by the mystery and charmed by the simple, otherworldly beauty.
When we reached the town’s historical square, Shay immediately declared that she wanted a gingerbread cookie, which, lucky for me, was a staple of German markets—so were candied peanuts, waffles, wurst in fresh rolls, warm apple cider, and steaming hot chocolate. It was an overeater’s paradise and I felt right at home. Shayla, however, declared an instant dislike for the hard, nearly tasteless cookie I’d bought her. Fortunately, a kindly gentleman at a bakery stand gave her a free Berliner that reconciled her to the tradition of Christmas markets.
We wandered around for a while, tasting, touching, and absorbing as much of the festive uniqueness as we could. We bought two hand-painted glass ornaments, kept a safe distance from a slightly overzealous Saint Nicholas, watched a children’s choir sing “O Tannenbaum” from the balcony of the town hall that overlooked the square, and finally declared our adventure complete. We decided on the way home that Americans really had a lot to learn from their German counterparts, especially when it came to community Christmas activities.
In other areas, however, Shayla felt they fell a little short.
“Do they know they’re doing it wong?” she had asked on a trip to the grocery store.
“Doing what wrong?” It took so much self-control not to imitate her accent.
“The Christmas stuff. It’s all blue.”
“What’s wrong with blue?”
She’d looked at me like I ought to know better. “It’s supposed to be wed,” she’d said in a patronizing voice. And she was right, of course. Christmas was supposed to be red. But in Germany, where they did things decidedly differently, the decorations were largely