Everything is better with cheese.

A lot of people don’t understand that Germany is much further North latitudinally than America, and that this means some slight differences, even if the weather does not really differ that terribly much. One of these great differences is daylight. It is winter here now, and we are at the point where our days are as short as they will be the whole yearlong. The sun finishes its ascent at around 8:30 AM now, and leaves us completely dark by 4:15 PM. That’s not a lot of sunlight! And for someone who has a raging case of seasonal affective disorder, i.e., lack of light in his diet, like, say, me, this can be bad.

I spent the whole day yesterday in Stuttgart, mostly at their Weinachtsmarkt, showing Amie’s mom, fresh from the States, around. Weinachtsmärkte, or “Christmas Markets” are the rage in Germany. People are literally obsessed with them. Just about every German city has some kind of large square, where, traditionally, markets have been, and often are, held. From the 1st of December, though, these market places are replaced by large rows of tiny wooden homes that open on one side to be little make-shift, jury-rigged, yet somehow quaint, shops. They are decorated with garland and lights on the top, even going so far as to have cheesy little Santa displays with moving parts. Christmas Markets have been around since the turn of the century, but to the naive observer, they seem completely American somehow. Maybe it is the wares that make them so funny. There really isn’t much sold at the Christmas Market that you couldn’t normally obtain somewhere else. There are stands full of socks, stands that specialize in house shoes, stands that sell candied nuts (pralines), stands that sell Bratwurst, stands that sell Glühwein (literally translated “Glow Wine”, it is a spices wine that gets you really lit by about the 3rd sip. I have found that the Christmas Market goes a lot better with a couple of these down the hatch.)

Yesterday, I even saw a stand that was devoted to brushes: brushes for the radiator, brushes for your beard, brushes specially made for your bicycle—all of them very beautifully hand-made examples of German ingenuity, craftsmanship, and cleanliness. I, of course, remarked upon this to Chris to which he replied “Germans are not always clean; I’m not, for example.” A statement that could not be more true. He is a packrat beyond compare. Not missing the opportunity, I replied “there is a more than subtle difference between cleanliness and hygiene.” A slam not based on real truth but just meant to sting. The only reason it stings is because Germans are obsessed with cleanliness, kind of proving my point.

There was a whole aisle filled with these American-style QVC salesman with handless microphones around there necks, slicing and dicing with all sorts of strangely similar, but obviously different kitchen machines making roses out of radishes and collapsing onions without shedding a single tear. They invariably have a crowd of old women around them, their husbands forming a semi-circle behind them, all of whom, including the men, are somehow enchanted by the idea of crudité at a moment’s notice. I get this strange feeling that the men are actually more apt to buy this stuff than the women, partly because they are drawn in by fast-moving, shiny objects and partly because they would love to see some of this stuff, on their plates, in their soups, in their stomachs. The quickest way to man’s heart is through the stomach, and one eats with one’s eyes—those two adages intermingling somehow. That sounds dirty.

These little huts are crammed together in aisles that make the Munchkins feel claustrophobic. I, on the other hand, always feel like the Stay Puff Marshmallow man gently pushing myself through the crowded bowels of Germandom, trying not to offend my fellow Christmas Market folk with the sheer size of my body. There is something about my aura that does not ward them off of me, either, I find. They step into me as though I’m not even there. Maybe they’re just mesmerized by these one-of-a-kind objects around them that they miss the 6 foot 2, 200-something-pound American before them. I especially love the ones who have picked up some speed and, for whatever reason, bump straight into me full throttle, only to bounce off, stumbling out of their daze just in time to regain their balance. I guess I don’t look as solid as I am. The surprise in their faces reminds me of a MasterCard commercial: priceless. Then there usually is a look of fear as they assess how angry I may be at the affront. They usually laugh when they catch my face, though. I am just not imposing, ok?

Basically, I avoid the Christmas Market at all costs, except for some Glühwein and pralines. Other than that, there isn’t much use for them unless you happen to be drawn to pure cheese. Oh well, you know what they say? Everything is better with cheese.