Each day in Munich (the final stop on our itinerary) I have been reminded that our time overseas is running out. At 11 and 12 o’clock daily the Rathaus (town hall) glockenspiel chimes its 43 bells and re-enacts the story of a royal wedding, a joust and a dance by coopers (barrel makers). The finale is a cock crowing. The tale is told by 32 life-sized figures that rotate out and around for the enjoyment of a mass of tourists.
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| Two boys and a glockenspiel |
I try to avoid this painful portent of our dwindling time in Europe, never mentioning to Sam and Ben the hour of the day, the Rathaus or Marienplatz, the square in which the town hall lies. Yet every day one or both of them have remembered. I suppose I just have to face it. We leave in a few days. Ouch! That hurt.
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| Cheese in Munich - why do we have to leave? |
When we drove into Munich four days ago I was apprehensive. Chris has never been a lover of Germany and I didn’t want our final destination to be a disappointment to him. As a teenager I was besotted with the German culture. My biggest crush as a schoolgirl was Boris Becker! I studied German for the HSC and even made my own sauerkraut.
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| Who wouldn't fall for a culture that gives a restaurant such a tasty name? |
But when Chris and I travelled along the 'Romantic Road' in the early 2000s he thought the title a misnomer. Later, when we visited Berlin, he didn’t share my fondness. The capital, blanketed in snow, was bleak and hostile to him. No matter how hard I tried to point it out, there was simply no cabaret for him. So we’ve avoided Germany ever since.
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| Grocery shopping in Munich. What's not to love? |
Amazingly, by the end of day one Chris reported he loved Munich. Hooray! I’m not certain what’s behind the change of heart. Perhaps he’s simply happy not to be pushing the stroller along the narrow, cobblestoned lanes of Italian cities any more or relieved we’re no longer spending Swiss francs, a currency that seems to melt away as quickly as a molten pot of cheese fondue.
I love Munich, too. I love speaking German again. I love the big serves of hearty food and the large glasses of fruity wine. I love the way Germans so skilfully manage to blend directness with pleasantness. I love that they are not chic, like the Italians, French or Swiss, and I don’t feel like an overweight, poorly-dressed, stringy-haired frump when I walk amongst them.
Although Chris and Sam are visiting the Allianz Arena (home ground of the mighty Bayern Munich football club) for the one-hour tour as I write this blog, our time in Munich has been mostly about snow.
I love Munich, too. I love speaking German again. I love the big serves of hearty food and the large glasses of fruity wine. I love the way Germans so skilfully manage to blend directness with pleasantness. I love that they are not chic, like the Italians, French or Swiss, and I don’t feel like an overweight, poorly-dressed, stringy-haired frump when I walk amongst them.
Although Chris and Sam are visiting the Allianz Arena (home ground of the mighty Bayern Munich football club) for the one-hour tour as I write this blog, our time in Munich has been mostly about snow.
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| Snow ... and Allianz Arena, home of FC Bayern Munchen |
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| Sam's heroic 'I'm wearing a new jersey' look has Ben in stitches |
The boys love crafting snowballs, snow angels and snow men. Each time we leave the apartment the first question from both Sam and Ben is, ‘Can we have a snowball fight?’
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| The boys about to head into battle |
During a visit to the art gallery Neue Pinakothek yesterday, a conversation I had with the boys went something like this.
‘So this is a painting by one of my favourite artists, Gustav Klimt. He was Austrian…’
‘Do you think it’s still snowing?’ said Sam, straining his neck to find the exit.
‘What about this one, Benny?’ I said. ‘How many sunflowers do you see? Do you like it?’
‘Can we go now? I want to have a snowball fight,’ he returned.
I ignored Ben and turned to Sam in the hope that my eldest son might appreciate what’s inside the gallery rather than what’s outside.
‘It’s by an artist called van Gogh,’ I said, and thought I detected a slight roll of his eyes, so I added desperately, ‘He cut off his ear.’
But even a gruesome tale of self-mutilation could not divert his thoughts. ‘Okay. So can we go now? Do you think we could hire a toboggan?’
We raced through the remaining rooms of the gallery, past Monet and Degas, Gauguin and Renoir, past the colour and out into the white.
We spent the rest of the morning throwing snowballs at each other in the Englischer Garten, Europe’s largest city park, where Sam made a snowman and Benny the perfect snowball, which he carried all the way home. They’re artists of a kind, I suppose.
‘So this is a painting by one of my favourite artists, Gustav Klimt. He was Austrian…’
‘Do you think it’s still snowing?’ said Sam, straining his neck to find the exit.
‘What about this one, Benny?’ I said. ‘How many sunflowers do you see? Do you like it?’
‘Can we go now? I want to have a snowball fight,’ he returned.
I ignored Ben and turned to Sam in the hope that my eldest son might appreciate what’s inside the gallery rather than what’s outside.
‘It’s by an artist called van Gogh,’ I said, and thought I detected a slight roll of his eyes, so I added desperately, ‘He cut off his ear.’
But even a gruesome tale of self-mutilation could not divert his thoughts. ‘Okay. So can we go now? Do you think we could hire a toboggan?’
We raced through the remaining rooms of the gallery, past Monet and Degas, Gauguin and Renoir, past the colour and out into the white.
We spent the rest of the morning throwing snowballs at each other in the Englischer Garten, Europe’s largest city park, where Sam made a snowman and Benny the perfect snowball, which he carried all the way home. They’re artists of a kind, I suppose.
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| Benny's icy egg |
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