Polite but clearly bored with the
crowds and noise of the market, the Frau hands me a novelty mug
filled with steaming wine.
The florid red cup is shaped like a
Christmas stocking. A thick sprig of ceramic mistletoe forms the
chunky handle. It's hideous. But the hot wine inside is warming (in
more ways than one – it's stronger than I expect) and the snow
flakes are continuing to fall: I need all the help I can get to stay
warm this afternoon.
Charlottenburg
Palace's Christmas market is one of the best known in Berlin. Set in
the front of the summer palace of Sophia Charlotte of Hanover, the
market features an eclectic mix of fancy gifts and rustic snacks. Shining pop-up shops selling luxury leather bags or hand-crafted
silver jewellery sit side by side with the simple wooden stalls of the sausage sellers. The air is
infused with garlic and onion, coffee and sugar.
The
market is not a place for dieters. There's a man selling hot
candied nuts; you can smell his tempting wares long before you see
him. Then follow your nose to a steaming vat of garlic-drenched
mushrooms, slippery and glossy with melted butter. Of course I have
to try some: vegetables are supposed to be good for you, aren't they?
Nearby, every imaginable fruit is available skewered and covered in
chocolate or a bright crimson candy coating: apples, cherries,
apricots... a glutton's version of your five a day.
I hold out as long as I can (a feat of Herculean will power), but I'm
finally seduced by a stall devoted to roast pork.
My flat-bread comes stuffed with hot and dripping slices of roast meat, piles of tangy sauerkraut, and smothered in thick sour cream. Bigger than my head, I need both hands to hold it. A Chinese tourist, camera slung round his neck, gazes longingly at my sandwich. I grin, and point him in the direction of the right stall. We don't speak. We don't need to. Greed is a universal language.
My flat-bread comes stuffed with hot and dripping slices of roast meat, piles of tangy sauerkraut, and smothered in thick sour cream. Bigger than my head, I need both hands to hold it. A Chinese tourist, camera slung round his neck, gazes longingly at my sandwich. I grin, and point him in the direction of the right stall. We don't speak. We don't need to. Greed is a universal language.
So full I'm not so much walking as
waddling, I wander through the crowds of the market, sipping my hot
wine, brushing snowflakes off my lashes, and stamping my frozen feet
to keep the circulation going. You can tell the Berliners from the
tourists. The locals are the ones with thick gloves and waterproof
boots. The tourists are the ones in inadequate shoes, fluttering
about trying to stay warm. Loudspeakers play old-fashioned carols and
cheery jingles; later a choir will sing. Behind all this activity,
the baroque dome of the palace is lit by a succession of coloured
lights: pink, green, blue.
I long to linger and listen to the
music, but I'm far too cold to stop moving. Heading back on foot
towards the department stores and restaurants of City West, I pass a
series of Christmas installations. A twelve foot high Santa Claus
figurine, covered in red mini lights, stands on a traffic island in
the middle of Kurfurstendamm, the busy shopping street better known
as Kudamm. A series of sparkling snowmen nestle between a chain
clothing shop and a boutique hotel. The snowmen wear blue taps hats
and pink noses. Groups of teenagers with mobile phones snap photos of
each other posing in front of the lights.
Finally, near the crowded temple to
consumerism that is the KaDeWe department store, I give in and buy a
pair of fleece-lined winter boots.
I
ask the clerk to remove the tags, so I can wear them out of the shop.
She gives me a look that says “tourist” and I grin. Full of hot
wine and garlic-soaked mushrooms, with warm feet I can conquer the
world (or at least the next Christmas market).
Luckily,
in Berlin that's never very far away.
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