Flea Market Finds: Metz, France

March 31, 2016May 9, 2024 ~ travelsandtomes ~ 21 Comments

We ventured over the border into Metz, France recently, to visit an antique/flea market there. The market is opened once or twice a month, and we’ve been three or four times–in fact, it featured in one of my earliest posts from Europe. I think it’s time to mention it again because it’s a fun day out and I have the schedule of markets for the coming year that I can share with you. Very useful information if you live nearby!

The city of Metz, sat on the Moselle River in Alsace-Lorraine, is an incredible day out with or without flea markets. It has Celtic and Roman roots, and its history has remained storied and lively up through modern times. Like all of this region, it has been a matter of French-German border disputes in the modern era (German during the late 1800’s, French after WWI, German again in 1940, and French after WWII).

This city has something to appeal to everyone: the history buffs, the coffee and pastry connoisseurs, the architecturally voyeuristic, the _____ (fill in the blank yourself). Photographic proof below:

But back to the flea market that comes to the indoor Expo center frequently. It’s one of the biggest markets around, bigger than most of the markets that pop up in Paris, even. (Although smaller than the famous Marche aux Puces at St. Ouen in Paris.) This particular day, there were lots of food merchants (not always the case), in addition to the dozens (and dozens and dozens) of vendors peddling antique furniture and silver, vintage jewelry, vintage radios, tableware, dollhouses, signs, cutlery, wine paraphernalia, gardenware, etc. There were even merchants with chic French perfumes.

Oh, yes– and dogs. So many sweet dogs. (Not for sale!)

There were certainly things that were beautiful

This doll would give my kids nightmares.

. . . but also things that were creepy.

A little of everything under a warm and dry roof– it made for a great morning of shopping.

If you are wondering whether I bought anything, then you don’t know me well. Of course I bought something! But shopping at a place like this isn’t so much consumerism as it is a cultural lesson– a way to travel across times, social classes, and ideologies . . . and to cross the barriers of good taste more than a little, probably.

So we bought some wine paraphernalia, some French cheese, an old French hotelier sign, and a piece of old (1800’s) British silver. What do you do with a hotelier sign? I’m not entirely sure, but I knew we wouldn’t have too many more chances to buy one, so I couldn’t let it elude my grasp. I think it could be cute in a guest bedroom? (And appropriate that it is from a one star guesthouse, as I’m not known for my housekeeping skills.)

The sign wasn’t an all out bargain, but it was a little cheaper than the silver we bought. I have a weakness for old silver–

despite the fact that it has to be polished and doesn’t get used a lot. I used to see pieces everywhere when we lived in the UK and quickly learned to read the silver hallmarks, which indicate the city where and year in which a piece was made. They also indicate if a tax was paid to the king/queen, and that stamp makes each piece a quick read (if it’s a dowdy male head, you’re looking at a Georgian piece–early 1700’s to early 1800’s– if it’s a woman’s head, it’s Victorian –mid to late 1800’s). That ability to place a piece of silver makes it really interesting to me. Of course, sometimes you can date a piece by it’s style, sometimes by its wear. Old pieces can be pretty beat up looking, but often they are in fantastic shape–well cared for, they were obviously a prized possession for many years. And how lucky are you that you can pick up a 200 year old piece for a fistful of dollars, and use it to serve a fancy holiday meal–knowing full well that that punch ladle (or serving spoon, or fish slice, etc.) has seen its way around more holiday parties than you ever will. If it could talk, what stories and family secrets would it spill? This is the kind of thing that goes through my head.

And if I sound a little spacey, like someone who lives life in a Beauty and the Beast fairy tale where inanimate objects come to life, so be it. In my world, they do. And if you spend any time wandering these weekend markets in Europe, you may find yourself in the same mindset. Here’s how it goes:

You wander into the flea market, still drowsy with sleep on a Saturday morning, and your eye falls on this vintage French foosball table. Foosball tables immediately take you back to college days and your shiftless friends at the Pi Kappa Alpha house. But here you are in France at a “vintage do”– the Twighlight Zone music starts to play in your head, time and space fall a little out of sync, and there’s no going back from there.
Next thing you know, the hands of time begin spinning backwards: You walk through a maze of old radios from the 30’s, 40’s, and 50’s, emerge in an aisle of World War II and Third Reich memorabilia, and nearly stumble over Rolf’s bike from The Sound of Music. (Ugh, I hate Rolf!) Hoping to get away from the evil grip of Nazi history, you make a beeline for a vendor whose display looks airy and inviting, and find yourself smack dab in the middle of World War I!
From there, things take an utterly surreal turn and you stumble into some magic land of German dwarf bands, Asian totem fishermen with eyes that follow you, and Alpine yodeling horns paired with Jesus in plaster relief.
At this point, relief is exactly what you need, and you are all too happy to see more cheerful items: wine crates, Easter breads, and the world’s most beautiful marionette theater. When your Saturday morning shopping

Our wizard friend shops the stalls of Diagon Alley. . . ur, Metz market.

experience looks like this, you can’t tell me that it’s more about the shopping than the cultural experience. And you can’t tell me that life isn’t a little bit “Beauty and the Beast and singing teacups” after all. But if you want to tell that to somebody . . . well, you can take it up with Albus Dumbledor on your way out of the market. I’m sure he’ll set you straight, and possibly point you to the best wand vendor he knows.

Maybe that’s a key to how you should approach the Metz antique market– it’s the closest thing to shopping Harry Potter’s Diagon Alley that you will ever find in this life. You’d be nuts to miss it.

If you have a chance to visit the antique market at the Metz Expo–go, go, go. It takes time; it takes a little cash; it takes patience to comb through junk to find treasure; and it takes imagination. But the effort yields an absolutely magical morning.

If you check out the Metz Expo, do bring cash. (There may be an ATM on the premises, but I’m not sure.) In my experience, these merchants aren’t big on haggling, at least not compared to the Brits and the Turks. If you come later in the day, you probably stand a better chance of working a deal . . . but you’ll also miss out on some of the best merchandise that gets snapped up quickly– it’s a calculated risk.

Here’s the schedule, and the address is Rue de la Grange-aux-Bois. (The market is easily accessed from the highway, but also only 10-15 minutes from the center of town–so you can make a whole day out of it and enjoy Metz, if you like.) Bon Chance!

Here Comes Peter Cottontail: Easter Traditions in Germany

March 14, 2016May 9, 2024 ~ travelsandtomes ~ 14 Comments

Dieser ist die Ostermarkt Sankt Wendel/This is the Easter Market in St. Wendel

Easter markets are popping up all over Germany, and we visited the market at Sankt Wendel this weekend. It was busy with market stalls full of painted Easter eggs, wooden Easter crafts, flowers, and jewelry. There were craft stations for children and food and drink for everyone. It was a nice day out, especially with the sun shining brighter than it has in many weeks. Our favorite sights at the market were the Easter Bunny displays and the fantastic Dom (Church) in Sankt Wendel.

The church was the center point of the market festivities, with stalls huddled around her walls. The photo at left doesn’t do the exterior of the church justice–in the busy, small streets around the church it was hard to get a photo that shows the fantastic double-onion dome (with a third tier “cap” and cross set above the domes) in proper perspective. This church is stunning.

The interior of the church is equally beautiful. Here are a few photos for you:

The Easter Bunny displays at Sankt Wendel were lots of fun too–a little whimsy and a lot of artistry. But, like so many German traditions, these displays got me thinking. Where did this story of the Easter Bunny get started? It seems obvious that America inherited its Easter Bunny traditions from Germany, as the Easter Bunny is not ubiquitous in Europe. In France, for instance, the Easter Bells (Les Cloches), having flown off to Rome in the days before Easter morning, fly back home and bring eggs and chocolates to children.

The Easter Bunny seems to have started out as a German/Lutheran tradition. Mention of the tradition dates back to texts from the 1600’s, and it does seem that the bunny did more than spoil children with treats. There was an element of judgement–who had been good and who had been bad? (There is, in German traditions, always an element of judgement. If you don’t believe me, check out my past blogpost on St. Nikolaus and his sinister sidekick — Saints and Devils, Fire and Snow.)

But what made the Lutherans think up this magical bunny? Well, they borrowed from earlier traditions too. In German, this Easter Bunny is know as the “Osterhase” (the Easter Hare), and it’s widely accepted that many roots of our present Easter traditions come from pre-Christian traditions. The goddess Eostre (and her symbolic rabbits) were a focal point for spring fertility rituals. Fertility, bunnies, eggs–you can certainly see the echoes in present day traditions.

You see the same pattern in Christmas traditions–the Christian holiday did pick up some flavoring from the Roman Saturnalia holiday that came before it. We’re all magpies in some respect–we incorporate bright scraps we find and fancy here and there, and we add those scraps to our nests. No holidays, religious or otherwise, spring fully formed from a doctrine or ideology–they incorporate the surrounding culture. This may seem odd when the surrounding culture is pagan and the newer holiday is Christian, but hearts and minds change slowly, piece by piece, person by person. Any slow turn of a culture will incorporate what its ancestors held dear, no matter how odd a pairing those ideas and traditions are. Flying bells? Easter bunnies? A little odd if you think about it logically. But, really, if all of our stories hinged solely on logic, we’d be all out of beauty and mystery. We’d be done for.

Long live the Osterhase!! Frohe Ostern! Happy Easter to you!

St. Martin-in-the-Fields

March 6, 2016May 9, 2024 ~ travelsandtomes ~ 12 Comments

London, by Trafalgar Square

Clearly no longer in-the-fields, St. Martin’s Church bustles with the energy of London. It sits just at the edge of Trafalgar Square, one of the busiest spots in a busy city.

You’ll know Trafalgar Square from photos: Admiral Nelson’s column anchors its center, surrounded by those fierce lions, and the National Gallery sits to its back, while traffic circles all around. It is a manically busy spot, but also a fabulous place to catch the heart of London. If you look from the National Gallery to Nelson’s

Column, you see Big Ben in the distance. Then, if you walk to your right, you walk toward Buckingham Palace. The other direction, you’ll find the Strand (with its West End theaters) and St. Martin-in-the-fields.

The beautiful stone church seems to have embraced its new “not at all in the fields, but at the heart of the crowd” identity very well. It is well known for its continued ministering to the city, and in so many ways. It has, historically, had a strong mission for working with the homeless. It’s also popular for its concert series. In fact, music is at the heart of much of St. Martin’s reputation– it’s Cafe in the Crypt is a hot spot for jazz lovers. The Cafe (open the week through for diners) has Jazz Nights on

Wednesdays. If you like Swing, Dixieland, or R&B, this is the spot for you. I can’t vouch for the food, having not eaten there, but I can tell you that many of these “crypt cafes” in British churches are quite good. We’ve frequented dozens of them over the years, a few underwhelming and a few really spectacular. They are always worth a try–especially if a jazz night is thrown into the mix!

Earliest references to St. Martin-in-the-fields are traced back to records from 1222, but excavations have uncovered gravesites from about 400 A.D, when there was a Roman settlement in present day London. (At which point, this area would certainly have been “in the fields” and far from the small town’s city limits.) The church has undergone many changes through the centuries–some dramatic.

As the fields turned to city sprawl, Henry VIII extended the parish of St. Martin’s and made changes to the structure. The church survived the Great Fire of London (1666, I think), which was no small feat. Still, the old facade was pulled down in 1721 and the new marble structure was put into place. I’m a fan of the “new” neo-classical church, but it still seems a shame to me that a church could survive the fire that leveled so much of the city, just to be pulled down a few years later. But there were reasons for that–structural decay chief among them . . . and who can argue with that?

stmartinitf3s — St. Martin-in-the-fields as it now stands

For us, St. Martin-in-the-fields was a great find as we meandered from Trafalgar Square toward the Strand and Covent Garden. We didn’t take the time to learn much history or eat in the crypt. We didn’t stumble into a service in progress (which would have been nice), but we knew the name and were curious to just have a look inside. And what we found made us curious to know more. We opened the doors of the old church, expecting to see what we usually see, but were greeted, instead, with a uniquely bright take on church windows. The East Window, sat directly behind the altar area, and the visual centerpiece of the church, looks like this:

It’s modern, but traditional at the same time. It’s so spare, but still manages to look like a cross. And the light it lends to the space is fantastic. You see something like this in London, and you immediately think the windows must have been bombed out in WWII, and apparently that was the case. And then you think, this window almost looks like it’s being hit with a shock–of sound or schrapnel– something that bends its fibers. And yet, it’s beautiful.

And then, if you are a slightly nerdy English major, like me, you hear the poetry of Yeats: “Things fall apart/The centre cannot hold.” The window appears to have a gapping hole at its center, and Yeats’s post WWI poem conjured the same image. But here, in St. Martin’s, the fantastic ovoid center holds. An entire world war later, and the center holds. With the bustle of this great city, and the enduring attacks that humans perpetuate on each other, and the center holds. In a community of faith, in a busy corner of tourism, in a jazz hot spot, with all of the sacred and profane met in this one thriving building, and the center holds, despite the evidence of warping and instability on its edges.

And this is why I love St. Martin-in-the-fields. Her facade has withstood fires, only to decay and be rebuilt and stand still. Her fields have given way to asphalt and traffic, but still a sort of urban beauty. Her focal point, so often anchored by predictable images in stained glass windows, has warbled, has warped, has shed its coloring, but let in more light, and, yes, it has held.

Oh how I love this church.

Venice: Come Hell or Acqua Alta (Part Two)

March 3, 2016May 9, 2024 ~ travelsandtomes ~ 12 Comments

Alternately entitled: Making a Splash in Venice

To recap from Part One: “First, the water came up to meet us. . .

. . . and then we went down to meet the water. Or, at least, my husband did.”

Before we traveled to Venice, we did a little research. We knew enough to ask about the acqua alta, to ask if we should pack high boots. Not to worry, we were told by our hotelier, this is not likely to be a problem while you are here. And, truly, there was no problem with the acqua alta– it came, it saw, it retreated quickly without particularly hampering our plans or wetting our socks. Our hotelier did not steer us wrong. He wasn’t counting, however, on my particular family’s foibles.

And that is a long and perplexing list of foibles. . . so before explaining our second run in (or, dive in, as it were) with the water of Venice, let me pause to tell you about our lovely hotelier and his cozy villa.

We stayed at Locanda Ca Le Vele, a charming, small hotel in an old Villa, sat right on a canal and just 3 minutes walk from the Grand Canal. The best of both worlds, then: it offered quiet charm and a convenient location.

There were only six rooms/suites to the hotel, and breakfast was served in our rooms each morning. We thoroughly enjoyed the old world charm of the Villa, and would recommend it to anyone traveling to Venice.

Now, whether our hotelier enjoyed our company as well, I can’t say. We were, as we generally are, quiet and respectful guests. With the exception of one incident.

One hell of an incident.

After a day of walking and boating around Venice, my son and I headed back to the hotel, while my husband and daughter decided to stop for coffee before walking home.

They weren’t far behind us, and we’d just kicked off our shoes and gotten comfortable at home when my daughter came flying through the door to our suite in a frantic, wild-eyed state. She was bent over, gasping for breath, and trying to communicate, but the sounds she was making didn’t translate into any language known to man. In thirty seconds time, my blood pressure went through the roof . . . until she finally spit out the words, “It was the best thing that’s ever happened to me!” Followed by a barrage of laughter.

A few more gasps of air later, and Kate was spilling a few details– namely that her father had fallen into the canal and was standing outside of the hotel in dire need of help and in a sorry, soggy, and silty state. Unfortunately, she left out the adjective “smelly,” because that’s what I should have prepared myself for when I went down to meet him. The silt of centuries in the Venice canals also means the stench of centuries will cling to anyone who wallows in those canals.

Ugh.

But I didn’t know about the stench yet, so I left my daughter, who was still doubled over with laughter, and ran down the stairs to help my soggy husband out.

The stairs led to an open air courtyard and the front door of the Villa. I was moving at a fast clip, so the smell didn’t hit me until I had stopped in front of my soggy, muddy husband. (Dripping sludge from the waist down, and his face contorted in disgust, he looked less like my husband and more like the creature from the black lagoon . . .which he kind of was at this point).

My senses, and sensibilities, went into overload. I wanted to burst out laughing too, but the smell–good Lord, the smell! I began retching. Violently retching. I really expected to lose my lunch as James handed me his filthy, muddy boots.

This didn’t go over well with my husband. After all, HE was the one covered in the stuff and HE wasn’t throwing up like me. NOR was he doubled over with laughter, like my daughter. (In fact, it would be some time before he saw any humor in the situation, whatsoever.)

This wasn’t an argument I cared to join (even if I’d been able to stop retching long enough to utter a word.) So I pivoted on my heels, holding the muddy boots out at an arm’s length, and gagged my way up the stairs–passing the front desk along the way. I’m sure the man at the desk was disheartened by the afternoon’s procession: first, my daughter doubled over with hysteria; then me, hauling something muddy and disgusting and making all of the motions (and noises) of someone about to vomit; and then the centerpiece of the parade–my husband, wet and filthy muddy from the waist down, smelling rotten and looking not the least amused. (You can dress us up, but you really can’t take us far before something like this happens . . . it’s inevitable. Other than that, we’re a nice family.)

But the poor desk clerk wasn’t done with us yet. My husband got into the shower, clothes and all. Having no laundry facilities, he figured he’d start with the outer layers and scrub all the way down, bit by bit, sort of like a wet archeological dig down to the original surface–and he quickly realized that the mud was so bad, he’d need extra towels to scub it away. He explained this to me at high decibels, since I wouldn’t come into the bathroom with him (have I mentioned the stench?), but I would have to be the one to go get more towels while he continued the scrub down.

Jeans hanging out of our hotel window to dry.

So I went for the towels. An easy task . . .for someone who can communicate coherently . . . which I couldn’t at this moment. The hysteria that had taken over my daughter a few minutes before had now hit my son and me too, and we were all doubled over with laughter.

But I did my best to request more towels. I went to the hotel desk and, between fits of laughter and gasps of breath, tried to form coherent sentences about our situation. To a man whose English was sketchy to start with.

He probably thought we’d all taken a dive. . . into a barrel of wine. But he did his best for us, and handed me a large stack of newspapers.

Newspapers? Well, beggars can’t be choosers and hysterical laughter doesn’t lend itself to subtle communication–so I took the newspapers and ran.

It was something.

The scrub down continued in our room, and, eventually, we laughed just a little less and my husband fumed just a little less, and the full story came out.

They were almost back to our hotel when James decided that he wanted to see how far the water had receded from earlier in the day (when the acqua alta had spilled into the streets). So, he explained with psuedo-scientific precision, he went to the edge of the canal behind our hotel and began counting the stairs down into the canal. Apparently walking down them as he counted. Great idea.

“One, two, thrrrr…,” and, oops, down he went after hitting the muddy, wet third step. (Who would have guessed that a recently flooded canal step could be so slimy?)

He slipped entirely into the canal–waist high– while my daughter had continued to walk down the street. Hearing some commotion behind her, she turned to see her dad flailing. Of course, she ~~ran to help~~ doubled over in a frenzy of laughter, while two elderly Venetians, cigarettes dangling from their lips, pulled him out of the canal (all the while, he’s explaining loudly, “I slipped, I slipped!”–just in case they hadn’t noticed.) And there was also some detail about him trying to save the KinderEgg chocolate that had floated out of his coat pocket and was lazily drifting down the canal. Sadly, it was too far gone. (And, I’m asking you, would either of my children have eaten it with canal stench rising off of it? No thanks.)

With my husband cleaned off, the room beginning to air out, and his pants hanging out of the elegant window of our room to dry, we gathered our wits and called home to family. It was the American Thanksgiving holiday, and we had plenty to be thankful for. Not least of all, that James had made such a splash in Venice and “it was the best thing that ever happened!” to my daughter.

We are easily amused.

Venice: Come Hell or Acqua Alta (Part One)

February 24, 2016May 9, 2024 ~ travelsandtomes ~ 11 Comments

Acqua Alta = High Water in Venice

For many years now, Venice and Prague have been on my short list of travel destinations. A list that was thwarted back in 2008-2009, because of unexpected work obligations. That was supposed to be the year of Prague, the year of Venice, the year of far flung travel adventures. But, best laid plans and all that.

So 2015 turned out to be the year of Prague and Venice, and many towns in between. I wasn’t going to be thwarted this time around: come Hell or high water, my trip to Venice was going to happen.

Well, I’m happy to report that Hell stayed at bay. High water did, however, make an appearance.

http://www.historic-maps.de/gratis.htm Creative Commons — Old Map of Venice. http://www.historic-maps.de/gratis.htm
Creative Commons

Twice.

Venice is prone to this problem, especially in November and December. Seasonal winds, high tides, and full moons all play a hand in this, but, you know, the island of Venice is in a lagoon. The original settlers of Venice moved to the marshland from the mainland to get away from the constant threat of marauders. They knew no one would bother them in the middle of the marsh–no one would make the effort. Check out the old map above–note that water is not only all around Venice, but it snakes its way through every “street” of Venice. In fact, water actually IS the roadway of Venice. No cars, just boats.

View from St. Mark’s Campanile (bell tower) over the Dogges Palace and out to sea.

Obviously Venice has flourished and the marauders were kept at bay, but the sea must be built over the top of and constantly drained out. And when the Acqua Alta comes, raised walkways are put in place and life goes on.

Pedestrians in single file, walking on "risers" above the flooded walkways. — Pedestrians in single file, walking on “risers” above the flooded walkways.

Cafe tables--plenty of open seats, if you don't mind wet feet! — Cafe tables–plenty of open seats, if you don’t mind wet feet!

Makeshifts waders in Venice acqua alta. — Makeshift waders in Venice’s acqua alta.

Even St. Mark’s Cathedral isn’t spared. In fact, maybe especially St. Mark’s isn’t spared. Piazza San Marco is right by the water, so it’s a first stop for the flood waters. The water seems to wash in and linger like an old friend with the locals–and the locals greet it as such. The tempo of life is not much paused: merchants continue their sales as best they can, in boots and waders, while tourists whimper and moan, and eventually just get on with it, taking their cue from the locals.

Any port in a storm? Any dry strip in a flood! Piazza San Marco

Inside of the Cathedral, the tile floors were beginning to lap with seawater on the morning of our visit. The flooding wasn’t bad this time, but it’s clearly a frequent enough event. The beautiful tile floors of the cathedral are far from level–they are wavy like the sea itself. Whether that’s from years upon years of flood waters spilling through the doors, or from the foundation being built on sinking marshland and bolstered by wooden pilings under the soil I don’t know (every structure in Venice has underlying wooden stakes sunk into the ground/marsh below it to stabilize the building). I will say that I’ve never seen such a wavy floor before . . . but I was absolutely in awe of it. It seemed nautical, like the city itself–as if the very character of the sea, its rise and fall, its most essential quality, was purposefully captured in tile and stone for Venice’s magnificent cathedral. It was beautiful.

It was also a reminder of the absolute impossibility of erecting such a massive cathedral in the middle of a marshland . . . and yet, here it is, still standing all these centuries later. Not swallowed by the sea, not sunken in the sludge. I don’t care what your religious affiliation is (or isn’t)–this is the sort of sight that makes you burst into a Hallelujah chorus. They must have been brilliant architects, engineers, and laborers to have ever built this place! (Hallelujah!) They must have been absolute mad men to have ever thought that this was a good idea! (Hallelujah!) And we must be very lucky travelers to have the chance to come and see this, knowing that there is just no way it can live forever under these circumstances! Unless, perhaps, it can.. . because, so far, it has. (Hallelujah!)

So there you have it–our first brush with high water in Venice. First, the water came up to meet us. . .

. . . and then we went down to meet the water. Or, at least, my husband did.

But I’m getting ahead of myself–that’s a story for part two of this post. Maybe next week.*

If you are interested in a short “Wonder List” video on Venice’s Acqua Alta, click here.

*My daughter and I are about to fly off to catch London Fashion Weekend, so there may be radio silence for a while. But I’ll be back, with photos of London, and a “part two” post about Venice’s Acqua Alta. Until then, Ciao!

Travels and Tomes: One Expat's Amblings and Ramblings

About travel, food, family, and the quirks of living abroad in Germany, England, and Turkey.

B2P

Flea Market Finds: Metz, France

Here Comes Peter Cottontail: Easter Traditions in Germany

St. Martin-in-the-Fields

Venice: Come Hell or Acqua Alta (Part Two)

Venice: Come Hell or Acqua Alta (Part One)

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