Stepping out the front door of the Belle Blue, I thought for a minute I was in downtown New York City, in Times Square before it was sanitized, except that the cobbled side street was narrower. A Babel of international languages- Dutch, Deutsch, Spanish, French, Polish, Italian, Middle Eastern dialects, everything, it seemed, but English. To my left, a marigold-yellow sign jutted over the sidewalk, shouting in red letters "Kebab! Felafel! Doner!" in front of an open stand. A swarthy man in a grungy once-white cook's jacket presided over a smeared glass counter cluttered with half-pans of wilted lettuce, pale sliced tomatoes, shredded red and white cabbage that had seen better days, dessicated felafel, and an upright pyramid of gray-brown meat purporting to be pressed lamb. Diagonally across the street: its mirror image. Above, painted on the wall in faded blue and red, next to a picture window: Table Dance! To my right, at the next intersection, a restaurant advertised pizza, more kebabs, felafel, and pasta. Next door: Cocktails! Bar! I turned left and walked to the end of the street, crossing to a "Conditorei," a bakery/cafe. It was closed.
I was starving. Approaching the second sidewalk take-out spot, I saw a Middle Eastern woman in a beige trenchcoat over a black dress, in black pumps, glossy black hair pulled back in a chignon, discreet makeup, ordering a "fleish doner", a pressed meat sandwich. The counterman wore a fairly fresh jacket. With his long, narrow sharp knife, he shaved pink meat off the rack, sauteed it quickly on the hot countertop, and piled it onto a pita round. The woman selected trimmings- shredded green iceberg lettuce, white cabbage, tomato, and yoghurt sauce. Hold the onions. The cook turned to me and I ordered the same, smiling: ein fleish doner, bitte. I embellished it with chili sauce and thinly sliced white onion, as well as the traditional toppings.
Two young guys were hanging out at an inside table. When they heard me speaking English, the one in the black leather jacket asked, in excellent English, where I was from. He was very excited to hear "New York." He'd never been there. I asked where he was from, since it was obious he wasn't a native German. "Iraq," he said, "We're all from Iraq. Many of us here from Iraq and Iran. "
"Are you by yourself?" he asked.
Hello? "Yes," I answered; and could have bitten my tongue! I turned quickly to the cook, a fifty-ish heavyset man who needed a shave, and was suddenly looking very unfriendly. In fact, if looks could kill.... I don't know if he thought Iwas being too bold, or if he'd seen my silver Wiccan star on its chain around my neck and thought it was a Star of David; or maybe I was being over-sensitive, but his black eyes glittered with hot malice and a glare that could have decimated an Israeli tank. He finished wrapping my sandwich, I paid my four Euros, tossed an "Auf Wiedersehn" over my shoulder and marched back to the hotel.
The sandwich smelled wonderful. But it wasn't the same meat I'd seen the counterman heap on the previous customer's pita. I took one bite and tried to chew the pink, grisly, fatty mystery meat. It went down hard. Three bites later, I'd decided the meat was goat, not lamb. Not that I have anything against eating goat. But this "fleisch" wasn't even edible. I settled for some crackers from my emergency stash, and tossed the sandwich into the wastebasket. Tomorrow I'd find a Gasthaus and dig into a Wienerschnitzel.
In Europe, you don't flag down cabs on the street. You can go to a taxi stand, or your hotel calls for one. It takes about three minutes for the radio cab to arrive. I'd decided to head straight for Marienplatz, the center-city no-vehicle zone historical district. It made no sense to take the car: parking in the immediate area costs the earth. A taxi both ways would actually be more economical. Despite the rain, I intended to prowl Munich's greenmarket.
First, though, coffee! Still sleep-deprived, I'd missed breakfast at the hotel. I had the cab let me out at a corner cafe, across from the market. The display cases were full of baked goodies. Predisposed for a bagel and cream cheese, I ordered a Philadelphiaring, the German equivalent of a toothsome pumpernickle bagel with toasted sesame seeds, stuffed with cream cheese. I had my choice of a table and chair, or a rectangular seat bolted to the wall. The high perch gave me a better angle for pictures. When an older woman, whose eyes, hands, and bearing looked like she had an interesting history, brought her carafe of tea and plate of cake to the table next to me, I asked if I could photograph her. If she was thinking "crazy tourist," at least it didn't show on her 'I've seen everything' face! By then, I'd shot a myriad of cherry and strawberry tortes and apple kuchen, strudel, crumbcakes, muffins, rolls, bread and croissants, and the efficient saleswomen serving sodden customers with dripping folding umbrellas who'd come in for takeout or just to escape the rain. One of them was kind enough to take a picture of me enjoying my Philadelphiaring and steaming crema-topped cappuccino.
I pulled the hood of my jacket up over my head and gained the semi-shelter of the market stalls. The place was minimally active, most of the proprietors standing around trying to stay dry. The few patrons clustered around favored booths made their meat and produce selections quickly, tucking packages of sausage links, thick cylindrical stalks of Bodensee white asparagus, Bodensee strawberries, and other local delicacies into their shopping carts, and hurried away home. It was too chilly and unpleasant outside to linger. Seeing the huge variety of sausages reminded me what I wanted for lunch.
It took just a few minutes to find a sausage stand with Weisswurst on the menu. I've never understood why we can't get this delicious veal, sweetbreads and parsley sausage in the States. The texture, light and silky, is unlike any other sausage, its flavor sweetly veal, subtly distinctive. Two six-inch-long links are generally served with a soft pretzel and sharp, coarse honey mustard. Weisswurst is generally considered a breakfast sausage, but it's also a timely lunch or afternoon snack. I savored not just the sausage, but the thought, which was all I could carry back to America with me.
Enough cold, wet feet! When I'd entered the Marienplatz, I'd seen a sign near the Ratskeller that said "Bernstein." That's the German word for amber, and it's how my family got its name. My great-grandfather ostensibly worked with amber in Germany, near the Baltic Sea. I love this fossilized resin, and have a small collection of rings and necklaces. Amber jewelry had jumped in cost over the past few years, but maybe I could find something unusual, reasonably priced.
I know I looked like a drowned rat when I walked into the elegant store, but was surprised when the saleswoman said "Are you here to look, or to buy? Well, that was right to the point! "To buy," I said. Nothing like making a commitment before I'd even glanced at the merchandise!
This wasn't going to be easy. I needed a new Baltic amber ring, since I'd shattered an old favorite last winter. Unfortunately, most of the rings I loved didn't fit: I have big hands. Eventually I found a large rectangular stone in a free-form setting that slipped on beautifully. The saleswoman was pleased, and so was I. I felt at ease asking her to take a picture of me in front of the store!
The rain had stopped, and the square was suddenly a mob scene. School groups were pouring up the stairs from the underground station in the middle of Marienplatz like yellowjackets buzzing from their earthy nests. Get in the way and you got 'stung': pushed, shoved, or stepped on. People scattered as teachers herded boisterous, roughousing, noisy adolescents towards historical destinations. Tourists pointed, cameras clicked. Where did all these people materialize from? I hung on to my pocketbook and camera and worked my way to the Ratskeller entrance, under the Glockenspiel, Munich's famous mechanical marionette clock. One look at the menu revised my plan to eat dinner here: the prices were astronomical! It was just another tourist trap. Enough already, anyhow. I d had it. Back to the hotel for a rest, and then I'd decide what do do about something to eat.
I spent some time online, trying to find Munich American Army Hospital, where my daughters, Donna and Lisa, were born. Donna wanted a picture. No luck. In the market, I'd talked to an older woman who'd told me the "kasernes," the Army bases where my daughters' father had been stationed, had been shut down in the early Nineties. Perlacher Forst, the apartment complex where we'd lived, was now student housing and private apartments. The kaserne buildings had been turned into shops and a college. She had no idea where the hospital was located, or even if it still existed. I tried every approach I could think of, but finally gave it up as a lost cause.
It looked like my wiener schnitzel was a lost cause, too. The hotel owner, who couldn't do enough to accomodate me, had no inkling where I could find a Gasthaus that served the inch-thick, juicy breaded and fried veal chop I remembered. She suggested an Italian place a couple streets away, but my legs weren't up for it. I decided to try the pizza place at the nearby intersection.
It was a far better choice than the night before. For E6.50. I got a large personal-size fresh garlic, basil and tomato pizza with Parmesan cheese. It smelled so good, I ate the whole thing.
drove out of the city the next morning, disappointed with its new character. I hadn't expected Munich to stay the same, but what one of my cab drivers said struck me as too true. Munich is a city of diverse ethnic groups that will never come together, never agree on anything. It has lost its soul, the human warmth-"gemuchlicheit"- that made it so special fifty years ago. Now it's just another city.I couldn't be sad to leave it behind.
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