The post Christmas Market Crawl first appeared on OliverTheWorld.
]]>Throughout the month of December, as we made our way through Northern Italy and into Slovenia before finally coming to rest in Austria for the holidays, we had the occasion to peruse several of Europe’s best Christmas markets – also called Adventmärkte, Weihnachtsmärkte and of course, Christkindlmärkt. While we miss friends and family in particular at this time of year, the ‘Christmas Spirit’ embodied by these markets and the festive atmosphere that we were able to appreciate and enjoy truly made this holiday like none we had ever experienced before.

Stop 1: Verona, Italy
The first signs of the season began to appear while we were in Verona, Italy, a city that shares a tradition of aligning itself with Nuremberg, Germany over the holidays. A romanticized town in its own right, Verona was made to seem even more so trimmed with glittering lights and freshly hewn pine boughs. A meandering Advent market began in the handsome Piazza dei Signori where typical wooden stands clustered around the statue of Dante Alighieri, whose dour expression and crossed arms appeared to rebuke the surrounding merriment.
“What’s his problem?” our five-year-old scoffed. “Does he have an attitude like that guy wearing the same dress in Ferrara?” He was referring to the statue of the puritanical and ultimately schismatic Girolamo Savonarola; and if Dante had indeed overheard our son’s comparison, I was fairly certain the poor guy would be tossing in his grave.
The market flowed on beneath the whalebone arch (where its namesake dangled precariously over passersby and was said to fall upon a person who had never told a lie; oddly we were all left unscathed) to the bustling Piazza delle Erbe, where an enormous Christmas tree stood hemmed in by the surrounding palazzos. Vin brulè (literally, burnt wine) sellers stood shoulder to shoulder with folks selling aged cheeses, cured meats and artisanal chocolates.
After a visit to the vastly overrated Casa di Giulietta, where Oliver posted a letter to Shakespeare’s tragic heroine (“Dear Juliet, Seriously, who would want to kiss a girl? That’s just disgusting!”), we left the city via the Piazza Bra, where the ancient Roman amphitheater was fitted with a giant steel shooting star.

Stop 2: Ljubljana, Slovenia
After Verona, we had set our sights on the Christkindlmarkts found in the small townships of the Alps, all the way from Italy’s Trento Alto-Adige region into Austria’s Southern Tyrol. However, early snows in Balzano and Innsbruck, combined with our car’s lack of winter tires, were enough to keep us away from the Brenner pass, so we diverted our route into little-known Slovenia. The end result was potentially the wisest decision we had made in a long time, as the air of festivity in Ljubljana was the finest and most intimate we experienced over the entire holidays.
Beginning at the Dragon’s Bridge, delicately-lit willow trees ushered our family along the high banks of the Ljubljanica River into the glowing heart of the Prešernov Trg (Central Square). Here a massive Advent market spread through the old city like spokes on a wheel; everywhere cozy wooden booths were nestled side by side, and vendors turned out everything from loose spices, wooden cutlery, and hand-spun cotton candy to bags of Slovenian Christmas tea. Various corners of the market were devoted to grilling heaping plates of Ćevapčići, a grilled meat dish that originated in the Balkans. Everywhere was the sound of vendors tapping their ladles against the ember-warmed metal drums that contained red and white varieties of kuhano vino (cooked wine) and medica (honey schnapps). Dedek Mraz, or Father Frost, made an appearance as we crossed the Triple Bridge, and as resplendently dressed as he (she?) was in a floor-length white fur coat and matching fur cap, both our kids still mustered the courage to accept the small sweets that were offered. As an organ grinder’s nostalgic tunes wafted through the air, the old castle atop the hill in the center of the city, Ljubljana Grad, turned from shades of blue to pink to brilliant white.

Stop 3: Graz, Austria
It was unexpectedly difficult to pull our selves away from Slovenia, particularly after a day-trip to Lake Bled hinted at the natural surprises that could be found in this tiny country. Nonetheless, we needed to put distance behind us, as Vienna, our destination for Christmas, still lay nearly four hours ahead of us. We made a short stop in Austria’s second-largest city, Graz, and were treated to a number of easily accessed Christkindlmarkts throughout the city. The Engelsspiel-Pavillon (translation: angel’s game) in front of the Rathaus (City Hall) featured an old-fashioned carousel and one particular vendor who turned out freshly-pressed waffles topped with cinnamon and sugar, which conveniently became our children’s meal of choice for the next 48 hours. In the nearby Landhaus courtyard, 50 tons of crystal-clear ice had been arranged to form a nativity scene that would prove to be as ephemeral as the aura of the holiday itself.

Our favorite Christmas market, however, was the atmospheric Aufsteirern Weihnachtsmarkt on the Schlossberg hill. Accessed by a number of steps, a futuristic glass elevator and a modern funicular, the old ruined fortress straddled a small, forested mountain that literally rose up from the city’s center. The market was staged inside the open-air bowels of the castle that were hewn from the mountain itself. Inside, lanterns and chains of lights set the room aglow as carolers in Tyrolean hats shared table space with visitors who clutched steaming mugs of glühwein (mulled wine, with our without a shot of brandy) and glühmost (mulled cider). Various folks had staged their wares in niches in the castle wall; one served raclette, a Swiss style of cheese melted inside its rind, scraped onto toasted dark bread and topped with fried onions; while another browned Käsespätzle, fresh German-style egg noodles, cheese and browned onions in a large iron pan. In another little alcove, Oliver and Kendley rolled, baked, decorated and bagged a dozen Christmas cookies while we waited.

Stop 4: Vienna, Austria
The Christkindlmarkt has existed in Vienna since the Middle Ages, and the city boasts no fewer than thirteen separate and distinct markets over the holidays. The largest market, 1) Wiener Christkindlmarkt at Rathausplatz, spilled out in front the Gothic-styled City Hall, and was framed by trees draped with heart-shaped lanterns. Everywhere were tourists of every make and mold, snapping up painted glass ornaments, winter hats and bread bowls full of hot goulash. Booth after booth was chockablock with heart-shaped Lebkuchen that wished passers-by a Fröhliche Weihnachten or a Glückliches Neues Jahr.
The imposing building rising up behind the festivities had itself been turned into a gigantic Advent calendar; twenty-four of the illuminated windows along the façade had been fitted with numbered green curtains.

2) The market in front of Karlskirche was popular in our camp for a few particular reasons: the pony corral, the nativity scene complete with live animals (both occupying the area where the fountain had been emptied for the winter), and the ride-on Christmas-themed toy train that looped around several of the booths. Unfortunately, all of that nonsense set us back nearly ten euros and left us with a screaming toddler whose pony did not lope quite quickly enough to her liking. A bratwurst here, an Apfelpunsch there, and we were off to see more.

3) The Wintermarkt at Riesenradplatz was stumbled upon by accident, really. We had been gifted with nearly a 50°F cloudless day just after Christmas, and the kids needed to air themselves out after having been buried under a small pile of new toys for the past 36 hours. Right beside the giant Ferris wheel at the entrance to the Prater amusement park (one of the oldest in the world), the market had shed it stalls of ornaments and baubles, and was instead set on plying exhausted parents with glühwein, candied, toasted almonds and regional pastries. Another slice of Sachertorte was just what the doctor ordered.

4) Last but not least, the New Year’s market in front Schönbrunn castle. After spending a full day at the Tiergarten, the Hapsburg family’s private menagerie turned world-renowned zoo; we whetted our appetites on Nockerl (dumplings) and Baumkuchen, a traditional pastry that is made to order on a spit by brushing on even layers of batter that are then rotating over a heat source. Oliver set his sites on a hand-made doughnut that was custom filled for him with vanilla and chocolate custards while he watched. Everywhere there were traditional handicrafts left over from the tide of Christmas travelers that had descended on the city for the last two weeks of the year. Beyond the market, the Baroque balustrades of the palace apartments, the frost-covered rose gardens dormant for the winter; there stood the Gloriette, theatrically gleaming down from where it stood high upon the hill.

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The sun had rolled slightly away from its zenith at three in the afternoon when we pulled into the gnarled streets surrounding Naples’ central storico (historic district). Despite this, it’s cruel heat still radiated over the ancient paving stones at Plebecito Square, and scarcely a soul ventured outside while the city slumbered through the most severe hours of the day. A Roman friend of our had insisted on the difference between Italy and the rest of Mediterranean civilization; “in our culture, there is no siesta, of course. You will find Italy is open for business throughout the day!” Maybe so in the northern reaches of the country, where Italy acquired shades of its continental neighbors. But here, in the south, it might as well have been the middle of the night.
So we did what any tourist would do at that obscene hour of the day, and sought shelter. It was found in the labyrinthine passages of Naples old town, where four hundred year old buildings that had been built on top of Roman ruins teetered over the narrowest roads conceivable, the light of day all but unknown within endless shadowy streets and meandering alleyways.
And despite the countless warnings in every guidebook we had ever read, we attempted to maneuver our (oversized by European standards) car towards the address of the hotel we had arranged for the next few nights, and I nearly lost my breakfast in the process. There are simply no words to describe what it is like to drive in Naples other than “madness”, where, in a given instance, a street could be scarcely wide enough to accommodate a vehicle and a passing pedestrian. We came so close to doorways of several ground level basso apartments that we could count the number of inhabitants inside as they sat around their communal table and smiled back at us, either admiring our bravery or chuckling at our foolishness.

But we managed, and the experience would sharpen Ryan’s chauffeuring skills for the intense driving in Amalfi and Palermo that lay ahead. After squaring away our accommodation at the delightful Decumani, whose coffered ceilings once sheltered a small boarding school, we ventured out in search of Naples’ famed pizzerias, where the “margherita con molto formaggio” had achieved legendary status. And legendary it was. The blistered crust at Da Michele’s (of Eat, Pray, Love fame, Via Cesare Sersale, 1) bore an essence of what could have been cinnamon, so that every mouthful of tomato, buffalo mozzarella and basil bore the inscrutable and barely-there hint of a warm, exotic spice. At Di Mateo’s (of President Clinton fame, Via dei Tribunali, 94), the salty crust was perfect counterpoint to the generous and perfectly acidic pomodoro. Gino Sorbillo’s (Via dei Tribunali, 38) was our lucky number three, with their Nonno Luigi Sorbillo special (mozzarella, ricotta, pepper, prosciutto and basil) which is first fried and then finished in the pizza oven.

But bread alone was not enough to keep the kids entertained for long. As we traipsed the length of the parallel thoroughfares Spaccanapoli and Tribunale from Via Toledo to San Gennaro’s Gothic duomo, we found ourselves skirting around the Roman temple cum Christian basilica at Plaza San Paolo Maggiore toward the tiny, darkened entrance to Napoli Sotterranea, the Naples Underground. Through these passages we were led more than forty meters beneath the city into a system of aqueducts and cisterns originally constructed by the Greeks three hundred years before Christ, and later expanded upon by slaves subject to the Roman Empire.
Here, the remains of a great theater had once been the preferred venue of Nero, whose performances had delighted his patrons in Neopolis, the “new city”, despite the hatred his subjects harbored for him back in Rome.

Oliver and Kendley took to the narrow tunnels like foxes in a warren, and showed little evidence that they might be the least bit claustrophobic given the circumstances. All six-feet, four inches of Ryan, however, found it slightly more challenging to navigate the way through the various passages, especially at the conclusion of our tour, which was lit solely by candle-light.

After returning to the pseudo-daylight above ground, we made our way to the Capella San Severo, the tomb-chapel of the di Sangro family. The small, yet stunningly ornate chapel is known for the 18th century marble sculptures of Giuseppe Sammartino, who imparted a truly remarkable lifelike quality to his works. In the center of the chapel, the Veiled Christ, a marble rendition of Jesus immediately following the deposition, stunned even Oliver into a reverent silence. In one single piece of marble, the artist had captured the body of Christ in repose; a thin veil of stone accentuating, rather than concealing, the extent of His suffering. All around the chapel were other works by the same artist depicting various virtues and sins. Disillusion consisted of a man pulling a net hewn entirely from marble away from his eyes. “Bernini has found his match, don’t you think?” I asked Ryan. He silently agreed.
Beneath the chapel, various experiments performed by a member of the family occupied niches in the walls. Not dissimilar to the catacombs that we would later see in Palermo, the niches contained the Anatomical Machines, bodies that dated back to the 18th century; one of a man and one of a woman, preserved so that their entire circulatory system was visible behind the glass. As we crept away, the luridness and mystery of the room was not lost on a single one of us. Outside, the day was drawing to a close on the already darkened city, and a faint wind from the south had somehow managed to find its way through the alleys to us, and it ever so gently stirred the countless lines of laundry hung from balconies overhead. It was time to press on down the coast, to the sapphire cliffs and lemon terraces of the Amalfi.

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At 4:45pm, we have exactly fifteen more minutes before we are ejected from the Galleria Borghese. Fifteen more minutes is all the time my family has to run up the stairs to the second floor, past four or five Carravagios, a couple of Titians, and two of Raphael’s more notable works. In fifteen precious minutes, if we ever hope to see the remaining works in this gallery, we will be forced to reserve another two-hour block of time more than a day in advance, and still wait in a tortuously long line as it winds its way through the subterranean levels of the gallery alongside hordes of equally frustrated people from all over the world who are desperate to see the same collection of priceless art. Time is simply of the essence in these final fifteen minutes, and right now, at this moment, in front of Bernini’s ravishing Apollo and Daphne amidst a crowd of gawping tourists, Oliver is lying spread-eagle on the floor.

I am close to having a fit. This is Oliver’s signature over-the-top gesture. He has employed it at the foot of a glacial moraine in the north of Iceland, at the Plaza San Pietro at midday, and countless other times in various equally inappropriate settings. It is his preferred way to non-verbally convey to us, his parents, that he is either too hot, too tired, or bored out of his mind. He simply lies down, spreads his arms and legs, and anticipates that priceless look of exasperation that contorts my face the second I turn around and catch him in the act. I hiss at him this time, snatch him from off the ground, and hustle him into the next room. Fifteen minutes later, standing outside the gallery, Ryan reminds of just how much we are asking of our kids. To be sure, Rome is a challenging place for children, particularly after our extended time in Iceland’s vast natural playground. And considering the fact that I am keen on snooping into every nave of every church at every little piazza in the entire city, it’s no wonder our kids are acting, well… like children.
So, rather than making a beeline for the Piazza de Popolo, I abandon my grand vision of marching my family down the length of the Via Del Curso for the third time in twenty-four hours. A whirring and buzzing mental checklist of the remaining unexplored museums and monuments grinds to a halt and collapses back into some dark labyrinth of my brain, and in the park beside a fountain, we take off our shoes and rest a while. In this way, we conclude our conquest of Rome for the day.

And since the fascists were run out of this country a long time ago, we decided to amend our ways. In a city like Rome where innumerable galleries, ruins, and piazzas can topple even the most intrepid traveler, we instituted a firm one-site-a-day policy. We still managed to walk A LOT, as we preferred our own feet to public transport in terms of the freedom it afforded us (and the degree to which it tired out our children at the end of the day). And always, in our wanderings, we kept a good eye out for the “fun zones” that tended to crop up at various intersections all around. 
In these little kiddie oases, the kids whirled around on an assortment of tiny merry-go-rounds or won small prizes from archaic pinball machines. It is still an unspoken agreement; three minutes of air hockey can buy us up to thirty minutes in a museum.

We continued to strive to make Rome a place Oliver could understand on a basic level. For a five-year-old, the specter of gladiators electrified the air at the Colosseum, and together we searched for signs of mechanical trap doors in the ruined interior and spied ancient graffiti that depicted the names and favorites of the former spectators. In places like the Palatine Hill near the old Roman Forum, no one admonished us for allowing Kendley to sit down in the dust where she collected pebbles that perhaps once formed an emperor’s residence.

Roman cuisine has been a high point. Both of the kids adopted the city’s signature pasta dish, Cacio e Pepe, as their stand-in for mac and cheese, requesting it nearly every night even after we had left the city. The ostensibly simple combination of Grana Padano and Pecorino cheeses, along with a smattering of freshly cracked black pepper toasted in oil, belies the true complexity of the dish. I know this because, while down the Amalfi Coast, I attempted to recreate it at Ollie’s request, and was later informed that I had failed miserably.

Without question though, the single greatest weapon that recently entered our arsenal as parents has been the almighty GELATO. And arguably, Rome puts forth some of the finest gelaterie in the entire country. As searing winds from North Africa baked the city in late August, no adventure that took us beyond the walls of our little rented flat ever failed to include a stop over for our favorite combinations: frutti di bosco (fruits of the forest) and limone, bachio (hazelnut chocolate candy) and stracciatella (chocolate chip), or cioccolato fondente (dark chocolate) and amarena (sour cherry and cream). The kids inevitably wore more of the frozen treat down the front of their shirts/all over their faces than they ever managed to cram down their mouths. Which leads me to another topic, best saved for another day…how to keep up ALL THE LAUNDRY!

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Throughout October, Ryan, Ollie and I traveled Vietnam from nose to tail.
In the North, we saw clouds reflected in the rice terrace pools outside Sa Pa and watched the moon rise over the spines of “dragons” sleeping in Ha Long Bay. Hanoi’s old merchants’ quarters burst at the seams in early October as the young and old took to the streets surrounding Hoàn Kiếm Lake with red silk lanterns held aloft during the Mid-Autumn Moon Festival.
Favorite Northern Vietnamese dishes:
Chả cá Lã Vọng – turmeric-dusted whitefish fried tableside and accompanied by fresh dill, scallions, basil, peanuts, cilantro, and chile sauce, along with a tangle of vermicelli. The best versions are on Cha Ca Street in Hanoi.
Chả giò – deep fried pork spring rolls served with tangy nước mắm (fish sauce) and chili
Ollie’s favorite Northern Vietnamese dish: french fries

In Central Vietnam, the air along the ancient river in Hue smelled of incense while the bullet-riddled imperial city concealed the specters the French and American wars. In sweet Hoi An, cheerful cries sang out from seamstresses in tailor shops, and along Cua Dai all the way to the beach were frangipani blossoms and fruit stalls. School girls in white ao dais floated on the breeze.
Favorite Central Vietnamese dishes: Bánh khoái – Crispy egg pancake with shrimp, pork, bean sprouts, mint, fig, star fruit and topped with a sesame-peanut sauce (Hue) Mục Tai Chánh – squid marinated in lemon juice (Hue) Cao lầu Noodles – thick udon-style noodle with pork rind croutons, lime, mint and shrimp in a beef broth (Hoi An) Bánh Bao Bánh Vac – (white rose dumpling) – steamed shrimp dumpling bunched up to look like a rose served with fish sauce (Hoi An
Ollie’s favorite Central Vietnamese dish: french fries
In the South, Saigon’s traffic rotaries bristled with motorbikes traveling in different directions all at once. Expats in many shapes and colors marched up and down the boulevard past the Rex and Palace Hotels, around the department stores and Bvulgari ads with their young children in tow. We shared steaming bowls of pho for dinner every night, piled high with bean sprouts, lime, basil, chili and hoisin.

Rice a thousand different ways in the Mekong delta. Up and down the river were boats towing the husks for fuel; their painted-on eyes forming consternating glares once used to ward off crocodiles that had been hunted down to nothing long ago. Within the flooded delta, coconut palms arced over the swollen waterways and sampans plied the canals bearing heaps of dragon fruit, pineapple and sweet potato off to the floating markets Cai Bei and Cần Thơ.
Favorite Southern Vietnamese dishes:
Cá Kho Tộ – river fish braised in a clay pot
Coconut toffee and sweet puffed rice cakes held together with condensed milk, cane sugar, coconut flakes, ginger and chopped peanuts
Ollie’s favorite Southern Vietnamese dish: french fries, coconut toffee and sweet puffed rice cakes
Phu Quoc, Vietnam’s island treasure is a small scattering of village folk on red earth roads. On the windward side was a long beach that looked at the sun as it fell into the Gulf of Thailand; in another place was sand so white and water so clear that one would shield their eyes from below. Men dove for pearls off the coast and green peppercorn plantations marked the edge of town.
At the end of the month, we broke all the written rules and bee-lined for the most remote border crossing Vietnam shares with the Cambodian coast. In the town of Ha Tien, contrary to Lonely Planet, money does indeed buy you your Cambodian visa and in no time we were off, leaving the mighty river and her people behind in the last of the wet season’s afternoon downpours.

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