Frankly … social  It is what it is

Sausage in a bag, no groups of people – things aren’t quite the same at this year’s Christmas market. And who knows how soon they’ll take it back down?

I’m going to a Christmas market. In any of the last few hundred years, saying those words just before Christmas would have been a mundane pronouncement, no big deal. Perhaps not everyone’s thing, but an unspectacular observation. To the Christmas market, eh? How nice, have fun. But not this year.

The infection rates are climbing steadily, the warnings are getting shriller and louder, the majority don’t doubt that they’re justified. There’s also a new virus variant, things are moving rapidly towards new restrictions. Something will be closed down again, banned, re-regulated, cut back; it will have to be. By the time these words are published, they may already be outdated. It’s unavoidable during a pandemic. In some parts of the country, they’ve already dismantled the Christmas markets, in others they never even set up the stalls. In my town they’re still standing, with an emphasis on “still.” All around, people have opinions about it: they think it’s good or bad the way it is and the way it’s done, they speak their opinions out loud, and not always kindly. It’s safe to say that this year, again, won’t be the most carefree Christmas season.

Where two scents meet

So, I go to a Christmas market. A little girl on crutches asks her mother, “Can I have roasted almonds?” And the mother nods, orders them and pays. A little girl on crutches: This time of year, you might expect a touching tale, but that’s all that happens this time, I promise. I just need the essay to begin with the scent of roasted almonds, because they’ve been sold, I read, at these markets ever since the 15th century. Historically speaking, the scent of these almonds is more dependable than the snow, than the mood, than the presents. The same goes for that other powerful scent at the market: mulled wine. Where these two scents meet and mingle, you can recall all your Christmases past. Maybe you’ll find some of those memories in a little paper bag of roasted almonds, still hot, for four euros. Almonds have gotten pricey.

The little girl and her mother eat their roasted almonds. An elderly man looks at what else is available at this stall: roasted pumpkin seeds, hazelnuts, cashews, macadamia nuts. “They didn’t used to sell any of those.” He shakes his head; he doesn’t want any of those either.

“Look at all the lights,” a woman says to her husband, and he says, “Yes, they’re beautiful.” And the way he looks, he really means it. They walk arm in arm, they walk slowly, they both have that tourist look about them. Maybe they come from a region where all the Christmas markets have already been taken down.

The mulled wine, whose scent is so pervasive that you think you’ll get tipsy just from the smell, is not as easy to get. This year, all the stalls serving alcohol are surrounded by barriers of fir trees, grilles, fences and brightly coloured dividing tape. Attentive security personnel stand in front of them and you first have to check in. Your vaccination certificate and ID card are carefully examined and scanned. Of course, this takes time. Queues form, sometimes long queues. Those who go to the Christmas market want mulled wine, that’s common knowledge. But some people aren’t vaccinated, so they can’t get it. Some people don’t want to stand in a queue, so they can’t get it either. “I’m not going to stand in line for fifteen minutes just to get a drink!” Here and there you hear complaints like, “They can’t do that, that’s ridiculous!” But in the queues, you also hear, “They’re doing this very well. I think it’s great, it works well.” If you stand long enough, you hear all the opinions pass you by, everything’s said once. The majority that I hear today think everything’s quite odd, but still quite right.

Discussing the question of why

I watch a man from the security staff for a while. He’s calm and friendly; he explains again and again what has to be shown here, how it works exactly. He explains it in German, English and once also in Spanish. He turns away people who don’t have certificates, among them tourists who don’t speak English and therefore stand a bit perplexed in front of everything and are turned away everywhere. When the guests speak German and groan or grumble a bit, the man says every time, “Es ist nun einmal, wie es ist. – It is what it is.” Then he nods, scans, waves people through. “It is what it is.” The people walk past him, order mulled wine and, as they drink, discuss in detail what it is and, more importantly, what they think of it.

Food can be bought without going through security. The almonds, the biscuits, the candy canes, the gingerbread hearts, the steak in a bun, you can still get them just like always. But the grilled sausages – how strange – they’re now packed in paper bags and handed over the counter. Everyone asks why, what’s the point? It’s not the usual way, it’s not supposed to be done that way. “Because you’re not allowed to eat them at the stall,” says the vendor, pointing vaguely down the street to indicate you have to walk a bit away from the stall with them. People walk five steps, ten steps, they look back, then they unwrap the sausage and eat it while they’re walking. The question of why is also discussed here, again with different results. At a stand with crêpes a sign says that one should please eat at a distance of 50 metres. Is that a joke, are they serious, what do they mean? Has someone drawn a zero in marker behind the 5, how far, if you please, are 50 metres? Conversations come to no conclusions. Shoulders are shrugged, people laugh. Someone takes a photo of the sign.

Two elderly women are standing next to me. One says, “I don’t know any unvaccinated people. Well, yes, I do. Two. No, three.” She counts them off on her fingers and thinks some more. Her friend waves her off, let’s not talk about that.

In front of a stall selling potato pancakes with a bit of a crowd, there’s a notice: “Please do not form groups!” In front of it, the 14 hungry people waiting in line are trying hard not to look like a group. It’s not easy.

More people are wearing masks again than did in previous weeks, that’s noticeable. Many are making an effort, careful and circumspect, you can see that, even if no one can keep their distance in this throng even with the best intentions. You can see the other people, too; the ones who don’t care, of course. Is it right to go to a Christmas market that some people think is simply wrong? Is this a mistake, is it a pleasure? I don’t know, but I don’t have to have an opinion about it. Aerosol researchers have said Christmas markets are harmless, it was on the news just yesterday. I’m not an aerosol researcher. Nor am I a virologist or an epidemiologist, a mayor or a person responsible in any way for pandemic control. I’m just a columnist, so I observe everything for my work. I’m lucky, I think. And I don’t usually think that I am lately.

The jolly groups are missing

But something is still odd, I notice as I walk through the stalls selling caps, root wood plates, scented woods, brightly coloured felt decorations, glittery jewellery and glowing paper stars. Something isn’t right here. Then it strikes me. The jolly groups aren’t here this year. The departmental gatherings of co-workers after hours, laughing and at least discreetly drunk, besieging a mulled wine stall and telling stories from the office; they’re not here. The good-humoured pensioners’ circles, the tippling ladies’ groups, the sports teams, the students and so on; they’re all not here together. The age-old ritual of drinking at least one or two too many mulled wines together in a large group is missing.

And there are also surprisingly few children here. There are so few of them, they’re hardly noticeable. There’s a merry-go-round in front, but it’s not moving. There are no little riders. The person in the ticket booth is leaning his head in his hand, terribly bored. Then something happens: A boy wants to go on the ride, he must be about four years old. He climbs into a fire engine and places his hands expectantly on the steering wheel. The merry-go-round starts, the music plays. A particularly lively version of Jingle Bells comes from the loudspeakers, the boy turns his rounds in the red car and looks so happy that you can’t help but smile when you glance at him unless you’re the Grinch himself. Maybe there was no carousel for this boy last year due to the pandemic, that may well be. I may be seeing his Christmas market debut here. And how pleased he is with this event, what an indescribable sensation this brief fire engine ride in a circle is for him, you can clearly see it.

Good, so I found a touching tale after all. It was inevitable, I suppose. When the Christmas markets close again here and are dismantled, next week possibly, who knows, at least for this one child something was right this year, even if everything else was a big mistake. At least there’s that.

 

December 2021