Tommy says…

Travel Tip #6: Navigating a foreign city without a map? All you need is a camera – and the ability to take photos of local area maps posted at bus stops.

Munich is a city of many contrasts. The industrial brutalism of its main station leads across a tree-lined, bustling and jumbled avenue to the simple lines of the Selingor Tor, one of the city’s several gates, and narrow, winding streets filled with medieval houses and baroque churches. A blue-and-white striped maypole makes it seem like a small Bavarian town, yet just down the road, the sprawling Gothic New Town Hall and the disproportionately lofty towers of the cathedral reminds the visitor that this was the capital of one of the great German kingdoms. A short subway ride away are reminders of Munich’s modern claim to fame: the stately curves of the BMW headquarters, and the more fluid shape of the BMW museum, sit snug against the graceful web-like canopies of the Olympic Park. Then there’s the curious mixtures of the old and new. The Residenz, the Munich palace of the Bavarian kings, is all Italiante splendour on the outside; but closer inspection reveals that that facades are painted on. Much of the palace burned down during the war, and reconstruction efforts have tried their best to connect surviving parts of the original, with mixed success. For me though, Munich stood out for its food, food, food, and drink. One of the city’s key attractions is the Hofbrauhaus, a temple to beer. The Ratskeller, a beer hall underneath the town hall, is one of my all time, worldwide favourites. Here are sausages like you’ve never had them before. For a carnivore like me, it was heaven.

And now, for my photos…

Munich’s Town Hall, built from 1867 to 1908, houses council offices, shops, and a restaurant in the cellars. In the main tower is the Glockenspiel – “story clock”

The working parts of the Town Hall are just like any other government office building, but quite suddenly the drab corridor would break into a little landing, framed by Gothic fireplaces and arched windows.

Munich has a habit of keeping its modern institutions of government in great buildings from the past – the Palace of Justice is another example (this time, in Baroque)

Whereas the town centre feels very Germanic with a dash of Baroque, the area around the Residenz is firmly Italianate, from the Feldherrnhalle modelled after Florence’s Loggia dei Lanzi, through the Italian high Baroque Theatine Church, to the neo-classical concert hall.

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Events, Reviews, The Sydney Grind, Travels beer, food, germany, munich, photography, royal palace

Tip #5: Don’t let the fear of a public loss of dignity get in the way of doing something crazy. Remember, you don’t have a reputation to maintain in this country*!

* (Unless you actually do)

We knew something was up as soon as we stepped aboard the train to Füssen, in the foothills of the Bavarian Alps. The carriage, you see, was full of Asians. I was pretty sure we hadn’t got onto the express to Beijing via Moscow. Or did we?

The slightly surreal feeling from being surrounded by Mandarin, Cantonese, Korean and Japanese speakers on a German train became a full blown Escheresque moment when we arrived at our destination and joined a line dominated by Asians of all nations – including a party of Mongols in full traditional regalia.

Neuschwanstein, you see, is the archetypal Romantic castle. Situated atop a hill in the Bavarian Alps, the castle was commissioned by King Ludwig II of Bavaria (1845-1886) as a homage to the fantasy world of German romanticism, especially as represented by the operative works of Richard Wagner (1813-1883)

Though today regarded as one of the most important composers of the 19th century, until 1864 Wanger darted from physical exile to artistic isolation, his lack of income exacerbated by a political ban imposed by the royalist Saxony government due to Wagner’s involvement in republican politics.

In 1864, the 19-year-old Ludwig had been freshly crowned King of Bavaria the year before, and was popular for his youthful energy and brooding good looks. Ludwig was introduced to Wagner’s latest wrok Lohengrin, the tale of the Swan Knight. Ludwig was immediately captivated by this fantasy world, and asked to meet Wagner. The king and the composer left a deep impression on each other. Immediately, Ludwig facilitated the performance of Wagner’s latest work, Tristan unde Isolde in his capital Munich. He paid off Wagner’s debts, and installed him in a large villa.

However, the world in the 1860s was very different from the world of the Swan Knight. The realities of being a head of state soon caught up with young Ludwig. Within the complex political world of 19th century German states, Bavaria was a middle power sandwiched between the stronger states of Prussia and Austria. The Seven Weeks’ War between Prussia and Austraia was fought in 1866. Bavaria sided with Austria, but was forced to accept a mutual defence treaty with Prussia after the war. This brought it into the midst of the brewing conflict between Prussia and France, later to culminate in the Franco-Prussian war. Though Bavaria was formally on the winning side, the war helped Prussia become the overwhelmingly dominant German state, and subsequently the creation of the German Empire. Amidst the celebration of the German victory over the French, Luwdig had to sign a humiliating proclamation giving away Bavaria’s sovereignty to the new Empire headed by Prussia.

1867 was no more pleasant for Ludwig on the personal front. Wagner’s extravagance scandalised conservative Bavaria, and the king was forced to ask him to leave the country. Pressure to produce an heir led to an engagement with his cousin, the Duchess Sophie in Bavaria. This made Ludwig even more morose – he longed, he wrote, to be with Wagner instead. After much dithering, he broke off the engagement. He wrote to Wagner: “Thank God I am alone at last. My mother is far away, as is my former bride, who would have made me unspeakably unhappy. Before me stands a bust of the one, true Friend whom I shall love until death. . . If only I had the opportunity to die for you.”

It was during this difficult period that Ludwig retreated to Hohenschwangau, a castle built by his father on the ruins of a knight’s castle first built in the 12th century. Ludwig had spent many summers with his family there, and he enjoyed the seclusion offered by the castle, nestled between the mountains and a pristine lake.

Hohenschwangau castle (still owned by the Bavarian royal family) is only a short stroll from the village of Hohenschwangau, a short bus ride from Füssen. Visits to the castles are carefully timed, so we used the short time we had before our scheduled entry into Neuschwanstein to run up the hill and look around the older castle. Painted yellow, the castle gives an impression of medieval solidity – with its square keep and stout turrets. One interesting flourish was a set of brightly painted knights installed on the outer wall of the castle facing away from the village. However, one is constantly reminded of the real star of the show – the eye is almost involuntarily drawn to the brilliant white jewel that is Neuschwanstein, seemingly perched far above, with its elegant tower and many-faceted ridgeline.

From Hohenschwangau, Neuschwanstein is approached via a long, sloping carriageway through the woods. Horse-drawn carriages convey visitors close to the top, though we chose to walk (and had to pick our way carefully between the mounds of horse manure).

It was during his self-imposed exile at Hohenschwangau that Ludwig began contemplating bringing his fantasy into reality. He chose the top of a hill above Hohenschwangau, where centuries ago there were two small knights’ castles, a complete ruin by this time. To realise his fantasy of the castle of the Swan Knight, he hired a stage designer to supply the design (and the royal architect to supply the technical expertise that would keep the castle standing at its perilous location). Constrution began in 1869, while Ludwig lived in seclusion in Hohenschwangau – and as the new castle became more complete, Neuschwanstein itself. He became increasingly eccentric, obsessively trying to retreat into his fantasy world. So much so that Ludwig earned the nickname “the Mad”. The Bavarian establishment became increasingly dissatisfied by his extravagance – although he did not use state funds, he borrowed heavily from his own family, and when that source ran low, wanted to borrow from all the royal families of Europe.

The castle in winter presents a unique perspective. While the surrounding fields of snow made the castle’s pure white exterior seem especially brilliant, the snow also means that a number of more picturesque paths up the mountain are closed. For example, the Mary Bridge, across a gorge behind the castle, offers a postcard overview of the castle – but is closed in winter. We decided to chance it up a closed path that wound around the back of the castle, despite the warning signs. I soon realised why it was closed – covered in ankle-deep snow, the path was steep and narrow, with nothing to hold onto except barbed wires (okay, nothing to hold on to, period.) The end of the path was blocked by a fence which we had to climb over. Still – it was worth it for the view of the back of the castle.

After clambering over the fence, we found ourselves in the small court at the gate of the castle. It was here that the Neuschwanstein castle saw its only siege – or something like it. The year was 1886. The conflict between Ludwig and his ministers were boiling over. His ministers, Luwdig felt, were cramping his (opulent) style, while his ministers saw little use for a monarch who held power over them but did nothing on matters of state. Ludwig considered dismissing the whole cabinet, which prompted the ministers to act first. They assembled a medical report from four psychiatrists who had never met the king, which diagnosed him of paranoia. With this as pretext, a group of government commissioners went to Neuschwanstein to demand Ludwig’s capitulation. Tipped off by a loyal servant, Ludwig summoned the local police, who held off the commissioners at the castle gate with bayonets. He held the commissioners prisoner, but released them soon after. One enthusiastic local baroness rushed to the castle at the news of the siege, attacked the commissioners with her umbrella, and then ran into the castle to identify the assailants to the king.

Immediately inside the castle gate is the main, outer courtyard. From here, stairs lead into the main buildings of the castle. The strange juxtaposition of the ancient and the modern was immediately apparent. The castle was built in a fantasy medieval style. Just 100 years later, most of the stonework still seems new, giving the sensation of being in a medieval castle newly built – or, more accurately, still under construction. Alongside Gothic dragon gargoyles are electric lights: Ludwig pioneered electricity in Bavaria. This juxtaposition was all the more apparent in Ludwig’s own bedroom. A posted bed was topped by a carved wooden top which represented all the prominent towers of every cathedral in Bavaria, a massive wooden hybrid between a beehive and a wedding cake. Yet, within the same chamber, is a basin (in the shape of a swan) fed by running water delivered via modern plumbing, and even a flushing toilet.

One of the grandest completed rooms in the castle is the Singer’s Hall. Intended as a place for Wagner to write and perform his plays, the hall is gloriously decorated with murals and frescoes. Though Ludwig never saw the hall put to use, the hall is today regularly used for musical performances.

However, the comical scene of the siege at the castle gates quickly turned serious. After the first attempt at deposing him, Ludwig took no measures to strengthen his position. Less than a week later, the government, now better prepared, arrested him at Neuschwanstein and deposed him. The crown, ingeniously, passed to his brother Otto, who was genuinely insane, and power passed to Prince Luitpold, his uncle, as regent, and a willing supporter of the conspirators. The next day, June 13, 1886, Ludwig went for a walk with the psychiatrist who diagnosed him, and both were found dead in the lake. Debate rages to this day about the circumstances of his death.

At this death, the interiors of the structurally complete parts of the castle were only 1/3 finished. A main structure, the Keep, was intended to be built in the upper courtyard (in front of the main structure seen today), but only the foundations had been laid. The new government halted all works on the site, and the castle later became state, rather than royal, property.

Ironically, however, a project lambasted at the time as an extravagant and lunatic waste of money is today one of the most iconic symbols of Bavaria and Germany. In parts of Asia, for example, it has become almost the symbol of the romantic Europe. As the inspiration for fantasy castles such as Disney’s Sleeping Beauty Castle, it is perhaps not a far stretch to say that Neuschwanstein has become a worldwide cultural motif. The castle is visited by 1.3 million people annually, generating hundreds of millions of Euros in revenue for the state and far outstripping the maintenance cost of the castle.

Ironically, too, for Ludwig, whose death was in a significant part caused by his extravagant spending on Neuschwanstein and other projects, the castle has become the legacy by which he is remembered. Hardly anyone remembers the few political and social decisions he made, and were it not for the castle, Ludwig would only be a footnote in the history of a regional dynasty.

For the hordes of foreign tourists, though – I wondered whether they stopped and thought about what they were seeing. Here they were, at the archetypal “European” castle, unmistakeably solid in all its gleaming splendour. Yet the castle was as much make-believe as the papier-mache that its designer would have been more accustomed to working with. The castle has no defensive purpose, and its beauty comes from the manipulation of traditional defensive forms – turrets, keeps, battlements – into aesthetically pleasing forms. The interiors, with pencilled-in drawings and unfinished plaster walls, intensify the feeling of walking through a stage set, especially when a roughly whitewashed corridor leads into a spectacular completed room. Perhaps, it’s best to see the castle, not as an archetype or a symbol, but a sui generis creation of its times and circumstances. That it remains unfinished is, in a sense, a blessing: it offers us a glimpse into 19th century Romanticism, whereas the finished product would have simply been an imitation of a real medieval castle. It is beautiful, and it is unique, and that’s what counts.

Random facts, Reviews, The Sydney Grind, Travels bavaria, castle, germany, ludwig, munich, neuschwanstein, tourist attraction

Tip #3: The best way to walk cross-country in snow is to always fall forward: this will naturally cause the front of your foot to sink, placing you in the athletic starting position for the next step.

During our sojourn in Germany, three German words became very familiar to us, owing to constant repetition: hauptbahnhof, “central station”; rathaus, “town hall”; and dom, “cathedral”. Every town had, it seemed, these three basic sights. In Potsdam, a little city some 25 km south-west of Berlin, the city skyline (as much as a row of mutli-storey blocks of flats could be called a “skyline”) was dominated by the brilliant turqouise dome of the local cathedral, topped by a glittering golden angel. The church has recently been renovated, and, like many historical sites that were patched up (or completely re-constructed) after the war, looked remarkably new and smooth, almost botoxed.

The keyword in Potsdam, though, is not hauptbahnhof, rathaus, or dom: it’s sans souci. As in the Sydney suburb. As in French for “no worries”. In 1744, Frederick the Great built his palace, named Sanssouci, in Potsdam. His successors continued the work to create what we see today – a network of palaces and smaller manors, scattered throughout spacious parklands, and a small, pretty town nestled in between.

The most famous of these is Sanssouci itself, a small, elongated building with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out, on one side, towards a semi-circular colonade behind which, in the distance, is a hill with an artificial romantic ruin; on the other side, a grand terrace takes up an area several times the size of the palace itself, descending towards a central road connecting the various palaces in the park.
Being winter, the terraces are not their usual lush green, and the fountains are all boarded up, looking like a collection of modernist, wooden sculptures. The most popular part of the park was the slopes of the terrace, being put to good use by kids armed with toboggans. We noticed, however, that there were a couple of people gathered near a corner of the garden, to the left of the house facing the terrace. From afar, it looked like any other garden bed. Up close, however, it turns out to be a flat, square stone set into the ground, heaped with potatoes. Potatoes? That’s right – they mark the final resting place of Frederick the Great, King of Prussia. Elevated into the state mythology of both the Nazi and Communist regimes, Frederick was an ambiguous character. On the one hand, his military victories consolidated Prussia into the most powerful of the German states, the foundation of the Reich. On the other, he is equally famed for his tumultuous personal life – a wife he was forced to marry, then saw only once a year; hiding himself away at Potsdam with a string of intimate friends, including Voltaire; violent and public rows with said friends; acquiescing to, even encouraging, the rumours of his homosexuality. In death, his fate was almost equally dramatic. Though he desired a burial at night, without pomp, on top of the terrace of his favourite palace, his nephew and successor instead buried him in the garrison church of Potsdam. To save them from bombing, his remains were dug up during World War II and transfered, first to a bunker, and later to a mineshaft. From there, they fell into American hands. They were moved between locations (Potsdam being by then part of East Germany and out of reach for the Americans), including a stint at the dramatic Hohenzollern Castle. It took until German reunification in 1991 for Frederick to be finally returned to Potsdam. After an official lying in state at the Court of Honour of Sanssouci palace, he was laid to rest – at night, without pomp – on his beloved terrace, alongside his favourite greyhound. And the potatoes? Frederick had the foresight to greatly promote the potato – then a new fangled New World import – as a way to feed his people, whether they liked it or not. A popular story tells of Frederick overcoming popular suspicion of the tuber by planting a royal field of potatoes, which he kept under armed guard. Assuming that anything worth guarding is worth stealing, local peasants found ways to sneak in and take the plants for their own gardens – thus beginning the popularity of potatoes in Germany.

It is oddly fitting that this man who once led his armies across central Europe, who is remembered as ‘the Great’, is now marked with a simple stone in a garden bed, right next to his dog, commemorated by a mound of base vegetables. The empire that he laid the foundation to is long gone; Prussia, according to the Treaty of Versailles, is forever dissolved. His greatest achievement, though he himself would scarcely have thought so, turns out to be his enthusiasm for a simple tuber, that “neither tasted nor smelled, that even dogs would not touch”.

The park and the palaces have been well maintained. Walking through the monumental tree-lined avenues and past the backs of the grand terraces of the palaces, with only a few other visitors braving the cold and snow, it felt not so much like touring a historical site, as wandering around a home temporarily vacated by the residents – perhaps, judging from the scaffolding erected in some parts – for renovation during the winter. At that moment, I half expected to see a carriage trumdle past, carrying the Kaiser and his family.
However, the past quickly blends into the present. Potsdam is not just the repository of Prussian grandeur – its other claim to fame is through the Potsdam Declaration, the product of a conference between the heads of the Allied powers near the end of World War II. The declaration was to have a profound – perhaps everlasting – effect on the German nation.

To get there, we had to take a bus – then a tram – then a bus – diagonally across Potsdam. Owing to our totally awesome navigational skills and the lack of a detailed map, we managed to get lost right in the town centre. With sunlight rapidly fading, and the thought of giving up on my mind, I asked Brian,  ’If you were Churchill, where would you have the conference? Would you pick the best palace in town?’ ‘Well … I’m not Churchill, but I have just spent most of a year in Britain… and I reckon I know how Brits think,’ he said after a moment’s thought, ‘I would pick the smallest, most decrepit place I could find, because I wouldn’t want Stalin to think, like, “this is awesome, I want this country”.’

As it turns out, he did know how Brits think – Cecilienhoff, located in Neue Garten on the other side of the town, was a charming little hunting lodge and a huge contrast to the Baroque grandeur of Sans Souci. Its gardens, as well, were human-sized, more pleasant dell than monumental cascading terraces. A small path wound from the front gate to the lodge, then through the woods of the garden. Smoke drifted from the chimneys dotting the pitched roofline. The lodge itself is now a hotel, though visitors are encouraged to stroll around the court yard, at the centre of which is a garden bed arranged with a star pattern to commemorate that meeting 60 years ago.

It was at this fateful meeting that Churchill, Stalin and Truman decided the post-war fate of Germany: it would be divided into zones occupied by each of the Allies; its borders would be contracted; its war potential, as far as possible, would be destroyed. What was intended as a temporary division soon became the focal point of the global Cold War, with the Iron Curtain manifested nowhere more clearly than in Berlin, just an hour away from where the leaders sat those two weeks in the summer of 1945. The same conference also had great significance for hundreds of millions of people on the other side of the world: the Potsdam Declaration, released officially by the  United States and China, gave a final ultimatum to Japan to surrender or face the threat of the powerful new weapon the United States had recently and successfully tested.

The rest, as they say, is history.

The sun had set by the time we wandered out of Cecilienhof onto the pleasant little street lined with suburban cottages. I felt a little tired. This, I thought, might be what they call the weight of history. Or it may just have been a day spent walking in the snow.

Until next time,

Tommy

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