Suffice it to say, Dresden did not come recommended. Back in the States, my father greeted the news that I was headed there by recalling the morbid details of the Allies’ leveling of the city in 1945. Here in Germany, eyes rolled at the idea of my visit there, for Dresden epitomized, now and forever, “the East.” Really? Still? “Yes, it’s still different there,” my Bavarian friend told me. “When an Easterner walks into the bar or what have you…it’s not an accent, it’s not the clothes. But still, you just know.” It wasn’t a compliment.

November has drawn to a close as I hop on the bus, and I expect the time of year will not be flattering to the cement cityscape that I’ve been warned about. If this town is in fact nothing but a (literally) concrete reminder of a rough 20th century, then I need to update my word associations; isn’t “Dresden” supposed to evoke the cradle of Saxon Romanticism, the hotbed of Baroque architecture, the Queen City on the Elbe? Oh, that’s right, the Elbe flooded a few summers ago and ravaged the city center. Still, as the bus plods through the town’s dingy outskirts on the umpteenth overcast day in a row, I cling to my hopes: perhaps a single cobblestone alley. The colorful wall of a Rococo palace. A smile from a pastry-seller. Something.

As I throw down my bags in my hotel room and set out into town, I learn that my timing is better than I thought, for the transition from November to December means more than just a further drop in temperature; it marks the beginning of the Christmas market.

Dresden has seen its share of cataclysm, but this is one show that must go on. And so it has, since 1434, come hell or (again, literally) high water, making it the oldest Christmas market in the country. Yet with a nod to practicality, there is no attempt at an official opening. When I stroll into the main square, the earlier-arriving salesfolk have their stands in full swing, creating a small oasis of fairy-tale toyland, while their tardier neighbors are cursing over parking spots and drilling plywood to prep their booths. As I walk past, each salesman has tuned out the hysteria and proudly flashes that earnest smile I was hoping for; Christmas cheer here is serious business.

The first booths that MUST be ready are, of course, the stands of food and drink. Not only do Saxon delicacies make for easy gift ideas, but the frigid shoppers must be fed on the spot. Gluhwein has been warming Christmas shoppers’ bones for centuries in Germany, and when the market is running at full capacity, it is hard to walk 100 feet without seeing a chance to indulge. Consisting of red wine mulled with varying combinations of cinnamon, cloves, vanilla and citrus, gluhwein offers an innocent sweetness that’s famous for plastering you before you know it’s happening. The same booths will also offer you apple cider, hot chocolate, and any number of piping hot waffle pastries, ensuring that all visitors leave the market a little more insulated than they came.

The market is actually named for cake. Of the hundreds of markets throughout Germany, only Dresden’s can be rightfully called the Striezelmarkt. The name comes from a cake once called Hefestriezel, Dresden’s buttery, loaf-shaped fruitcake that is laced with many of the same spices as the gluhwein, plus raisins and cardamom. The cake is now known as Christstollen and continues to fly off the shelves, along with gingery Lebkuchen and other less home-grown delights.

Each day I return to discover new booths, new toys, and new decorations as the scene evolves into a festive sensory overload. After a few days, the toy-sellers are in full swing, and well, these are your grandfather’s toy displays. As kids run by engrossed in their cell phones, Dresden’s toy stands remain frozen in time, and they have their reasons. Just a few miles out of town on the Czech border lie the Erzgebirge, the “Ore Mountains.” Miners settled here until the ore dried up in the 1800s, but rather than leave, they turned to woodworking, and this became a toymakers’ Mecca. Ornamental nutcrackers and wooden soldiers had their birth here before Tchaikovsky made them iconic. And now, as Burger King and Deutsche Telekom outlets frame the main square, this is one tradition on which Dresden will not budge. I watch every kid over ten run past the toy booths toward the waffles, the bandstand, and the strongman contests, and I wonder how long the toymakers’ tradition will survive. Then I see a young dad being pulled by his daughter toward the woodworking displays; she’s wide-eyed and fascinated by a wooden chicken, and I think we have a sale.

My visit to Dresden lasts ten days, and I visit the market on all of them. It’s a nightly ritual that concludes with a walk back to the hotel, during which I can’t help but notice that Dresden is beautiful. It doesn’t hurt that my walk involves a cobblestone alley past the wall of a Rococo palace, and well, I get plenty of smiles from pastry-sellers. I do not get a smile, however, when I tell one of them that her city is beautiful. She looks completely confused, as if she’d learned about Dresden from my father. “Really?” The beauty is lost on her. Is it possible that even the natives define this city by bombs, floods, and iron curtains? She shrugs and goes back to her pastries.

Ask me whether I’ve summitted Kilimanjaro…

December 7, 2008

Barafu Camp: Elev. 15,200 Ft.

Mt. Kilimanjaro, Tanzania

We were woken up on Day 5 with the usual bowl of steaming hot water and a bar of soap, except this time, wake-up call was at midnight. Preparations for summit morning were actually quite swift because there were no decisions involved: wear EVERYTHING. I layered myself to death and ventured into the dark, frigid air, ready for a quick carb-loading in the main tent where the porters all slept.

Nemis the cook greeted me in the candlelight.

“Mambo vipi?“

“Chizi kama ndizi!” I replied, just as he taught me. “Cool as a banana.” On Day 5, the team still got a kick out of my tragically hip Swahili, but my stock phrase was probably wearing thin. I wasn’t the most sparkling conversationalist this fine “morning,” but I was ready to suffer.

Ready to suffer? Or as coddled as I’ve ever been? I’d never had porters in my life, and now, in accordance with the rules of Kilimanjaro National Park, my friend Erel and I had eight of them between us, along with a guide, a guide’s assistant, and a cook. These aren’t the details that would inspire awe at our stamina when we got home. And at the end of each exhausting chapter of this six-day saga, it was hard to even pat ourselves on the back when we were supported by people who’d trekked as far as we did, trekked it faster, and trekked with 40 pounds of equipment on their heads. So summit morning was not just our average moment of truth; it was the chance to take back our pride as stoic adventurers, as it was the one time we had a task beyond these men; Here, at 15,000 feet, was as high as they’d go, while we’d press on with our guide another 4,000 feet to Kili’s summit by dawn.

It’s a weird tradition, climbing the crux of the mountain in the wee dark hours in an attempt to summit for the sunrise. I supposed that the sight of the first light over the Serengeti was a spiritual experience that would make the dark, the cold, and the sleeplessness worthwhile. It also guaranteed the calmest weather. But our guide Ben had an interesting point: it’s easier because you can’t see a thing — no looking up and getting discouraged by the massive project that looms ahead of you. That climbing in a vacuum of forced ignorance didn’t really jibe with how I like to do things, but as we set upon an endless route, I came to appreciate what Ben was talking about. All I saw at some incalculable angle above me were a few clusters of lights — the headlamps of a few more anonymous souls dutifully trudging and thinking about God-knows-what to get them through. And somehow I found a rhythm in the black infinity.

Our can-do attitude was shaken when we passed a woman who needed to turn back. Lit only by the headlamp of a guide shaking his head “no,” she looked devastated and numb, but out of respect and determination, we didn’t even break our stride. We caught just enough words to know what was going on before leaving the sad scene behind, like a morosely out-of-place Macy’s window. She really didn’t need us looking at her, and yet I really don’t think she knew we were there.

The summit chose the perfect moment to appear in the lightening sky, because everything else was going wrong. My water bottle had frozen (a sign that I’d been a bad boy about sipping regularly), my headlamp was dead (I’d been guessing where the ground was for an hour), and the single cookie I’d indulged in at our last break made it clear that it had no intention of staying down. (That was awkward.) Five days of pushing limits were catching up with me, and I may be responsible for us not standing on the summit at the moment of sunrise…but you know what? I loved the way it happened. We were walking along the ridge — Kili’s volcanic crater to our right, the ice walls of her last glaciers sliding down the slopes to our left — and the sun began to appear. It bathed the ice walls in pink, and on the plains below us, it illuminated a mist so thick that Kili was casting a shadow on the air.

It was noon before we returned to camp from our successful summit bid. The team of porters cheered on our approach as we gave them a big thumbs-up. As we told our stories in broken English and brokener Swahili, I realized that these specimens of stamina actually admired our achievement. It lingered in their imaginations, our one moment of doing something they didn’t, and they hoped to one day become guides so that they too could stand on the Roof of Africa. And perhaps, in their vision, I was carrying 40 pounds of soup mix on my head.

Me, Deo, Erel, and Ben — probably all unable to perform simple arithmetic at this moment, but soooo worth it!