Nuremberg

   I came to Nuremberg with very few expectations.  After all, it was almost completely rebuilt after World War II, when, as one of the projected capitals of the Third Reich, it was accordingly bombed out of existence by the Allies.  However, possibly because tourism had been an important part of the town’s economy since at least the mid-19th century, the rebuilding project was meticulous and the medieval town looks perfectly medieval.  Tourism continues to drive the city’s economy (although the Playmobil factory, featured prominently in the city’s advertising campaign, may be giving the Imperial Castle a run for its money)

     However, as my boyfriend pointed out, the trip to Nuremberg took us from sitting pretty an hour away from France to being about an hour away from the Czech Republic, so even the day-tripping tourists seemed a little exotic.  The elegant old man who was manning the front desk at the Albrecht Dürer House, the former residence of the city’s most famous son (not to be confused with Nuremberg’s most famous adopted son, Hitler), assured us he spoke all languages - German, Russian, English, French, Japanese.  I was a bit skeptical of this claim after his English explanation of whatever he was trying to explain to us in English proved to betotally impossible to understande.  However, the ladies standing behind us were Russians, and they seemed delighted to be spoken to in their native language.  (Problematically, they then expected everyone connected with the Albrecht Durer House to be similarly fluent in Russian, a fact which exasperated the tour guide, the bathroom attendant and the gift shop clerk, who bravely  mustered a few desperate „nyets“. )  They were only the first of a lot of Russians we encountered over the next few days.   Sadly, these poor Russian ladies had made the pilgrimage to the Durer house looking for Albrecht Durer’s masterpieces, which are kept under lock and key in Europe’s most famous museums, not among the reproductions of period furniture  in his former attic.   The way they wandered around muttering the title „Apocalypse“ to each other was more than a little disquieting.

  Aside from the tourists, the city provided pleasant encounters with Easter markets where little old ladies sold Slap-Chop contraptions, easter tree ornaments and fluffy pretzels, beautiful churches boasting well-preserved stained glass missing only a few stray saints thanks to the heavily documented destruction of WWII (Hitler’s most German city misses no opportunity to share around the guilt), and a number of museums that were modern, informative, and interactive but low on actual cool old stuff.  The Imperial Castle was once one of many homes to what the maybe-crazy guide confusingly called the „Holy Roman Empire Project“ (which led me to say that, no, I hadn’t heard of one of the most important political entities of pre-19th century Europe and may have influenced him in telling us not to bother with the mostly empty boring castle tour that he personally led – see, crazy!)  We skipped the tour but took a peek at the fortified five-foot-wide open well,  so deep that the sound of falling water came several seconds after the guide had stopped pouring water into the mouth of the well.  The guide’s best moments were explaining the  sanitation dangers of throwing household pets into a well to the group’s children, enticing them to climb up the stones and stand on chairs to peer into the deep well, a pied-piper-ish flare that resulted in a number of nervous-looking parents. 

    Another highlight was the old Nazi rally grounds, which you may remember from such Leni Riefenstahl's cinematic masterpiece Triumph of the Will (warning: said triumphant will is 100% NSDAP).  There seemed to me to be some understandable conflict about how best to memorialize a space a lot of people probably think would best be forgotton.  On the one hand, the rally grounds has been divided up into soccer fields, the processional Grand Road has been repurposed as part of a motor race track that cuts through much of the property, and the half-built Nazi congress hall is home to an orchestra and, on the weekend we were there, in use as a fairground like any other across the world.  In the late 1960s, the structures were partially demolished by the city before, in the 1970s, they were declared by that same city as some of the best enduring examples of Nazi architecture.  There is, to that end, a half-hearted attempt at security. A guard posted in a Winnebago down in the middle of what is now a soccer field keeps an eagle eye on the podium for any pro-Nazi activity.  I doubt he was equipped to defend the site against visitors engaging in suspiciously zealous arm-raising through any means more threatening than waving his beer angrily.   Now, it looks like the city is worried they maybe did too good a job of de-Nazifying – signs around the grounds contain a plea for funding to restore the podium.  I doubt any charitable foundation is gunning for the chance to sign that cheque. 

 
Photo from volksfest-nuernberg.de