We only had two holiday seasons during our time in the USA. Both Christmases were quintessentially American, and so very different, and both without Christmas markets (perhaps one of the factors that made us realize Europe is decidedly where we want our life).
The first was a magical one spent in our cosy, quaint Brooklyn apartment. We chopped our own Christmas tree down at a New Jersey Christmas Tree Farm; I wore a festive holiday pajama set from Target for the occasion (because, America). Weekends were spent exploring New England towns festooned with lights with wholesome small town American spirit, our old haunt being Newport, Rhode Island. Nights were spent either on hot chocolate dates in West Village, drinking champs at The Plaza or joining the stream of Fifth Avenue tourists to admire the glitzy, winter lavishness covering the concrete jungle. I spent one December afternoon at Tiffany’s (that Tiffany’s) picking the perfect piece of jewelry for my mom. And of course, many snowy walks in the distinctly magical Central Park — always ending at Trump Tower to use the bathroom.
The second Christmas was an opulent southern affair in Charleston. I escaped most nights underneath a chunky blanket next to the fireplace, cuddled with a sweater-clad Ami, a Hallmark film of sorts always running in the background. Proud Christmas trees stood in every corner of the house (part in festive spirit, part to distract me from the excessive space of the house which never did suit my heart). Every morning we would take long strolls through the winding alleys of the historic downtown Charleston, each colonial door knocker surrounded by an elegant magnolia wreath. Other mornings we would bundle up in our best Patagonia and take windy walk on Sullivan’s Island, our hot southern pecan brew takeaway coffee in hand.
These two vastly different Christmases represented our short but treasured American chapter. We are deeply content to be back home in Europe and resume our usual winter rituals. One weekend regularity during the holidays is a visit to a local Christmas market. Our time in Austria happily coincided with the opening of Innsbruck’s Christkindlmarkt, and so our holiday season started early.
While the most magical Christmas Markets are in Germany and Austria (called Weihnachtsmarkt or Christkindlmarkt), they can be found nestled throughout most European villages and cities. These bespoke winter compounds open in late November and grace town squares throughout until the first days of January. Brimming with dozens of ornate huts, Christmas Markets offer local artisan goods and a vast culinary potpourri of traditional holiday foods. The market in Innsbruck is particularly old world Europe in atmosphere, seemingly lifted from the pages of an Austrian fairytale. The enchanting alleyways, traditional alpine architecture and surrounding wall of snowcapped alps make it one of my most beloved on the continent.
Our Christmas Market experiences always commence with Glühwein (a rich, divinely spicy mulled wine) followed by a bit of boozy shopping. I adored these hand-stitched mouse ornaments; I can’t wait to hang the mousy lovers on our tree in Notting Hill. One vendor was selling essential oil derived from my favorite alpine tree — der Zirbenbaum — so that’s now in my life. It’s a dreamy, romantic woody scent that sends my heart into Austrian memories. As for traditional foods, we went for the pièce de résistance of Tirolean indulgences: Kiachl. I ordered my Kiachl with Preiselbeeren (cranberry jam). They can be eaten with sauerkraut as well, but my nostalgic sweet tooth made the firm decision.
We dearly missed winters in Europe. We will slowly start embracing English traditions (with the greatest joy) as we enter our British life. It officially starts next week as we cross the English Channel via ferry into our greatest beginning of all; could the timing possibly be more magical?
xx KG
