It felt like a conga line in a sardine box. A single step forward could not be achieved until the individual before you also took a step. Claustrophobia was eminent.
This was a Saturday afternoon in December at the Christkindlmarket of Chicago. It is a holiday fair whose roots stem to 1545 Nuremberg, Germany, where artisans shared their wares with fellow townsmen---all from a cluster of wood huts. Celebrating its 20th anniversary in Chicago, it has become a cherished tradition of the season. As I was already in the city for another project, I decided I must attend.
Staged within Chicago’s Daley Plaza, the infamous Picasso sculpture appears to keep watch over the barrage of visitors. It is most evident from the myriad of food offerings that the theme is German: Stollen cakes, sausages, Gemüse kebab, sauerkraut, strudels, bratwurst, and various beers abound. Just as the original market offered, so does this--a gallimaufry of artisanal wares, including: handmade ornaments, cuckoo clocks, nutcrackers, sweaters, jewelry, and mittens. All this, as a cache for potential gift giving.
In the United States, Santa Claus is the grand patriarch of the season. His resume indicates an annual December 24th journey around the world in which he leaves presents under the Christmas tree for good boys and girls. Tradition in Germany indicates a similar position is held by Christkind—a fairy-like being sporting a robe of white, a crown, and golden tresses. In the same way as ole’ Kris Kringle, she leaves gifts under the Christmas tree on December 24. Yes, the Christkind was present. Much like a reigning beauty queen, she floated about the crowd shining her pearly-whites for the deluge of contiguous selfies.
Extra height must be a blessing for attending such an event. My guess is it would allow you to see something other than the latest innovation in acrylic yarns-turned-toboggans, as my personal vista provided. On a sacred occasion, I would catch a glimpse of what we were all there to see. The ornaments and wares appeared beautiful. They were hand-wrought….not the mass-produced sort one can purchase at their local discounter. And the food? It smelled, well…interesting. It was not the typical whiff of an American food truck. One could easily sense the unique character of the event.
After 25 minutes of having my back (and locations south of it) prodded by shopping bags, backpacks, and the elbows of fellow attendees, I searched for an exit. Angst began to simmer. Seeing the flicker of a break, I lunged forward to escape. Alas, I found myself standing before a large crèche. There was something very humbling about this nativity. The rash of materialism seemed to instantly disappear, as focus of the real meaning of this special season became most clear.
As I was crossing the street to leave, I turned back for a final look.
I smiled.
I knew the best possible gift of the season had long been given.
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