EVEN BY European standards, the centre of Aachen – where I spent a few hours on Wednesday – is a strange mixture of the ancient and modern, the sacred and profane.
My companion and I had just visited the 1,200-year-old cathedral, for example, and were strolling aimlessly while keeping an eye out for the other big tourist attraction – the Treasury museum – when we found ourselves in a side-street composed entirely of small, identikit shop units, the purpose of which was not immediately apparent.
The first thing that struck me, as it is has before in Germany, was how friendly the shopkeepers were. Although this contradicts the national stereotype, it has always been my experience, anyway. But apart from everyone saying “hello” and smiling, the second thing I noticed was that, even given the suddenly-mild temperatures, some of them were wearing very few clothes.
By the time a shopkeeper greeted me with the words “Hello, sexy!” – which was very gallant of her – the realisation that this was one of Germany’s legalised red light districts had dawned. Not that there were any lights, red or otherwise. It was broad daylight and, business being quiet, at least one of the women was taking the opportunity to advertise and sun-bathe simultaneously, as she reclined on a window ledge in a bikini.
The street was a short one, mercifully. So we carried on walking, trying very hard to look natural, and also to strike a balance being courteous to these very sociable people, while not starting any conversations. It’s appalling how tempting it is, when asked how you are, even by a half-clad foreign seductress with hands on her hips, to answer Irish-style: “Grand, thanks. Great weather we’re having. Although I believe they’re giving rain later.” But we escaped the street without incident. And back in historic Aachen, eventually, we found the Treasury museum: where, as it happens, body parts also feature among the attractions. It’s hard to imagine now that Aachen was once the centre of a great empire. Yet it was: that of Charlemagne, who by the time of his death in 814 ruled most of modern-day France and Germany, and northern Italy, and whose remains now reside in the aforementioned cathedral, which he founded.
Most of his remains, that is. The centuries after his death were marked by a revival in the worship of relics, and not just those of saints. As the progenitor of the French kings, Charlemagne’s remains were revered too. And the Treasury includes a collection of what might be called his greatest bits.
One of the prize items is a golden reliquary in the shape of an arm, with a window through which you can view the emperor’s actual ulna and radius. The provenance of the bones is vouched by a document attached to them, which testifies that they were transferred from the emperor’s main shrine in October 1481.
A separate exhibit displays one of his thigh bones. But the Treasury’s pièce de resistance is the bust of Charlemagne, made from partly gilded silver decorated with gems and containing the emperor’s real-life cranium. The cranium is not quite visible, but the guide book assures us it is in the “anatomically correct position”. Charlemagne aside, the museum also displays a tuft of hair said to have been John the Baptist’s, and a piece of rib from St Stephen. Yet nothing in the Treasury merits inclusion among the “Four Great Relics of Aachen”: the swaddling clothes of Baby Jesus, the Virgin Mary’s cloak, the loin cloth of Christ crucified, and a blood-stained towel that purportedly once wrapped John the Baptist’s head.
These are contained in a chest in the cathedral and displayed only every seven years. After each exposition, the minders put a new padlock on the chest, fill the keyhole with lead, and cut the key in half, with one piece given to the city authorities. Then, seven years later, the city’s senior locksmith is invited to break open the padlock, which is thus used only once. A handsome collection of broken locks and key-halves is also in the Treasury.
Having seen the two extremes of the city’s tourist trail, we could probably have done with a visit to “Bad Aachen”; which sounds like the red light district but is, of course, one of Germany’s many thermal spa resorts, offering treatments to “harmonise body and soul”. Unfortunately there wasn’t time and we were hungry. So we went from bad, in a manner of speaking, to wurst.
Truth to tell, I passed on the wurst. German cuisine can be a challenge at the best of times. And after the city centre tour I found the menu of our chosen restaurant more than usually unsettling. Sausages apart, there was a lot of fleisch on display: from schweinefleisch to hackfleisch. And even the English translations, like “pork knuckle” and “spare ribs” (or “spare rips” as the menu said), sounded like exhibits from the Treasury collection.
I thought seriously about the vegetarian options. But in Germany, those are not for the faint-hearted, either. So finally I opted for that old tourist-menu reliable, the wiener schnitzel: something with which, I’ve always found – and unlike a walking tour of central Aachen – you can’t go far wrong.