Bubbling Waters of Baden Baden

I started writing this post in February and then felt uncomfortable publishing it after the war in Ukraine broke out as I wanted to address that first.  So here it is, my trip and reflections on grief.

Very sadly this war continues adding thousands of others who will have to learn to live with their grief as best as they can and I struggle to do.

Unfortunately, bubbling waters can’t soothe away grief. Yet, here I am in Baden Baden for the thermal baths trying to do what I can to get through another death anniversary of my son.

Beloved American writer, Mark Twain who visited the thermal baths in Baden Baden in 1878, remarked “After 10 minutes, I forgot time, after 20 minutes, the world”.  How I wish dear Mr. Twain.

As each February approaches, I seem to want to push it aside as if I could just bypass the whole month. I try to follow the advice I gave patients in dealing with death anniversaries.

Grieving is going to take its own course.     The best you can hope for is some momentary distraction from the stark painful reality that it is never going to go away.

That advice is to plan ahead for the day.  Surround yourself with loving and supportive family and friends or any pleasureful activity that will provide some distraction.  I prefer to get away to new surroundings and love thermal baths.

Immersion in the warm constant swirls of turbulent water wrapped around me like a security blanket allows my sadness to float beyond the horizon for a little while.  

Because planning ahead to deal with death anniversaries isn’t something I really look forward to doing, I put it off of course.  Usually, this ends up being counterproductive because planning a distraction trip in February gets more expensive if you wait.

Most of February is vacance scolaire, or the yearly winter vacation days for French school children.  The majority of French families plan well in advance, knowing full well that the most reasonably priced accommodations go quickly.

Baden Baden, however lovely it is, wasn’t my first choice.  I was eyeing thermal spas in the Pyrenees.  I love being immersed in warm healing waters surrounded by snow-dusted mountains.

Cauteret, just north of Lourdes, tucked high in the Pyrenees near the Spanish border, looked ideal, but by the time I got around to looking for a place to stay, all the apartments were taken.

Baden Baden isn’t surrounded by mountains but is nestled in the Black Forest hills with a Casino along a swift running river.  These ancient baths are in Germany not far from the French border of neighboring Alsace, north of Strasbourg.

Getting there was fairly quick on the ICE train, Germany’s excellent fast trains, that leave Paris Gare de l’Est.  They reach speeds well over 314 kilometers/hour and in just under 3 hours, I arrived in Baden Baden, after changing in Karlsruhe.

I rented an Airbnb in the old town, which allowed me to reach the thermal baths within a 5-minute walk. It turned out to be large and light-filled near the restaurant I hoped to try.

Baden Baden has two large thermal bath complexes one of which was closed for winter.    The closed Freidrichsbad baths are more famous for nudist bathing, which is obligatory!  They even have private pools for playful lovers.  No problem for me, I wasn’t disappointed at all nor feeling deprived of baring it all!

The Caracalla baths have outdoor and inside pools where you can wear bathing suits!  They also have a nudist pool and saunas on the top floor, reserved only for nude bathing enthusiasts.

No cameras are allowed for privacy reasons, so photos seen are only the buildings at night.  There is also a building for salt  “baths”  to soak up salt “rays”, from solid salt walls, said to have healing properties too.

Both Thermal baths were built over the ancient Roman ones in use for several centuries from 214 AD.  Visits can be had to see the original Roman bath ruins, still well preserved.   Thermal waters up to 68C still gush out at over 800,000 liters a day!

Baden Baden was built on a hillside, so some streets are fairly steep, affording some good cardio going up, including the one to my place.

It was popular with the Russian Romanov’s family, since one princess born nearby married the younges son of Czar Nicolas.

After discovering that the restaurant I so looked forward to was closed for winter vacation, I opted for one wine bar resto down the street, that wasn’t on my list.   Surely they could do a proper schnitzel?

There were crisp white linens and a fresh rose on the table, but my first letdown was not finding a Spâtburgunder on the wine list.  Spâtburgunder’s are pinot noirs and one of the wines the area is supposedly famous for, other than the whites.

Baden Baden is just across the border of Alsace, where pinot noir makes the only red wine of the region and is easily found there.   I settled on a red wine listed only as from Baden Baden, but a white one was brought out.

It wasn’t because of my non-existent German, as they all spoke English and decent French. Finally the red apologetically arrived.  It tasted like a pinot noir and was good.  All was well, till the schnitzel.

The schnitzel came in two pieces, not one large one that one finds in the rest of Germany and in Vienna.  It wasn’t an even golden brown either and was decidedly industrial rather than being flattened and breaded by hand as it should be!  Shame!

I let it go without pointing out my disappointment, out of fatigue from the trip and just wanting to call it a night.  Eating out in a new place is always a gamble, especially in one I didn’t choose in the first place!

The next day I went to the marché in front of the lovely cathedral.  For the next two nights, I would eat in with my own cooking!  I couldn’t resist some adorable little baby artichokes the size of golf balls.  What a find!

Next, I bought some Maultaschens, from the butcher, a traditional specialty of the area.  Basically, it is a German-type flat dumpling filled with sausage and spinach. Perfect!

I had already tucked some garlic, an onion, lemons and a small vial of olive oil in my suitcase to make salads. After buying some pretty butter lettuce,  sour cream, and fresh chives and dill, I was all set to get some wine.

Trying to find some Spätburgunder turned into a goose chase.  Who would have guessed?  A fine wine shop had only one very expensive one, a fancy bottle that would appeal more to a designer rather than a wine lover. The majority were from Italy and France!

Les Trois Petits Cochons, a charcuterie, with a pretty array of smoked meats in the window, smelled fabulous when I walked in.  Hmm, some black forest bacon would be delicious, I thought.

Well, no such luck!  All of his products were from Alsace, which are indeed truly delicious but they are French and easily available back in Paris.  His wall of wine did not have one German wine either!

Disappointed, I left for the small supermarket to find this apparently evasive Spätburgunder.  Not one, to be found, but loads of French and Italian reds and some German whites.  Nevertheless, I happily spied an Italian Primitivo from Puglia!

I remembered enjoying drinking wine made from crljenak grapes in Croatia, which is the original genetic birther of Zinfandel and was told that some of the same grapes would be found across the Ionian sea in Puglia, Italy.

Does Baden Baden have an identity problem?  The hills that surround the city are filled with vines, but where do they sell their wines?

The thermal baths are really wonderful for all sorts of rheumatic and respiratory problems.  It is not just the heat but all those healing elemental salts and minerals that have percolated up from the bowels of the earth filtered and purified over eons of time flowing through untold layers of rock and sand.

Deep breaths of the rising vapours feel as cleansing as the turbulent myriads of bubbles that splash on my face, barely visible above the surging waters. Practically total immersion for me who at times has to walk on tiptoes to get around in the thermal pools definitely built for taller folks.

I like to get there around dusk and stay till nightfall when coloured lights dance around the waves, and shimmer off wind-blown trees.

On the last night there which was Friday, the pool soon filled with French lovers tightly intertwined in smothering kisses and endless caresses.

I was glad a cold rain shower chased most of them out temporarily leaving me to savour the amazing contrasts of freezing cold rain stinging my face while being totally snugly buried in churning hot waters.  Heaven!

It was hard to leave such a warm womb-like environment.  I waited till the last calculated minute before getting out, quickly peeling off my wet bathing suit, and dressing again.  If your bracelet shows you are over even a minute, you will be fined extra euros.

I was happy I didn’t have to venture out again in the cold to a restaurant for a dubious meal.  Fortunately, this Airbnb kitchen was fairly well furnished.

I poured myself some leftover cremant(sparkling wine) d’ Alsace, that I had securely corked for the train trip over and set out to cook.

I was glad to find at least one champagne flute in the cabinet.  The owner must have been a romantic wine and candle lover like myself.

I lit a large candle on the table, and after pouring some of the delicious rich red wine from Puglia, invited my son to join me in spirit, giving thanks for his life.

The baby artichokes braised with onion, garlic, and a dash of cremant were lovely in the lemon dill wine sauce.

The next night I served a delicious sour cream chive and dill sauce over the excellent Maultaschen.   Andre, my son, and chef would approve.