Mittwochs, wir essen Fisch

One of the most charming parts of Muenster has to be its large, outdoor market. On Wednesdays and Saturdays, a colorful gathering of food sellers set up shop in the shadow of Muenster’s Gothic cathedral, as if they had sprung fully-formed from the bare, beaten cobblestones. Besides the obvious visual extravaganza, the smell of the market is quite extraordinary on its own. As you pass through the crowds, you catch the scent of paprika, garlic, peppers, and mystery spices I could not identify. Bright ruby strawberries entice passers-by with their gleaming freshness. The verdantly dressed vegetables (not to be out-shined by their sweeter, fruity cousins) also await in orderly rows of yellows and reds and greens.

Beyond the fruit stalls, there are also places to buy fresh meats, cheeses, breads, pastries, flowers, and even juice smoothies. On the previous Wednesday, during a particularly dreary and wet afternoon, myself and a few other students went to the market for the first time and discovered what has to be the best fried fish I have ever tasted. Ever. What kind of fish was it? I have no idea. All I know is that three golden-fried fillets covered in some kind of sauce was handed to me from a small window and I was thereafter transported to fish-fried paradise. Steaming hot, tender, and full of flavor, this particular “Backfisch” has become a Wednesday lunch staple. In fact, today there was a line down the street to have some of this fish. It is not something that can be explained; only experienced.

The market, in particular, transports me to a different world. As noon struck, the cathedral bells began their somber song and I wondered at how, hundreds of years ago, there were people here in this square selecting their meats and fruits and eggs and bread. I was taken aback for a moment. For a few moments, everything in the world seemed to have a shadow of the past following it; ghosts of so long ago mingled with their descendants in the present. It was like I was hearing the sounds of history rippling through time, and only in that moment did the echo announce itself and beg me to pause. It’s a strange thing, being in a land that has so much human experience woven into its air and soil.

Sunday, we explored an old tower, now in ruins, that watched carefully over the walls of the Middle Ages and was later re-purposed several times as a jail. Though it is now a dilapidated ruin, an art installation wired throughout the building allows small, automated hammers attached to the walls to strike on a piece of metal using an electric timing system, which creates a chilling ring that echoes through the atmosphere. Inmates used a similar method to communicate through the prison, and thus the random pinging of hammers against the walls evokes those secret conversations. There especially did I feel that strange sense of nostalgia; the overwhelming presence of echoes that never died out, but merely disappeared into the void of space until they resurface again in another time.

Until next time,

Sarah K.