to the travelling salesman. Provincial torpor has preserved its Old Town intact, saved its tortuous streets from being widened and its vast overhanging houses from being razed to make way for apartment buildings. Such are the blessings of commercial stagnation.
Colmar was a German city ten years ago, and its complexion has undergone little change. The skyline is jagged with warped German roof lines. There is a vast perpendicular department store, strongly reminiscent of Munich, which has been re
Calves are noticeably plumper. The German love of music, of shaded parks, of beer and good groceries is evident everywhere. There are numerous beer gardens, stalking with bald and somewhat silly Doric columns. Excellent orchestras play soft Viennese waltzes while buxom lasses bring in the foaming bock in sizable scuttles, accompanied by gigantic pretzels. If you ask them, they will serve you that Alsatian chef d’oeuvre, “choucroute garnie,” and how! A steaming mountain of glorified cabbage, saucily spiced, around which snuggle a
VISTA IN COLMAR
named “Aux Villes de France,” and there are coldly archaeological bank buildings, built of stone the color of half-boiled calves liver, which are now emblazoned with the names of French banks. The policemen are uniformed as all good gendarmes should be, but they speak a hoarse Teutonic patois. All of the signs in the town have been repainted in French, but the names posted about are reassuring reminders of what one sees out of the train windows when passing through Milwaukee. The people are awkward and rosy cheeked, like wooden dolls. Paunches, gutteral voices and bristling pompadours are fairly abundant. Gross silhouettes and shiny noses are found in place of feminine chic.
brood of unimaginably tender boiled potatoes, a shimmering slab of ham and two plump, juicy, tomato-red sausages! (After this outburst, I really expect to be approached by the agencies to write luscious-luscious advertisements for the ladies’ magazines.)
If the Colmarians appear quite German as far as externals go, they are, in spirit and sympathy, extremely French. Colmar is the judicial capital of Alsace and the heart of a strongly patriotic movement. No city was happier to bring forth the Tricolors which had been hidden for forty-seven years in attics and cellars, and to fly them triumphantly from the window ledges on that unforgettable day
Colmar was a German city ten years ago, and its complexion has undergone little change. The skyline is jagged with warped German roof lines. There is a vast perpendicular department store, strongly reminiscent of Munich, which has been re
Calves are noticeably plumper. The German love of music, of shaded parks, of beer and good groceries is evident everywhere. There are numerous beer gardens, stalking with bald and somewhat silly Doric columns. Excellent orchestras play soft Viennese waltzes while buxom lasses bring in the foaming bock in sizable scuttles, accompanied by gigantic pretzels. If you ask them, they will serve you that Alsatian chef d’oeuvre, “choucroute garnie,” and how! A steaming mountain of glorified cabbage, saucily spiced, around which snuggle a
VISTA IN COLMAR
named “Aux Villes de France,” and there are coldly archaeological bank buildings, built of stone the color of half-boiled calves liver, which are now emblazoned with the names of French banks. The policemen are uniformed as all good gendarmes should be, but they speak a hoarse Teutonic patois. All of the signs in the town have been repainted in French, but the names posted about are reassuring reminders of what one sees out of the train windows when passing through Milwaukee. The people are awkward and rosy cheeked, like wooden dolls. Paunches, gutteral voices and bristling pompadours are fairly abundant. Gross silhouettes and shiny noses are found in place of feminine chic.
brood of unimaginably tender boiled potatoes, a shimmering slab of ham and two plump, juicy, tomato-red sausages! (After this outburst, I really expect to be approached by the agencies to write luscious-luscious advertisements for the ladies’ magazines.)
If the Colmarians appear quite German as far as externals go, they are, in spirit and sympathy, extremely French. Colmar is the judicial capital of Alsace and the heart of a strongly patriotic movement. No city was happier to bring forth the Tricolors which had been hidden for forty-seven years in attics and cellars, and to fly them triumphantly from the window ledges on that unforgettable day