David Whitley takes on spas, hangover monsters and bizarre equine art in Aachen, the German city that was once the most important in Europe.
Taking care of the horse
She rolls the shutters down and crouches to turn the key in the lock. Another day done, she thinks, as she creaks back up. But the greying jeweller has forgotten something: the horse.
Slapping her forehead with mock self-reproach, she grins and runs her fingers over his mane before opening up the shop again and leading him back into his stable for the night. An affectionate pat on the head, and she locks him in amongst the wedding rings and necklaces before heading out into the warm summer’s evening
Not being an equestrian type, it is difficult to pick what breed of horse this is. But he’s a delightful silver colour, and his hair appears to be plaited into armadillo-like scales. He’s also on wheels, like many of his cousins around town.
Aachen’s arty horses
In truth, it’s slightly disturbing to walk through a strange city to be met with hundreds of brightly-coloured fake stallions. Especially when your only prior research about a place consists of friend saying: “It’s just a big train junction, isn’t it?”
But they’re everywhere; be they pink, blue or dressed as Zorro. It seems as though the townsfolk of Aachen have collectively decided to indulge in a bout of mass whimsy.
Naturally, the tourist information office has its own, given pride of place outside on the plaza. This one has a slightly menacing look about it, a deep blue skin pigment, covered in the sort of graphics that used to feature in 1980s films about computers going mad and taking over the world.
The Bakhauv
It turns out that the arty horses are in aid of the World Equestrian Games, which the city is hosting, but this definitely strikes as an excuse rather than a reason. Aachen revels in the mildly ridiculous, and self-conscious wackiness runs through the city’s character.
Take the statue in the old spa part of town.
It’s of the Bahkauv, a monster that used to live in the area when Aachen was nothing but a foul-smelling swamp. Over the years, the city grew, its heyday being when the Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne made it his capital.
Oh it must have been special then, the centre of the known universe, home to kings, coronations and lavish feasts. But there was still the spectre of the sinister Bahkauv lurking over the population, wickedly preying on the most vulnerable members of society – the drunk.
“Ah the Bahkauv,” says Gerd the bakery shop assistant as if fondly reminiscing about an old friend his wife will no longer allow him to go on fishing weekends with. He too speaks “a lee-tle” English, but does it with remarkable fluency once confronted with hungry tourists yelping helplessly at salami sandwiches.
“In the old times, it would attack men who came home from drinking later than they said they would. It would jump on their back, and make them carry it all the way to their door. The more you had to drink, the heavier it wou…”
So, this great statue is effectively a tribute to the hangover, then?
“Um… ya, a lee-tle.”
Carolus Thermen
The attitude continues at the city’s newest major attraction, the Carolus Thermen. It’s a huge public spa complex, set in parkland, and it seems as though no-one is quite sure how they’re supposed to behave.
You can probably count on one hand the amount of people in there that would actually pay good money to go to a spa resort, and as such, the usual unspoken rules and decorum are completely removed.
Just about everyone splashing about in the water is either a tourist doing it for novelty value or a local deciding they may as well use it if it’s there.
This means that instead of dawdling around and generally relaxing, everyone is treating it as a water-based theme park.
The complex is vast, but upon arrival nearly everyone is in the same pool, gleefully being pushed around in a circle by water jets. Beaming grins adorn the faces as the full grown adults clatter into kids who are trying to prove their virility by swimming hopelessly against the current.
For every straight-backed woman standing rigidly by the side of the hot tub, trying desperately not to get her hair and make up ruined, there are four diving back and forth through underwater tunnels.
Coupling up in the water
Meanwhile, the bubbling outdoor pools are filled with couples, and not in the politely chatting together sense of the phrase either. Oh no, they don’t mind letting everyone know that they have a vigorous physical connection with each other, and are quite prepare to paw, slobber, pant and conjoin in full view.
One young pair perform tonsil surgery on each other – hands eagerly sprawling over ripe, exposed flesh – for a whole five minutes without taking a breath.
Eventually the flushed fräulein makes for her towel and her amorous beau is left at a loose end.
“What on earth am I supposed to do now?” the rumpled frown on his face says. “Ah yes, I’ll sit directly on top of this jet of water… Ooh that’s quite exciting actually. I hope nobody notices.”
Dealing with a fall from grace
It’s possible that the pervading atmosphere of silliness is a pleasant reaction to the city’s fall from power. It’s hard to imagine that this was once the most important place in the world when you’ve got smiling gingerbread men in shop doorways, and the restaurant next to the town hall has a giant carving of a horse wearing a chef’s hat outside.
Vienna would be the best comparison point; the former heavyweight champion who insists on continually getting back in the ring to be humiliated by up-and-coming stars, repeatedly going on talk shows to discuss how great he was and getting angry when told he’s lost it.
Aachen takes the other approach; it quit long ago, and now prances around on Sesame Street wearing a panda costume and driving a toy fire engine. Far better to amuse than to puff the chest, after all.
Getting to Aachen
Aachen is right on the German border with Belgium and The Netherlands, around an hour on the train from Cologne. From the main airports, it should take 90 minutes to reach from Cologne-Bonn and two hours from Frankfurt.
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