As a child, the first cheese I remember discovering and liking was Muenster. Sure, there were other cheeses in our home such as bland, somewhat weird tasting American slices that made a great grilled cheese, and briny, pungent parmesan, which we sprinkled liberally on Mom’s spaghetti. But these were such normal things that I didn’t think anything of them.
When Muenster arrived in our kitchen it was entirely new. It was soft, smooth, creamy, and mild. And it was orange on the outside only.
It was exotic in the small world of my young mind, and I loved it.
The most lauded towns here are reachable only by car, which was a reason for yesterday’s tour. When I travel solo, I rarely rent a vehicle because it can be more of a complication than an asset. It’s difficult to read road signs in another language, and Dan and I have had our share of difficulties with parking.
I’d rather not have another rental impounded.
Instead I have turned to tours, buses, taxis and trains, serving both as transport and guidepost. If a train doesn’t go someplace, there’s a good chance I’m not either. That’s how I found the town of Munster, standing along a train line 1000 meters up in the Vosges mountains, a mere 30 minutes west of Colmar.
As soon as I saw it on the map, I knew I must go.
Didier didn’t seem as enchanted with the idea when I mentioned it yesterday, and as an alternative he suggested the small town of Turckheim, describing it as an adorable little village I might enjoy.
In retrospect he was distinctly unenthusiastic about Munster.
As I read up about these towns to prepare for my day, it was clear that this would be a quick journey, so I could take my time. I started my day with a quick workout and then lingered a bit over breakfast before finally hoisting my camera case onto my shoulder and heading out into the brisk morning in search of cheese.
My first stop was Turckheim where the medieval core, with its three watchtowers, stands a brief walk away from the train station. Early on a clear sunny Saturday, well before the sun would reach its noontime zenith, it was a desolate place.
Circling her byways, I couldn’t help but think of Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, which drew its inspiration from nearby tiny Eguisheim. “Little town, it’s a quiet village,” Belle sings in the opening number, “every day like the one before.”
Eguisheim may have a smaller resident population than Turckheim, but every day the population of that little town swells with tourists seeking the small-town Alsatian village experience. By its popularity Eguisheim is transformed from what they seek into a tiny metropolis of modern pilgrims in pursuit of the perfect pic for their socials”
Yet here, in the quiet solitude of unheralded Turckheim, without even looking, I seemed to have found it.
I found it in a small patisserie where the locals stop in daily for their morning pastry.
And in a small restaurant where the owner sweeps the roadway fronting his shop in the golden misty morning light.
And it was there in an empty cafe with her lights dark.
And at a small church, her doors sealed tight against the world.
Travelers are rare enough here that even the birdlike woman at the tourist office seemed genuinely surprised, looking over her spectacles when I walked through the door. I happily took a map of town to carry with me, even though I was really only looking for a restroom.
I walked another lap of the town and found it mostly closed for the day, but was left unsure if it was ever really open. It didn’t matter much because I wanted to move on. Further to the west, the finger of the river pointed up into the mountains, to my real destination.
And so I boarded my train again, leaving behind small Turckheim, where they hope for tourists and the money they bring, although I found her more beautiful as a place the other tourists mostly haven’t found.
Further up the line, in Munster, I stepped down from the train excitedly. This was my cheese town and I expected more than just lunch. I fully anticipated a celebration of the local cheese.
The best meals in the area are buried away, up in the mountains, I would learn — in farmhouses serving massive feasts of hyper local fare. Without a car, these weren’t easily accessible so instead I found a small restaurant where I ordered a plate of fondue and charcuterie, something I hadn’t seen just a few miles to the west. The fondue was gooey, warming, slightly funky, and pleasantly oily, sliding messily off of my bread as I worked at it. It was fun, delicious, and satisfying.
Beyond that meal I found a town that felt indifferent, if anything, to my presence and to its own name. It’s just a real place where fewer than 5000 people happen to live, with their families and their churches. It doesn’t seem as obviously old as the other towns in the region, although the abbey that once stood here, its ruins closed today, dated to the 7th century.
Munster is larger than Turckheim and clearly has a main street where tourists are welcome, but just a few storefronts stood open today. Among them, only one seemed to even care about cheese.
My stroll through the town was enjoyable enough, but I was getting cold, and so decided the time had come to return to my home base in Colmar after a scant few hours away.
Colmar is a small town compared to others I have visited elsewhere, but in this part of the world it is large and its streets are restless with the tourists that overrun her historic core even in the offseason.
As I explored her streets in search of dinner I bought some small wheels of Munster cheese to take home with me. The real thing has a texture that is meltingly soft, almost liquid, its flavor is reminiscent of mushrooms, and its rind the palest shade of orange.
Tasting my first bite of it, I found it to be as unlike Muenster as one could possibly imagine.
And it was wonderful.
I go home tomorrow and will take many memories with me, along with the cheese. Thank you for joining this journey with me.
See you soon.
With love,
Butterblogger
butterblogger 