World Travel Guide Online

Episode Twelve: Bavaria Revisited

Guns, Gummy Bears and Huge Pretzels

We arrive at the Termond’s house four hours later than planned. We found out
that it is possible to catch a train from Kempten to Waltenhofen, but it
only leaves once a day. We are on it and have been deposited about a
half-mile from their house. It is raining on us and we are tired. We are
going to take at least a day to rest and clean up.

Christa makes us Goulash, the perfect rainy-day meal. She tells us about her
father, who had been in the German army during the war. She said he was
fighting the Russians when the war ended, and when he got back home, he
found out what had happened back in Germany. She said many of the soldiers
had no idea what was going on back in the concentration camps during the
war. After finding out what his country had done, he changed his
citizenship. We have been considering going to Dachau. She says that perhaps
we should.

The Goulash has done its job of making me sleepy but the after-dinner drink
has not been served. Tonight we have a small, metal cup, in the shape of a
wineglass. It is filled with something that will be lit on fire before it is
consumed. Mine is ignited first, and I wait for Bart to light everyone
else’s, which is not a good idea when you are dealing with flames and metal.
By the time we blow out our drinks and consume the nectar, my metal rim is
hot as hell and I burn my lips. I think Chris has the same thing happen to
him. Chalk one up for the Americans.

Bart tells us that he is slowly having car parts shipped in from America. He
is building a 1959 Chevy Pickup in his garage, and has only a few more
pieces to go. It has been years in the making and he is excited to get it on
the road. I mention that it seems the roads are a bit smaller here, and a
1959 Chevy anything is a huge vehicle. He has thought of that, but a dream
is a dream and he is not to be deterred.

After a while I am feeling more than tired and think it is time I go lie
down. By the time I get into my pajamas, and tuck myself in, I can feel my
forehead burning up. Leave it to me to contract some type of Malaria or
Bavarian Pestilence on my first real outing. I am almost asleep when Christa
comes in the room. She is carrying a bottle and a shot-glass, smiles at me
and tells me this is her grandmother’s type of medicine. I am assuming it is
some form of whiskey by the way my face contorts after my first shot. She
has me shoot another one and then tucks me in.

Sometime during the night, I wake up. It is raining and I can see it
pattering against the skylight above the bed. Chris is asleep next to me and
I can hear the river flowing softly in the background. I am soaked with
sweat but feel fine. I must have broke whatever fever or malaria I was
suffering from. I drift off to a dreamless slumber.

The next morning I feel fine. I have my morning Coke with toast and we spend
the rest of the day eating, sleeping and reading. Chris starts to watch a
soap opera with Christa and is mesmerized by the similarities it has to
American soaps. After it ends he finds out it is actually an American soap
opera, overdubbed in German. He says that explains why one of the characters
was named Beth Logan. We put in a video and find ourselves watching
Terminator 2. For anyone who has seen this movie, Arnold comes off much
scarier when he is speaking German. The cool thing is, his mouth moves so
weird anyway, you cannot even tell it is overdubbed. New Jack City, replaces
the last few seconds of the movie, and we laugh as we watch Wesley Snipes
talking with a German tongue.

I sit on the porch and sketch their backyard, while Chris writes in his
journal about our last few days in Prague. Soon, dinner is served and we
find ourselves eating a hearty Christa meal. It is a wonderful mess of
noodles and cheese and is called Kaesspaetzle. It is gooey, cheesy and
delicious and she says the translation will most likely be easier for us to
pronounce, Cheese Noodles. An appropriate name I must say.

I down a few beers with dinner and then an after dinner shot. Bart says this
is good, because of all the cheese we have just eaten. These will help with
the digestion process. That is exactly my intention as I grab for another
bottle. While we are basking in our after-dinner glows, Tanja’s friend drops
by to pick her up.

They are headed to a party for a girl that is leaving for America soon. She
asks us if we want to go. She thinks it will be great to bring along two,
real-life Americans. We say sure and run upstairs to pretty ourselves up.
Being that neither of us will ever make it to the Olympics, this is most
likely the only opportunity we will have to represent our country. We want
to look good.

Tanja drives us through the Bavarian countryside on a road that is only big
enough for one car. Luckily, it is pitch black and she is taking the corners
at a maddening speed. I am willing to bet her mother showed her how to
drive. We arrive in a small town and park in front of a two-story building.
Walking inside, we find ourselves in a woodworking shop, lumber and saws
everywhere. We can hear laughing and music upstairs.

There are about twenty people inside a small room at the top of the stairs.
Two tables cover one side and crates of beer are stacked against the wall.
The host greets us, and since she is the one moving to America, she is
appropriately dressed as the Statue of Liberty. Other people are wearing
costumes too, including a man with a Hawaiian shirt, a woman dressed as a
cowboy and at least three guys decked out as gangsters. Tanja introduces us
as the two Americans and we wave like idiots.

The host brings us each a beer and I discover the beautiful nectar called
Hefeweizen. Chris is excited that there are buckets of Gummy Bears and he
shovels them in by the handful. The host shows us that she has gone all out
to make it an American party. Along the wall is a table of food, all the
fixings for hamburgers. That is not all, she says loudly, we have all come
to a party as true Americans. From under her robe, she pulls out a plastic
handgun. I look around and at least half the people are brandishing plastic
guns or plastic knives. It is funny, but really sad the way other countries
see us sometimes.

She asks me if I can show them how a hamburger is made. She says that she
got all the ingredients from a recipe, but does not know what goes where. I
slap some mayonnaise and mustard on a bun, plop down the meat, cover with
cheese, ketchup, lettuce, pickles and onions, smash it together and dig in.
There is a collective, ugh, from the crowd, and then each of them takes
turns making an American hamburger.

A little kid sits next to me and we start to talk. Actually, I start to
talk, he just holds up different items for my inspection. A woman comes and
sits next to him, I assume it is his mom, but I am wrapped up in a
conversation with the little guy at this moment. He spills his cup of sticky
juice and I get up to find some napkins. When I get back to the table the
woman takes them from me and says thank you. I look at her for the first
time and her face is a beautiful mixture of Ingrid Bergman and Katarina
Witt. I sit back down with a thump. She is tall, with dark brown hair pulled
back in a ponytail and big brown eyes. She must be at least ten years my
senior.

I say, “You are welcome.”
She looks up at me. “You are American?”

I tell her I am and that she speaks English very well. She says that when
she was younger she went to America and hitchhiked in California and all
over the Midwest. I tell her I am from Arizona and she says she spent some
time in Scottsdale. There goes that damn small world-thing again.

We talk for a while and I am smitten. It doesn’t help that I am drinking
beer as if prohibition were on the horizon and my only distraction, Chris,
is sitting in the corner committing suicide by Gummy Bear inhalation. After
a few minutes the little boy jumps from his seat and runs to the door, into
the arms of a man that I can only assume is his father.

He comes over to the woman and she introduces us. As a big, dumb male, I
automatically do not want to like him, but he is such a nice guy and he
looks just like Aidan Quinn. He talks to me for a while about my trip and
then goes off to find some food. By this time, the woman and the boy are on
the other side of the room. He is trying to wrestle away from her. When she
lets him go he runs to me. I pick him up, turn him around and send him back
to her. He runs back and forth like this forever, and we are all laughing as
he slips and slides on the sawdust floor.

At one point, the kid stops to play with something he has found in the
sawdust and I look up at her. She is staring at me and I catch my breath. I
tell myself, Vince, do not look away. For once, I listen. We stare at each
other somewhere between fifteen seconds and fifteen years. Einstein was
right when he said time is relevant. One of us eventually looks away. My
stomach is queasy and I have a weird lump in my throat. I also realize I
have forgotten to breathe. I turn around in my seat and finish off the rest
of my beer.

The rest of the party is uneventful, as everyone becomes more and more
intoxicated. Eventually, I see the woman putting on her coat and the man is
getting the little guy into his. She walks over to me and puts her hand on
my shoulder. I feel like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. The party has
reached an all time high and the noise is deafening. She leans down to me
and places her cheek against the side of my head. Her lips are directly
above my ear.

She says, “Good luck on your trip and have a good time.”
I lean up toward her, so that she can hear me. “It was nice meeting you.”

Her hand squeezes my shoulder and I can smell her hair. I want to ask her
name, but it feels too awkward. As she walks away, her husband and son both
turn around and wave goodbye to me.

On the way back home Chris is moaning in the back seat. He says the mixture
of warm beer and Gummy Bears is not being cohesive in his stomach. He has a
theory. He thinks the mixture of items that he drank have caused the Gummy
Bears to congeal into one giant bear, then the yeast from the beer he drank
is causing this giant bear to rise up and it is now trying to punch its way
out of his stomach.

Due to the giant bear in his stomach, Chris goes to bed as soon as we get
home. Tanja and I stay up for a while talking about our favorite movies. I
try to get the name of the woman with the child, but she does not remember
seeing her and no one she knows fits that description. I know it is a stupid
thing to do, but at this age, I like to torture myself whenever the
opportunity arises. She eventually goes to bed and I sit in the living room
writing down the events of the evening. I consider my first American party
to be a big success, even if I did forget to pack a side arm.

I wake up in a strange mood. I plop in front of the television, but European
MTV does not hold my attention for long. Flipping channels, I find a news
channel in English. I can only assume it is somehow affiliated with CNN.
They are doing a recap of significant things that have happened over the
last few years. They show Nelson Mandela becoming president of South Africa,
the disbanding of the USSR, peace talks in Israel and the Berlin Wall coming
down. It all seems incredible to me. I would not have thought any of these
possible and take this as a good omen. Then I sense something strange.
Something unusual and foreign is emitting from my person. Oh God, I am being
an optimist!

I leave the house and go for a walk. The town is small and I can see a
church over the next hill. I head for it, but not before having a
conversation with the cows first. The littlest one appreciates my mooing.
The other two look at me like I am crazy and continue chewing.

The church is small but elaborate. The main altar is all marble and the
front and sides are layered in gold. The walls are covered with paintings,
carvings and stain-glass windows. Oddly, the benches for the people to sit
are made of wood that is uncomfortable beyond description. This reminds me
of what Christa said, about how in Rome, she found it odd that the Vatican
is so elaborate and yet outside are hundreds of the poorest, smelliest
people she has ever seen. She thought the goal of the church was to help
people. Seeing this elaborate church with its uncomfortable benches, I
cannot help but wonder if it is more important to build things for your God,
or take care of his people.

Deep thoughts aside, I decide to walk along the riverbank. I have to keep
moving aside to let bikers get by, which not only ruins my getting closer to
nature thing, but also makes me wonder why the hell everyone does not just
buy a car. I know I am being an awful American, but listening to the bells
asking me to move over every two seconds, is putting me on edge. Then I
remember it is Sunday. These people are enjoying their Sunday off. Europeans
actually enjoy a real day off during a seven-day week. I am sure the influx
of American retailers is slowly screwing that up too, but for now it is fun
to pretend. I bet a lot of Americans would love a real day off to become a
tradition back home.

I decide to get away from the bicycle maniacs and play near the water. I
should know by now that I do not have the ability to tell the difference
between a safe distance and too damn close. I walk up to the edge, which is
covered with a cluster of little trees. Pushing the trees aside, I plan on
watching the water play over some rocks, but instead I find myself pitching
forward toward the water.

The little trees are actually no bigger than branches, but my grip on a
group of them is enough to keep all but one foot out of the water. The
branches bend in a threatening manner as I try to push myself up with the
foot that is submerged. The water is cold and I have all but lost feeling in
my foot.

I can just picture my body washing up two or three towns away, and my mother
asking, why the hell was he playing in a river. This gives me the extra
boost I need and I pull myself up. I have no problem with dying, but dying
due to my own stupidity would really piss me off. Of course, the water is not
more than two feet deep, but I would find a way to get my head caught
between rocks or break my neck or something else poetically ignorant.

When I return to the homestead, I find that Chris and Tanja have left on a
hike. Christa tells me that they were looking all over for me, but
eventually gave up and left. Brian comes in and asks me if I want to go bike
riding with him and a friend. It sounds like fun, but with the kind of shape
he is in, I would be lucky if I could keep him in sight much less keep up
with him. I tell him no thank you, then I grab a Coke and sit on the big
chair at the end of the hall. Reading Graham Greene’s Travels with My Aunt,
I remember it is my friend Sheryl’s birthday. I hold my Coke aloft and wish
her a happy day.

Chris returns and tells me that they went on a hike with two of Tanja’s
friends. They drove up a hill and then hiked from there to get to the peak.
From this point, they could see the Alps. Chris said the view was not as
good as one would think due to the giant trees in the way, but there was a
big stone bench there that he was able to dangle his feet from. They then
hiked down to a restaurant and he played the good American by ordering fries
and a Coke.

Later, Chris and Christa disappear for a couple of hours. Chris returns
fifteen pounds lighter. Christa has shaved off his beard. Years ago, when
Chris’s dad had been here, she had shaved off his beard. She felt that she
should give the same treatment to his son. Chris grows hair rather easily,
and lately, his beard had started to take on a Grizzly Adams look. It is not
that it is unkempt, just big, hairy and, well, unkempt.

With it all gone he looks like a little boy and does not like all the
attention he is getting. I am wondering where all the hair went, but cannot
bring myself to ask. She asks me if I would like a haircut and I decline,
but tell her I have been thinking about it. It is down almost to my neck and
Chris is getting tired of me having to hold it out of my face to talk to
him. She tells me she can set me an appointment in town to get it done. I
tell her to go for it.

We watch Hot Shots on television, and though Christa says it is a stupid
movie, Chris, Bart and I find it hilarious. Chris says it is like the Three
Stooges movies, where most women are incapable of understanding why a slap
in the face and a poke in the eye are funny. I think most women just have
more compassion when it comes to seeing someone have a phalange jabbed into
their cornea. I however, think it is wonderful fun, unless it is my cornea
being thus violated.

Tomorrow we are planning on going to Neuschwanstein Castle, a major tourist attraction and former home to mad King Ludwig II.
We are wondering how to get to this castle, as the trains do not seem to
stop anywhere near it. We are thinking of asking Tanja to drive us, but to
force someone to go somewhere that tourists congregate just seems cruel.
Brian tells us to take his car, we laugh, but he is not kidding. Chris
points out that neither of us has driven in Europe, to which he tells us it
is no problem. We talk about it and I tell Chris that since they are friends
of his family, he will be the one that will be doing all the driving. We
come to the conclusion that if the guy who owns the car is willing to take
the risk, so are we. Chris is wondering if Brian is naïve or just very, very
nice.

We make our way out of the town and eventually find the Autobahn. Chris
drives rather smartly, as smart as one can in a Volkswagen Polo. We are
amazed at the speeds some of the cars are passing us at. Chris says that he
is not going too fast because it is not his car and it is not his time to
die.

We arrive in one piece and have a dandy time finding parking amongst all the
cars, campers and tourist buses. The castle is unbelievable as we approach
it from the road. It sits majestically atop a hill and looks like it is
directly out of a fairy tale. When we get closer, we begin to realize how
big it really is. The architecture and colors make it beautiful to the point
that it looks almost plastic. We have to park at the bottom and walk up the
paved trail to the entrance. The courtyard is big, square and filled with as
many tourists as can squeeze in. The line is endlessly wrapping back and
forth, and not one person appears to have moved since last October.

Our normal routine has been to run from signs of over-tourism, but we have
come all this way, driven on the Autobahn and hiked a hill. We decide we
will wait in line to see what exactly this mad King Ludwig was so mad about.
Three months later we arrive at the entrance. The tours are offered in
German, French and English. We pick the English, thinking this is a rather
good choice, considering we do not speak German or French. The joke,
however, is on us. The woman giving the tour has such a thick German accent,
we only understand every seventeenth word. I would be no more confused if we
had taken a sign language tour.

The castle is strange. Though it looks huge from the outside, the inside is
oddly small. The walls are tight, the ceilings are low and the room sizes
are nothing to write home about. According to scholars, King Ludwig spent
the country’s money building this thing. His bedroom alone took more than
four years to complete. At least, I think that is what she said. The way our
guide talks, she could be telling us her mother’s recipe for potato cakes.

I tell Chris I am disappointed with the castle. I expected it to be full of
huge stones, no windows and we would get to carry torches around. I am not
sure what he means when he rolls his eyes at me. Chris likes the castle. He
does not like the fact that our guide is speaking a weird language, and says
the acoustics of the castle do not help, but overall the place is as ornate
and tacky as he expects a castle to be. The only thing he does not like is
that it takes fourteen hours to get in here, and then we are done in twenty
minutes. He says the ratio is a bit off. Now I am sure this place is a
subsidiary of Disneyland.

On the way out, we see a sign with a picture of a bridge on it. We assume
this means there is a bridge in this direction and follow the path without
question. I am thinking that there should have been a sign like this in
Amsterdam, pointing the way to the Red-Light District. It could be a picture
of a woman’s silhouette or two people copulating. Oh wait, that would be
much too vulgar and to the point.

The trail climbs a hill and wraps around a small mountain. We cannot really
see where we are at this point, as the forest is thick on either side of us.
Up ahead, we see Marienbrücke, a bridge with few people on it. Stepping on
the bridge and looking to our left, we see the most beautiful sight. The
castle stands before us, in its full glory, with the Bavarian landscape as
its backdrop. We can see where the castle is built into the hill and the
angle is perfect in hiding any trace of bobbing tourist heads. I think I
take enough pictures to be able to reconstruct my own castle back home.
After a while we scurry back to the castle, to see what the bridge looks
like from its angle.

On our way out, we decide we are hungry. Halfway down the hill are a
restaurant and a man selling pretzels. We decide to eat real food and sit
outside the restaurant. We order Bratwurst and French fries and Coca-Cola
with lemon in it. The sun is out and I am starting to feel crappy sitting
beneath it. My hair keeps falling in my face and my Bratwurst tastes funny.
Somehow, I have fallen into a complaining mode and I did not even see it
coming.

After our meal we walk by the pretzel guy and are amazed at what he is
selling. It is not that they are soft pretzels, warm pretzels or salted
pretzels. It is the fact that each one is as big as our heads. These things
are huge! Of course, we have to have a huge pretzel, not only to tell people
we ate them, but also to take photographs with. We find a path to wander and
kick pinecones as we munch on our twisted, Bavarian treats.

We take a wonderful photo of the both of us munching away happily. I am
under the impression that we are trying to eat the whole thing, so I force
mine in, even after I would rather not have anymore. Chris is under no such
impression and barely makes it halfway. Now I have pretzel breath and feel
really gross. Of course, this is no one’s fault but my own.

On the drive back, Chris tells me he is excited to see the Monte Carlo Grand
Prix. We did not make definite plans to go there. I tell him the money
situation is looking rather dismal to be taking side trips, but he wants to
go. He finds it amusing that I am the one worried about the money this time.

The next morning Tanja takes us to the station. We both think she is cool,
but cannot tell if she really likes us or is just being polite. For some
reason, saying goodbye to her at the station is sad, as if we are planning
on not seeing her again. Bart figured out the trains for us and told us
which one would take us to Monaco. I am wondering if I brought any clothes
nice enough to get me into the casino. Of course, if I did get in, I would
have nothing to gamble with any way.

Six minutes before we are due to arrive in Zurich the train stops at a
station labeled Singen. We did something wrong somewhere and are on our way
to Northern Germany.