It was the third iteration of “Country Road”—or was it the fourth?—when I realized Austrians have über-human party skills. They like to make noise—very loud drinking songs accompanied by equally loud choral catcalls.
I squirm uncomfortably amid the revelry—I’m pretty subdued, even by Utah standards—but pretty soon I realize they’re doing this for my benefit. They're only being hospitable. They’re trying to make the Americans feel at home. That’s why they're serving up all the John Denver songs they know (about 3 1/2 by my count). It's all just to show the Yanks a good time.
I didn’t want them to think I wasn’t appreciative so I looked to Mark for some guidance. When he shrugged, I decided to get some air.
* * *
We arrived in Munich fairly uneventfully around 11 a.m. After exchanging real money for the Monopoly currency favored by Europeans, we took a train ride to Franz’s ancestral home in a place called Kleinwalsertal. It’s a beautiful little mountain town, the kind Park City once aspired to be before real estate moguls took over the agenda.
I think Franz’ family owns this “hutte,” a mountain-top outpost where people come to ski and commune with nature. It’s set up on kind of the B&B model, from what I can tell. If it sounds like I’m guessing about the exact nature of the accommodations, that’s because I am. I am Anne Tyler’s “Accidental Tourist” or, perhaps more aptly, the “Clueless Tourist.” Mark, Franz and Carol graciously planned the entire trip, then asked for my credit card at the end.
Consequently, I have no clear idea where we’re going. Some place called “the Alps.” Lots of cool mountains, supposedly. No shopping. No sightseeing.
Which is perfect for me. Assuming there is some reason to leave Utah, this is exactly the way I want to see Europe.
Tonight, as we settle in and acclimate to a new time zone, Franz is being the consummate host, plying us with breaded veal (which, for some unknown reason, is called wiener schnitzel), pommes frites and Mars ice cream bars.
And lots of beer. Which may explain why I’m feeling even a little more out-of-place than usual.
As dedicated readers know, I don’t drink. I’m a teetotaler of fairly recent vintage who is travelling in a country obsessed with beer. I hope I’m not going to seem like the Grinch amid all this partying.
* * *
About the time the wandering minstrels ran out of John Denver tunes, several of the jet-lagged decide it's time for bed. All of our gear had been piled up outside and as we start trundling off to our respective abodes, we realize that two items were missing—Shawn’s pack and my duffle. There was nothing in my duffle I couldn’t do without, but Shawn’s pack had everything she’d brought for the trip. So, with some urgency, we enlist everyone we could find to help with the search.
We looked all over the hütte and finally decided that maybe the taxi driver who’d picked up some other travelers had snagged our stuff by mistake. We were in the process of tracking down the driver when someone took a stroll around the outside and found our missing luggage hidden behind some bushes, apparently as a practical joke.
“I think I’m beginning to understand Austrian humor,” Mark mused. “Sort of.”
Those wacky Europeans!
Anyway, it’s 1:30 in the morning and I can’t sleep. I guess it’s about 5:30 in the afternoon in Utah.
I think I’m going to really enjoy the hiking part of this trip, but I’m a little worried that the booze fest will find its way into my room in the coming days, especially when “my” room will be our room as we bed down for slumber parties in the dormitory-style accommodations available in the Austrian hüttes.
Tomorrow is kind of a down day to help us get acclimated. Franz is going to show us around and then we’re supposed to take a short hike with our packs filled with what we think we want to take with us in hopes that the list of essentials will be pared down once we realize we’re going to have to carry it 100 miles.
And another thing.....I don't SNORE!!!!
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