"Waschlappen"

         The word brings giggles from the Elect--those who speak German, in other words.

        "What?" I ask with mild annoyance.

        They glance at each other conspiratorially.  

         Waschlappen, I'm told, means "girly man."  They wait for my reaction and when I say nothing they giggle again. (I later learn that the word literally means "washcloth," but supposedly translates into colloquial English words like "pussy," "geek," "yellow belly," "eunuch" and "wussy-boy."  I'm not making this up.)

         Earlier, we had been joking about that old SNL skit with Dana Carvey and Kevin Nealon playing Hans and Franz, the Austrian body builders who want to "pump (clap!) you up!"  Those who aren't properly pumped up are derided as "girly men."

         We have a "Hans" (Johann) and a "Franz" in our hiking group, so, naturally, hilarity ensued.  I assume that's the context for the waschlappen comment.  
          But why are they bringing it up now?  And why are they acting so squirrely? 
         They can't be talking about me.  I ain't no girly man.   

         Right?  
         After all, I'm an American.  We eat nails, wrestle bears and conquered a continent.  No girly men here.  And remember that second world war thing?  Yeah, that's right.  Now who's the waschlappen?

          In all seriousness, though, it's hard not to notice that the Europeans in our group seem to be remarkable specimens of health. 

          Not an ounce of fat on Charly. This trip seems like a stroll for him.  Which it probably is. He's the guide, after all; he does this all the time.

          The remaining European contingent is equally impressive. Ursula, Johann and Martina are consistently leading the pack in lockstep with Charly.  

          Franz, now living in Jackson Hole, Wyo., but a native of Austria, is also amazing.  Most of the time, he hangs back in the middle of the group, leaving the guiding to Charly.  But every so often, we top a hill and there's Franz waiting for us.  He's apparently run ahead so he can get photos of the entire group.

          Of course, it's not like the Americans in the group are waschlappen.  Rocco and I hike and snowshoe regularly in Utah and traditionally trek 50 miles every summer over terrain at least as challenging as the portions of the E5 trail we're covering.  And if this expedition is an indication of American mettle, Lynda, Shawn and I are generally keeping stride with the Europeans at the front of the pack.

        Still, it is interesting to note that studies contrasting Americans and Europeans based on accepted indicia of health and fitness are striking. For one thing, Europeans are thinner. Studies show significant differences in obesity--33 percent of Americans are overweight vs. 17 percent of Europeans. Americans are more likely than Europeans to have chronic diseases.  Europeans are also taller, a phenomenon we notice when we get to Munich and observe the rather gargantuan stature of party-goers crowding the streets at Oktoberfest.

        The reasons for and the significance of these differences are more speculative.  The American diet has long been criticized for being too high in fat and refined carbohydrates.  But exercise may also be a factor.  Europeans walk more--a lot more. The average European walks 237 miles a year while Americans walk about 87.  They also spend significantly more time on bikes, logging 116 miles per year vs. 24 for the average American.
      So, hell, maybe Americans are girly men.  Not us, of course.  Surely not us.

 Waschlappen or not, we're all having a great time.  And why not? This is truly some of the most beautiful country in the world.  Thick, verdant meadows, oceans of trees and stark, craggy peaks sometimes in the distance, but often just outside the window of our hütte.

     Today, we're hiking along a trail chiseled into the side of the otherwise sheer rock face.  Soon, the path gets narrower and the left side drops off sharply, sometimes several hundred feet.

     Gorgeous!
         "I’m just looking at the backs of your shoes.” 
        I turn to find Shawn close on my heels.  She's seems to be struggling to concentrate on my feet, careful not to gaze into the abyss.

         “What?”

         “Just stay right in front of me, Brett.” 

        She is dead serious and sounds a little frightened.  
        "Are you OK?"
         Before long, Charly is at my side.  He takes Shawn's hand and makes soothing sounds as he walks with her up the trail. 

      She’s scared of heights.  I had no idea. But Charly, who had apparently been warned of this, quickly came to chaperone, carefully keeping himself between Shawn and the void.

Once at the top, the trail crosses an expansive green meadow and pretty soon we’re at this gorgeous little mountaintop village called Lechleiten.  We take a taxi to a place called Boden, where we lunch.
     From here, we're taxied again to a trail head. We hike a bit, then dump our packs into another supply cable cart, which whisks our belongings up to our night's lodgings at the Hanauer Hütte.

        After we arrive, we're told this place has a swimming pool.  
       Yeah, right.  A swimming pool.  As if.
       Just to confirm my skepticism, I follow the path up to the pool and from a distance can see that it's kind of a jury-rigged pocket of water held in place by bulging plastic tarps.  
       I smile triumphantly.  Swimming pool, my arse.  You think I'll believe that?  After that one-Euro-per-minute shower, I'm not falling for the swimming pool gag.  Just more Austrian humor.  I'm onto you guys.

At dinner, the object of my growing curiosity wonders why I bother working so hard to stay at the front of the pack. I'm not sure.  Mostly, I think, it's that I like the aerobic workout I'm getting.  And once I settle into a certain pace, I just keep going.

  What I don't say is that there is some competitiveness involved--that macho stuff I haven't totally eradicated from my psyche.  I am loathe to be considered a waschlappen.

    “Anyway,” she says, “it's very impressive.”

    Hmmm.

    “Impressive?”

     “Yes.” Smile.  “Unnecessary.  But impressive.”

     I frown.

     “What?” she asks.

     “I guess I was hoping for somewhat different adjectives.”

      “Like what?”

      “Like maybe ‘cute’ or some equivalent.”

       She smiles demurely and tells me I have nice eyes.

      “And a nice voice,” she adds.

      A nice voice.  I don't think anyone has ever said that to me. But I'll take it as a compliment.

      “Thanks,” I say.  “I like your eyes, too.”

      So blue!