My Time in Germany

   I suppose I've told you about the time we went to Germany, have I? No? Are you sure? Oh ok.

    It was like this. My daughter went somewhere  - northern Italy I think - on a skiing trip with the school. Unfortunately it proved to be something of a disaster  - disasters followed us around I'm afraid, rather like a faithful hound - but we weren't to know that then.  It was around Easter time as I remember and my husband decided it would be nice if we and the boys went somewhere for a few days as well.  This was a rare event in our house so we jumped at it.  I believe it was the year before we all went by boat to the Channel Islands, but I could be wrong.  It is a long time ago.
    Anyway we, or he, I don't remember now, decided we would drive to Germany.  We had a large car, a Citroen Safari - kind of a station wagon type thing but sexier.   We crossed the English Channel by ferry as it was before the Channel tunnel was built.  That's a point. Do you build a tunnel?  It sounds all wrong somehow.  Maybe you dig it, but that sounds far too hippy. 
       My husband drove through France and Luxembourg until we got to Germany.  He's one of those men who can stay awake indefinitely when they want to, but get them home and they nod off in the armchair in front of the tv.  He's been known to drive all day, all night, and then some.
    So we drove and drove and drove.  Thankfully the boys were well past the "Are we there yet?" stage and amused themselves.  On the autobahn in the Rhein area we spotted an exit sign for a little town called Stromberg-am-Rhein so naturally had to take a picture of it, me leaning out of the car window as we hurtled along. 
      We continued more or less eastwards to Munich where there was nowhere at all to stay - there was some big convention taking place - then drove south for a bit. It was now dark and eventually he decided it would be a good idea to find somewhere to spend the night, so we stopped at the next little town we got to and found a hotel.  It was one of those Swiss chalet type of buildings, the sort where you expect a musical movement incorporated somewhere and a large key on the side.  Obviously it hadn't any such thing.  Anyway, we went in and approached the desk. 
    Now, I had learned a little German at school, many years before. I couldn't hold a conversation but if I say something it does sound like it's supposed to, right?  This isn't always a help, as you'll see, but my hub was at the other end of the scale.  He's the kind of person who thinks if you say it in broken English loud enough, especially with what he supposes to be a foreign accent, they're bound to understand eventually.
I have to tell you now - they don't. 
       I spoke to the woman in charge. "Haben Sie zimmer frei, bitte?"  (Have you rooms free, please?) "Oh jah," she repled, followed by a lot of stuff I couldn't follow.
    I looked bewildered, nodded and tried again. "Mit bade?  Douche?"  (With bath, shower?)
    "Jah, jah," she agreed. I was doing fine.  Up to that point anyway.  She showed us to the rooms and before she left I asked "Konnen wir essen, bitte?" (Can we eat, please) as we hadn't eaten for some time.  This too was ok by her.
    We were fairly hungry and looked forward to some good food. She led us to the dining area, all raw wood and hard benches, and gave us a menu to look at. It was in German, with no English translation, but I figured I could work out the dishes ok with the help of a basic English/German  and German/English dictionary. This was a big mistake. Huge.
    I saw a dish called kaltfleischplatte or something like that. Now knowing that kalt is cold, and fleisch is meat and platter is fairly obviously platter, I imagined slices of cold meat, cold cuts.  Well you would, wouldn't you?  No?  Well I did. One of the boys went for the same but the other two had something different.  A mixed grill or some such.
    When it arrived I was more than a little surprised.  It turned out to be something akin to what I later learned is called steak tartare, which I believe has to do with it first being eaten in Russia.  It was a huge mound of raw minced, or ground, meat - beef I think -  with some raw onion slices on top and a dusting of paprika.  It may have had some raw egg mixed in there as well, I'm not sure.  It was certainly slimy.
    Well, to our credit, my son and I bravely managed a small amount of this delicacy, without turning a hair, before admitting defeat.  I have never had the slightest inclination to eat raw meat, either before or since, and would have to be a great deal hungrier than that to do so again.  Like dying of starvation or something.
    The hour was late so we retired, I somewhat deflated. 

    When we woke the next morning it was to a magnificent sight, from our bedroom windows, of snow covered mountains.  Real honest to goodness mountains, high and mighty, the kind we just don't have at home.  On leaving the hotel after a breakfast of rolls and slices of cheese, and coffee,  it was to find the whole place looked a bit like Toytown. Only bigger of course. 
    All those wonderful chalets, many  with magnificent paintings on the walls.   It turned out we were in, or very near, Garmisch Parten-Kirchen, famous for the skiing.  I'm afraid my memory is legendary for being somewhat sporadic.  It's very near Oberammergau, too, where they do the Passion Plays.
      Anyway, my husband needed to change some money into Deutschmarks, so we found a place dedicated to that sort of thing where he, being the man of course and in charge, tried out his version of pidgin English cum German. Loudly. "I vant to change money.  Engleesh."
      The attractive and perfectly poised woman behind the counter must have been either amused or irritated, I would imagine, but remained completely aloof and merely answered him in flawless English without a hint of an accent.  "Yes sir, certainly. How much would you like to change?"
      I just wanted the floor to open and swallow us all, a not uncommon desire on my part during my married years.  Eye rolling was a family pastime.

     None of us ski but we did go up Zugspitze, the high peak, in a cable car and stand looking out over the Alps of three countries: Germany, Austria and Italy.   The border between Germany and Austria is at the top and if you go through the restaurant there you actually pass through the border.  You weren't allowed to go down the other side of the mountain of course unless you had your passport with you.  That may have changed now, with the new freedom to travel in Europe, but that's how it was then.
    The view from the railed walkway was an amazing sight.  Breathtaking.  Like being on top of the world.  On the way back down we saw deer tracks in the snow between the trees and took pictures of them, which I still have. 

    Pressing on, we headed back west towards the border with France and came to the Shwarzwald, or Black Forest.   We found a little place called Titizee and, being young teenage boys, my sons were inordinately tickled by this name and engaged in a considerable amount of sniggering.
    We stayed there for a couple of nights at an inn adorned with various animal heads and antlers and so forth. The people round there hunt a lot. Especially for wild boar. The innkeeper proudly told us about his son who had trophies for it. On eating out we found that they ate a lot of pork in the area, as you might suppose.  And everything had rich sauces made with cream. Very nice food but loaded with calories.  I gained half a stone that week.  They did a lot of sauerkraut too.
    Whilst there my sons made off with my German phrase book so they could chat up the girls.  I don't know what success they had. I didn't ask. They probably wouldn't have told me anyway. And they managed to lose the phrase book.
       My sons and girls. That was something that started extremely early but it was good for one thing: they were always clean and sweet smelling.  We never went through the unwashed stage many mothers of teenage boys have to endure.  The downside was never being able to get in the bathroom, and occasionally not being able to find my hairbrush or hairspray. 
     But I digress.  Back in Titizee, the main thing to be had in the way of tourist stuff was cuckoo clocks, so of course  we had to have one as a souvenir.  Now, one of the other things about my old man was his insistence on always having the most expensive thing he could afford regardless of its suitability. He spotted one he liked.
    Unfortunately, as well as the loud tick as the pendulum swung, and the cuckoo bobbing out and cucking and ooing at you to mark the hours, up to twelve times of course, it also played assorted little German tunes every quarter hour.  Which is all very well in the shop, but in the living room at home, when you're engrossed in a tense tv drama, it's less than endearing.  Also the carved decoration consisting of crossed guns and dangling dead rabbits and birds was not really to my taste, but my husband was well impressed.
    Naturally we had to take this monstrosity home with us.  And the clock.