Biergarten Bonanza III: The mystery behind the maß

I’m going to let you in on a little secret: Germans like beer.

Ok, that’s not really a secret, but for all the cultures that claim to love beer, no one else celebrates the beverage and, more importantly, the perfect ambiance to go with it, like a typical German biergarten. 

But what makes this setting so special?

A dozen of us set out this past weekend to discover just that. We had heard tales from previous biergarten expeditions (namely, Biergarten Bonanzas I & II) that the answer to our question rested at the bottom of a maß bier – we just had to find the right biergarten.

So with Hawthorne’s “Beer Drinker’s Guide to Munich” and Bayern passes in hand, we made our way to Munich.

The first stop: the Fasanerie. Although renowned in the 17^th century as a pheasant hatchery, this biergarten was popular with our group for having the best damn pretzels.

Ever.

Probably even more impressive was the concessionaire opened a few hours early, just for us, and cranked those pretzels out like they were microwaved.

Next, we made our way to what has been called the largest biergarten in the world: the Hirschgarten. As the name implies, there’s an enclosure full of live deer in addition to the more than 8,000 seats in the surrounding biergarten.

We probably could have spent the entire day here, but trudged on to the Insel Muhle (island mill), where a few streams converge, splitting the biergarten into several sections.

By this point we were loud enough to be asked to take it down a notch, and one person was even jovially "chastised" for pouring bier into the wrong type of glass.

A few hours later we ended our search at a microbrewery called Forschungsbrauerei, where you can only taste the sweet nectar that is the St. Jakobus Blonder Bock at the brewery (they don’t distribute – not even in Munich), but the service was hit or miss.

After the last biergarten, things got a bit fuzzy: there was ninja frisbee, S-bahn platform dancing, a mad horn player, scary clowns, near-naked stream surfing and breakfast in the underwear garden.

In the end, I’m not sure if we ever found the answer to our quest – or maybe it was there all along. The more we sang (and drank), the more it seemed to make sense: 

Ein Prosit, ein Prosit, die Gemütlichkeit. (A toast, a toast (to) the coziness.)

The Kama'aina tourist

I didn’t take many photos on our recent trip to Hawaii – which is uncharacteristic as I call myself a photographer. And it wasn’t for lack of opportunity as the trip was filled with numerous Kodak moments, but for me (and assumingly Jeremy who didn’t take many photos either), Hawaii doesn’t need to be documented. Hawaii just is. Hawaii is home.

It’s been nearly four years since we moved from Oahu and two years since we graced the islands with a visit. And every time we come back, regardless of our time apart, she makes it easy. The island wraps us in a plumeria-scented blanket and rocks us to sleep; she nestles us in her mountainous bosom and allows life to fall into place; she pushes us forth to experience the graciousness and warmth of aloha.

We swam in her oceans, we hiked through her bamboo forests, we climbed her mountains. And while the spirit of Oahu merits praise, our amazing friends also played an important role.

We did a bit of planning of this trip, but not much. We sent out a call for a few couches to sleep on and were rewarded with numerous crashing pads, a complimentary van to drive around while we were there, and rides to and from the airport.

Without planning, we saw our friends play at the coolest private venue in Honolulu … twice. Without effort, we unknowing caught the annual bluegrass festival – where most of our lovely peeps played and camped. We experienced the day-to-day life we once lived without skipping a beat. We were handed poke on a silver platter.

Hawaii doesn’t need to be documented; it needs to be experienced. So I’m not posting any photos, but the memories still swim in my head. And damn, aloha, you make me smile every time. 

The real Turkish delight

When you travel a lot it’s easy to lose sight of why you’re even doing it.

For Jeremy and me, traveling has always been about experiencing something new; about putting ourselves in a situation and place we’ve never been; about embracing cultures different from our own with an open mind and an open heart.

So when Aliza came to visit all the way from Hawaii, she inquired about some of our favorite places. We took her to Salzburg and Prague and to the  Chodovar Beer Bath, served her copious amounts of dark beer and fattened her up on pork knees. We let her fly in our little town of Weiden as we went off to work (she survived swimmingly), and, when she asked, told her that Turkey was our absolute favorite country to explore within Europe. So the following week, Aliza and I geared up for a weeklong, girls' only “Fraufest” through Istanbul and Cappadocia.

I can tell you all about our trip, and maybe I should because it was fantastic, but I’d rather share what we experienced – the unprecedented hospitality from people around us. It started in Salzburg when my friend Silke gave us a tour around the city and took us through the castle, where she happens to work, even though it was her day off.

It continued our first night in Istanbul when we arrived at the house where we were renting a room for a few days. We were greeted by Necip and his girlfriend Laetitia who gave us a brief orientation of the city, gave us insider's tips, and handed us a cell phone and metro pass to use while we were there.

I found their place on airbnb. It was cheap and located near a tram in a neighborhood outside of the local tourist hubbub - exactly what we were looking for, but we got so much more. 

One morning they cooked us an amazing Turkish breakfast and we dined and conversed like old friends. The generosity continued when we wanted to visit a  “local” hamam (Turkish bath).

There are Turkish baths all over the city, but they tend to be geared toward travelers and are a bit more like spas (and more expensive) than your average bath house – so Laetitia offered to accompany us to the local dive to help us navigate the language barrier.

It was an amazing experience. Watching women socialize and bathe each other in this 1,000-year-old stone bath house; smiling as an old Turkish woman roughly scrubbed your skin, and walking out feeling clean, refreshed and fulfilled.

The tipping point came when Necip joined us for dinner that night, taking us to his favorite fish restaurant, again helping us navigate the language barrier in the non-touristy part of town, and if that wasn’t enough, he bought us dinner. 

Our cup runneth over, and it continued to runneth over through Cappadocia.

His name was Attila, a man whose heart was as big as his belly. We met him the first night we landed in Goreme, walking by his shop “Sultan Balloons.” We asked for directions to another office as we had to switch some plans around and he said, “hop in, I’ll drive you there.”

The next day we came back and expressed an interest in a wine tour and pottery exhibit, both located in cities in opposite directions.

“I have some running to do, I’ll take you there,” he said. And he did. We drove with Attila all over the area, waiting around while he paid his taxes, eating at his favorite local pide dive.

He drank tea with the owners as we tasted wine, and laughed at us and with us and as we tried our hands on the pottery wheel. We used his office as a home base the rest of the time, plopping down on his brightly colored beanbags just to say “hi,” resting our feet before we began our new adventure.

I’ve always thought of the Turkish people as unbelievable friendly, and besides the cabbie who tried to overcharge us on the way to the airport (he was taken for ride instead when we gave him the standard rate) everyone we ran into was open and kind.

From the shepherd who kissed our left cheek, then right cheek, then left cheek, then right cheek (this went on for some time) to our hostel worker Mehmet, who knocked on our door every night with the biggest smile you could ever imagine just to ask how our day was. When we walked through the valleys, people driving by would stop and ask if we needed directions. In Istanbul, cruising the back

streets, children would run after us yelling, “My name is …” and waving heartily screeching “hello!”

Granted, at times there is an ulterior motive. Perhaps the kindness of people is amplified by a desire for you to buy something, or accept a service, and for Attila, he did get payment. We booked a hot-air balloon ride with his company, but we received so much more - we experienced a trip we simply could not have done on our own. And it was worth every one lira cent.

We felt blessed and brimming as the trip ended, sighing in disbelief at all he kindness we experienced. But this trip made me realize that I travel not for the land, as beautiful and mystic as it might be, but for the people of that land. In this case, the real Turkish delight.  

Your guest is as good as mine? Hopefully not.

Despite living in Germany for three and a half years now, we’ve been surprised how many guests we haven’t had (I’m smelling my armpits right now and they’re ok, so …).

This year, though, I think a light went on, as we’re already set to host at least four groups of friends and families by August.

However, the first guest we hosted this year left, well, “much to be desired” would be a gross understatement.

Like most guests, his visit started off innocuous enough; polite, helpful and even providing a breath of fresh air in what has seemed like a ridiculously long winter.

Initially, I was somewhat concerned that he didn’t really articulate any sort of plan like, “I’m hoping to stay for a week to 10 days,” etc, but people plan differently, so I brushed it aside. However, as his stay chugged into Day 3, more red flags started to pop up.

He would stay up all hours of the night and then sleep all day, snoring on the couch as Molly was trying to write articles; he then moved his work space into the area where Molly usually set up shop; he never left the house; and rarely offered to help clean up.

Then we started to notice dwindling levels in various bottles of alcohol by about Day 5. As I headed out of town for a ski trip that Friday, Molly set aside a few bottles of booze as a concession that he not touch any of the rest  of the liquor cabinet (some of which were gifts or bottles we were saving for special occasions).

As an aside, any time you have to ask a guest not to drink all your alcohol, or consider locking most of the interior doors, that's a huge warning sign. At the foundation of having guests is trust, right?

So when we came back Sunday night and noticed empty bottles stacked up next to the sink, there was only one thing to do: give him the boot. 

Here’s a list of the damage we discovered over the few days:

1 x 750 mL red wine
1 x 700 mL Cointreau
300 mL Appenzeller
1 x 750 mL blackberry wine
1 x 700 mL apfel liquor
1 x 700 mL pear schnaps
1 bottle peppermint schnaps
350 mL vodka
175 mL Yeni Raki
3-4 small bottles of wine
6 mini bottles of absinth
assorted mini vodka bottles
leftovers from bottles of Jamison, Jack Daniels
2 West Coast IPAs
9 Natty Lights
7-10 .5L German beers
(Note: These are only the bottles we found. I'm guessing there were more.)

In some ways, I guess I should have thanked him – he killed the remainder of that 12-er I bought for the ND-Alabama game that no one wanted to drink. Then again, he took down Molly's prized Appenzeller (a relatively rare, delicious Swiss digestive) and the pair of IPAs I was nursing until I could score reinforcements. 

Looking back though, it wasn’t so much that he was inconsiderate, drank liquor he never intended to replace, or even worse, bogarted liquor we specifically asked him not to drink – I guess at the root of it, he was a guest who didn’t give a damn about the people who were putting him up.

It’s weird, though, because as the hosts, we had this almost guilty feeling for having to kick him out, even though he definitely deserved it. Perhaps that's why we drove him to a station 15 miles from our house so he could catch a cheaper train to Nuremberg, or let him stay an extra night to get his plans in order. 

And though we’re not shutting our doors to folks looking to crash any time soon, we are more aware of those telltale signs of a bad guest. 

Just me & my frau

Today, we celebrate our 4th anniversary. I want to thank everyone, our friends and extended family, for helping to make our lives so full, but especially my sweet, sweet frau, my dear one, Molly.

And though we're more than 2,000 kilometers apart, I'm sending out a long distance dedication that I know will reach you soon. Save some of that Turkish hot-air balloon romance for me!

Too big for my ski britches

This will soon prove to be a poor decision. 

In the photo above I’m standing at the top of the Harakiri ski piste in Mayrhofen, Austria. This happens to be the steepest piste in the country at 78% (38º), and highly debated as the steepest in all of Europe, which is why, of course, the sign reads “Only for good Skiers.” To explain why I attempted such a daring act, I must go back a few months.

During the infamous Siegi Tours New Year’s Eve party, I won a free one-day private lesson with Michi - a bonafide member of the Siegi clan. Being a mediocre skier at best (and generally the anchor), this was a much-welcomed gift.

Fast forward to the 3^rd week in February: Jeremy and I headed to Austria to cash in my winning prize. There was a clear difference in my skiing from beginning to end. Four hours later, I was skiing with ease and confidence. If you’re interested, you can find a video of that awesome day here. http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=535155859862455

Ever since this time, however, I’ve grown rather big for britches. I now race down blue and red and black hills with far too much confidence. Attempting to conquer theHarakiki was a passing thought. I can handle black runs! No problem!

Little did she know ...

It started out okay; icy and steep but I took a few solid turns before epically biffing it.

I didn’t so much as fall but rather perform a150-meter tuck and roll. I ingested about 2 liters of snow while flying down on my stomach. I flipped over, and over, and around, and over.

It was a full-on yard sale (that’s skier speak for losing gear and articles of clothing while tumbling downhill) and I was a human pinwheel.

After what seemed like a painful eternity, the mountain tapered off. I looked upward to see a lanky Austrian stealthily skiing down the same hill, effortlessly picking up the pieces of my broken attempt without breaking stride. He stopped short of my crumbling body still lying in the snow and gently placed my ski and poles down before whisking off like some kind of biff angel.

At this point I could do nothing but laugh, which Bianca and Eric (two friends who witnessed it all) took as a good sign. I dusted snow out of every place imaginable, (yes, every place imaginable) and we three wondered how I managed to escape without serious injury. It apparently looked as bad as it felt.

The rest of the day, my confidence was shot. I got back up on that snowy horse, but I didn’t attempt any more death-defying feats. I’m not really one of those “no pain, no gain” girls. I think skiing is way more fun without tumbling face first down a run.

Today, I feel like I, well, fell down a mountain at record-breaking speeds. And as I nurse myself back to health, I realized that my body isn’t the only thing that got bruised.

Skifahren Xtravaganza turns 3

The crew, sans Dan & Kat, who were off on a wild beacon chase.

They came from far-off places like San Francisco, Geneva, Paris and Munich for one weekend, one reason: women’s semi-professional arm wrestling.

Oh, and there was skiing, too.

Three years ago the buddymollys hijacked Tom Roderick’s annual business-turned-ski trip in Basel, and the tradition has continued to flourish.

This year, the group, now 15 strong, headed to Kitzbuhel, Austria, where they found reasonably priced lodging in otherwise not-even-close-to-our-budget town.

The hostel owner, Dave, a Kiwi who also served in the British army, kept everyone engaged with his stories and extensive MTV real world style camera bank (if you've ever stayed at Snowbunny's or had an incident outside, there's probably footage somewhere). The second night he invited us to join his massive barbecue, replete with steaks, garlic-infused pork belly burgers and the best straight from the bottle glühwein ever.

When they weren’t barreling down the slopes, the group holed up in the hostel’s basement for their own après ski gatherings to rekindle old friendships over home-cooked food, Austrian beer and monumental games of Catchphrase.

Let’s just say “Circumference of the Earth” almost caused a brawl.

Is Skifahren IV in the cards, and if so, where will it be held? Like the lost footage of the infamous arm wrestling bout, that remains to be seen.