O’zapft is? Yeah, we tapped it.

The first mass of the morning is always the best. 

Over time, after you’ve lived in a place for a while, you become in tune with the rhythm of the seasons. 

So as fall approached and the warm sun began to succumb to the inevitable nip in the air, we knew it was time to break out the dirndl and lederhosen, and practice heaving those maß beers high in the air.

Three years ago when we were just learning the Oktoberfest ropes, it wasn’t pretty: Out of the four in our group, three threw up and one was forcibly divested of his underwear – all before noon.

Not about to repeat our inaugural performance, this year we set about to plan a dignified, respectable day at Oktoberfest, where 6 million people consume nearly 7.5 million liters of bier, 500,000 chickens, 58,000 pork knuckles and countless pretzels over the course of 16 days.*

The dignified plan included several “nice to haves” we never considered in years past.

For instance, rather than crashing in the Turkish hotel (an unusually tall 1980s-era VW bus), we booked a hotel. We left all keys and unnecessary but easily misplaceable objects in the room.

A stellar example of dignified prosting.

We established a game plan at the outset for where to meet if we lost each other.

And since we arrived just after 9:30 a.m. and didn’t leave till about midnight, a comfortable “maß consumption” pace interspersed with water served us well.

Thanks in part to our mental preparation, Molly also conquered an arch-nemesis – the cantankerous, 80-year-old Toboggan Rutschbahn – which left her limping two years ago, and I even left with every article of clothing I brought (although the next day I was still removing glass shards from my lederhosen, a byproduct of some overzealous prosting).

All in all, we opened and closed Oktoberfest on the opening weekend with a sophisticated level of intoxication, and that’s more than we can say for the rest of the fest’s 6 million people. 

* From the Munich Tourist Office website. Additional interesting fun facts included the number of vendors (Germans actually refer one group as “carneys”) and the following lost items of 2012, which were listed under “curiosities”: leg warmers (a pair of dress pants and two pairs of “unusual” traditional pants), two wedding rings, five notebook computers, two license plates, sheet music, two French horns, a hearing aid, a handicraft box, eyeglasses with Swarovski crystals, a pair of leg cuffs, a baby phone, a ping-pong racket, a Playboy magazine (with a personal autograph from the current Wies’n playmate) and a dog. The delivery rate was 19 per cent.

The eyes have it

Metamorphisizing into 20/20

After 25 years of being called “four-eyes” – most recently by my husband who swears it’s a term of endearment – I have officially joined the ranks of the seeing community, sans glasses or contacts.

But it wasn’t my idea. I hadn’t even entertained the thought. It was all Steve Derr. He, too, had worn glasses/contacts for many years and was looking for a “surgery buddy.” I fit the bill. 

After finding a reasonably priced clinic in Munich, and after a few appointments to determine we were qualified for the operation, we prepared ourselves for Lasik last Tuesday.

Now, every person I spoke to who has had this procedure told me it was the best thing they ever did.

Last known shot of "four-eyes." 

Every single person raved about it. Not one, (seriously, not one) told me anything about the uncomfortable, burning, blurry, itchiness that comes directly after, not to mention the smell of burning eyeball you have to endure during the surgery. But all and all it was worth it. I’ve had a few days to heal and I rather enjoy waking up to a sharp husband rather than a blurry outline of what I have always trusted to be Jeremy.

The day of the surgery, however, wasn’t as clear. After lying down on a table, the doctor taped my eye open, then suctioned my eyeball straight. As he began to cut into my cornea, he repeated over and over again “don’t move, stay still, don’t move.”

Seriously? What if I had to sneeze? What would actually happen if I did move?

Then the laser came, and the “don’t move, stay still, don’t move,” was only amplified by a burning stench as my cornea was shaved down. (It sort of smelled like my hair was on fire).

The procedure itself took about 10 minutes and I  didn’t feel anything, really, just a bit of pressure peppered with an uneasy feeling in my gut. Post-op, you don a pair of goggles that must have come from the set of “The Fly.”

I couldn’t see a thing.

Luckily for Steve and me, Jeremy offered to be our shepherd for the day. He took us by the hand and guided us to our hotel room, where we tried our best to sleep off the pain.

But that’s all behind us though. Now we can actually focus on what’s in front of us. 

The next day: We are not trying to look cool. We are trying not to cry.

Hut, hut, hut, hike!

We were a motley crew. For four days we hiked, crawled, stumbled and climbed our way through the lush, picturesque scenery of Southern Germany, fueled solely by determination and sweat (and the prospect of more beer at the next mountain hut).

The hike wasn’t just a walk in the Alps either. After camping on Thursday night, we took a short, scenic boat ride to St. Bartholomew in the Berchtesgadener Land district of Bavaria bright and early to begin the journey. For the next five hours we climbed 10 kilometers of steep switchbacks, gaining more than 1,200 meters with 30 pounds of gear strapped on our backs.

Because there were nearly a dozen in our group, we inevitability split into various levels of speed and ability with “team cougar” bringing up the rear. (This would later be memorialized in a song).

The worst of the hiking was over as we reached the Kaerlingerhaus, and the views were absolutely amazing.

Mountain huts are a plenty in the Berchtesgaden. They offer minimalist accommodations - single bed in a room with fellow travelers, complete with pillow and warm blankets. They serve food and drinks and a warm shower for an additional cost (usually three euros for three minutes; freezing cold showers are usually free). The huts are only accessible by foot, so the other travelers you meet are often on a similar journey. 

Day two was relatively low key, but that didn’t make strapping those 30 pounds onto our backs again any easier. We started out early and made it to the next hut in less than three hours.

The scenery was drastically different from the first day. We bouldered our way over a moonscape of sizable white rocks for the seven kilometers, sprinkled with an alarming amount of Lord of the Ring references.

We woke up on day three to torrential downpour and, after accepting the inevitable, trudged 7 kilometers, gaining more than 950 meters of altitude, en route to our next hut. We were climbing through a barren landscape of slippery rocks.

Our small group of six, who became known as “Family von Crap” due to harmonious flatulence, managed to stay together the whole time. We sang as we climbed, attempting to get the most annoying song in everyone’s head. “Never Gonna Give you up,” had the lead with “Mmmm Bop” coming in as a close second, although our rendition of “Day-O” was pretty spot on.

We made it to the Ingolstaedterhaus in a modest three hours and warmed up with schnapps and hot chocolate. This was by far the best night and the best mountain hut. Jeremy and Mike lugged their ukuleles on the hike and this proved to be a fabulous idea. We sat in a circle and jammed all night, singing Johnny Cash songs and serenading the room with a loud, off-key version of “Country Roads.” Everyone sang along. If there is ever a way to win over a room full of Germans, John Denver works every time.

We made friends with the kitchen crew and partied well past our bedtimes.

Waking up Monday morning was bittersweet. As our adventure neared its end, we prepared for the more than 1,900-meter descent before us.

Walking downhill may not be as physically taxing, but it does a number on your knees. It took more than five hours to climb back to our original destination and we were collectively sore and exhausted.

 Jeremy and I agreed that this was one of the best trips we’ve taken this year. The scenery, the sense of accomplishment, the exercise, all was great, but most of all it was the company. Our rag-tag team came together, everyone bringing a unique perspective to the group.

Hiking in close quarters with someone really solidifies a relationship. So does snuggling up next to them in a mountain hut, listening to them snore and watching them cut loose at 1,500 meters up.

Euro furlough? Take it SLO

Last weekend, we experienced the first of what will be 11 furlough Fridays from July through the end of September.

Although I don’t agree with the process (which is basically a tax on DoD civilians because Congress couldn’t figure out a budget), Molly and I have been hard at work trying to figure out ways to make the most of these forced days off without pay.

We had months to prepare but it came down to a game-time decision: we chose to soak up the summer in Slovenia, near Lake Bled, which is only a 5-hour drive from us.

So we packed into our friend Steve’s Passat, paddleboard and all, without anything really planned except for lodging. (Ok, Molly scoped this place out and had several solid ideas; it was Steve, Eric & I who didn’t do any real legwork).

Riding on Molly’s excellent planning, we hiked the pristine Vintgar Gorge and lounged the entire next day on the shores of Lake Bled, which reminded me of an unspoiled Lake Tahoe, but without motorboats or overpriced vacation rentals.

Oh, but with crystal clear water and a 17^th century church perched atop an island in the middle of the lake.

So pretty much Lake Tahoe.

We had a surprise visit from our friends Mike and Sonya - fresh off a 10-day Alpine motorcycle excursion, who joined in on the fun in the sun.

We took excursions around the lake, sipped cold beers on the island and savored ice cream in the sun. It felt like the first day of summer – in the past four years.

Rounding out the weekend, we stopped in Ljubljana (pronounced “loob-li-ah-na”) for a city stroll and some lunch.

This weekend we took to the road again, this time to the Bavarian Forest National Park, which, when combined with the Bohemian Forest on the other side of the Czech border, is the largest protected forested area in Europe.

After a quick climb to the top of the Baumwipfelpfad, an egg-shaped, wooden dome that surrounds a few 90-foot trees and offers panoramic views, we hiked through the surrounding area, making friends with a moose or two and some birds of prey in what seemed like a part-zoo, part-wildlife reserve area.

Although we’re still nailing down plans for the next 9 furlough weekends, we have decided on one thing: If they're going to force us to take Fridays off, we’ll just travel like it’s our job.

If you can’t beat ‘em, paddle ‘em

When I surfed in Hawaii there was only one species of vermin more despicable than the fin-toting *spongers: those pricks on stand up paddleboards.

They steal perfectly good waves and clog up the line-up – not to mention the panic they inspire when they come barreling toward you on those behemoth boards and you have nowhere to go.

However, after having spent the last four years without easy access to the ocean, I began searching for a new water-based hobby.

I missed that light, watermelon sea breeze you get as you paddle out, the effortless joy of gliding across the water … and I also missed being in shape.

Though we’re more than 8 hours from the nearest ocean, we do have plenty of lakes and rivers, so the stand up paddleboard (SUP) seemed like the best option.

So last week on July 4 (‘merica!), Molly and I tested a few different SUPs on the Rednitz River near Nuremberg. After about 15 minutes we were smitten.

So smitten that we took one home that weekend, and that’s where the real testing began -- on a float trip down the Danube.

Initially, I was nervous about how fast the river was running, but when my co-worker Andreas and his girlfriend, Nikola, piled into a grocery store inflatable kayak with barely any freeboard, my fears seemed frivolous.

We bopped downstream with most of the oar-power being devoted to building a super floating island so we could properly prost “ausleben” (to the good life).

Several kilometers later we stopped at the Weltenburg Monastery, which is widely considered to be the oldest monastery in the world. Its beer regularly wins international competitions and the Asam Bock is just like it sounds (wait for it).

After a quick stop for bier and kuchen, we were back on the water. 

However, getting into the river proved much easier than getting out.

As we approached the disembarkation point, the river’s speed picked up. Andreas’ and Nikola’s kayak flipped, sending a floating yard sale of shoes, bags, a cooler and their three-pound dog, Mila, downstream.

Andreas caught Mila, and with the help of a Good Samaritan, we collected almost everything else. By now though, the rest of our possessions are probably floating somewhere in the Black Sea.

I left the trip with a newfound respect for the Danube, and an appreciation for the stand up paddleboard, but you’ll still never see me paddling out to the line-up on one.

*Spongers = boogey boarders. 

Traveling served up family-style

The family strikes a pose at the John Lennon Wall in Prague. 

My neighbor’s annoying dog has been barking for 45 minutes straight, and it will only continue as the day does. This barking annoyance has happened daily for the past three and a half years (and Jeremy and I have contemplated buying a super soaker numerous times). Last week, however, I learned the only thing to drown him out is a house full of Haydens.

Last Sunday my mom and sisters, along with their immediate families, flew from St. Louis to Germany to experience the lifestyle Jeremy and I have swooned over for the past four years.

It was a week of bonding, beer and Boggle. And like her last visit to Europe, my mom, Linda, stepped up to the blog mic to share her experiences, which I will relay below, despite the fact she calls me a hippie. (smile).

Dancing around the May Pole.

I never thought of my own mortality until the death of my mom two years ago. I don’t have a bucket list, and I prefer to say “life experiences” anyway.

What I did want was for two sisters to experience the life of their hippie vagabond younger sister. As I watched this unfold, flashbacks of their childhood filled my mind.

The minute the ‘seesters’ (as they call each other) were reunited they were hugging and squealing – my mind drifted back to three little girls squealing (and fighting) over toys, then clothes, then cars.

Prost from the Hofbrauhaus. 

Arriving at the Buddemeier-Hayden residence, we found bedrooms earmarked with a picture of the occupant, fresh linens and pillows donned with chocolate. My mind immediately flashed to messy bedrooms of yesteryear strewn with toys and clothes. 

Joel screams Munich City. 

Jet lag passed over the weary group as family sightseeing through Prague, rivalry during a bocce tournament and a competitive game of catch phrase – complete with warred heckling – took over the visit.

Hannah masters the Rodelbahn. 

Unique opportunities such as running in the Munich Color Run, riding the Rodelbahn, bathing in beer at a spa and touring a concentration camp effortlessly presented themselves.

Color run fun.

Family dinners became a free-for-all as everyone - fork in hand - reached across the table to sample everyone else’s food, without asking, of course.

Paige - 1, Pork Knuckle - 0

Sitting back and watching this weeklong family-packed vacation unfold was a heartwarming experience for me.

Owl face. 

I can’t say this was a dream come true because I believe dreams are planned. This trip was not planned – it was a gift from my mom, as unexpected as it were. She played an important part in this event; her spirit traveled with us in the sound of laughter as three generations reconnected. She showed herself when we found pennies on the ground.

Making new friends. 

I don’t think the younger kids (Paige, Hannah and Joel) will appreciate this trip until they are older, though I saw them soaking up the culture and food like the warm sun – which finally came out the last day of our visit.

Three ducks and a quack ride the U-bahn. 

And even though we all managed to cram numerous souvenirs in already jammed suitcases, the experience and exposure is what we will hold onto the most.

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.)