16, October, 2024
Munich has been dank and gloomy throughout our visit. It’s the risk the traveler runs when choosing to vacation in autumn. It’s part of the trade off; you’ll take dodging raindrops in exchange for dodging the hordes of travelers. The irony of being a traveler and wanting to avoid the hordes of my own vacationing species doesn’t escape me. I am what I’m trying to avoid, what I often curse.
“Damn tourists.”
The city woke up to a low fog that obscured the top third of the magnificently, architecturally busy, neo-gothic Rathaus (town hall) in the Marienplatz, the city’s old town square. The shroud has lifted but the murk persists.
Cora and I are walking through the Hofgarten, a pleasurable peace (yes, you read that correctly “peace”) of green in the center of bustling München. It rained last night, and the macadam path before us is pocked with puddles. We’re drizzled on by occasional spits of mist that have kept the park largely devoid of visitors. The garden is left to those of us who’ll accept muddy outer soles as a small inconvenience for the benefit of an inner soul cleansed by a walk in the park.
An old fellow eats his lunch on a bench, sitting close by his equally old bike which leans against the end of the bench. A few younger people are strolling the path or sitting on benches, all likely taking a midday break from work. A short pause for serenity in a city that, if you judge from the madness of the underground, is anything but serene on any given weekday.
We’re flanked on either side by rows of trees that stand in perfect lines. Wooden soldiers. It’s autumn and these soldiers are clad in neither steel gray nor green camo, but in brilliant yellow.
Soldiers.
Wooden soldiers.
That’s the tag that the Germans wear.
They’re grim, rigid, officious, much too serious, and overly scrupulous. Prone to being engineers, scientists, staid pipe smoking philosophers, and uber patriotic soldiers. It’s the cross of iron that the Germans bear.
And it’s bullshit.
A visit to any biergarten or rathskeller will disabuse you. It’s rousing, jovial, and communal. No reservations. Pull up an empty spot on a bench, sip your beer and munch your pretzel next to a stranger who, before that stein is half empty may just become your friend.
Hell, how staid can the Germans be, given that they invented Christmas – at least the one most of us celebrate, the one with trees, lights and Santa Claus. You know, the fun Christmas.
At the same time, an American’s first visit to a German restaurant can seem a bit off putting. Don’t expect a perky, “Hi, I’m Kimmie and I’ll be your server today. Here’s our list of signature cocktails.”
Nope, you’ll get pointed to a table, and handed a menu, sometimes wordlessly. The server will return and likely say, “So?” or maybe if you’re lucky, “Bitte (please).”
At mealtime’s end, they aren’t going to come by your table and bring you a check. That’s on you. And that’s a paean to hospitality – and something of a repudiation (gasp) of capitalism. Stay as long as you want. Linger over your coffee. Don’t want more coffee? No beer? No schnapps? No problem. There’s no bourgeois rush to turn tables. Hell, in a coffee house where there are often servers who, one would think, would love to see a healthy turnover of tables, there are racks of newspapers for coffee sippers to choose from and linger over.
Go to a hofbrau and you shouldn’t be surprised to see regulars, often dressed in traditional Bavarian garb, hovering over a chess game or just shooting der Scheiß while nursing beer in steins big enough to hold enough brew to fill up a Benz fuel tank.
In America the server drops off the check and says, “No rush.” Loosely translated that means, “Hurry the fuck up. I need to turn this table.”
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