Holiday in Austria, Part VIII: An Afternoon near Munich

On the final day I was still sleeping like a log when Mama came around to those of us who were less than awake to tell us that, if we wanted to see Uncle Pu before he drives back home, now was the time to arise from our slumbers. A while afterward I toddled down to the kitchen table and informed the round that I had interrupted REM sleep for this session and that they could feel flattered (which was not meant, and hopefully did not come across, obnoxiously). During the breakfast we bade goodbye to Pudel; after it we packed everything up and finally left before noon.

Our route to the German border was an eminently picturesque, circuitous one that took us through the mountains around the Dachstein. We crossed the border near the Chiemsee (a surprisingly huge lake nicknamed "the Bavarian sea") and then hastened on to Munich. What really kept me busy, besides admiring the mountains, was admiring the multiplicity of license plate origins. This stretch was a veritable European Parliament, with cars and trucks and motorcycles from all over Austria, and then from Germany, Slovenia, Czech Republic, Belgium, Hungary, and Italy, and there were one or two each from France, Great Britain, Italy, Spain, Latvia, Bulgaria, Romania, Denmark, Norway, and even Russia.

It was saddening to leave Austria again especially because it seems to me to be such a lively and lovely country, from the geographical and architectural and botanical point of view, and because I'm so fond of mountainous terrain. But I was looking forward to being near Munich again.

The town that was our destination lies outside of the city, and lies in a region noted for harbouring well-to-do people who wish to live in retirement from the sordid hurly-burly of the urban sphere. The streets were narrow and winding, and though the neighbourhood (aside from the Four Seasons hotel along the way) did not seem especially rich the houses often had gardens and were large enough. Being used to the generous property sizes of North America, my awe was within bounds. Logistically it was a bother trying to find a parking spot and navigating the narrow thoroughfares, besides which it was hot. We paused at a train station so that Papa could consult the map, when a round-faced man evidently at a loss for other ways to while away the afternoon came trundling over from a distant table to inform us in surly fashion that no parking was allowed at that spot. A sign had already informed us as much, but as far as we could tell we were in nobody's way for the short period we were there. Mama told us later, slightly huffily, that the man, grumbling as he turned away, had called us "Saupreußen," or Prussian pigs.

After this interlude we adjourned to a Biergarten for refreshments. Having forgotten my theoretical horror of it as usual, I wanted dessert and therefore ordered vanilla ice cream with bilberries (Heidelbeeren). Gi. and T. and J. got two king-sized bilberry pancakes, dusted with powdered sugar and studded in the centre with a neat mound of vanilla ice cream, and they looked delectable. Papa, long deprived of it, chose a sirloin tip roast (Tafelspitz, and based on the cooking method he says that it could be properly denominated a pot au feu) that arrived with grated horseradish, boiled potatoes, rice, and a half tomato. Ge. and Mama went the traditional route and opted for Bavarian white sausage (Weisswurst), which arrived in a white covered bowl with lion-head-shaped handles, with a basket of two obligatory large pretzels and a little plate of packages of sweet mustard. To drink we had coffee, mineral water (mine again!), beer, and Coke.

At around 5:30 the Prussian pigs were expected at the house of a friend of the family, P.K., with whom Papa had studied and worked in his early years at the Freie Uni. Now this friend is a doctor and married with two little children, and though the latter were off with his wife to be immunized, he gladly welcomed us and, sitting in the garden at a round table, Papa and Mama and he caught up. The last time they had seen each other was in 1989. One topic that recurred was medical ethics, especially the lack thereof, and medicine in general. I was surprised when P.K. posited that talking and personally engaging with patients helps far more than medication does. The other remark that struck me, and which not knowing much of the profession I didn't understand, is that the majority of his work is statistics. Perhaps it means that many likelihoods must be calculated when one treats a patient, for instance the likelihood of a certain diagnosis being correct and of a certain drug working or conversely of a certain drug having bad side effects, etc. Anyway, all of this interested me particularly because I've often thought of going into medicine; because I was around and very much involved when my grandfather and great-aunt were ill, and when they were helped or not by their prescriptions; and because Papa has read and seen and thought a lot about the field and likes to discuss it. Later, at any rate, we walked around the garden, where the hydrangeas and other blossoms were flourishing, as were the tomatoes and beets and other vegetables, and I wished yet again that my enjoyment of gardens were not tarnished by the consciousness of the hard and tedious work that goes into them. (c:

By 9 p.m. we had to take our leave again and drive back to Berlin. A gentle sunset accompanied us as Munich receded in the distance, and then it was entirely dark and rather boring. I was tired but was pretty sure that Papa had probably gotten less sleep than me, and so decided to stay awake in solidarity. Mama and I therefore spent some two hours straight travelling through our song repertory: folksongs, gems from The Sound of Music (alas (c: ) and Mary Poppins, classical pieces including a handful of Schubert Lieder, and Beatles hits. Unfortunately I doubt any of us can sing a Beatles song all the way through, but we muddle through at least the first verse of "Nowhere Man," "Hey Jude," etc. anyway. Ge.'s knowledge is comparatively encyclopaedic but since he didn't sing along that didn't help. Then I was too tired to stay awake or be selfless any longer, and thought that I had helped to stave off a hypnotic silence long enough, and therefore had a nap. I woke up again before we reached Berlin and was immensely grumpy that we weren't there yet. But it was exciting to drive through the deserted city streets when we were at last there, and I was chipper enough to carry a lot of luggage and baggage up from the car into our apartment. Then, having unpacked my stuff in an unusual example of swift action, I went to bed and slept like a dormouse.

Since then the sense of deflation after an adventure, which I had expected to set in and make life difficult for the next few weeks, has not set in. The trip was strenuous and I can't say it was the most fun I've ever had in my life; but I have been feeling surprisingly enterprising and energetic after all, and I am happy that Austria is even nicer than I thought.