October 4th, 2007 - Munich to Berchtesgaden

One Ticket to Paradise

Leaving a beautiful city to settle into the most beautiful place on earth was hardly a trial today. The morning weather had changed from the beautiful blue skies of the previous week to overcast and threatening rain. There was a plan to the day and it started with waking at 7:00am.

First on the agenda was mailing several kilos of extra clothes and remaining carved soapstone from Africa home to the states. My challenge in Bavaria is that the use of English by most people 30 and over is minimal at best, so this was my day to speak some Deutsch. Surprisingly, I made it through two conversations with employees at the Post, inclusive of filling out customs papers. This made my day and it was only 7:45am. Other things greatly appreciated were efficiency of service and the reasonable price tag. It basically cost me $20 USD to send about half the weight that was sent from London, both to the same address in the states, vs. the $100 USD spent on the uber expensive island in the North Sea. Maybe African postage is so expensive because many of the countries are former British colonies and it is just part of "keeping up with the empire" to charge way too much for parcel service.

Anyway, back at the hostel, I packed and prepared for the twenty-minute Hauptbahnhof stroll to catch the Berchtesgaden bound train. A light sprinkle added a little extra spring to my now lighter (but still 50+ pound load) step. The train-ride through Bavaria and into the Alps is one of my favorites. Selfishly, today I just soaked in the Autumnal glory of turning leaves, combined with lush green grasses, and the remaining summer flowers still hanging on until the first major frost demoralizes their ongoing efforts. So there are no pictures of the ride today, just memories.

Once in Berchtesgaden, the trick was to find accommodations.



I tried calling the Youth Hostel where I slept back in May, but for some reason no one picked up the phone, so the Information Office was the best bet. My sister, Kristen, suggested that every week or so I should take a break from the Youth Hostel scene and actually get some rest in a real hotel. Easier said than budgeted, but she has a very good point. Sleep deprivation from the constant nocturnal interruptions of 20-something sloppy drunks can really wear a hole in a middle-aged constitution. So, instead of “hoofing it” the half hour out of town and up a rather large hill to the Youth Hostel, a local Bavarian Gasthaus seemed like the perfect alternative. The lady at Information Desk booked the room, drew ink lines on the map, told me short cuts, and sent me on my way with the salutation, “It is only about a five minute walk past the train station.”



("Past the train station" really meant climbing the hill behind it and only the beginnings can be seen here.)


"Five-minutes"...Yeah right. The term “Upper Berchtesgaden” means climbing up the side of a mountain for a full half an hour. Once you have successfully past the city limits sign, then you are getting close. I had to laugh at myself a little. Yep, you bet Paul, this is much easier than the half hour to the Youth Hostel. Not!



Locals stopped to watch me labor up the hill. One man said in German, “Wow, that is a harsh back pack!” Then he had to change his noun to a plural and change verb tense in recognition that there were actually two packs, one on the front and another on the actual back. I miss my hiking boots so much it hurts, literally. These Solomon trail shoes are great for walking, but under the 28 kilo load on my combined back and front, the flexibility of these trail shoes makes every metacarpal strain under the incline pressure of the slope.



The German language is flowing from some deep linguistic recessive genome, because I am able to greet the Belvedere Gasthaus matron and even joke with her, “Five minutes from the train station… Ya, in which auto.” She laughs with me in recognition of my sweat soaked clothes, face, and hair replying, “Maybe the lady at the information office said fifteen minutes and not only five?” I assure her that “Five was the promise and not fifteen”. I know this as a fact because that conversation at the info booth was in English. In German the difference between five and fifteen can be easily misgiven by a lazy tongue or mistaken by an inattentive ear.

Kristen was absolutely right about the need for periodic "quality rest" breaks. After a shower, I open the door to the balcony and received in the cool Alpine air to crisply counter the humidity of my warm shower.



This, combined with a down duve and overly inviting super-sized down pillow square resulted in a Pavlov nap reflex.



Waking an hour or so later to head out into the alpine Fall scene, there are two things on my mind; lunch for tomorrow’s hike and venison.



I've been going to the same store for cold cuts, cheese, and dense dark bread for over ten years. There is little doubt in my mind that the lady working the deli counter has no ongoing recollection of me, but we have the same routine each time. I apologize for my poor German in advance and she replies in German that she speaks little English, which draws my same response that together we will make all things good. We laugh and the game begins. We point at the different slices. She asks how many I would like. I say, “Six pieces.” She patiently corrects me with “slices.” For some reason that word just doesn’t stick in my head. Schenken is not terribly hard to remember and even sounds like the meaning but we laugh at me when I overtly use the proper noun to describe how I would like the cheese sliced and not in pieces. She kindly asks if I need bread and I pulled the six slices of dark, nutty, bread from my basket to show her. She smiles in approval and says, “Very good.” One final, “Many thanks”, from me and we both are very pleased with the interaction and leave smiling.

One task down, leaves one remaining and a delicious one at that. I needed to erase the physical memory of the awful venison eaten at Oktoberfest in Munchen with the “real deal”. There is one “sure fire” solution, so I head to my second “Old Faithful”. It is not the cheapest restaurant in Germany but the venison is "to die for" and with all the saturated fat that may not be far from the truth. I order the same thing every time: venison fillets, with mushroom gravy, spetzle, and a weissbier.



This particular dinner was exceptional. Alpine mushrooms are a real treat and the plate was smothered in them and a brown crème gravy. Then three, fork tender, broiled fillets were splayed on top. All I needed to do was plop the German noodles on the side of the plate and culinary bliss soon followed.



The Germans have or maybe had a tradition of evening walks after dinner. The mild activity helps to get the food rock out of your stomach and actually makes the most out of the caloric download. From the restaurant it was a twenty-minute huff uphill to the hotel. My legs ached from the earlier effort, but just as the moisture of exertion started to build on my back I simply stopped and enjoyed the afterglow of a Bavarian evening in the mountains.



Continuing in the dark, through the woods, the actualization that life was surprisingly good at this very moment welled up inside me and threatened at my tear ducts. I still can’t really cry, but happiness had returned after many, many, missing years and it was fresh, clean, and invigorating