Dancing to the Darkness

"I am honestly scared for the future of this country, and am seriously considering moving to a different country..."

"This country is doomed!"

"I am so disgusted, sad and disturbed by the results tonight.  I am afraid and sad for the future of our country... too many stupid people."

"Our country is now in serious and unprecedented trouble... like never before."

"I can't stop crying... you people are idiots."

"America died."

These are posts by people who reacted strongly to election results that did not go the way they had hoped.  The election had been long and vicious, guaranteeing the country would remain divided.  Having invested so much into the campaign and believing the end was near if their candidate didn't win, voters were left despondent and desperate.

If you didn't know better, you would have thought they were posted by people reacting to Trump's victory on November 8th.  But they're not.  They're from Tuesday, November 6, 2012.  The night that Obama was sent back to Washington D.C. for his second term as President of the United States. 

I'm sure I was telling my wife that America was finished back in 2012.  That everything that made America great was under assault when Ohio's 20 electoral votes went to Obama, and I, in frustration, turned off the television and reached for the sleeping pills.  We had hoped that this great country had seen through the "historic" BS of 2008 and realized its mistake -  Omabacare, higher taxes and a struggling economy.  Surely, voters would respond to Romney's message and turn leadership of the country over to a businessman with experience.  But no.

So four long years later, the shoe is on the other foot.  You can say some things never change.  Every year, we are led to believe candidate A is the only reasonable choice.  Candidate B will bring an end to our way of life as we know it.  However, despite predictions, the sun always rises the next day --  and the doom and gloom slowly dissipate like the smell of cooked liver and onions from two days ago.  

Or does it?

The one thought that NEVER occurred to me was to riot in the streets and protest the legitimate results of an election that clearly indicated a winner.  Obama was not my candidate, but the people had spoken and I was forced to accept the fact that for one night in 2012, more people who saw things differently voted for someone else.  And that's all that mattered.

Maybe being in sales prepared me for failure.  Or maybe being a Badger fan while going to college in Madison prepared me for some difficult times (fortunately, Barry Alvarez's arrival was just a short six years away). 

So what's different now?  What's so hard about accepting our nation's first female nominee for president being beaten by some brash New York pussy grabber?  Why claim "Trump is not MY president" when  the election clearly says he is?  What's driving young people into the streets and out of the classroom?

First, my upbringing didn't evolve around social issues like gay marriage, racial injustice and global warming.  Youth today have been led to believe those things are the most important issues in America.  Not freedom from terrorism, not better jobs that pay well, and not protections given to us under the U.S. Constitution.  And it doesn't seem like Chemistry, Math or Economics are very important either.

Young people today have been attending the College of Social Justice since kindergarten.  Some are being taught to question the fairness of race relations, while ignoring law and order.  It's surprising how important climate change is to them, to the degree that they will not listen to reason (no amount of facts will change it).  Captain Planet has completely, and I mean completely, obliterated rational thought on the impact of carbon burning fuels on good ol' Mother Earth.  

Their passion for global warming can only be matched by their defense of gay and transsexual lifestyles.  Being a heterosexual male who is crazy about the opposite sex, I can only imagine why.  Perhaps they have been told we shouldn't be judgmental, or that they want the same things we all do.  That's fine, but being forced to accept a lifestyle that is counter to what my religion teaches is a little hard to handle.  Worse, I'm being told that I'm a bad person if I don't agree.  Nothing could be further from the truth.

Despite the small number of gays actually in our country, you would think heterosexuals were in the minority.  Within a span of a few months, our country chucked thousands of years of tradition and declared the old definition of marriage was dead.  As I said before, if you disagreed, you are attacked and made to walk the "walk of shame."  Ask the bakers in Oregon, or the state legislatures in Indiana and North Carolina how it feels to be on the wrong side of the LGBT coalition.

Social issues like gay marriage led our youth into believing other archaic traditions would fall next.  Eight years of Obama's "change" had many believing the country was going to break that glass ceiling and elect Hillary as the first female president in November.  The social issues tsunami would not be denied!

And then November 8th happened.  Oops...



Trump's election is more than just the defeat of Hillary.

For the first time in at least 8 years, his coming presidency is a real challenge to these social issues that have been gaining ground.  So should we be surprised that their reaction is one of fearful overreaction?  Or rage?  Of course not -- and yet I am.

For many college students, this is their first election and first encounter with the unexpected twists and turns of a presidential election.   Compounding the problem is how students don't have the necessary coping skills to deal with results that fall outside of their self-imposed safe zones.

For most schools and universities,  failure is a dirty a word.  As dirty as those found in MAD Magazine and National Lampoon in the 60's and 70's.  Our teaching institutions -- ironically -- have failed our children in preparing them for real life.

Early on, awarding participation awards to kids in sports and other competitions was thought of as a way to strengthen their self esteem.  Making winners out of losers was supposed to foster success, help them engage in activities, deal with challenges and interact with others.  Self esteem was the genie in a bottle -- providing the building blocks for school success, and a firm foundation for future learning.

I never bought into self esteem; that's not to say that you shouldn't feel good about yourself.  Because we are all much more productive when feeling confident.  The trouble is too many people are doing nothing to warrant that feeling.  Feeling good about yourself -- or feeling like you are on the right side of an argument -- needs to be earned or it's a hollow victory.

I think Vince Lombardi once said, "It's not whether you get knocked down, it's whether you get up again."  Participation ribbons aren't teaching our children anything.  Take it from Vince -- failure is the greatest teacher of success and it's a lesson that needs to be taught again and again, and students need to experience it every time they are wrong.

Ooooh, but that's so harsh!

Today's students don't know how to confront opposing opinions.   Videos I have seen -- students screaming at each other during class meetings and in response to guest speakers who were invited to speak on campus -- are embarrassing.  Our school's adherence to the PC culture has left students shell-shocked whenever they hear someone challenge their collective views of social justice and fairness.

Since they were first exposed by their kindergarten teacher through readings of "Tango Makes Three," and later through required viewings of Al Gore's "An Inconvenient Truth" for science class,  students have been molded into a pajama-wearing, identity-driven, racially-sensitive student body that schools have been able to control.  Political correctness is being used to silence dissent and debate on campus.  No longer institutions of greater learning, they have become an experiment in safe zones, balloons, play-do and puppies.  Instead of graduating students capable of dealing with real world issues, this hyper-sensitivity is teaching students to claim grievous harm in nearly any circumstance and after any affront. 

Examples abound --

Feminism has led women to expect free contraception.  Any challenge to it is an attack on women's health.

Atheism has forced schools to ban God from sporting events, and restricted certain clothing or jewelry from campus.  Religious references are considered unconstitutional and a violation to the separation between church and state.

Racism I can be found on colleges where black students are forced to live with unreasonable expectations -- like going to class, learning how to speak and write, and pass a class.  This leads to attaching "white privilege" to everything from test results and course studies, to -- God help us -- walking past a campus building "that was built on the backs of black people".

According to Ebony McGee, who is an assistant professor of diversity and urban schooling at Vanderbilt, all of these politically incorrect assaults have students feeling "anxiety, stress, depression and thoughts of suicide, as well as a host of physical ailments like hair loss, diabetes and heart disease."

And here I thought it had something to do with passing exams and graduating.



Where do we go from here?

I'd say go back to the basics, but I honestly don't see the culture on campus changing.  Teachers will continue to berate students who voted for Trump, and students will continue to search for equality where none exists.  If anything, teachers have lost control of the students, and there is no putting THAT horse back in the barn.  It's like the bad guys on Walking Dead coming face to face with the zombies that they have kept locked in the basement.  Through some unforeseen development, the bad guys fall victim to the very monsters they helped create.

It's time we give up on our feelings and start looking at what we know.  The nonsense that can be found at Google where you can indicate how you are feeling highlights one of the problems we face.

Our election has uncorked the bottle that held many people in check.  It's not just the college aged kids protesting in the streets, of course.  Paid, professional protesters like those bused in to Fergusson, MO and Madison, WI continue to love the media attention and spotlight.  And the money is good.   Anarchists have existed for decades and they aren't going away either.  Like Mystique from the X-Men movies, the One Percent protests have mutated into Black Lives Matter, who will evolve into something when another protest is needed.

But it's a good bet that they all share something in common.  Somewhere along the line, they learned everything they needed from a sociology class like the one on heterogeneous team-building (whatever that is) found in the Urban Studies 101 section of Race Relations.

It concerns me that these young protesters are excelling at heterogeneous team-building, but failing in math, reading and science.  Our country is on average with -- or below --  the rest of the world in test results from those three subjects.  How do we correct institutions that are graduating classes with students closer to Lebanon and the Dominican Republic than to students from Singapore?  Our universities have become a joke to the rest of the world.

Despite giving out coloring books and bubbles to 20-year-old students in designated safe places, it is reported that forty-four percent of America's college students are suffering from depression.  The social experiment that began with self-esteem is failing our students, and there doesn't seem to be any answer except more coddling and ways to avoid feeling bad.

Kids, it's time to put away the coloring books and pick up one on conflict resolution.

Viva Les Deplorables!

"The future is not an inheritance, it is an opportunity and an obligation."
-- Bill Clinton



November 8, 2016 will be remembered as the day America stepped back from the edge of a precipice.

Over the past eight years, the conservative foundations that shaped my life had been violated, attacked, manipulated and trashed under the guise of fairness and political correctness.  Had the HildaBeast won on Tuesday, I'm confident many of those foundations would have been pounded into dust, leaving little behind except fading photographs in a salute to long forgotten memories.

What happened?  How did Trump -- hated by the left and abandoned by many on the right -- overcome unbelievable odds to bring America back?  How could the media -- who gave Hillary anywhere from 70 to 100% chance of becoming president -- get it so wrong?

As best as I can explain -- it was repudiation from an electorate that had grown tired of a corrupt system of politicians and big businesses seeking to control the lives of ordinary people who simply want America to be great again.  Ordinary people, fighting for a decent life were ignored by both parties in favor of illegal immigrants, alternative lifestyles and an increasingly intrusive government (think Obamacare).

I know that I had grown tired of being called a bigot, racist and sexist.  Tired of feeling like I was doing something wrong every morning before the fog of sleep had left.  I was angered over Obama's apology tour, my perceived white privilege in society, businesses too big to fail, the lies our media told about police brutality and last but not least, the need for safe zones in schools (Look!  Someone wrote "Make America Great Again" in chalk on the sidewalk!)

Decent, law abiding people can only take so much.  And because I am a God-fearing, law-abiding person I waited until the election to do something about it.  No marching in the street at night, burning businesses and looting stuff that didn't belong to me.  Apparently, at 58 years old, I need my beauty sleep. 

I did what America has always done since the first votes were cast in 1789 for George Washington as for president:  fill out a ballot and live with the results.

There have been forty-four men elected to the highest office in America and up to now, there has been a peaceful transition from one to the next.  Despite the nightly protests claiming "Not our President" it is my hope that one of our country's most unique characteristics continues for the forty-fifth. 

The liberal media has given many reasons for Trump's win on Tuesday.  America refuses to have a woman president (and yet 40% of the people voting for Trump were women); Bernie Sanders' supporters failed to show up; old fashioned racism which wanted a return to traditional white rule (and yet more blacks and Latinos voted for Trump than during our last election); the fake FACEBOOK stories that tilted things Trump's way; and my favorite, the great divide between "educated" voters and those described as "working class" voters.  The elite media not only failed to see this coming, they still haven't display a rudimentary understanding of the worldviews of those who voted for Trump  (there isn't a better example than that of the monolithic, insulated political culture in our colleges and universities).

Perhaps the best reason is the simplest -- that Donald Trump remembered the forgotten men and women of this country.   Our politicians were so enamored with fringe groups that they forgot about normal Americans, like me.

Instead they had nightly orgasms covering the following groups:

Activists, especially groups like Black Live Matter. Their violent tendencies were mostly acted out on other black people, but the forgotten men and women of America saw them on TV and were not amused.  It turns out that people of any color -- black, white or yellow -- prefer to live in relative safety.  Maybe it would have been different if they had victimized only whites, but they were abided and abetted by politicians who gave them "room to vent." 

Or illegal aliens who have broken the law and entered this country.  The forgotten men and women of America watched them take their jobs and collect welfare benefits for their anchor baby's support.  They watched as non-citizens behaved badly, burning our flag and demanding free education and healthcare.  The people of the United States are a tolerant group, even when the phone asks you "to press 1 for English."  But there are limits and if our politicians skirt the law and welcome more to enter this country, they shouldn't be surprised when the forgotten stand up and say "enough!"

Or terrorists that have entered Europe and America under the guise of refugees.  The forgotten men and women of America watched as radical Muslim refugees in France and Belgium killed, raped and terrorized innocent people in the name of Allah.  They stood silent as Hillary and President Obama tried to calm their fears, then announced that they wanted to increase the number of refugees by over 500%.  Politicians promised to vet the refugees carefully and to keep America safe, then built walls around their homes and traveled with armed bodyguards for protection.

I've seen and read enough Facebook posts to last a life time. No doubt family and friendships have taken a hit despite my best efforts to remain civil.  I rarely responded, even when they angered me.   As far as I can tell, I haven't been de-friended by anyone yet, but I suspect it will make for some quiet conversations during the holidays!  I don't now how I turned out so different than my brother and sister, but somewhere along the line they fell under the voodoo spell of Comedy Central, MSNBC and CNN.

I play basketball with a sociology teacher that tried to explain the polarity of people's thinking by saying we are all heavily influenced by groups of like-minded people, who reinforce our thinking and isolate us from opposing opinions.  But these groups attract people with similar thought and opinions which were there to begin with.  So many of these people come to the group already sharing the same group think.

What have I learned from this election?  That you don't want Bruce Springsteen and Beyonce with you on the campaign trail...

Seriously, Liz and I made the decision that we would not check on the election until the following morning.  We'd been through enough heartbreak that we didn't want to sleep on another one.   So, as I lay in bed the morning after the election -- without knowing the results -- I was thinking of smart responses that I could give to co-workers who were sure to be gloating over a Hillary win.  I decided on something simple:  "Well, at least Trump has pulled back the curtain on Washington politics."

The Democrat party, in particular, was unveiled as a corrupt party that couldn't play by the rules. Despite Bernie Sander's popularity during the primaries, he had no chance of being named the nominee. And the discovery of Donna Brazille providing questions to Hillary before the debates confirmed the long-suspected love-fest between the media and Democratic candidates.

Further proof that most Democrats running for office are truth-challenged.  They can't tell people what they really hope to accomplish because people would refuse to vote for it.  And as Wikileaks revealed over and over, they depend on the media to help shape their message. 

For years, I've known the media is nothing more than a mouthpiece for the Democratic Party, but this year it became abundantly clear that almost all major network news and press organizations like the AP were totally in the bag for Hillary.  The press was so confident that Hilary would win that they gave up trying to be balanced.  The mainstream media ignored the Wikileaks barrage and Hillary's email controversy and instead defended her or simply didn't report some of the facts. 

When I was going to journalism school in Madison during the 80's, there was still a desire to challenge government officials and find the truth (of course it helped that Reagan was president and everything he did was fair game).  Today, if you are in the press, you are more likely to be handed an open invitation to a Hillary fundraiser than to be handed a top secret file describing her speeches to Wall Street big wigs in the shadows of some underground parking garage.  

The Democrats biggest Super Pac was NBC, ABC and CBS.

But it wasn't just the Democrats who were exposed by Trump.  When Jeb Bush, Marco Rubio and John Kasich failed to stop the Trump train, a powerful group of Washington elites came forward to say that they would never vote for Trump. "Never Trumpers" -- people like George Will, Bill Kristol, John McCain, Mitt Romney, the most of the Bush family -- claimed that Trump presented such a unique threat to America and to the Republican party's legacy that it was ok for Hillary to win the election  (and along with it, the reshaping of America to illegal immigration, and a Supreme Court leaning to the left).

It never occurred to me that so many people claiming to share my conservative views could be part of the same Washington ruling class that was tearing down this country.   They were SO good at what they said that we kept voting them into power.  They said:  "Give us the House of Representatives and we will control the purse strings to shut down Omabacare!"  Then it was "Give us the Senate and we can filibuster and stop Obama's radical agenda".  Finally it was "Give us the White House and we will change the world." 

Until the last man standing was Trump.  Then everything changed.  And then it was Never Trump!  I should have listened to a good friend of mine from Grand Rapids (who has since passed away) who didn't trust Bush and what he was trying to do.  Every year the evidence was in front of me, but I never believed it.  In retrospect, I am no longer surprised by what has happened to my country over the past 30 years.

The straw that broke the camel's back came when FBI director James Comey found Hillary to be "careless" with her email accounts and private servers.  Instead of being given an orange jumpsuit in a small cell in some high security prison, she was rewarded with the Democratic nomination for president.  I'd heard that Comey couldn't bring himself to take down the Democratic candidate just weeks before an election.  Or that there was no intent.  The release by Wikileaks of her "lost" emails proved that was not the case.  Her intent was to hide what she was doing.

The idea that anybody could look at what this woman did (selling special access while Secretary of State and later as the presumptive nominee for President) is abhorrent.  No amount of shared commitment to abortion, or women's rights should excuse the corruption that surrounded this woman and the Clinton Foundation.  To those of you who voted for Hillary despite this evil cloud of corruption, I can only wonder what is worse:  not knowing, or not caring?

Ten years from now, we will know if Donald Trump was a game changer or a mistake.  History will tell us what he accomplished as the 45th President of the United States (just not the history being taught to our children)...  So going forward, I don't know what's going to happen. 

I know what I want for America, and I hope this country gives him a chance to lead and make America great again... 

Long live the forgotten Americans!

In Love With Vienna

"Edelweiss, Edelweiss,
Du grüsst mich jeden Morgen.
Seh ich dich, freue ich mich,
Und vergess meine Sorgen
Schmücke die Heimat nach Schnee und Eis,
Blüh'n soll'n deine Sterne.
Edelweiss, Edelweiss
Ach, ich hab dich so gerne."

(You know the song from The Sound of Music)

As the lyrics roll off the man's tongue, his partner strums a rare double-necked guitar.  It's an unusual looking guitar -- combining a bass and 6-string guitar -- but it comes off as the perfect musical compliment to the singer's accordion.

Liz and I are enjoying our last evening by going to a "heuriger" or wine tavern, in the western suburb of Heiligenstadt.

It's a rainy evening, which is both exciting and disappointing.  

The drizzle has meant that we are sitting inside tonight, in one of the tavern's cozy, wood paneled dining rooms.   The disappointment comes from not enjoying the sheltered outdoor garden area with its wood benches and chairs surrounded by oleander bushes and trellised grape vines hanging overhead.

We are being entertained by two men singing traditional Old Vienna  music.  They have been moving from table to table -- singing Austrian songs that often bring laughter and contributions from those brave enough to be heard.

After some applause from us, they work their way over to our table.  Neither of them speaks any English.  Not that it really matters -- we have done our best to show our appreciation, clapping when they are done, and smiling during the songs.  When they are done playing, Liz shows the accordion player her wedding ring and explains that we are in Vienna to celebrate 30 years of marriage.

"Ah!  Anniversary,"  says the old man.  He pauses, as if to find the right word, then adds, pointing at his wedding ring.  "Fifty."

Liz attempts to bridge the language divide with her amazing command of the German language.  "Wow!  Fifty years!  Where is your Frau tonight?"

He shifts the accordion resting against his belly and smiles.  "Home.  Always home."



I don't know why, but when I think of Vienna I don't usually think of wine.  And yet riding the tram to one of the city's outer districts, it is quite common to pass a vineyard, flanked on either side by villas and houses.  In fact Vienna may be the only capital in all of Europe to have an entire wine-growing region located within its city limits. It is easy to forget that you are in a city of nearly two million people as you drive past row after row of grape vines.  To wine drinkers, the wines of Vienna are as famous as the giant ferris wheel of Riesenradplatz, the Schoenbrunn Palace, the Vienna Boys Choir and the Lipizzaner horses.

Wine growing in Vienna goes back a long way.  History has grapes being cultivated here since the Romans pitched their camps in the first century AD.  White wines are grown in 80 percent of the vineyards, with the Wiener Gemischter Satz being the most traditional.  For this wine, vines from 15 different grape varieties are grown, harvested and processed together.  This gives the taste its unique aroma and flavor and balanced composition.

Equally famous is the heuriger, a small wine tavern that populates so many streets in western Vienna. It's not being overly dramatic to say that the heuriger has not only kept wine growing alive in Vienna, but saved it from vanishing altogether.  The word heuriger  means "of this year" and refers to the wine made in that year.  More than a village pub, a heuriger represents a blending of city and farm, where small-time winemakers can sell their wines without the bottling and shipping overhead of larger wine makers.  By law, they must offer wines from their own vineyard and buffet tables piled high with home-made delicacies.  

The Werner Welser heuriger that we find ourselves in tonight is found in an old winegrower's farmhouse. It comes complete with a secluded garden and romantic parlor where they play songs of Old Vienna.  As is tradition, a bush hangs upside down above the entrance door and the words "Ausg'steckt" is written on a board which shows that the tavern is open.

On the menu is fried vegetables, cheese, gratin soufflés, escalope of veal, pork and chicken, roast beef, tongue and an assortment of Vienna sausages.  There is white bread dumplings and cabbage with bacon.  For dessert, there is homemade strudel.

We are told that they don't bring food to the table -- we need to go to another room where the food is displayed behind a long glass case, and tell our hostess what items (and how much) we want placed on our plate.  With each plateful, we pay her before returning to our table.  A couple of glasses of Rheinriesling, delivered to our table by our waitress (kellnerin) completes our meal.

 For those who say Viennese people can be grumpy, I say -- "give them wine!"

It's approaching 8:30 pm and Mark, LuAnn, Liz and I are seated at an outdoor café near the museum district of Vienna.  It's a beautiful area, full of old historic buildings and lively taverns where people go to forget about the stresses of another long day.  It is also where music lovers go to enjoy quiet cafes off the beaten path -- often down old, worn cobblestone alleyways.

I look at a bowl sitting in front of me and wonder if I am missing something. 

The white saucer holds three hard pieces of pumpkin, cut into round balls and topped by a single black bean.  There are also rolls of slivered pumpkin filled with more beans and a simple green leaf of mint.  

I look up, thinking I am going to tell the waiter that I had ordered pumpkin soup, but before I can, he leans forward with a small pitcher and slowly pours a hot, creamy pumpkin broth over it all.

The four of us listen as our waiter tells me what is in the soup.  As is common, he is in his early to mid-twenties, looking to earn a little money by waiting on tables.  When he finishes, he asks "Is my English good?"  

LuAnn and Mark , sitting across the table, both say, "Oh yes -- what's your name and where are you from?"

"You can call me Emeric," he says. "Or Niklas, or Mike -- whichever is easiest for you."  I pause before putting a spoonful to my mouth, and laugh at the thought that someone would just use a name to make it easier to remember.

"I am from Hollensberg... to the north of Vienna in lower Austria."  Our waiter, perhaps enjoying the attention of four American visitors, smiles and puts down the pitcher.  He has time on his hands since it's a quiet evening and few people are waiting for service. Because the evening is cool, the propane patio heaters scattered around the tables are lit.  For us -- used to cool fall evenings -- it is perfect weather to sit outside wearing nothing but a sweater, drink a little wine and enjoy a good meal.  

Mike continues, "But I like Vienna.  I have been here for over a year now.  It's an exciting place, full of culture, beautiful music and theater."

Liz mentions that we had just come from a concert of Mozart and Strauss music performed by the Vienna Residence Orchestra.  It featured some of the composers'  best songs and was performed by a small ensemble orchestra with opera singers and ballet dancers.

"Es Theater führte das Palais Auersperg."  He pauses then continues in his best English, " Ah, yes.  I have heard of it," -- I think that is where good music is performed.  Vienna is known as the City of Music where the most beautiful music in world is found. "

Liz checks her ticket stub and confirms "Yes, it says the Auersperg Palace.  It's a beautiful place and the musicians were very good.  It's something we wanted to do while in Vienna."

"Anything else?"

"Well, we want to take a carriage ride around the old parts of Vienna and go to some museums.  We saw Stephan's Cathedral earlier this afternoon and did some shopping near Stephansplatz.  There is so much to do here, that it's hard to know what to do."

Our waiter nods and makes a common refrain that we have heard before:  "There is much to love in Vienna.  That's why people come here."




It is true that people come to Vienna for love.  Love of music.  Love of culture.  Love of art.

It is a city overflowing with riches, which include once being the center of the powerful Habsburg monarchy.  Outrageously opulent palaces such as Schloss Belvedere and Schloss Schoenbrunn and the monumental Hofburg complex reveal the extent of the wealth and power of Vienna's past.

We chose Wednesday (forecast was for rain) to venture indoors to see how the ruling class lived.  What better place to begin than the Hofburg complex containing the Imperial Apartments, the Silver Collection and the Imperial Treasury. 

It is an exhibition of opulence -- with its in-your-face frescoed, gilded, chandelier glory.  It's the stuff that would leave even Downton Abbey fans in awe.

During our visit, we go through the Kaiserappartements, where the focus is on the beloved Empress Elizabeth of Austria.  She was an interesting person, who despite her royal upbringing was ill-prepared for the formal Habsburg court life.  Her marriage to Emperor Franz Joseph made her situation worse - she would often travel alone to Hungary to escape the trappings of her royal family and its prescribed expectations. 

Another oddity was her obsession with maintaining her youthful figure and beauty.  While this might not sound like anything too unusual for someone in her position, the extent of her obsession is.

. She required that she be sewn into her leather corsets.

. She applied ground slugs as a cream to her face every night.

. She insisted on a full body wrap made from hay to fortify her immune system.

. Her ankle-length hair required three hours to dress, braid and pin.

. She had a 19-inch waist that required an extremely rigorous exercise to maintain.  She achieved this by installing a gymnastics room and could often be seen dangling from gymnastic rings.

. At night, she was vigorously massaged, and  would sleep in cloths soaked in cider vinegar.

. She would weigh herself three times a day.

Our tour of the Kaiserappartements revealed many of her dresses, famous portraits, her Bavarian harp, a miniature secretaire with painted envelopes, a 63-piece first aid kit and a reconstruction of her luxurious imperial saloon car.  And finally a black coat with egret feathers, which covered her body after her assassination on Lake Geneva by Luigi Lucheni, a 25-year old anarchist, as she went out of Hotel Rivage where she was staying.

Another stop on our tour was The Imperial Silver Collection -- an exhibit that showcased the Imperial Household's wealth and culture of dining -- there were linens, plates, silver and tableware that were used by royalty for everyday meals, as well as important state affairs.  Among the 7,000 items in the collection are cooking pans from the Court Kitchen, baking tins from the Court Confectionery, and centerpieces of gilt bronze used by Napoleon I and Queen Victoria.

Our final stop was at The Imperial Treasury, which originally had me thinking it was a bank.  Instead, the Treasury consists of 21 rooms and contains a collection of rare treasures that were acquired by the Habsburg monarchy over the course of centuries. It contains the insignia and jewels of the Holy Roman Empire, the Austrian Crown Jewels, the treasury of the Order of the Golden Fleece, and one of the world's largest emeralds.

Also on display were two "inalienable heirlooms" of the House of Austria:  a giant narwhal tooth thought to be the horn of a unicorn and the Agate Bowl which many believed to be the legendary Holy Grail.

Despite the excessive wealth of many of her rulers, Vienna is very much a city that can be enjoyed by the everyday man -- not to mention four lucky travelers from the Midwest.  

As the final stop on our three-city trip, I remember Vienna for the simple things we did --   the romantic atmosphere of the Werner Welser heuriger, the wonderful vegetables, cheeses and meats found at the Naschmarkt,  and our carriage ride through the Ringstrasse, Museum Quarter and  Old City. 

I was surprised by the "familiarity" of the people and food in Vienna.  After our brief stay in Prague, where the language and currency was so strange, it was a relief to "come home" to the German/Austrian lebensweise.

As with our trip to Paris the previous summer, traveling through Germany, the Czech Republic and Austria opened my eyes to a way of life that is so different than my own.  I realize that we are experiencing the best parts of each city we visit, and that everyday life doesn't include carriage rides and trips to famous museums.  And we weren't beat down with the daily rituals of life -- the loneliness of a subway ride, the demands of a customer who wants the impossible, or the struggle to provide for a growing family.

Which simply proves one thing.  No matter where you live, there are beautiful things to see and people to enjoy.  The simple fact that you see it everyday shouldn't mean you ignore it.  And for that reminder, I will forever be grateful for our trip to Europe.

Auf Wiedersehen for now!

A Mother's Care

I walk through the door into a house I have known all my life. 

The feel of the door knob and the closing sound of the porch door are as familiar to me as my own reflection in a mirror.  I step up into a small dark kitchen with the lingering odors from the night's meal still hanging in the air.  From the living room I see my older sister get out of a recliner, grab her coat and head toward me. 

She says, "She's had a rough day so I won't be gone too long."

I sit down at the kitchen table to remove my shoes.  "That's alright, take your time and get everything you need."

As she passes, Linda briefly touches my shoulder, then grabs a set of keys and leaves the house.  For a moment, I sit there listening to the ticking of the clock coming from the wall behind me.  Despite the low visibility, I know that there are pictures of my nieces and nephews stuck to the refrigerator door and family phone numbers tacked to the cork board next to the phone.  A plastic glow-in-the-dark cross sits on a shelf above the sink with the following passage imprinted on its base:

"So do not fear, for I am with you;  do not be dismayed, for I am your God."

I slowly rise from my chair and step out of the darkness into the living room, where I took my first steps as a  baby nearly fifty-seven years ago.   The frail body of the woman who encouraged me to take those first steps -- however small -- now lies quietly on a couch against the room's far wall. 

In a soft voice, I say, "Hi, mom.  It's Tim."


*          *          *          *


I was ten years old when my appendix nearly burst.  It remains the only time I have ever been to the hospital, despite an athletic life that has included more than a few close calls.

My memories of that event include lying on my back in a cold, sterile emergency room while the doctor probed my stomach with his finger, searching for an answer to the sharp pain in my lower right side. 

It was during my time in the hospital -- specifically July 20, 1969 (after the surgery to remove my appendix)-- that I watched, as a proud American, Neil Armstrong take "one giant leap for mankind" from my hospital bed. 

I also remember my mother sitting with me the night before, holding my hand and wondering what was happening to her little boy.  I don't know how many times during the night I would pound on the side of my bed letting her know that I was in pain.  Moments later she would enter my bedroom, her sleepy but concerned face silhouetted against the glow of a night light behind her.  When my pain continued into the early morning, it became obvious that something was happening beyond mom and dad's control, and that a trip to the hospital was needed.

Two nights later, following surgery, I was laying in my hospital bed trying to sleep and I would see her once again sitting in a nearby chair, keeping a watchful eye on me.  Despite the unfamiliar surroundings of my hospital room -- with its clinical beeps and clicks, and unfamiliar voices coming from the hallway -- I never felt worried as long as she was close to me.

Today, nearly 47 years later, the tables have turned.  As she approaches her 87th birthday, she is the one in need of someone's watchful eye.  It's a situation some friends have faced recently as their parents get old.  In fact I am one of a few with a parent still living.

My mom was born in La Crosse on March 12, 1929 to Selma and Eric Frick, whose parents had immigrated to America from Germany.  She has led what some would call an "uneventful" life -- never having gone to college, spending her honeymoon fishing in northern Wisconsin and living her life in the same house.

She was the youngest of four children, including two brothers and a sister, who grew up during the Great Depression.  Her mother died when she was only 16, and she spent much of her time helping her father take care of the house, fixing meals and keeping a watchful eye on her sometimes troublesome siblings.  Much of her spare time was spent with her sister -- either swimming in the Mississippi River or ice skating at Pettibone Lagoon .

At age 21, she met Floyd Carlson, from West Salem at a company dance held at La Crosse Glass Company.  Having returned from the war, he was working as an accountant when they met and decided to get married.  Within a span of eight years, she had given birth to four children -- two boys and two girls.  When they were old enough to take care of themselves, she worked as a cook for the La Crosse school district.  It was a job she held until she retired many years later.

As a deeply religious woman, my mom made us go to parochial school (a Lutheran grade school -- grades K through 8th), and always seemed bothered when my older brother would skip church because he had been out too late on a Saturday night.  She never pushed her religion on any of us, but always made it known that she disapproved of behavior that was not viewed as "Christian" in her eyes.  She has belonged to the same church for all of my life, and will be remembered some day as someone who contributed in many ways to its mission on not only Sundays, but the other six days as well.

I eventually left home for college and got married myself.  Years have a way of passing by very quickly when you are busy with life, and on the outer fringes of my memory are periodic stops when her brothers and sister died.  And my dad.  Then relatives and friends.  And through it all, she continued along the way in relatively good health for someone firmly entrenched in her seventh and eight decades.

Six months ago, she was walking and talking just as she always had.  Then in what seems like the blink of an eye, she started losing her balance -- and more concerning -- her train of thought, unable to even finish a sentence.  I noticed it one afternoon when asking her questions about her childhood in La Crosse.  Then when I was asking her about Christmas memories, she told a story that included me sitting in the car with her brothers on Christmas Eve -- even though I wouldn't be born for another fifteen years.

The doctor told us later that she had fluid putting pressure on her brain, causing the speech difficulty and loss of balance.  It was possible she had had a stroke, but nothing was definitive.  The thin frail-looking girl, who had met the challenge of helping her widowed father raise a family -- and later raise four children of her own -- was faced with a new challenge.  One she could not meet on her own.


*          *          *          *          *


I wheel the chair into the small bedroom, pausing before her bed.  Grabbing her hand, I pull her into a standing position, then rotate her body so she can sit on the edge. 

"Let me get this wheelchair out of the way Mom, then I'll tuck you in," It never occurred to me that someday I would have to get my mother ready for bed, but here I was lifting her legs and sliding her frail body under the covers.  I fluffed the pillow before putting her head down and pulling up the covers to her chest.

"Can you find the chap stick ... on that table next to you?" she asks as she twists and turns, trying to find a comfortable position.

"Yeah, it's right here."  I swab a little on my right index finger and gently trace her pale pink lips.  As I finish, I notice she is looking at me, a smile on her face that is hard to read.  Is she thinking of something funny or trying to understand why I am touching her face?

"I never wanted..." she pauses as her eyebrows scrunch together before her voice trails off.

"You never wanted what?"  I am struggling to understand how a thought can be there one second and gone the next.  Or does it remain, but she is unable to get it out?

She closes her eyes, then fights to get an arm out from under her covers.  With a little help, she reaches for my hand and then relaxes again.  "... wanted you kids to do this."  It's an effort that leaves her exhausted, but her eyes continue to search my face, as though I am a ghost floating above her bed.

I put my other hand on hers and say, "What do you mean?  Don't you remember all the times you sat with me when I wasn't feeling well?  Or everything else you did for us kids?"  I pause, shifting my weight more firmly on the bed.  "It's time for you to let us help you, mom.  You know we don't mind."

For a moment I think she is about to respond, but then she smiles and her face relaxes again.  "How 'bout we say a prayer and then I turn out the lights?  Or do you keep one on at night?"

"Yes," she says.  Not knowing if her response applied to the prayer or the light, I begin with a prayer I have said every night of my life.

"Now the light has gone away; 
Savior, listen while I pray.
Asking Thee to watch and keep
And to send me quiet sleep.

Jesus Savior wash away
All that has been wrong today.
Help me every day to be
Good and gentle more like thee."

I pause, before closing my eyes and adding silently to myself --

"Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take."

I stand and step away before sliding the wheelchair up against her bed.  Linda had mentioned that sometimes during the night she will find Mom sitting up , trying to get out of bed.  With one side of the bed pushed against the wall and the other blocked by her wheelchair, I think she will be ok.

"Good night, mom,"  I say and walk out into the hallway.  I turn on the hall light and with one last look into her semi-dark bedroom, I head into the next room.


*          *          *           *          *




 

One of the lessons we learn as children is to cling to our parents when we are scared.  Whether seeing Santa Clause in the mall or going to school on your first day, mom or dad are always there to reassure you that everything is going to be all right.

As I think about her deteriorating condition, I struggle with the thought that she is no longer able to be the mother of my childhood memories.  No more motherly advice, no more chocolate eggnog or egg sandwiches for lunch.  No guarantees that she will even remember my birthday, much less the little things that are happening everyday around her. 

With things taking a turn for the worse, my brother and sisters and I are facing the reality that she cannot take care of herself anymore.  My older sister, Linda -- who has been living with mom since before Dad died more than 10 years ago -- is able to handle the majority of it, but not without the aid of a homecare service during the day when she is working at the greenhouse.  Eventually that will change.

Mom has said on occasions that she is ready to die. To see dad again. But am I ready for her to leave?  And is it really for me to even have a say in what she wants?

Mom has always been there during different stages of my life  -- as a young child crawling under the kitchen table and seeing her preparing supper; as a teenager seeing her in the crowd after our basketball team had won an overtime game against Lincoln Middle School; as an adult walking over to her with a red rose on our wedding day. 

Her contributions have been recorded in an imaginary picture book with events, sounds, and colors that have contributed to who I am.  It is a book that remains open for now, waiting for me to add more pages.

Soon I will join my wife and friends who have already closed their books on their parents' lives.  Whether this year or next, I will be facing the world for the first time on my own without the watchful eye of a parent.

Leaving me with only memories that will visit in the middle of the night.

Eastern Promise

The spirit of Prague is difficult to describe, although many have tried.

The poet Andre Breton, proclaimed that Prague was the magical capital of old Europe.  Artists described the city as a black temptress... hidden in the neglige of the white mists of the River Vltava, a tempting and treacherous woman, a capricious harlot -- a dark Salome who dances with the heads of her paramours.  Italian academic Angelo Maria Ripellino described the city as a breeding ground for phantoms, an arena of sorcery ... It is a trip which -- once it takes hold with its mists, its black arts, its poisoned honey -- does not let go, does not forgive."

--  Prologue to the book Prague, written by Sona Thomova and Zdenek Thoma




I have been having a hard time explaining our visit to Prague, which was the second stop on our European vacation this fall.  Normally, I can sit down and get right into it.  But for some reason, I've been struggling with describing our time in this city of history -- full of age-old dreams and ancient legends.

Like the constantly changing head of Franz Kafka's statue near Narodni Trida Square in Prague's New Town, it's hard to put your finger on what makes the town so interesting.

This much is easy -- Prague is a beautiful city.  Untouched by the destructive bombing of World War II, the city's combination of gothic, renaissance, baroque and art nouveau architecture remains one of its many delights.

This morning I have escaped the boring confines of my hotel room to explore the natural beauty above the River Vltava, which winds its way through the very center of the city.   The banks of the river are connected by twenty bridges, including the medieval Charles Bridge and the art nouveau Czech Bridge with its four statues of Victory.  Behind me, through an early morning mist, are the remains of Vysehrad (Czech for "upper castle"), a historical fort built on a hill above the river in the 10th century.  Within its remaining walls, is the Church of St. Peter and St. Paul (with its twin spires reaching toward the skies) and the Vysehrad Cemetery, containing the remains of many famous Czech people.

As I stand on its remaining brick ramparts, I am able to see the land and hills that surround the city of Prague.  There are seven hills on which rest high stone walls, palace gardens and the St.Thomas, Brabant and Strahov breweries.  On the horizon, Castle Prague's huge mass cannot be missed as it sits atop a hill covered by the early morning haze.  Beneath its watchful eye is a collection of reddish-orange roofs and white houses leading down to the river.

A small boat, with its white hull and bright red cabin, gently floats by the cliff I am standing on.  I wonder if its occupant -- maybe a fisherman looking for steelhead or brown trout -- knows about the legends that have walked the embankments of this river --   Wenceslas Hollar, Bedfich Smetana, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Alfrons Mucha and Franz Kafka.  For centuries, their stories, songs and paintings have captured Prague's beautiful and picturesque subjects.

Luckily for us, this is our first full day in Prague.  It will give us lots of time to unravel the mysteries that remain hidden -- much like some moss-covered door which leads underground, unopened but for the bravest of us.


*          *          *          *          *


Ales, our young guide from Walking Prague, stops and turns toward us with the excitement of a new father.  His voice is raised in an effort to speak over the passing crowd.

"As I said earlier -- Prague is divided into four main areas:  New Town, Jewish Quarter, Lesser Town and Old Town.  We spent this morning in New Town and had lunch near the Jewish Quarter, getting a glimpse of the Old Jewish Cemetery and their New Synagogue.  Surrounding the Jewish Quarter is Old Town. which we are in now."

"The Old Town Square is the city's oldest and most significant square.  Its history dates back to the 10th century, when it served as a marketplace at the crossroads of European trade routes.  At the square there were both fixed and portable shops. Around the base of the town hall tower there were thirteen stone shops, where the most expensive imported cloth was sold.  Even the town hall building itself was surrounded by shops of marketers.

He continues, "Portable stalls were occupied by bakers, potters, manufacturers of wood products, herbalists, ginger bread producers and other craftsmen selling their goods.  On the south side there were vendors of mushrooms, strawberries and other forest goods, including game, vegetables, butter, cheese cakes, grease, wreaths, skirts and fish."

Ales's voice gradually trails off as I wander away to take photos of the buildings on the edges of the Old Town Square.  As I cross the cobble stoned area, I am struck by the beautiful houses standing bolt upright on very narrow foundations -- their facades a rich mixture of oranges, greens, reds and yellows.  Dominating the square, however, is the Church of Our Lady Before Ty, with its two slender gothic towers, each with eight spires.

I continue around the eastern side of the square until I am stopped by a mass of tourists waiting for the ringing of Prague's famous astronomical clock.  On the hour, a grinning skeleton flips an hourglass and rings a bell to remind us that nothing lasts forever; the apostles and Christ file past and then a cock crows to mark the end of the spectacle.  It's viewed as one of Prague's most popular tourist attractions, but it leaves me disappointed.

The beauty of the historic buildings and shops is far more interesting to me and my Canon Rebel.
Of particular interest are the white markings at my feet, which represent a historical event in Prague's history.  On the very spot that I am standing -- on June 21, 1621 -- was the execution of twenty-seven Bohemian nobles, knights and burghers following the Habsburg forces' victory at the Battle of White Mountain.  Three were hung in front of the Old Town hall and the rest were beheaded.  The rebels' bodies were quartered and their heads and limbs mounted in various parts of Prague and other towns as a warning against future uprisings.

By now Ales, Liz, Mark and LuAnn have joined me and together we walk toward the river.  It has been a blast having him as our walking guide.    After meeting us at our hotel, Ales -- at student at Prague University -- has taken us on a historic trip through some of the best parts of  new and old Prague (although I think all of it is pretty "old.").

We have really enjoyed his perspective on not just the ancient history of Prague, but also his telling of the more modern events that have shaped Prague, including the ouster of the Soviet Union in 1989.   With a full day at his disposal, Ales has helped us understand the tram system and pointed out a few restaurants that are worth going to.

We stop before the Old Town Bridge Tower, which gives us our first view of Charles Bridge, perhaps the most famous of Prague's many bridges.  The bridge tower, built in the 14th century, is considered one of the most beautiful high gothic towers in the country and -- some say -- of all Europe.

As with so many of the things we have seen in Prague, the tower is decorated with figures that tell a story.  In the vault of the tower is a graceful female figure who is supposed to be a bath attendant by the name of Zuzana, who helped the King of Bohemia -- King Wenceslas -- escape from prison by secretly taking him to the other side of the Vltava River in a little boat.  Once free, the king was able to reassert his authority and gain control of the city.  As a reward, the king gave Zuzana ownership of the popular baths located near Charles Bridge.  He also raised the guild of bath attendants to the status of an honored craft by creating its own coat of arms -- a towel rolled into a circle and inside it a kingfisher on a golden field.  It is this coat of arms that is painted on the ceiling of the vault in the Old Town Bridge Tower.

It is at the bridge that Ales finally says "Sbohon" (good bye) and leaves us to navigate this great city on our own.  It is a journey that will take us across the Charles Bridge to Lesser Town, as well as Prague Castle and into the hills above Prague by tram and bus.

But that is for another day.


*          *          *          *           *


I can still remember my initial reaction to the lady behind the counter at U Simeka, our hotel in Prague:  Why so serious?  After the boisterous affair we had had with the hotel clerks in Munich for Oktoberfest, it came as a real culture shock.

And it seemed to extend beyond the lobby of our hotel.  People we meet on the street or in the trams are equally sour.  Perhaps it is the overcast skies or my reaction to the graffiti-marked buildings.  Something seems different, more restrained and cautious than what we experienced in Germany.

As it turns out, social interaction in the Czech Republic is more formal than other central European countries.  That's the best way I can put it.  I don't think that they aren't friendly (our walking guide is proof of that), but I do think it has something to do with their language and being under the thumb of Communist Russia.  At times I had the feeling some still hadn't gotten over it.  For those born after 1989, Prague has been a parliamentary republic.  For some born before, Prague was a one-party government of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia.

It took student demonstrations and a period of upheaval known as sametova revoluce -- the Velvet Revolution  -- for the people of the Czech Republic to finally throw off the chains of communist rule.  It took only 10 days, but what started as peaceful protests celebrating International Student's Day, quickly morphed into some brutal violence in central Prague.  Similar protests broke out in other Czech and Slovak cities before the communist party admitted defeat and stepped down.

When our walking guide took us to Wenceslas Square, he beamed with pride after telling us the story, pointing to an upper balcony where Vaclav Havel spoke to the people of Prague after becoming president.  I can remember seeing the CBS Evening News broadcast of that day when hundreds of thousands of people crowded this square to celebrate a new direction for the people of Czechoslovakia.

It was -- and remains to this day -- a significant turning point for the people of Prague.  We are reminded that the practice of jingling keys -- symbolizing the unlocking of doors and "telling the communists to go home" -- no longer applies to tourists.  Lucky for us.

A few other observations about the people of Prague:

If the occupation by communists can be seen in the sad eyes and faces of today's Czech people, then the joys and pride of the Slav people can be found in Alphones Mucha's Slav Epic, a series of twenty monumental canvases (and I mean monumental -- the largest measuring over 20 by 53 feet), depicting the history of the Slav people and civilization. 

In the series of paintings, Mucha shows a number of episodes from the country's past -- ten highlighting Czech history and ten showing historical events from other Slavonic regions.  It is a presentation that is unmatched anywhere else in the world.  What makes it so wonderful is how the Slavic history is completely shown -- from the early scenes of Slavic mythology to the last canvas that shows their spiritual side.  Like most art, it's probably hard to appreciate unless you can stand in the darkened gallery surrounded by these huge, awesome paintings.  But it was an awesome walk through history with the Czech people.

And finally, I can't forget Czech pivo (beer).  That's right, beer. I discovered that history can be so much more interesting if you take time out for a beer break.   And there's no better place to do that than in Prague.

Beer has a long history in the Czech Republic, with brewing taking place in the Breynov Monastery in 993. 

The most common Czech beers are pale lagers of the pilsner type, with its clear golden color, lots of foam and light flavor.  Pilsner Urquell was the first pilsner type beer in the world, created by Josef Groll, a German brewer living in Prague.  It became an immediate success.  So much so that it was exported by train all over the Austrian Empire (a special train of beer traveled to Vienna every morning).  Exports of Czech beer finally reached Paris and the United States by 1874.

It's interesting to know that the name "Budweiser" was first used by the Burgerliches Brahau Budweis in 1795 long before U.S. brewer Anheuser-Busch began making a beer which it also called "Budweiser."  After a heated dispute over the famous trademark name, it was decided that the Czech Budweiser would be sold in America as Czechvar, but Budweiser through out the European Union.

During our visit to Prague, we tasted Pilsner Urquell, Budweiser Budvar, Staropramen, Bernard and my favorite -- Velkopopovicky Kozel.


*          *          *          *          *


The young lady smiles and says, "Welcome to Folkloregarten!  Can I give you some Medovina?"  In her outstretched hands she holds a tray of shot glasses filled with a golden liquid that reminds me of a drink I had wisely avoided our first day in Prague.

"Sure," I say and select two for Liz and myself.  It was our last night in town and I felt like throwing caution to the wind.  I put the shot glass to my lips and with a quick toss of my head drink the liquid.  "Ah, it's mead, or something like it!"  Its warmth slides down my throat and into my chest.  I wipe my lips with the back of my hand and look at Liz before suggesting we have another round.

After handing us another two glasses, our hostess points us toward a large building -- a roubenka or timbered house -- that resembles something you would see in the Czech countryside.  Inside, long wooden tables are set for dinner, with red and green checkered napkins.  From the ceiling hang a variety of dried flowers, bunches of onions, and wicker baskets.  Adorning the walls of the timbered house are antique tractor parts, including sickles, saws and large wooden wheels.

Another girl leads Mark, LuAnn, Liz and me past a large wooden stage and heads toward a middle table that has a small American flag wedged into a card holder.

"These are good seats" Liz says as we thank our host and sit on long benches that run parallel to the table.  "This is great!  Look at everything -- " Her head turns left and right, finally stopping at the stage where traditional Moravian instruments sit unattended.  " -- this place is so cool!"

LuAnn, sitting across from us is removing her blue jean jacket. "I thought the outdoor village and gardens were pretty great too.  I had no idea this place was like this.  I know we're five minutes from downtown on the banks of the Vltava River, but I feel like we're 20 miles outside Prague in the countryside."

Which is exactly what Folklore Gardens is all about.   Liz had found them in Rick Steve's travel book and it had gotten good reviews from Trip Advisor.  It promised a fun evening, one with traditional music, dancing and food.   What better way to complete our time here before heading to Vienna tomorrow morning?

Soon, busloads of people are streaming into the dining hall.  We decide that they are coming from everywhere -- Israel, Germany, Japan, France and Canada to name a few  -- based on the flags at each table.  To my surprise we are the only ones from the United States.  Four against four hundred, but up for the challenge nonetheless.

As the evening's show begins and we are introduced to our emcee and members of the band and dancers, I feel myself slipping away into a concurrence of color and sound.  I don't know if it is the wine or the intoxicating sounds of the Czech folk music, but I feel a closer connection to the city and its people than when walking through the touristy areas of Old Town and Castle Quarter.

Our emcee grabs a microphone and says "Czechs have always had a passion for dancing and singing.  The dancing we are seeing is often named for towns where they were first introduced, like the hulan and waltz-like sousedska."

As the dancers appear wearing their kroje -- traditional costumes -- I grab my camera and start snapping pictures. Despite the small view finder, I'm still loving their simple costumes -- for the women, white blouses covered by red and black dresses adorned with colorful beads and flowered ribbons.  An apron is tied in the back and a thin headband circles their heads.  For the men, yellow breeches end slightly above their knees while white shirts are covered by short black jackets.  Finishing their costumes is a bright red scarf tucked neatly into their pants.

The dancers continue to stomp their feet loudly on the wooden floor, while clapping their hands.  Dancers flow from one end of the floor to the other, alternately standing behind their partner, then parting before grabbing each other again.  By the time the swift, complex music ends, the dancers are sweating and breathing hard.

And after new introductions, more dancers appear and the music begins again.

I catch Liz looking my way, and I smile -- knowing that we have unlocked another door leading to understanding the people of Prague.   For it is not the everyday grind that shapes the lives of its people, but their proud history as told through folklore dance and music.

And after just four short days, I know I will miss it.

Ein Prosit der Gemütlichkeit!

One week ago, my plan of attack was to wear the lederhosen everyday before our trip.

I would squeeze the stiff leather over my hips before coming downstairs, then sit in my recliner and read for 20 minutes before walking into the kitchen.  Liz's amused face was just the thing I needed as I dropped the pants on the kitchen floor and grabbed a box of cereal.

Today, as we prepare to leave the Kraft Hotel to walk to the wiesn (fairgrounds) for some genuine German Oktoberfesting, I am confident that I will have stretched my lederhosen enough that I can easily walk and sit without fear of ripping them apart.  Either that, or I will be too drunk to know the difference.

Mark and LuAnn Jordan (our trusty companions on so many of our travels around the world), Liz and I have been in Munich, Germany for about a day and a half, and I have finally gotten over the jet lag that had me walking around like a zombie.  There were times last night when we were sitting in the Hofbräuhaus am Platzl that I would lose my train of thought in mid-sentence.  Fortunately, Mark and LuAnn were just as tired.  At least I thought they were -- Mark did seem to be having a really good time.

This evening we are joining another group of people from the States who will be walking over to the fest grounds.  It's a short 5 or 6 blocks from our hotel to the grounds where we will get our first glimpse of what the Germans call a "relaxed autumn-Wiesn with a lot of locals." 

As we ride the elevator down to the Kraft lobby area, I catch a glimpse of us in the elevator's mirror.  Liz is wearing a long green dirndl with yellow embroidery.  Completing the look is a beautiful white lace apron and crop top blouse.  I am wearing my black suede lederhosen with matching suspenders over a white, yellow and blue checkered shirt.  A brown felt hat with a feather sits comfortably on my head.

The elevator door opens and I can hear voices and laughter coming from our group already assembled in the lobby area.  For some, this will be their second or third time to the fest.  But for us, who have some experience with our own La Crosse Oktoberfest, it will be an experience that will stay with us long after the beer has been drunk and the pretzels have been eaten.

Willkommen Zum Oktoberfest!



The Munich Oktoberfest -- with some six million people attending every year -- is an important part of Bavarian culture. Think Disneyland for adults. Then think this is something you have to do!

Munich's Oktoberfest began as a wedding for the Bavarian crown prince Ludwig to princess Therese from Saxony-Hildburghausen on October 12, 1810 and attended by the local community. Today the Munich beerfest traditionally takes place during the sixteen days up to and including the first Sunday in October.

There are 32 tents peppering the Oktoberfest grounds, with 14 mega sized tents gaining most of the attention.  These 14 main tents are massive with seating from 4,000 -10,000 people plus outdoor beer gardens holding thousands more.  Table reservations sell out up to 8 months in advance, but each tent does keep some seats open on a first-come-first-service basis.  Each tent is owned by one of Germany's beer families with names like Augustiner, Hoffbrau, Hacker, Schutzen and Lowenbrau.  There is even a wine tent featuring more than 15 wines grown by the Kuffler family.   The only way to drink is to be seated at a table, which is why we decided to join the group from Ludus Tours (who arranged this evening as well as a trip to Neuschwanstein Castle and a bike tour around Munich).

Depending on the tent, you are exposed to a unique menu, special beer (sometimes brewed only for the festival) and music by well-known orchestras/bands.  Each interior is different, as they create a unique theme --  some use blue and white banners strung across the ceiling, others use clouds and stars.  Some tents are modern buildings while some have a more traditional folk or lodge type feel to them.  Bavarian scenes are painted throughout and huge ovals of beer hops or greenery are everywhere.  One of the more modern tents has a transparent ceiling that can be opened to let in fresh air.  There are balconies overlooking the wood floor area which is dominated by a large band stage which is open on all sides.  Wooden tables with people eating and drinking surround the music stage and fill the remaining floor.  To the sides are the kitchens, gift shops and bathrooms.

To my surprise, the music is often traditional Bavarian (polkas and waltzes) during the day,but trend toward rock and roll or pop music including Queen, AC/DC and Van Morrison as the night gets later.  In addition to serving beer and food, many tents hold special events like crossbow shooting and "beer glass lifting."   (For the record, it's an incredible 16 glasses.)

The food served also changes according to which tent you're in:  roasted ox (Ochsenbratere tent), pork with beer sauce served with potatoes (Schitzen tent), and fish dishes like mackerel and grilled steckerlfisch (Fischer-Vroni tent).

And here I thought Oktoberfest was all about the bratwurst and Weiner schnitzel!  Whatever the food, it's important to wash it down with a good tasting beer.

Our tent, the Schottenhamel, which is known for its "Spatenbrau" beer and juicy "wiesn" chicken, is the second largest and the oldest tent going back to 1867.  Back then, less than 50 farmers could squeeze into the “little wooden barn” and now the tent, plus outside seating, holds 10,000. Inside, the tent resembles a large farmers house, with streamers of green and white strung across the ceiling.  Giant rings of green garland are suspended high above the crowd. 

The tent is famous for being the place where the mayor of Munich traditionally taps the first Oktoberfest-barrel.  If all goes according to plan, after only three hits, he will call out the popular "O'zapft is" (It’s tapped!).  At that moment, twelve cannons ring out across the grounds signaling the official start of Oktoberfest letting the other tents know that beer can be served.

As luck would have it, our tent is popular with Munich’s under 21 crowd.  But then, with this type of atmosphere, how can we not feel young?



We are sitting at a table with the buzz of the crowd and band playing loudly in the background.  On our table is a tray with white and red radishes, a Bavarian cheese spread, smoked ham, meatballs, peppered salami sausages and bread.

Liz reaches for another meatball and says, "These are great!  Have you had one?"  And like that, another one quickly disappears.

"They are good, but I like the sausages and cheese."  I reach across and clink beer glasses with Liz and then turn to do the same with Mark, who is sitting to my right.  "Prost!"

"Prost," returns Mark, with a smile that somehow stretches around his head and back again.  "Did you see those guys rolling down the hill when we were coming in?  They looked like they'd been here a while."

I pop another piece of sausage into my mouth and manage to say, "I overheard someone calling it puke hill!  Apparently it's pretty well known for causing drunks to clear their system.  When they're passed out they're referred to as "die bierleichen" -- beer corpses.  Seriously...  I think I'll head out the front door when we leave!"

From below us, the Schwarzfischer band continues to belt out some awesome rock and roll songs that seem out-of-place in this German beer hall.  I was expecting "roll out the barrel" not Abba's greatest hits.  I step away from the table and look down on a Bavarian brass band in lederhosen playing "Dancing Queen" complete with guitars, drums, violins and a choir.  The singing, which is excellent, seems to be coming from somewhere I can't see, but it wouldn't surprise me if they had different singers for different songs -- in many cases, they sound just like the original artist.  As I would find out later, the Schwarzfischer (black fishermen) have been playing in this tent since 1950 and are one of Oktoberfest's longest serving musical ensembles.

At a table to my left is a bread woman (brotfrauen) carrying a basket of pretzels the size of a soccer ball.  These are not the crunchy pretzels I grew up with in Wisconsin!  In fact, the Bavarian Brezeln has a glossy finish to the outside of the pretzel, resulting in a bread that is crunchy on the outside and soft inside.  I'm reminded of a Seinfeld episode when Kramer earnestly rehearses his single line in a Wood Allen movie -- "These pretzels are making me thirsty."  And with that thought I head back to our table in search of my beer. 

As if she can read my mind, our waitress or "kellner" comes to our table with another five beers, each with a generous head of foam.  With a thud, she places them at our table and smiles, probably out of relief than any attempt at being friendly.  Not that she ISN'T friendly -- but she has to carry all of those glasses from somewhere and deliver them to the right table.  With everything going on and with everyone asking "noch ein bier, bitte," I'm amazed at her composure and ability to deliver the goods.

Our waitress is dressed in the classic "servierschurzen" which covers her all black dress.  Think of a chambermaid wearing a small white apron and cap and you get the picture.  Apparently the kellners in Schottenhamel Festhalle do not wear the traditional dirndl found in the other tents.  That's a win for us if you ask me.

Before the night is over, we are standing on benches that line each table, holding our steins high in the air and singing with the band.  For that matter, I think everyone who starts the night sitting eventually finds the liquid courage to join us for this uniquely German experience.

It's another example of what makes Munich's Oktoberfest so much fun . 




When I think of Oktoberfest, I think of beer.  More precisely I think of drinking from a large glass -- a liter -- of beer.  Most beers that are served at Oktoberfest are either light-tasting helles, or a heavy dunkel bier (dark German lager).  Some are brewed especially for the event and feature a slightly higher alcohol content of 6 to 6.5 percent.

Throughout the night, there are times when it becomes mandatory to drink a beer.  For example, whenever someone raises a glass with a "prost" they start clinking glasses with everyone in their party, and after a few more beers, anyone within reach.  People will respond with another "prost," or "zum wohl" (to your health).

Another mandatory drink is when the familiar sound of "ein prosit der germutlichkeit" comes from the band.  It is immediately followed by "ein, zwei, drei gsufa" (one, two three drink!) and the entire beer tent follows their command. It's very similar to the singing we do at the La Crosse Oktoberfest when we shout -

"Ein prosit, ein prosit, der Gemütlichkeit
"Ein prosit, ein prosit, der Gemutlichkeit
"Eins, zwei, drei
"Zicke, zacke, zicke, zacke,
"Hoi hoi hoi!"

Given the massive number of people who attend Oktoberfest, I am amazed at the festival's ability to manage things so well.  I know the festival has been going on for more than two hundred years, and it's the same every year -- but the logistics involved in pulling it off must be unbelievable.

On the other hand, Germans have always been good at logistics.  And Oktoberfest is all about managing the numbers.  For example, this year's festival brought 5.9 million visitors to Oktoberfest.  In addition, they consumed 114 oxen, 50 calves and 7.7 million liters of beer.

The lost and found office reported finding 600 passports, 580 wallets, 320 mobile phones, 220 bags and rucksacks, 18 cameras, 230 glasses and 45 pieces of jewelry and watches.  Also found were 2 wedding rings, one brand new iPhone 6 and four tickets to a sold out football match between the Bayern Munich and Hannover 96.  Top finds were a dog, two dirndl dresses and two leather lederhosen.   I can only ask -- anyone seen four naked people walking around?

Finally, tent security stopped an amazing 110,000 people from taking home their beer mug with them.

We were not one of them...



The cool night air feels good against my skin.  Sharing a tent with 10,000 people meant there would be no need for a jacket (I can understand why so many attendees prefer the short version of lederhosen).  As Mark, LuAnn, Liz and I head back to our hotel, we spot a full moon overhead in the night sky.  It's another wonderful Munich evening, with a crispness to the air that makes fall so enjoyable.

Surrounding us is a carnival atmosphere of flashing lights, laughter and more music.  In the distance I can see a looping rollercoaster and at the center of the wiesn --  a large Ferris wheel, its round shape highlighted by bright red and orange lights and a yellow center that slowly rotates in the dark night sky.  

People continue to pour out of the beer tents, which look entirely different from the outside.  We are standing outside the famous Hofbrau Festzelt with its bright white façade, offset by blue and white checkered banners running between three  glass windows.  A large yellow crown sits atop four huge HB's which are perched on the very top.  People are lining up outside food stands selling curry wurst, kroketten (deep fried mashed potatoes), crepes with chocolate filling and of course, more pretzels.

Liz reaches for my hand and says, "That was so fun!"  Her face is still flushed -- a sure sign she has been drinking or is hot.  Or in this case, both.

"I agree -- once we found Mark."  I look over my shoulder to see if Mark and LuAnn are still with us (which they are).  "I still don't know where he went, but I'm glad we located him.  If you think about 10,000 people wandering around in that beer hall -- it was like finding a needle in a haystack."

After stopping for fresh, chocolate-filled crepes we leave the wiesn grounds and follow a mass of staggering bodies down Landwehrstrasse past St. Luke's Church.  I am filled with a sense of accomplishment that I hadn't felt before.  It is almost like the four of us had risen to the challenge of going to the greatest beer party in the world and not only survived, but held our own among thousands in attendance.

It would be one of two nights we spent at the Oktoberfest.  

The following night, we would find ourselves drawn again to the fest grounds for another round of great beer, roast duck and pretzels.  What had started for me as apprehension had grown into appreciation and a growing desire to return with more friends in the near future.

Anyone want to go?