Bavaria

                I was sitting outside of a ski lodge on a mountain high above Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany on a breezy, warm summer day.  After a 5 minute walk from the skytram to the lodge that faced the mountains opposite the city, I gazed out at the mighty snow-capped Bavarian Alps and realized that, although this was not heaven, I could probably see it from here.  My blood pressure dropped, stress melted away, and only the constraints of responsible adulthood kept me from lingering there to this day.

                I like Bavaria for a multitude of reasons.  The scenery is stunning, the food is magnificent, and the beer is legendary.  As the southern part of Germany straddling the Alps, the old Duchy of Bavaria holds a certain style and feel that’s different from the rest of Deutschland.  Nowhere in my bloodline is there any German, at least not that I know of, but if asked, I reply “No, but I’m willing to learn…”

                I have found that Germans are good people.  Sometimes it takes a little prodding, or asking an innocent question like “Excuse me, but is this the train to Frankfurter?” and the Germans I’ve met would soon warm up to you.  One thing you must know about Germans is that they are big on rules.  Don’t litter, don’t speed, and for the Kaiser’s sake, don’t jaywalk.   I was at a crosswalk waiting for the light to turn green and, since there wasn’t a car in sight, decided to just go ahead and cross the street even though the light was still red.  Armed with my typical American “You’re not the Boss of me!” attitude toward the red light, I looked up and was greeted by the angry stares of the dutiful Germans on the other side of the street.  They looked at me like I just sunk the Bismarck.

                There is a big positive to the whole law-abiding thing though.  The Germans have a law called the Reinheitsgebot (Beer Purity Law).  That’s right; these brilliant, insightful people have a beer law.  It says that only four ingredients can go into beer: Hops, Barley, Water, and Yeast.  That’s it.  No pumpkin seeds, or blueberries, or apple-mango spices; just beer.  Not only that, but if you order a Pilsner, it’s poured into a Pilsner glass.  A Hefeweizen in a Hefeweizen glass.  A Lager in a Lager mug.  Don’t ask for a Pilsner in a Hefeweizen glass, or you’ll get that “you sank the Bismarck” stare.

                Another awesome German quality is their pork.  You will never see a “Pork, the other white meat” billboard in Germany.  In the US, pork is bred very lean (hence the advertising) in an effort to make us Twinkie-eating, Big Gulp-slurping, Big Mac-attack sloths healthier.  There, the pigs are bred much fatter  (Note to the pork industry: It makes them even more awesome tasting).  This is the part where I put on my lederhosen, channel the Von Trapp family and sing “The Hills are alive… with the smell of Schweinhaxe!”  This giant pig knuckle is roasted over a flame until the skin is crisp and the fat juices ooze into the meat.  Usually served with a potato dumpling and sauerkraut, this is a meal to behold. 

                 Don’t get me wrong… I’ll never turn down a good Jagerschnitzel and Spaetzle, or even a good Weinerschnitzel.  But if there is schweinhaxe to be found, that’s where you’ll find me.  A mug of dunkel, a chunk of Schweinhaxe, and thou. 

                I can’t wait to go back.  Even the possibility of going there again starts my gastric juices flowing and blood pressure dropping.  I imagine sitting on the balcony of the little guesthouse in Garmisch watching the sun go down over the snow-capped Alps, sipping a Bavarian Lager and digesting a delightful pork dish… With heaven right in front of me.