In the morning Sarah Hollington prepared us a classic English feast of a breakfast, and then drove us to Paddington station, where we caught a train to one of our favorite places in all the world that we have seen. ON the train to Chippenham, a bizarre, eccentric old man lectured us on youth and music and culture and how exactly he expected we would both make it big in the music world. He was sweet though, telling us that, on our example, teenagrs in general shouldnt get such a bad reputation.
We arrived at Chippenham and a car was waiting holding someone who we already considered a god old friend. Paul Cronk, no longer our employer but still permanently magnanimous and imperial, whisked us off to MIllies House, the abode of all the wonderful Cronks, who had gathered from across the country for the weekend. For two precious days, before the start of fiercer and more unpredictable adventures, we were relaxed in the sublime company of Paul, Harry, Oliver, Lotty, and Kate Cronk.
I have already mentioned in our earlier visits the wonderfully comfortable nature of the Cronk household, but over this, our last weekend in England, we realized that this place, more than any other, felt like home. We spent our two days lounging over incredible meals apparently created out of thin air by Harry, spending long sunny mornings in the kitchen huddled over tea and crosswords, or out in the brilliant green gardens the were flushed with springtime, jumping on the trampoline, taking a long walk through the lovely surrounding countryside, playing fierce rounds of tennis at the local courts, and staying up dancing in the kitchen to the Rolling Stones in the middle of the night. Nothing could possibly have been so warm, so blissful, so simple and sublime. Slowly the Cronks dispersed, back to college and work, and on Monday morning the perfect weekend ended as we were brought to the station by Harry (a strange deja vu as we had traveled the same course with her some 5 months before) and sped back to London. We spent the afternoon in the Cronks apartment in Farringdon, and made ourselves a vast dinner. Then we went out into the glittering city one last time, literally sprinting from Farringdon to Covent Garden in time for a show. West End shows are always spectacular, and this one did not disappoint. It was called Million Dollar Quartet and was about a magical night in real history when Elvis, Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Carl Perkins were all united for the one and only time to play music together. The show was killer, great music and amazing performing, and we left in utter exuberance, singing all the great classic tunes. Cronk met us at the apartment for an apres-London drink and we stayed up talking with him for a couple hour, as we had done before, comfortable and enjoying eachothers company. Finally it was time for a few deep hours sleep, and then we were up again in the grey dawn and Cronk bid us farewell for what he hopes is the last time. It was, needless to say, a very fond farewell to a true friend.
The tube slowly crawled towards Heathrow, and the start of our next adventure. All went smoothly at the airport save for the fact that I did not have my American passport and so was grilled and accused of various things by various officials. I had decided to send my US passport home with my dad, thinking it was a safer bet to travel with one and have a backup. BUt as it turned out, our flight to Buenos Aires went via Houston, so I needed to be an American or have a visa to enter the country. So they grilled me and grilled me and finally accepted my identity, grudgingly, saying "That was really, really stupid. Don´t do it again." About twleve times until I did, in fact understand fairly well. INterestingly, when we arrived at customs in Heathrow, they had no issue, accepting my and letting me pass through with a simple "Don´t do that again kid." The flights were long, ten hours to Houston, a five hour wait, and then another ten to Buenos Aires, but we watched a dozen movies on the first flight and slept the length of the second. Besides, we were fueled by excitement. Finally we stepped out of Ezeiza airport into the blazing hot breeze of one of South America´s greatest cities. We were ready for it. Ready for anything. For Adventure-
Saturday, April 2, 2011
What followed was a totally incredible day in London. We rose and made ourselves some breakfast and, still bleary-eyed, launched out the door and into the cold clear streets of London. We sped by bus and train to the vast and incomparable British Museum, which we explored for hours the apparently endless catacombs of history. The wonders were endless, with incredible Egyptian Halls and some of the most ancient artifact of art and culture ever collected. THe collection is in a league of its own, and is vast and beautifully presented. I had just read a book by the curator of the museum that delved into the history of various objects, and I was particularly drawn to these, including a 2 million year old carving tool, the first known piece of human art (a carving from mammoth tusk), the Sutton Hoo Helmet (a sort of beowulf style relic that altered the perception of dark age history), the first chronometer, an aboriginal sheild with a bullet hole in it from the pistol of Captain Cook, and well, I could go on infinitely but I think at this point it can be understood thjat we both found the British Museum to be one of the most impressive, and overawing, huge exhibitions in the world. We left, stunned, heads spinning, after hours of exploration.
Lunch was a bizarre experience whcih I want to mention. We were drawn in by an enticing "vegan buffet" but when we arrived we found vast heaps of chicken, beef, duck, and various other decidedly non-vegan dishes mixed with a beautiful array of vegetabls and noodles. BUt after loading up our plates and digging in, we discovered that in fact it was all tofu, delicious but incredibly formed into the exact texture of each meat. It was uncanny. But the meal was delicious, and we were back on the road.
After a quick pitstop for a mouthwatering example of perfection in cookie-creation from Ben´s Cookies (a Covent Gardens institution), we arrived at the Wallace Collection, a tiny but brilliant museum housing an unbelievably beautiful and impressive collection of medieval armor and weaponry in an old London Mansion of red velvet and glimmering gilt framing. The armour was fantastic, including examples of total artistry and total brutality. Obviously a wonderland for Percy and Casey.
From there we sped north, to Camden Town, a part of London that was, to both of us, completely unknown. The neighborhood was lively and buzzing, with gritty but glittering tattoo parlors and piercing studios and bright lights and young people. There was also an incredible market at the heart, a wild labrynth of narrow alleys packed with clothes, music, records (I have to drag Casey away), and various treasures. We explored the market endlessly and finally settled in utter exhaustion on a terrace overlooking the hustle and bustle, enjoying a drink as evening closed in and darkness settled with finality over London. Then it was back to Hammersmith, and the Hollingtons. Another wonderful meal in good company, and we found ourselves on the brink of utter exhaustion, crushed by the excitment of the city.
As we sunk again into sweet sleep we knew that the day had been one of the best so far, the wonder of reunion combined with the brilliant excitments and unexpected twists of such a city.
Lunch was a bizarre experience whcih I want to mention. We were drawn in by an enticing "vegan buffet" but when we arrived we found vast heaps of chicken, beef, duck, and various other decidedly non-vegan dishes mixed with a beautiful array of vegetabls and noodles. BUt after loading up our plates and digging in, we discovered that in fact it was all tofu, delicious but incredibly formed into the exact texture of each meat. It was uncanny. But the meal was delicious, and we were back on the road.
After a quick pitstop for a mouthwatering example of perfection in cookie-creation from Ben´s Cookies (a Covent Gardens institution), we arrived at the Wallace Collection, a tiny but brilliant museum housing an unbelievably beautiful and impressive collection of medieval armor and weaponry in an old London Mansion of red velvet and glimmering gilt framing. The armour was fantastic, including examples of total artistry and total brutality. Obviously a wonderland for Percy and Casey.
From there we sped north, to Camden Town, a part of London that was, to both of us, completely unknown. The neighborhood was lively and buzzing, with gritty but glittering tattoo parlors and piercing studios and bright lights and young people. There was also an incredible market at the heart, a wild labrynth of narrow alleys packed with clothes, music, records (I have to drag Casey away), and various treasures. We explored the market endlessly and finally settled in utter exhaustion on a terrace overlooking the hustle and bustle, enjoying a drink as evening closed in and darkness settled with finality over London. Then it was back to Hammersmith, and the Hollingtons. Another wonderful meal in good company, and we found ourselves on the brink of utter exhaustion, crushed by the excitment of the city.
As we sunk again into sweet sleep we knew that the day had been one of the best so far, the wonder of reunion combined with the brilliant excitments and unexpected twists of such a city.
I leapt out of bed with a charging sense of purpose. My backpack was light and well-prepared, my travel plans meticulous, all business taken care of, and a beautiful travel-care-package presented by a tearful Nadieh. Said a very fond and difficult farewell, and then set off, as we always seem to be doing on this gap year. Setting off and setting off. The course of the days travel (a mere few hundred miles to London) took twelve hours and consisted of a long walk to the Ehrwald train station, a train to the nearby town of Garmisch, running to another train to Innsbruck, the all-too-familiar place where I had arrived terrified and confused and without a word of german only a month ago. Then a bus to the airport and, after several hours, the plane to London. Then onto an EasyBus that sped me from Gatwick into the heart of the city. Then, and only then, with all the complexities of travel fairly behind me, I allowed myself to get well and truly excited. I was back in England, in my beloved city, among English speakers and, most exciting by far, Casey awaited in the center of London. By the time I disembarked at West Brompton tube station I was literally shaking with excitement. Casey was sitting out front of the station with consummate stylishness and ease, strumming his guitar as if he owned not only the tube station, but the city. After a quick embrace and some overwhelmed exclamations of relief, we were back in the thick of it, finding a train to Hammersmith, on the road again, our travels and our tale united.
From here, once again, I can write about us and we, not solely me. Casey´s tale of the past month is bizarre and fascinating on a million different levels, and hopefully he will write it all soon. Arriving at Hammersmith, we leapt onto a bus, negotiating the unfamiliarity of English language, English money, English everything. Casey, as it turned out, had spent several days alone in London and so was now a more able traveler than I, which needless to say I did not find amusing. I made sure to firmly reestablish myself as the one who, whether I was write or wrong, got to pretend I was in charge and giving orders. He intelligently acquiesced. We found ourselves momentarily at the door of a lovely little house down a classic London tree lined street. Standing outside listening to the doorbell echo, we still could not quite believe that we were back on the track together, but when the door opened on light and noise and we were welcomed into the home of another familiar and yet distant old family, the Hollingtons, we entered into our storytelling routine as if not a day had passed.
The Hollingtons, which for our stay consisted only of the mom Sarah and daughter Danny, are old friends of the Stubbses whom we had somehow missed on our tour of England, but now they welcomed us unparalleled hospitality in the form of a vast roast chicken and a huge warm meal, good wine and great fun conversation. IN the warm golden light of their table we were comfortable and utterly happy.
After dinner we went upstairs and sat, strumming guitar and talking for a couple of hours. It became clear that the stories to exchange would take days, but we told all the most pressing tales and then, as eyelids grew leaden, fell into the deep sleep of relief and completion.
From here, once again, I can write about us and we, not solely me. Casey´s tale of the past month is bizarre and fascinating on a million different levels, and hopefully he will write it all soon. Arriving at Hammersmith, we leapt onto a bus, negotiating the unfamiliarity of English language, English money, English everything. Casey, as it turned out, had spent several days alone in London and so was now a more able traveler than I, which needless to say I did not find amusing. I made sure to firmly reestablish myself as the one who, whether I was write or wrong, got to pretend I was in charge and giving orders. He intelligently acquiesced. We found ourselves momentarily at the door of a lovely little house down a classic London tree lined street. Standing outside listening to the doorbell echo, we still could not quite believe that we were back on the track together, but when the door opened on light and noise and we were welcomed into the home of another familiar and yet distant old family, the Hollingtons, we entered into our storytelling routine as if not a day had passed.
The Hollingtons, which for our stay consisted only of the mom Sarah and daughter Danny, are old friends of the Stubbses whom we had somehow missed on our tour of England, but now they welcomed us unparalleled hospitality in the form of a vast roast chicken and a huge warm meal, good wine and great fun conversation. IN the warm golden light of their table we were comfortable and utterly happy.
After dinner we went upstairs and sat, strumming guitar and talking for a couple of hours. It became clear that the stories to exchange would take days, but we told all the most pressing tales and then, as eyelids grew leaden, fell into the deep sleep of relief and completion.
The last few days in Ehrwald passed in a blur of excitement. I had been settled and sedentary for a long time, so leaving here was like picking up and leaving home all over again. The final day dawned bright and sunny, melting the almost the last of the snow on the little hill. It was a good day to leave as the snow has been so bad this year that there are truly only a few days of the ski season less. But I managed to have an ideal final day. My classes were fairly streamlined at this point, with all the kids skiing excellently and confidently, and I was proud of them but, I have to admit, also the teeny tinyest bit ready to leave the world of small children which, though enormously rewarding, is enormously exhausting. I treated myself to a steaming bowl of goulash in the chalet with the other skilehrers as a bit of a farewell and then took off for a final hour of skiing. The smow, as I said, was atrocious, butb the ski was clear and the alps were beautiful and I love skiing and sailing at high speeds with total confidence over the same slopes where I first learned was amazing. I wore myself out as much as pòssible in that short hour, exploring every well known inch of the mountain, and then returned to kinderland for my final two hours with the kids.
When work was over I went into super functional mode, doing laundry, cleaning my room, mailing a package home, returning ski gear and uniform, collecting wages, and getting everything sorted for an early morning departure. All was done in an hour or so, and I made my way to Cafe Leitner, where Mariye and Nadieh awaited with huge steaming plates of Germknodel (doughy jam-filled ball of vanilla sweetness) and Kaisershmarren (chopped up pancakes in a mess of sugar and syrup and raisins) and delicious Almdudler (the local herb soda which is amazing). We sat around laughing and enjoying our last afternoon in warmth and luxury. From there it was back to the apartment for a farewell dinner whose highlights included a bottle of Stubbs Wine (the first sip of which invoked such homesick nostalgia as to send me reeling back to the sun-browned grassy hills of west marin), a vast, decadent curry whipped up by Nadieh, and an incredible fruit, cookie, cream pie called a Montshuh Tart made by Mariye. There was also a round or two of Kareoke, and some serious reminiscing. Everyone swung by to say goodbye, and by the time I fell into a short deep sleep in my once-foreign and now-familiar room, I was sure that I was ready to go, but also that I would miss this place.
When work was over I went into super functional mode, doing laundry, cleaning my room, mailing a package home, returning ski gear and uniform, collecting wages, and getting everything sorted for an early morning departure. All was done in an hour or so, and I made my way to Cafe Leitner, where Mariye and Nadieh awaited with huge steaming plates of Germknodel (doughy jam-filled ball of vanilla sweetness) and Kaisershmarren (chopped up pancakes in a mess of sugar and syrup and raisins) and delicious Almdudler (the local herb soda which is amazing). We sat around laughing and enjoying our last afternoon in warmth and luxury. From there it was back to the apartment for a farewell dinner whose highlights included a bottle of Stubbs Wine (the first sip of which invoked such homesick nostalgia as to send me reeling back to the sun-browned grassy hills of west marin), a vast, decadent curry whipped up by Nadieh, and an incredible fruit, cookie, cream pie called a Montshuh Tart made by Mariye. There was also a round or two of Kareoke, and some serious reminiscing. Everyone swung by to say goodbye, and by the time I fell into a short deep sleep in my once-foreign and now-familiar room, I was sure that I was ready to go, but also that I would miss this place.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
A few more highlights from the last week in Ehrwald (it is also my Last week...wow).
Thursday was, as it always is, music night at the local bar. I have described this already a couple times (everyone in town is there, great band plays american music, good atmosphere) but this time was really fantastic because Patrick (the scot) and I and a few others all decided we were going to dance. Really dance to the great loud live music, and not be shy or inhibited or anything. And as simple as that sounds, for someone who doesn't really know how to dance, it is a pretty cool thing. Only with my great friends back home have I been able to rock out like that, so it is a really great thing.
Saturday morning I went skiing with Nadieh, and we had a good time exploring the familiar slopes for, more or less, the last time. The sun shone, we skied fast (I can keep up with her now!!) and we took pictures and had a great time. She is awesome. A real friend. I am so happy to have met her, and even happier because she lets me win when we race down the hill.
Saturday evening I went to the Tirol Hockey Final, which matched Ehrwald against Kuzhuhl. Though the pre-game partying was not really my style, and the post game partying I didn't even go to, the game itself was incredible (it is really a cool sport) and Ehrwald one, big trophy and wild excitement and endless cheering we even found ourselves storming into the locker room. Talk about a once in a lifetime experience. These people really love their ice hockey.
So, here I am, as my time in Ehrwald draws to a close. I wont reflect to much just now, as I am still here another day and besides, right Now, it is time for much-needed sleep. I will write another entry once I am back in England, where I go for a couple days before blasting down to Argentina, the next stanza in the epic.
Ich muss schlafen. Gute Nacht.
Thursday was, as it always is, music night at the local bar. I have described this already a couple times (everyone in town is there, great band plays american music, good atmosphere) but this time was really fantastic because Patrick (the scot) and I and a few others all decided we were going to dance. Really dance to the great loud live music, and not be shy or inhibited or anything. And as simple as that sounds, for someone who doesn't really know how to dance, it is a pretty cool thing. Only with my great friends back home have I been able to rock out like that, so it is a really great thing.
Saturday morning I went skiing with Nadieh, and we had a good time exploring the familiar slopes for, more or less, the last time. The sun shone, we skied fast (I can keep up with her now!!) and we took pictures and had a great time. She is awesome. A real friend. I am so happy to have met her, and even happier because she lets me win when we race down the hill.
Saturday evening I went to the Tirol Hockey Final, which matched Ehrwald against Kuzhuhl. Though the pre-game partying was not really my style, and the post game partying I didn't even go to, the game itself was incredible (it is really a cool sport) and Ehrwald one, big trophy and wild excitement and endless cheering we even found ourselves storming into the locker room. Talk about a once in a lifetime experience. These people really love their ice hockey.
So, here I am, as my time in Ehrwald draws to a close. I wont reflect to much just now, as I am still here another day and besides, right Now, it is time for much-needed sleep. I will write another entry once I am back in England, where I go for a couple days before blasting down to Argentina, the next stanza in the epic.
Ich muss schlafen. Gute Nacht.
Going back to work after that incredible "holiday" was a bit brutal, as it was hard to imagine what exactly I was working for now. But I did so of course and it was, as always, hard but rewarding.
The upside was that I now was given a lot more responsibility. Almost promoted, in a way. Instead of just assisting the classes, catching kids, picking them up, wiping snot (oh yes, I wipe snot, ever day), I was teaching whole classes by myself. Albeit, a crippled sort of teaching in a half-comprehensible language. Very few of these kids even speak German, most of them speak only Netherlands, so I am totally out of my depth and rely on a combination of sign language (50%), english (10%), German (10%), and my three words of Netherlands (surprisingly, yes, those three words account for 30%). But I am a decent teacher, and the kids like me, and the experience of succeeding in teaching them to ski is unparalleled. Zooming down the hill (the real hill now, not just the kiddie area) and looking back to see them all immitating me and making a pizza and turning correctly is exhilarating. I have come a long was from where I was when I was first called in to assist a panicked Franzi. Mind you I don't have 17 kids to contend with. But today I went alone, with 8 kids, who had never skied before yesterday, onto the hill, and had them turning flawlessly. They also, (for the most part) have a good time, supplemented with the occaisional snowball fight where I let them all hit me and make a big show of wiping out, gets them every time. Followed by (the clincher) tickle-time. Yes, I am, I think, good with kids.
I had two girls a few days ago who liked me so much that when they saw me later, (their family is staying in Austria Haus) they came running up and gave me a huge hug (to their parents surprise) and continued to do so every time they saw me for the next few days. Adorable doesn't even begin to describe it.
I work a lot with Jose, who is very fun, and despite the additional complication and confusion of another language, I love a chance to speak Spanish (he speaks no English and neither of us are too hot on the German so, there you go). I am teaching him how to ski. In Spanish. Recall that I just learned how to ski. The levels of irony are confusing.
The upside was that I now was given a lot more responsibility. Almost promoted, in a way. Instead of just assisting the classes, catching kids, picking them up, wiping snot (oh yes, I wipe snot, ever day), I was teaching whole classes by myself. Albeit, a crippled sort of teaching in a half-comprehensible language. Very few of these kids even speak German, most of them speak only Netherlands, so I am totally out of my depth and rely on a combination of sign language (50%), english (10%), German (10%), and my three words of Netherlands (surprisingly, yes, those three words account for 30%). But I am a decent teacher, and the kids like me, and the experience of succeeding in teaching them to ski is unparalleled. Zooming down the hill (the real hill now, not just the kiddie area) and looking back to see them all immitating me and making a pizza and turning correctly is exhilarating. I have come a long was from where I was when I was first called in to assist a panicked Franzi. Mind you I don't have 17 kids to contend with. But today I went alone, with 8 kids, who had never skied before yesterday, onto the hill, and had them turning flawlessly. They also, (for the most part) have a good time, supplemented with the occaisional snowball fight where I let them all hit me and make a big show of wiping out, gets them every time. Followed by (the clincher) tickle-time. Yes, I am, I think, good with kids.
I had two girls a few days ago who liked me so much that when they saw me later, (their family is staying in Austria Haus) they came running up and gave me a huge hug (to their parents surprise) and continued to do so every time they saw me for the next few days. Adorable doesn't even begin to describe it.
I work a lot with Jose, who is very fun, and despite the additional complication and confusion of another language, I love a chance to speak Spanish (he speaks no English and neither of us are too hot on the German so, there you go). I am teaching him how to ski. In Spanish. Recall that I just learned how to ski. The levels of irony are confusing.
The three days (far too short a time I know, but SO much infinitely better than nothing) that Tom Stubbs is here seems like a dream, a blurred dream of perfection.
Friday, when work finished, I bolted to the center of town where he had just arrived from the airport. The reunion was as warm as one could imagine and I spent the first few hours babbling, as I am unfortunately known to do with people whom I have for a long time been away from (god casey is going to get an earful when we meet up again). He settled into a cozy bed and breakfast just down the street from house austria, got his ski gear, and we were off and rolling.
The Skiing: Was spectacular. Easily some of (if not THE) best skiing I have ever had. The snow had poured plentifully down in the days before his arrival and the sun came generously out on Friday. So Friday afternoon, wasting not a moment, we headed up the hill above Ehrwald. This is my normal territory, because it is so easily accessible. The Sonnenhang is the smallest lift, then the vast Wetterstein, and the treacherous Gamskar. A small enough setup, but plenty to see. And my skiing was, thankfully, good enough to keep up and even impress my dad, who is a phenomenal skier. I have had, as I said, plenty of practice, and besides, this is now my home turf.
The next day we went to the top of the Zugspitze, the massive mountain over the town. We rode up in an ultramodern, super-fast gondola, that shot rapidly over jagged peaks up to the highest point in Germany. The views were, needless to say, incredible, and totally indescribable. We enjoyed the 360 degree panorama of jagged, snow-covered alps for the entire day, as we skied the various slopes accessible from the top of the mountain. The snow quality at that altitude was excellent, the sun shone and the ski was surreally blue, and views as I said breathtaking, and the terrain ideal for two semi-pro-olympics-in-the-future awesome skiers. The day was sublime, and we couldn't decide which was better, the incredible skiing, or the snatched moments of talking, catching up on months of absence both in my life and in his.
Sunday I worked in the morning, and so Dad got to watch the kinder and the fleigerleider routine etc. Then we were off the the Ehrwalder Alm, another great ski area. But now the weather had closed in so instead of blissful sunshine we had dark thick stormclouds. But the Alm is a huge area and we explored most of it. The skiing was still top notch and we skied until the very end of the day, until, in fact, the lifts were closing. We were the last people allowed onto the tiny two-man chair that sailed up into the thick clouds, to a distant peak where we literally could not see more than five feet ahead. It was eerie and treacherous, but we slowly made our way down. Despite the fact that conditions could not have been more different from the preceding day, they were equally satisfying.
Monday I had to work in the morning and afternoon, so we snatched an hours skiing before work, and hour during lunch, and an hour after work. Still not a bad day's skiing, on the Ehrwald hill. In the morning we even got the pleasure of fresh, untouched powder that had fallen in the blizzard that captured us the night before.
The Food: Suddenly I was transported from the world of budgeting-student-pasta-pasta-pasta fare to the fine dining of Ehrwald. We ate lunches in the little Chalet's perched on the slopes, which consisted of things like Wurst (sausage), Goulash (soup), and saurkraut. All of it was divine, far surpassing American ski-food, and quintissentially Austrian. We even had Germknodel with one lunch which, if I have not yet described it, is a tirolian delicacy with a massive ball of dough, with jam in the middle, in a pool of hot vanilla sauce. Decadent and delicious.
For dinner the first night we went to the Hotel Sonnenspitze, the place my Grandparent would always go for their fancy evening's out when my dad and his siblings were left behind. We both had massive plates of Wiener Shnitzel, intent on tasting the world-renowned Austrian specialty. It did not dissapoint (yes Alice and David, it was real veal) and we were left hugely satisfied (or huge and satisfied).
The next night we went to Holzerstuben, a quiet atmospheric little place where I got pork chops (amazing!!) and dad got, again, Wiener Shnitzel, having decided to sample a variety and pass gourmet judgement.
The next night we had a hilariously pushy waitress who insisted we not linger over our menus for longer than it took her to bolt back and forth to the kitchen. Dad got (surprise) Wiener Shnitzel, and I got risotto (it was an italian restaurant).
The last night we were in the Tirolerhof, reliving old memories with Gerd and Jorg (more on that in a moment) and the food included world-class wines (specifically laid out to impress the famed Californian Winemaker), delicious cold meats for appetizers, soup, and a divine lamb chop, followed by a decadent dessert. The Tirolerhof is truly one of the most beautiful hotels in the world, and every experience there is singular and delightful.
We also went to get drinks at a couple other places to soak up atmosphere, including the Sonnenhang Hotel, which used to be the only place in town and so had plenty of history and memories for dad, and a chalet on top of the mountain that was a shelter for a crashed WWII bomber pilot.
The memories: Were, for dad, very intense. He came here often as a kid with his family (to ski), a couple times as a teenager (to work), and once with us (to be tourists). Each streetcorner was layered with memories, and we spent a bit of time tracking down old places like the house the Elder Stubbses used to stay at or the shop my dad worked in for a summer and various other nooks and crannies. Amazingly almost nothing had changed, which I guess is the case in such a small town. Even the characters were more or less the same, less a few who had passed on. Denys and Margaret (my grandparents) were legends here and are still widely beloved and talked about by the Leitners (Gerd and Jorg). The told their stories about working on White House farm (sounds familiar, huh?) and my dad told his about working in Ehrwald. It was a constant trip down memory lane, with which I tagged along, amazedly witnessing. There were also smaller things like his memories of always ordering "ein par wurstel" as a treat snack, and so we did the same here.
He was also witness to a comical evening with all the ski teachers when, after a long week's work, we were treated to shnapps and snacks by the management. It was a very cheerful atmosphere, a lot of groaning and relazing after a hard week, and Patrick eventually brought out a guitar and got some good sing-alongs going. It was ideal, and the perfect way to see the camaraderie (in which I am only a partial participant due to lack of language) of the ski school.
And then, as suddenly as he had arrived, he was gone, early one morning, and as if he had never been there, I went back to work, a gaping hole in my existence but a head full of blissfully warm memories that would carry me through for days to come.
Friday, when work finished, I bolted to the center of town where he had just arrived from the airport. The reunion was as warm as one could imagine and I spent the first few hours babbling, as I am unfortunately known to do with people whom I have for a long time been away from (god casey is going to get an earful when we meet up again). He settled into a cozy bed and breakfast just down the street from house austria, got his ski gear, and we were off and rolling.
The Skiing: Was spectacular. Easily some of (if not THE) best skiing I have ever had. The snow had poured plentifully down in the days before his arrival and the sun came generously out on Friday. So Friday afternoon, wasting not a moment, we headed up the hill above Ehrwald. This is my normal territory, because it is so easily accessible. The Sonnenhang is the smallest lift, then the vast Wetterstein, and the treacherous Gamskar. A small enough setup, but plenty to see. And my skiing was, thankfully, good enough to keep up and even impress my dad, who is a phenomenal skier. I have had, as I said, plenty of practice, and besides, this is now my home turf.
The next day we went to the top of the Zugspitze, the massive mountain over the town. We rode up in an ultramodern, super-fast gondola, that shot rapidly over jagged peaks up to the highest point in Germany. The views were, needless to say, incredible, and totally indescribable. We enjoyed the 360 degree panorama of jagged, snow-covered alps for the entire day, as we skied the various slopes accessible from the top of the mountain. The snow quality at that altitude was excellent, the sun shone and the ski was surreally blue, and views as I said breathtaking, and the terrain ideal for two semi-pro-olympics-in-the-future awesome skiers. The day was sublime, and we couldn't decide which was better, the incredible skiing, or the snatched moments of talking, catching up on months of absence both in my life and in his.
Sunday I worked in the morning, and so Dad got to watch the kinder and the fleigerleider routine etc. Then we were off the the Ehrwalder Alm, another great ski area. But now the weather had closed in so instead of blissful sunshine we had dark thick stormclouds. But the Alm is a huge area and we explored most of it. The skiing was still top notch and we skied until the very end of the day, until, in fact, the lifts were closing. We were the last people allowed onto the tiny two-man chair that sailed up into the thick clouds, to a distant peak where we literally could not see more than five feet ahead. It was eerie and treacherous, but we slowly made our way down. Despite the fact that conditions could not have been more different from the preceding day, they were equally satisfying.
Monday I had to work in the morning and afternoon, so we snatched an hours skiing before work, and hour during lunch, and an hour after work. Still not a bad day's skiing, on the Ehrwald hill. In the morning we even got the pleasure of fresh, untouched powder that had fallen in the blizzard that captured us the night before.
The Food: Suddenly I was transported from the world of budgeting-student-pasta-pasta-pasta fare to the fine dining of Ehrwald. We ate lunches in the little Chalet's perched on the slopes, which consisted of things like Wurst (sausage), Goulash (soup), and saurkraut. All of it was divine, far surpassing American ski-food, and quintissentially Austrian. We even had Germknodel with one lunch which, if I have not yet described it, is a tirolian delicacy with a massive ball of dough, with jam in the middle, in a pool of hot vanilla sauce. Decadent and delicious.
For dinner the first night we went to the Hotel Sonnenspitze, the place my Grandparent would always go for their fancy evening's out when my dad and his siblings were left behind. We both had massive plates of Wiener Shnitzel, intent on tasting the world-renowned Austrian specialty. It did not dissapoint (yes Alice and David, it was real veal) and we were left hugely satisfied (or huge and satisfied).
The next night we went to Holzerstuben, a quiet atmospheric little place where I got pork chops (amazing!!) and dad got, again, Wiener Shnitzel, having decided to sample a variety and pass gourmet judgement.
The next night we had a hilariously pushy waitress who insisted we not linger over our menus for longer than it took her to bolt back and forth to the kitchen. Dad got (surprise) Wiener Shnitzel, and I got risotto (it was an italian restaurant).
The last night we were in the Tirolerhof, reliving old memories with Gerd and Jorg (more on that in a moment) and the food included world-class wines (specifically laid out to impress the famed Californian Winemaker), delicious cold meats for appetizers, soup, and a divine lamb chop, followed by a decadent dessert. The Tirolerhof is truly one of the most beautiful hotels in the world, and every experience there is singular and delightful.
We also went to get drinks at a couple other places to soak up atmosphere, including the Sonnenhang Hotel, which used to be the only place in town and so had plenty of history and memories for dad, and a chalet on top of the mountain that was a shelter for a crashed WWII bomber pilot.
The memories: Were, for dad, very intense. He came here often as a kid with his family (to ski), a couple times as a teenager (to work), and once with us (to be tourists). Each streetcorner was layered with memories, and we spent a bit of time tracking down old places like the house the Elder Stubbses used to stay at or the shop my dad worked in for a summer and various other nooks and crannies. Amazingly almost nothing had changed, which I guess is the case in such a small town. Even the characters were more or less the same, less a few who had passed on. Denys and Margaret (my grandparents) were legends here and are still widely beloved and talked about by the Leitners (Gerd and Jorg). The told their stories about working on White House farm (sounds familiar, huh?) and my dad told his about working in Ehrwald. It was a constant trip down memory lane, with which I tagged along, amazedly witnessing. There were also smaller things like his memories of always ordering "ein par wurstel" as a treat snack, and so we did the same here.
He was also witness to a comical evening with all the ski teachers when, after a long week's work, we were treated to shnapps and snacks by the management. It was a very cheerful atmosphere, a lot of groaning and relazing after a hard week, and Patrick eventually brought out a guitar and got some good sing-alongs going. It was ideal, and the perfect way to see the camaraderie (in which I am only a partial participant due to lack of language) of the ski school.
And then, as suddenly as he had arrived, he was gone, early one morning, and as if he had never been there, I went back to work, a gaping hole in my existence but a head full of blissfully warm memories that would carry me through for days to come.
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