Weekend adventure

A whole weekend of Springtime freedom stretched in front of me. The chestnut trees were blooming, there's less and less need to heat, and the days stretch until like 20:00.

Jarmila had a big presentation at Wye College, England, for which she had to leave at 04:30 Friday morning (poor kid) and after I finished up my own work on Friday, I packed and was off.

I originally planned to travel down to the Thuringia Wald in search of two things: the village where a Christian mystic named Meister Eckhart was born, and the perfect Thuringia Bratwurst. Alas, the distance – five or six hours by VW Golf – finally dissuaded me. I only had a couple days, after all.

Plan B was the much closer Harz National Park, two hours away and very near the Brocken, the highest mountain in the Harz mountain range. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Brocken)

After an idyllic alpine drive, I arrived at the huge parking lot from which most people hike the two hours up the Brocken. But the rain had halfway decided to turn to snow and I found that admiring the Burg was best done from behind the wiper blades.

Which was impressive, but it was also getting along towards dinnertime, so I headed out of the park and down to Bad Harzburg.

A spa town, Bad Harzburg was understandably peaceful, and even had a stream running through the pedestrian area. After parking, I walked the streets until I spotted what must have been the best room in town – it was on the top floor of an old house, and had a huge balcony that overlooked the highest mountain around, the Burgberg.

I rang the hotel's doorbell marked for guests and after a few moments an attractive older lady with short red hair and high beams answered.

I asked for a room, specifically the room with that balcony, and luckily it was unoccupied. As she led me upstairs to check it out, the woman complimented and then inquired about my pidgin German, and this led to a long conversation about my background and what had brought me to Europe in the first place. It was great practicing my German, and she seemed genuinely interested. My being the only guest for the night probably also afforded her the time.

Next morning, as I helped myself to the overdone breakfast buffet, we traded opinions on the Pope's funeral, Charles and Camilla's wedding, Bush and Cheney, and then ultimately the weather.

It was still sleeting, and the coffee hadn't overpowered my mild hangover nearly enough to climb the mountain I had stared at from my balcony.

So I paid my hostess, Heidi – I insisted she not call me Herr Curtiss, and in return she insisted I use her first name – and hit the road. It was 10:00 on a Saturday and I had nowhere to go but home.

I took the most direct secondary road I could find and it led me through all sorts of quaint towns, including one that had a dreamy beer store with at least 50 varieties I'd never heard of… I bought as many as I could carry, and even later took notes on their respective qualities.

The most remarkable town along the way though, was Quedlingberg. The medieval old town is all narrow, cobbled streets that cause you to trip, carved timber store fronts that make you wonder about the lousy place that you're living in, and in the center of it all is an imposing castle fortress that UNESCO decided to protect.

Despite the cold overcast, it was a rewarding two-hour jaunt. I was on my way back to the car when a sign enticed me: coffee and chocolate cake for Euro 1.50.

Well, just yum.

I walked in and ordered a cappuccino and cake from the graying waiter/owner, but somehow flubbed my German grammar. Recognizing me as an English speaker, he seized on the chance to Englisch sprechen – which is cool, it makes my life easier – and then smugly repeated my order back to me in English.

He bustled off and as I sat looking out the front window, a tour vehicle shaped as a train, with separate cars even, passed by. It was full of older people, and I couldn't help but return their good-humored smiles and waves.

The waiter eventually brought my cappuccino and cake and both looked artistically and deliciously prepared.

"Enjoy it," he said.

I thanked him and thought, How could I not?

And then I spooned what I thought was unrefined sugar but was actually parmesan cheese into my cappuccino.

I tried to be a trooper, to spoon out the floaters and choke it down, but no way. I had to ask for another cup. I offered to pay for it, but the waiter wouldn't hear anything of it.

I think he understood full well that the mileage he'd get out of the story was worth much more than the price of a replacement cup.