Over the River and Through the Woods...
Trip Start
Jan 05, 2010
1
11
Trip End
Jul 20, 2010
Zwiesel, Bavaria, Germany
Monday, April 5, 2010
A brief glimpse: the couple days I stayed I noticed that the farmers and their sons farmed while the wives and daughters spent the day cooking and cleaning. On Saturday night every village head was accounted for at church, and after the local girls dressed up for a dinner (or as they said, a “night out”) a three minute drive to the McDonalds in the next village (of about 2,000). Traditional.
I can't talk about spending a weekend in Bavaria without writing about the regional pride. If you think Germany is beer steins, dirndls, lederhosen, accordions, and Weisse beer, then the Bavarians would like to have a word with you. Out of the 16 states in Germany, no one owns those traditions but Bavarians. I cannot begin to tell you how many times I heard Bayern ist nicht Deutschland. Bayern ist Bayern. (Bavaria is not Germany. Bavaria is Bavaria.) Although Germany adroitly exports the Bavarian culture, unless you go to Bavaria the chances of you ever seeing women serving food in dirndls or men with mustaches and putsched stomachs knocking back their fifth half liter of the local finest 6% for breakfast, are slim. Fun to watch—I saw a local teacher throw back a half liter heavy lager in three gulps. Took all of three seconds. He poured another beer, downed it in less than a minute, then poured another and began pacing himself through the next few that night.
I realized on the trip that I also need to learn a new language—Bavarian. Although my German probably stands somewhere around conversational, speaking the less than ten-word vocabulary I know in Spanish would have yielded more results in Fiji. Bavarians do an odd thing with the German language—they blur it together so words and sentences have no end and no beginning, and then they sing. It sounded a lot like what I imagine putting an ear to the washing machine during the churn cycle whilst listening to The Wheels on the Bus Go 'Round would. Even Lion, my host brother, who is not from Bavaria but visits often, had to ask more than once for them to repeat what they said.
Lastly, Easter in Germany is a big, big deal. Imagine Superbowl Sunday with less nachos and more drunk villagers and sugar-inhibited children. It’s a five day holiday, Thursday through Sunday, and the Germans consider the time sacred… not necessarily because Christ was buried and rose three days later, but because it means time with family and friends. The villages decorate buildings with Easter schwag and the families go out and buy eggs to cook, paint, and eat; batter mix to bake bunny-shaped cakes to exchange with one another; baskets to put the eggs and bunny cakes in to give to neighbors and friends; beer to wash down the eggs and cake after eating with neighbors and friends; and chocolate eggs and bunnies for the morning after, an indulgence over the annual weekend in memoria of Christ’s resurrection. Everyone participates. Likewise, everyone attends church over Easter Weekend. Lion and I went to the cathedral Saturday night by invitation of his uncle and aunt. The service started with singing, a reading from Genesis, and a few Gregorian chants while the priest wafted incense toward every tangible piece of holy (altar, Bible, holy water, candles, etc.). When the priest began wrapping up his sermon, the deacons brought out the Eucharist. The Catholics in Bavaria take the Eucharist in the front of the church and, Lion and I, not wanting to participate but also not wanting to interrupt the flow and embarrass our hosts, agreed to follow the communion line but to not take the Eucharist when our turn came. In other words, we would walk up and past the priest without taking a piece of Christ from the baptized bowl held by the priest. What I didn’t consider was my pants zipper which, if told time, read 6 o’ clock.
I stood up, waited in line, rainchecked on communion without a look from the priest, and turned around to face Schweinheutt with my fly down.
Some looked down and away, some laughed, others immediately leaned over to their neighbor to share the news. Mind you, news travels fast in small towns, and this village already knew exactly who I was, where I came from, and where and what I studied. They were sizing me up. And if taking the Eucharist was my first impression to the village, not only did I not partake, I stood exposed in front of 600 people without notice.
When we sat down an older lady tapped Lion on the shoulder to let him know his American friend had his zipper down. Shaking hands and meeting new people with huge grins on their faces after church, you can imagine, made for an uncomfortable evening.
