You already learned that my husband is from Austria, a small European country with fine traditions and an exalted history. In fact you could say that much of modern Western culture as we know it emanated from his native land, although it’s tough to see that when you go there today. Most of the country still looks the way it did when those fine traditions were in the making in the twelfth century. And of course everyone dresses the way they did then. Including the she-witch-Nazi-dirndl-wearing prison matron we encountered on the very first day. But more on that later.

We went all the way over to the old country just to visit my husband’s family. This is an emotionally loaded destination for him since if he were really inclined to spend time with his family in his native land, I submit that he would not have left there lo these many decades ago.

We took uneventful leave of our house on July 6 at 11 a.m., 1976, heading for Richmond, Virginia, where we would debark, in a manner of speaking that harks back to a less frenzied time when travel to the continent was actually pleasurable and relatively calm, for Philadelphia where we would join our transatlantic flight leaving at 5:30 p.m. for Munich. Which is in Bavaria. Germany. Now part of what is known as the EU, which at that time was still a long lost dream of that French general Napoleon.

Eight and a half hours later, or about 2 a.m. our time, we would arrive. Of course the plane took off almost an hour late, making our arrival time in Munich 3 a.m. our time, six hours later local time or 9 a.m. So THEY were all wide awake and ready to take us to the cleaners — in Deutschmark (a serious currency followed by all foreign newspapers) or the Austrian Schilling (quoted on no exchange anywhere by anybody that I could find) and even more extremely absurd GROSHEN for those of you crossing what used to be the border between Germany (a real country) and Austria ( a pseudo country where everyone seems stuck somewhere in time around 1158 and eats at Gasthauses. Dark, hot rooms with tiny windows, large wooden tables and benches and waiters and waitresses wearing outfits dating back to King Arthur. One thing I noticed right away. Those Austrians were way, way ahead of their time in one department. Think push up bra. In the old country every Fraulein’s boobs cascade over every plat du jour you order. I understood right away why men in Austria spend so much time eating – and drinking.

Here’s my first meal in Austria, the Old Country.

Waitress: “Vood yoo lyke zum freetantenzuppe mit Kreeme ov mutton stchew? Oops, forgif my booobies, zey alvays fall out like zat on ze plates of ze customeers. I yust poosh dem oop agayn. Und now zum schlagg mit dat mutton schtew?”

austrian waitress

Mmmmm good. Clear soup with strips of pancake floating in it and mutton stew with whipped cream. What could be more refreshing for BREAKFAST?

But I digress. I won’t go into the three mile hike at Munich airport to the rental car counters, nor will I discuss my husband’s traveling style (chaotic mingled with frenetic, a trying blend in one’s own country, simply put, impossible in a foreign clime). Further I refuse to go into my husband’s need to make extensive arrangements for months before the trip only to change them up until the last minute before leaving, only to change them again upon arrival at our destination. As I say, I won’t discuss these parts of the general travel scene. I certainly can’t blame the foreign land for THAT. But keep in mind that while he continually changed our travel plans, he also made a variety of backup plans.

But you probably want to know about the she-witch-Nazi-dirndl-wearing prison matron we are soon to encounter. Patience.