"A little German"

After customs and baggage claim we shuffled toward the airport exit where a tall man with tussled brown waves held up a white paper. "Stabler" was written in thick black marker. It excited me to see our name. "Hey Scott, I've never had anyone hold a sign with my name at the airport before!" He chuckled with pride. Scott loves when he can show me any new experience. 

The man was Jochen, an English professor at the university where Scott would teach. He took us and our luggage in his hatchback to our new home in Bargau. As he expertly wove through the narrow curving roads, we stared out the windows at the rolling green countryside and exchanged small talk. Jochen, who told us we could call him Joe, spoke flawless English and respectfully praised my attempts at German. "I'm so glad all of our stuff fit in your car," Scott commented. "I wasn't sure it would after you emailed me all the bags you would be bringing. That's why I asked in my last email if your wife was slim. Did you get that email?" Guffawing, Scott answered, "No, I didn't get that one, but that's a funny thing to ask, though!" Jochen chuckled as well, "I was worried when you didn't answer the question. I thought maybe I should bring a bigger car!"

 I liked Jochen by the time we reached Bargau. He was fit and good looking. He seemed very laid back and he made a point to use his rear view mirror to make eye contact with me while he was talking. I felt like he wanted me to be part of the conversation, which honestly isn't always something American men do when speaking with Scott and me. Plus I liked his candor. I appreciate someone who is truthful about who he is, despite the fact I have an inkling he may be a dog...he mentioned to us that it was good that the university's student body is made up of about 80% females.

 "Why is that good?" I asked. 

"Well, it's good for me! It's nice to look at," he said with a mischievous spark in his eye. 

Bargau is a tiny village nestled in a shallow valley surrounded by the greenest hills. All the houses are about the same height and they are bunched together like a cozy family. They all have red roofs made of countless u-shaped clay shingles and tightly line the curviest little streets. The village reminded me of the base of a ski resort, where the ski shops are all set up like a tiny Swiss village, or the opening scene from Beauty and the Beast, where Belle twirls and sings about "this provincial life." The tallest structure in the town is an old red church steeple, and it was the first thing I saw when I walked out on the balcony of our 500 square foot apartment. 

 Our first night we decided to go out for a few beers to help us sleep. We were given directions to the town's one restaurant, Italian. It was within walking distance, as is everything in town as far as I can guess. With Elle on Scott's shoulders, we took the path behind the apartment, crossed one street, which wasn't much wider than the walking path really, passed behind a house with ducks in the yard, then turned right onto the next windy road. 

It was hard to tell which place was the restaurant. 

The houses and the businesses look similar, and the huge, bright signage that we're used to in America doesn't exist in this little town. So Scott and slinked inconspicuously beside each building trying to peak inside the small windows to see if the people inside looked like residents or patrons. We found one that we agreed looked like a restaurant and bar, and peaked in the cracked door before entering. 

Three hardy men, beer steins in hand, were hunched around one rectangle table beside a small wooden bar. A plump waitress stood at the end of their table, adding to their carousing conversation. Her short, graying hair, full, rosy cheeks and frilly apron illustrated the stereotypical German barmaid quite amusingly. 

 Scott stepped aside for me to approach the little bar. I had been learning German for the last three weeks using a German language cd set and he knew I could at least ask for basics. I prefaced my request by telling her in German that I understood only a little German. Then I haltingly asked, "konnen wir ein paar Beir zu kauffen?" I had rehearsed this sentence all the way to the restaurant, and was proud when she understood me right away (Can we buy a few beers to go?). 

 "Nein." My stomach dropped. Was Sarah from the airport right about the Germans not being friendly to strangers? The barmaid spewed more German explaining her answer and I was sure she was telling us that she wasn't selling us any beer. 

Then she saw my perplexed faced and slowed down. My stomach relaxed when she began gesturing to the tap. I thought I understood but clarified just to be sure...and to show off some of my newly acquired German, of course. "So we can drink beers here? And eat here?" "Ja!" she beamed. Then she waved her hand toward the five or six open tables in the cramped space and gestured for us to sit down. I ordered zwei helles bier (two light beers) then we sat down a few tables away from the three men. 

The waitress, Anna Maria took our food order patiently then experimented with her own small English vocabulary while we waited for our dinners. A few more men wandered in to sit with the others. They were certainly locals who met here often. Each man that entered was a little bigger than the one before, until the last man bounded in, as wide as the door and as round as he was tall. 

When our dinner was done, Anna Maria cleared our table and brought me another "light" beer. Then, to our delight Mario, the petite Italian cook, dressed in a thin white undershirt and black pants strode over to our table and pulled up a chair. Joyfully he sized up our language skills. It turned out, along with Italian, he spoke a little Spanish, a little French and a little German. Scott speaks a little Spanish. I speak a little French and a little German. Plus Anna Maria, who joined us between serving her group of regulars, spoke a little English. So between all the common ground, we had a great time understanding each other in all of our bits of language. Someone trying to follow our conversation would have been pretty frustrated trying to figure out what language we were speaking. 

 I could barely finish my second beer. Germany's "light" beer is not so light after all. Mario offered me a cigarette. He winked and said we wouldn't usually be able to smoke in the restaurant but "we are only friends here tonight so..." 

 With our bellies full and with smiles on our faces, Scott, Elle and I waved goodbye. I called out every good bye I could think of in German as Mario and Anna Maria yelled back encouragingly. "Auf Wiedersehen! Bis Spater! Bis Balt! Bis Morgen! Alles Gute!" 

When we got back to the apartment, I learned a new German word, "mich ubergeben." After only two beers? Yes! Seriously, German beer is thick in the gut!