This Blog Counts For Both My Birthday,,,and Thanksgiving!

It's my birthday soon. I'm not telling you this to elicit mounds of praises and loads of presents...(although, since our truck has been rendered non-operational by a crack in the head gasket, I will take what we can get). No, the real reason I am telling you this is to talk about birthdays. Specifically about birthdays that are on famous dates.

I used to work with a girl who told me her birthday was on December 25th. I was immediately struck with empathy for this poor girl. I said things like, "This present counts for both." and "Honey, nobody can come to your birthday party...they are all away on vacation." She pulled her mouth straight back into sort of a flat smile and nodded. I understood. From then on I would try to contact her on her birthday and make no mention of that other holiday that just so happens to be on that date.

I know another long-time friend whose birthday is the day after Groundhog Day. This birthday is considerably less problematic than a birthday which lands on the King Daddy of all birthdays, but I suppose there are still occasionally people who can't come to your parties since they have made a pilgrimage to Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania  to see Phil in all of his shadow spotting splendor. (interesting note...if you type the name of this city into this computer it will autocorrect it to say "subcutaneous") The first principal that I worked for was born on February second...I think she made the trip more than a few times. (I think she was secretly hoping to see Bill Murray...but that is just a rumor)

There are other birthdays that may be unique. If you are born on St. Patrick's Day, for instance, you had better like green beer. If you were born on Halloween, all of your birthday parties will be costumed. If you were born on the Fourth Of July, you had better get used to fireworks...and Tom Cruise in long hair and a wheelchair. If your birthday lands on Easter, I suppose your parents could have you search for presents along with your eggs. If you were born on Arbor Day...well I guess nobody really knows what Arbor Day is about. That wouldn't be such a bad day to be born on...especially if you enjoy those white flower covered archway things at weddings.  (just kidding...I know it's really about kissing trees)

These are all well and good...I suppose each birthday has its challenges and/or benefits...but mine is a little weird.  I was born at the end of November.  Since my birthday is always at least near Thanksgiving, I get to tease my students by telling them that the reason they get a week off from school is to celebrate my birthday! As birthdays go, it's OK.  My mom has this thing where she announces every year that she knew I was going to be kind because I was supposed to be born before Thanksgiving...and I "waited" and allowed her to eat with the family before deciding to be born.  Yup, that's me.  Mr. Thoughtful.  I prefer to think that I wasn't about to be fed a turkey leg if I was only three days old.  So I figured out a way to get it...and then I wrung my hands together and laughed sinisterly.  On a side note, in the days before ultrasound, the doctors thought I was going to be twins because I was so big...I think it was all the turkey.

Being born at the end of November means that occasionally your birthday will fall on Thanksgiving.  For me...that means seven times in my life.  Yes, I went back and checked.  The one change that happens when my birthday is on Thanksgiving is that there was no discussion about where I want to go out to eat on my big day.  In 1863 Lincoln declared that the fourth Thursday of November should be a day of Thanks.  He did not say, "In future times, when comes a time that a man celebrate the day of his birth on this day, he shall be allowed to go forth and eat at the restaurant known as "Fridays" and celebrate this grand adventure of thanks on the next day."  So I think I won't go against President Lincoln.

To be fair, this is only the third time it has happened while Sylvia and I have been married.  And she asks, every time, if I would rather go out to eat instead of having turkey.  I don't know, for some reason I think that I am not the guy to thwart a tradition like that.  I've never been much of a thwarter.

My Wife...and a Pot Of Rice

They say that the way to a man's stomach is through his heart.  That's not it...the way to a man's duodenum is through his ear canal?  The way to a man's pituitary gland is through his spleen?  No, no...I'll get it.  The way to a man's esophagus is through his mouth?  Almost there...(But Coach Barry...my junior high science teacher would be proud that I remembered that)  Of course I know, the way to a man's heart is through his wife and her wonderful and giving spirit...while she makes wonderful food!

I love my wife, all the time, and still there are times when love turns into a great big giant incapacitating hug on the inside that warms me from my soles of my feet up to the roots of my hair.  I believe the technical term for this is Goo Goo.  Yes, the other night I went Goo Goo for my wife.  (I'll now pause so that the diabetics in the audience can go increase their insulin due to all this sweetness)

Goo Goo, or Ga Ga in the southern states and portions of Los Angeles, happens to me most of the time when there seems to be no external reason.  She just walks by, BAM!  I gotta hug her, weak in the knees, take my breath away, hug her.  She smiles, WHAM!  She looks at me like I am crazy and doesn't know what she is going to do with me and my weird sense of humor, SMACKO!  (actually that last one is the one that happens most often)  It is usually accompanied with her saying, "What?!  Stop looking at me that way!" But what're you gonna do.  I can't help it!

Now, to shift subjects, I really really like comfort food.  You can see evidence of this hanging in the labels of my clothes and on the display screen of my very sarcastic scale.  For the purposes of this blog, and to explain to my ever growing overseas readers, I describe comfort food as hearty, unhealthy, dense, stick-to-your-ribs delicious.  Some examples might be mashed potatoes, meatloaf, or macaroni and cheese.  While visiting Germany this last summer I reacquainted myself with the European version...Schnitzel!  It is yummy, it is satisfying, it is not terribly good for you.  I'll have that.

Comfort food has made its way into Casa Garrett and most times I will be greeted by a delicious aroma when walking up the steps to the front door after work.  Other times I might be greeted by a harried spouse with a "I have had quite a DAY!  Dinner is waiting for you to pick it up as soon as you decide where you are picking it up from." look on her face.

Now allow me to tie this all together.  The other evening I plowed headfirst into a smell that made me wonder why there weren't neighbors with plates lined up to try to get some.  It was Stroganoff night!  If you aren't familiar...it's a creamy meaty concoction whose recipe was handed down from Heaven above.  (or possibly Russia)  The way my family makes it is dangerous.  If some spilled on the floor I would fight the dogs over who would get to lick it up.  Rest assured, nobody is that careless with this ambrosia!  This meal is traditionally served over noodles but there have been people, my mother included, who have served it over rice.  I made it with rice once for our family.  Everyone preferred noodles...rice go bye bye.  No problem.  Majority rules.  Pass the Stroganoff.

So I walked in, commented on the wonderful dinner we were about to have, kissed Sylvia hello, and then I saw it.  There was the rice cooker steaming away.  I was surprised, we were a noodle family after all.  I could tell by the plates on the table, both kids in the kitchen, (and the line of neighbors forming out the front door) that dinner was almost ready.  I said, "Rice?  I thought you all preferred noodles."  Sylvia said, "Yes, we prefer noodles...but you prefer rice. Why didn't you tell me?"  I surveyed the scene. There on the stove was a big pot of noodles to complement my individual portion of rice.  (actually it was a gigantic portion of rice that would have fed three hungry lumberjacks but since I'm the one writing, I get to make up the details to make myself look good.)  I had mentioned something about rice a while back and she picked it up and ran with it.  That was all it took.  Getting pampered by your very thoughtful wife, as soon as you walk in the door, and with comfort food no less!  I was in full blown GOO GOO mode!  I grabbed her and hugged her tight.  I participated in a public display of affection that made the teenagers run from the room (but the puppy jumped up on us because he doesn't like to be left out) and then I sat down to enjoy a wonderful meal with my family...and a bowl of rice.

I Love You Sylvia.  Thank You!

Lumpy

I'm guessing that if you have read a smattering of my writing you would have realized by now that my brain just doesn't work the same way other people's do. For the record, according to Jeffipedia: a smattering is approximately equal to two and a half paragraphs...but they have to be non consecutive paragraphs...and one of them should have been written on a Monday.  Anyway, one of my teachers in elementary school actually said pretty much those exact brain describing words to my parents during a parent teacher conference.  They were so proud.

It is with that abnormal brain, and the totally random and unrelated subjects that go whizzing through, that I will attempt to entertain you today.  I'm not sure I've ever gone through the process on paper with you but I'll see if I can attempt to give you a clearer picture of where my blog ideas come from.  Two weeks ago I was talking to family in Germany about the weather and how the end of our trip was really beautiful weather.  It reminded me of a movie where the weather channel said, "72 degrees and perfect...every day."  Then, a week later in America again, a few of us were talking in the gym after church while the kids were trying to shoot baskets (not doing a stellar job by the way) and I asked, "Did you ever see Pleasantville?  The basketball team is undefeated and every time they throw the ball from wherever they are in the court...it goes in!"  Of course I was the only one to have seen or remember that movie.  (Stay with me...I'm getting there.)  A week after that Sylvia and I were home without kids and decided to look through the movie selection on TV.  Pleasantville!  I decided that this was a must see!  It is a movie about a TV show portraying idealized America from the fifties and how everything is pleasant...go figure.  This movie, like the other I talked about just a short week ago, also had perfect weather all the time.  Then we come to this morning.  (almost done)  As I turned on Facebook to see if there was anything worthwhile seeing, I saw a black-and-white picture of Tony Dow.  Now everyone knows (probably not) that he was Wally on Leave it to Beaver...Sproing!!  All of these past instances came together...perfect weather, Americana, black and white, the fifties, TV show...It reminds me of a story, and now I know what I am supposed to write about today.

Twenty five years ago I worked in San Leandro selling electrical parts.  If you are now thinking, "I've been on roller coasters that had fewer twists and turns" welcome to my world.  In San Leandro I was in charge of the counter.  This meant that I talked to almost everyone and I was supposed to answer questions for the other counter people when there was a question they couldn't answer.  The typical questions were "Do you have this?"  Others included, "How am I supposed to_________?", and "Is it legal to _____________?"  Every once in a while there was a question that I couldn't answer and I had to go to the big boss but for the most part I did OK.  I enjoyed the people who came in with a puzzle to solve the most, and always felt good when they walked out with parts that would do the job.  Sometimes the three parts that they thought they needed could be done with one, sometimes the one part nobody else had was at my fingertips, and sometimes the part we didn't have could be re-created out of three other parts since they needed to get their factory going NOW!!  It was challenging, it was interesting, it got me interested in doing something besides sales.

Before I left working in sales, though, there was a group of customers that stick out in my mind.  They were different in that they weren't grizzled old electricians who knew exactly what they wanted and could recite part numbers through the haze of smoke from the lit cigarette clenched in their teeth.  They weren't helpless homeowners with shards of household items that needed replacing and were hopeful that the numbers on the pieces would help me identify them.  They weren't even work crews who came to our counter because we had popcorn and sodas (and if they were really good customers...beer).  No, this group of characters looked like they were coming straight from a college classroom.  Dressed too nice to be working on fixing things and not nice enough to be going to a wedding.  It seemed at first like they might be on a scavenger hunt for the frat house and were just asking about random things.

I gave them prices, told them what was legal, available, and expensive.  Eventually I was able to decipher what it was they were trying to do.  I forget exactly what they were trying to create but instead of telling me their idea, they were asking about the way they thought they had to do it.  I knew a better way.  "It sounds like you guys are trying to do this....but you don't need to do it that way.  If you take this, and that, and those...you'll have exactly what you need contained in one device that is cheaper, smaller, and looks way better than the Frankenelectrician's Monster you were trying to build.  Will that work?"  They high fived each other and told me to grab everything.  When I was writing their sales ticket I said my usual, "Is there anything else you need to know?"  The quietest one in the group finally piped up randomly and sarcastically asked, "YEAH!  Who played Lumpy on Leave it to Beaver!?"

Without batting an eye, I kept writing my ticket and said, "Frank Bank."

They paid in stunned silence and as they walked out with the stuff he said, "That guy's brain doesn't work like everyone else's."

So now you know.

UNGAWA!

Today I am going to veer away from the subject of world travel, and back toward what I usually write about, totally random unconnected subjects that I may or may not have personal experience in, or knowledge about. I know that you have come to expect a certain amount of professionalism in your reading material, not necessarily from me but from others, and I do not wish to disappoint anyone, so here we go.  Today I am going to write about something that happened a long time ago...to me.  I don't have any idea what made me remember this particular event, but here it is at the front of my very unusual brain.

I will try to enrich this posting with a spattering of very rich details.  In reading this I may need you to engage your four senses a bit.  Yes I know there are five senses...I am just thinking of you.  Please leave your sense of smell parked securely in the garage of your mind.  You may want to lock the door as well...and park a van in front of that door so it cannot raise...and then you might even want to go around the side to the little window on the side door and cover it with foil...just for the time being, later feel free to stop and smell the roses.  What I am trying to say is that there are no roses in today's blog.

Many years ago we went to the local animal park for the day.  It was back in the days when places like animal parks were gone to once in a while, had no roller coasters, and you weren't pressured into paying one and a half times the normal price of admission to get a season pass.  When we went it was an event.  If I remember correctly, we normally brought some sandwiches along but I think it had to stay in the back of the station wagon so we would get our hands stamped to be able to go back in after lunch.  (Are you all paying attention?  Sandwiches: taste.  Hand stamp: touch.  I will help you out but you'll have to do some of the work here.)

It was the hottest day of the year (probably not, but I always came home from these excursions with horrible sunburns so I am projecting) and we walked and walked and walked.  We saw the seal lion show, they played music by squeezing bike horns.  We saw walruses waddle around the stage and grunt and growl on cue.  I'm pretty sure it burped for some reason.  We saw dolphins wave at the audience, swim very fast, and jump up in the air to come down and splash everyone who was silly enough to sit close to the edge of the tank. We even saw acrobatic waterskiers who jumped, spun, and made huge pyramids all while being pulled behind a trio of speed boats.  All the while we had fun, we clapped and cheered, and the tops of my ears felt like tiny pieces of curved bacon in the hot sun.  If you didn't notice, all of these things have to do with water.  If you did notice, please put a gold star in the upper right hand side of your computer monitor.  Yes, we were at Marine World for the day.  The big attraction of the day was the killer whale show.  It was a toss up between sitting in the sun listening to my ears sizzle and sitting down in the Splash Zone to get a few minutes of relief when that huge whale belly flopped into the pool and splashed everyone within fifty feet.

When that was all done Dad looked at the guide to see what other things we might want to see.  Like I said, this was a once in a blue moon occurrence.  There was no mention of "next time we will..." because there probably wouldn't be a next time.  We needed to see everything marine related today! As I look back I think it was excitement with a touch of ignorance that suspended my questioning of the next place we went. Deep down I hope that I at least wondered "But what does this have to do with water?" when Dad announced, "There's an elephant show.  Let's go see that."

This is where I need you to really pay attention.  While the marine animal shows had very large arenas with different colored bleachers labeled "Splash Zone" the elephant show had four rows of curved cement benches that almost made three fourths of a circle.  The last section was where the elephants walked in from.  The front row benches were on the same level as the performing area with a cement rim around the edge that was maybe a foot tall and six inches wide and it was close enough to the first row that most people used it as a footrest.  The only thing keeping people from running out onto the "stage" with the elephants was common sense.  The only thing keeping the elephants in was conditioning and the trainer with what looked like a riding crop.  My family, born with an abundance of common sense, did not run out to play with the elephants...we also did not sit in the front row.

When the show started they brought out one elephant to show the small crowd, "This is an elephant."  They had it walk in a circle, turn around, back up, and put its front legs on a giant stool.  Then they brought out another elephant and had it do tricks with the first one.  They both walked, turned around, and stood on stools but this time they picked up a huge log in their trunks.  Impressive!  The only thing I can do with my nose is frighten children when I sneeze.  They did what was expected of them. These elephants weren't shy.  I know that they weren't shy because they 'ahem' did their business 'ahem' right in front of everybody on stage.  These two workers, who quite possibly had the worst job in the whole place, came out with shovels, sawdust, and brooms, and took care of the elephants' business.  (aren't you glad I had you leave your sense of smell locked away?)

We sat the whole time on the third row seats, roughly a foot higher than stage level, eating our stale sticky bricks of pink candy corn.  Then they brought out two more elephants.  Now we have a show!  They had the elephants stand in a row together "Uchoo".  Lift onto their back legs together "Mbat!".  They even bowed together "Undutu".  I am fairly certain that I couldn't even get one elephant to do any of this by simply calling out African sounding words...to get four to do it was impressive.  Then they had the elephants walk together around the circle.  Hmmm...not so impressive.  Then they had the elephants speed up a bit.  OK, now that looks better.  They were actually going pretty fast, and they were really near the people in the front row.  Then the trainer announced that this would be the grand finale.  He would make the elephants spin around while they kept running around the inside of the arena.  He yelled out "UNGAWA" and I'll be darned if those elephants didn't start spinning as they were circling the arena.  What we in the audience didn't know was that these not-shy elephants were not only able to take care of business in front of crowds of people...they were also able to do it while running and spinning in a circle.  One of the elephants decided to display his distaste with the whole idea of show business by doing his business.  Right in front of the crowd that was about two feet away he let loose.  The momentum of his running and spinning flung poop out into the crowd.  It was like watching a demented pachyderm teacup ride at Disneyland.  People screamed and jumped out of the way and the elephant just kept on spinning and pooping.  I'm glad to say that three rows away was the "No Splash Zone" and my family was safe...but those poor kids with the shovels and brooms really earned their money that day.

So there you have it.  My typical type of post.  If you started reading because of the European vacation, be warned, this is pretty much normal for me.  The only difference would be that I would typically try to end with a joke.  I do know one joke about an elephant with diarrhea but you've probably already heard it...it's all over town. 

Pass the Buttermilk Please

As we drive rapidly (in Europe that translates to 130 kilometers an hour) toward the end of our trip, I have decided on a theme for our trip.  I know, I know, themes are usually chosen at the beginning of a journey, but this theme is one of retrospect.  The unofficial, irrevocable,  singularly chosen theme of our trip is..."It's Special to This Region!"  Whenever some new activity or food was met with resistance, someone would pull this catch phrase out of the air and the decision was made.  It was happening.  

The kids, being the brilliant and talented, figured out early on that this was the theme.   The relatives and friends we visited (similarly brilliant and talented) have figured out this theme as well.  It has become sort of a catch phrase around us.  I like it.  And I usually liked the outcome.  

Try some homemade apple cider...it's special to this region.

Let's visit the dairy to buy milk and butter from an honor-system refrigerator...it's special to this region.

Let's climb the alps...they're special to this region.

Let's eat in an outside bier garden while listening to music for hours...it's special to this region.

Let's visit ancient cathedrals, castles, churches, salt mines, forests, lakes, alms, etc...they are all special to this region.

I apologize to those who have been following along on our trip and thought I was the bold adventurous type...I don't care how special it was, or how small the region, buttermilk will remain special to region...for others.  They can have my share.

We have done things in these fortunate five weeks that a lot of people have only on a bucket list that lies somewhere in the back of their hopeful minds.  Visit Europe.  Ride a gondola.  Swim the Adriatic.  Walk from Germany to Austria.  Ride a bike to a bakery for breakfast...in Italy.  Fire a crossbow...in a castle.  Walk where kings and queens have walked.  Eat an ice cream cone on a mountain top.  Drive really fast on the autobahn.  We've done them all...and they were all special to this region.

There was something else that was very special to this region...the people who have treated us so very well.  We have been fed, taken in, fed, pampered, fed, cared for, fed, taken on tours, fed, welcomed, fed, had schedules overturned for, fed, chauffeured, fed, loved, and given food,  (I know you thought I was going to say, 'fed' again, but I read once in a book about being a good writer who wants to be rich and famous that you shouldn't be too predictable).

I cannot even express how grateful we are to every one of the families that have allowed us to park our weary band of travelers in front of their houses and in the midst of their lives for extended periods of time.  There is an old saying that says fish and visitors both smell after three days.  If that is true, we must be absolutely stinky, in a metaphorical hygienic sort of way of course.  I can not fully express the gratitude and genuine thanks I feel toward everyone who have taken time out of their daily lives to accommodate us.  I can say, when you come to our area we will try to repay the favors.  Instead of ancient cathedrals and bier gardens we have Golden Gates and sourdough bread bowls with clam chowder...but we like it.  We can work to find things that are special to our region.

Thank you     X    999   =    Still not enough!

Parles Vous German

As we travel through Germany I am making a discovery of sorts.  There are many German words that you can figure out if you have a decent English vocabulary.  I think I have stumbled upon the reason...and it is not what you may think.  

There are scholars and linguists who may tell you that the reason there are many language similarities between English and German because many of the roots of English are Germanic in nature and therefor and so on and blah blah blah.  My blog shall not become a lecture series!  After weeks of imaginary research I have discovered that the truth behind these so called "roots" in our language is due to a guy with a hearing problem, a speech impediment, and a sense of humor.  I will now pause for a moment while academics the world round slap their palms to their foreheads and reconsider their chosen professions.  Also, this would be a good time for all of you students writing final exams to delete everything you have already written and instead write about the mumbling guy.  

Let's assume, for the sake of argument, that Germany was established first.  The fact that there are cities here that trace back to dates that end in "B.C." should be help you accept this, but we won't quibble over facts.  So people were speaking German a long time before America was a country.  Then a guy named Wolfgang traveled over to America to establish a language.  (Prior to Wolfgang's arrival Americans just sat around saying "forsooth" a lot.)  Well he met Fred (Wolfgang spelled it Pfred) and decided to have some fun trying to communicate.  I think it went something like this.

Wolfgang:  Hallo

Pfred: huh?  I mean, huh forsooth?

Hallo...it's a greeting.

Pfred (ears still ringing from shooting at squirrels) Hello got it!

So I see you live in a hutte.

That there?  Hut...got it.

May I have an apfel?

Here you go...enjoy...let me write that down.  Apple.

You don't seem very bright Pfred...may I speak to your vater?

My father?  I guess, he's over there.

Hey! Who ist sie?

Who is she? Forsooth!

Sie ist your schwester.  

My sister?  If you say so.

It went on and on like this for hours until the two of them had come up with the basics of a new language.  During a thunderstorm Wolfgang said "donner", Pfred wrote down "thunder".  Pfred pointed at the "flowers" and Wolfgang said they were "blumen". Pfred said, "of course they are blooming...they're flowers!"  And with that a comedy routine was born.

I have been able to follow along with many stories that Sylvia has told by just listening closely and picking out key words.  It's interesting how much you can pick up on when you know the story of Wolfgang and Pfred.  Of course they didn't get everything mixed up.  Camera, for instance, is kamera.  Ya is ya.  There are many more but I keep vergessen (forgetting).

I tried to put my newfound language into practice when I asked about going to the apothecary to get some medicine.  It is spelled apotheke and it has that mortar and pestle symbol next to the words so I was able to figure it out.  I was not, however, able to pronounce this new word.  I said something like (a POTH o  k) and was met by confused looks from everyone.  I said it again.  Nothing.  I knew it was the right place to talk about.  I knew it was where we would need to go.  Still nothing.  Then I explained that it was where you needed to go to get band aids or rubbing alcohol or cotton balls..."Oh!!!  Ah po TAY KAY!"  Then they laughed and pointed and called me Pfred.  I think that I will come up with a game that involves pronouncing words the wrong way with the wrong emphasis on the wrong syllables.  It could be lots of fun.  I won't try to let the fact that they already have such a game stand in my way!  I am on a mission!

There are a lot of things that make sense when trying to learn German.  Tired, for instance, is müde in German.  It's like you are pronouncing the word "moody" with a rubber band wrapped around your lips.  I think anyone who has been near a two year old would be able to tell you that moody and tired go hand in hand.

The last one I want to talk about takes a bit of explanation since I have discovered that there are many new German readers of the blog.  Der Weinerschnitzel is a restaurant in America that serves hot dogs.  They specialize in them.  I have never been there.  Apparently my parents never thought there was anything special enough about hot dogs to go to a restaurant to eat them...even if that restaurant specialized in them.  I have continued this tradition of not going.  Also, now that I am embracing my German roots, I know that true Weinerschnitzel is delicious and breaded, and seasoned, and has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with hot dogs, and dang...now I'm hungry!  The point is, if you are from the land of hot dog restaurants and wish to eat something that is hot dog shaped, you should order something completely different than a Weinerschnitzel.

In conclusion, I will say that all of this food and language talk has reminded me of a joke.  And it fits in to this topic!  But I have decided that I will not tell it at this time.  You see, German sausage jokes are the wurst!

Salzburg

Yesterday we got to go to one of my favorite cities in the world.  Salzburg.  If you've never been, I can describe it in one word...absolutely without a doubt undeniably spectacular.  (Ok, so I'm no good at counting...but I know a beautiful city when I see one).  I've said for years that you could drop your camera and accidentally take a picture, and it would be gorgeous.

Sylvia and I have been twice to Salzburg.  There were some things that we did the first time that we didn't get a chance to do again...but there were other things that we experienced for the first time this trip.  

We went to the castle this time, and last time we only watched from afar as construction happened on the outside.  What Sylvia didn't know was that while they were doing the construction on the outside, they were tearing down bits of wall on the inside and discovering new rooms, new frescoes, and new sections of some really old parts of the castle.  It was great to see things that Sylvia hadn't seen in a castle that she had been to several times before.  We saw the cannons, the gold room, the torture room, and some really interesting cabinets that I'm sure were the inspiration for some of the ones in the Harry Potter movies.  

Dieter, Jake, Kristiana, and I, spent a tiny portion of our time using the crossbow to send darts sailing across part of the castle.  Since they have re-fortified the walls, however, our attack was unfruitful, but at least they didn't pour boiling oil on us...so that was good.  There were sections that showed history, and military uses, and (since it was used in the filming of The Sound of Music) I opened my arms wide and tried to sing, "The hills are alive...with the sound...." but that was as far as I ever got.  Apparently Julie Andrews didn't sing while inside the castle...or in front of the castle...or in the room of torture...or the graveyard where the Von Trapp family snuck away at the end.  Does anyone know how much "I had a weird dad" therapy for children costs?  Do they offer group discounts?  I'm hoping the kids will forgive me when they find out that we replaced our VHS copy of the movie with a more modern version.  Now we can watch it over, and over, and over...on Blue Ray...and over...or DVD...and over.   Maybe I should start a collection for that therapy now.  

After the castle we walked through the fussganger zone.  We looked for a sausage (a bosner) that is only sold in one place.  Montreal, which is why it was weird that we looked here.  No, it is only sold in Salzburg, by one place, and there is always a line.  Unfortunately it wasn't a long enough line to see from where we walked because we still don't know what they taste like.  Another interesting thing about Salzburg is that Mozart was born here.  Perhaps you've heard of him...I think he did a duet with Olivia Newton John...we walked to where Dieter and Sylvia thought it would be and then gathered our bearings.  Again it's one of those places that always has a crowd so we should have found it easily.  Just when we were about to ask someone where the house was, Sylvia looked at the wall right in front of us.  Ta da!!  The Mozart museum.  As she said his house should be near here, she looked up the wall of the building...and in foot tall golden letters...Mozart Geburtshaus (birth house).  Very cool.  We didn't go in.  But we did go into the music store that was a few doors away.  Kristiana bought some sheet music and Jake looked at a few electric guitars that were rumored to have belonged to old Wolfgang himself...rumored by me that is.

It got pretty late so we talked about going home...but there was one more thing I wanted to see, The Mirabell gardens.  I remembered walking hand in hand with Sylvia through here eighteen years ago.  I wanted to see it again.  This is when a minor miracle happened.  I remembered where it was...sort of.  We walked over the Salzach river to the Rathaus then entered the garden.  It was as nice as I remembered.  We saw the statues and the fountains  and thousands of colorful begonias that outlined beautiful patterns all throughout the garden.  They were all the same size and nothing looked out of place.  There weren't any workers wandering around making sure it was pristine...I'm guessing they have an army of elves and lawn gnomes who come out only at night.  Some of us toyed with the idea of standing in the main fountain but ended up being content to just dip feet.  

As I sat on a bench looking at the people walking by I was struck by how each one of them had a story.  There were couples holding hands who were probably newlyweds...like we were many years ago.  There were couples who were holding hands because they each needed support to stand up...who would laugh when I said that eighteen years was "so many years ago."  There were melancholy people who sat quietly looking at the fountain, perhaps flooded by memories of shared times that couldn't be again.  Everyone in their own little space, no one disturbed by the people who may be cutting through just because it was shorter than going around.  I was glad we came.  If I were a TV producer I might try an idea like Mirabella Stories and go through one each week.  But I'm not, so...sigh.

Sylvia and Dieter had their own memories of the garden.  I knew that their Opa liked it...but I didn't know that he took them there almost every Sunday.  The roses were his favorite and it took us a bit to find them, one level up, but I'm glad we did.  I thought about snipping one off to dry and take home, but I hear gardener elves are very touchy about their roses.  We crossed over the river again,  looking at the hundreds of red locks people have clipped to the bridge.  The story is, click the lock, throw the key in the river, your love is forever locked.  They even sell red locks at the base of the bridge.  Don't bother asking which one is ours.  Our love is locked with rings and a vow.  Sorry.

We walked back to the car that we parked in the garage, carved under a mountain, eight past the bosna sausage store (as they were closing) and Sylvia navigated us home, in our borrowed car, through two-way streets wide enough for almost one car, guided by signs that indicate straight ahead...when straight ahead is clearly a building (a beautiful centuries old building...but a building nonetheless.)  

My one regret for the whole trip is that my trip to the garden made us very late for the delicious dinner that Monika made, and held, for us.  I joke about a lot of things (almost everything) but I am completely serious about this...  I am very sorry about that.   I'll end with this, if you ever get a chance to visit this great place, two things.   Allow a lot of time, and bring your camera...OK, two regrets. (thank God for smart phones)