Getting high

I’ve been afflicted with writer’s block recently. I’ve started at least half a dozen posts, only to abandon them as a muddle of incongruous paragraphs that just won’t come together. Ugh! I can’t believe I’ve only posted twice since summer started.

It also kind of blew my mind a couple of weeks ago when I realised that it was mid-August and I still hadn’t yet made a foray into the Alps the whole summer. Quite shameful, really, considering Munich is less than two hours from snow-capped mountains.

Alida, coolest American in the world and bloggeress extraordinaire (I’d be happy to have a fifth of her talent), was scheduled to arrive in Munich as the last in my stream of peak summer visitors. As part of her visit, we lined up a trip to Tirol, one of Austria’s most mountainous states.

After a crazily rainy night drive through the foothills of the Austrian Alps, we woke up to the cool, quiet peace of a foggy Zillertal morning.

My stupid stupid hip injury and Alida leaving her inhaler in Munich meant that we couldn’t do any significant amount of hiking that weekend, and the weather didn’t permit any great views in any case. But it was still fun to stay close to the ground. The valley town we stayed in, Mayrhofen, cleaved in a lot of ways to the stereotype that people have of alpine Austria and Bavaria - cute-as-pie mountain chalets, their balconies bursting with riotous summer blooms, cosy inns full of wood panelling and crackling fires and faded picture frames of men and women gliding along on wooden skis. And of course, schnitzel. On this trip, Alida had her first taste of schnitzel. From this pic, I would say she approved.

Favourite things of Maria von Trapp covered on this trip included:

• Raindrops on roses (not the best weather, but lovely flower boxes everywhere)
• Crisp apple strudel
• Schnitzel (with potatoes, not noodles)

Alpine Austria is full of narrow, winding roads that lead hair-raisingly up and down the mountains past some amazing sights. It took some discipline not to stop at every pull out to gawp at views like this.

And I definitely came to admire Alida’s l33t stick shift driving sk1llZ0rZ on some of the hairpin bends.

 
The most famous alpine road in Austria is the Großglocknerhochalpenstraße (that translates to “Großglockner high alpine road”). It’s definitely the longest street name I’ve ever seen, and probably the longest word I’ve ever managed to say without having to draw a second breath. The road leads up into the highest peaks of the Alps, ending at the foot of Austria’s highest mountain, the Großglockner. Punit drove this road during his one month Munich exile last year and came back raving at how amazing it was, so it had been on my to-do list for almost a year.

Unfortunately, the weather continued to be uncooperative and we had to turn back in rain and heavy fog. But not before we got at least some indication of the sheer majesty of this place. I hope I have a chance to come back before the road closes again for the year (it’s snow-covered from October to May).

Inspired by the beauty of Tirol and frustrated by the bad weather karma, I used the next sunny weekend day that came along to hop a train to Garmisch-Partenkirchen, home of the 1936 Winter Olympics and the main town in the Bavarian Alps. The most famous attraction in Garmisch is the train trip up Zugspitze (Germany’s highest mountain). I decided not to do this – firstly, because despite being gorgeously sunny at ground level, it was still visibly foggy up top, and I couldn’t bring myself to shell out the arm and leg charged for the ride unless I was guaranteed to see four countries from the top. Secondly, I was hankering for some solitude amongst the hills, which I certainly wouldn’t get on the tourist train. My hip was still suspect (although I’d been cleared by my doctor to exercise again at that point), so I decided I’d risk a hike (going up hills feels fine, going down hurts).

The hike started in Partenkirchen, which, like Mayrhofen, definitely doesn’t skimp on the whole red-cheeked Teutonic alpine ambience thing. The leafy, quiet streets of the town are full of slanty-roofed houses painted in the local style called Lüftlmalerei. The whole of Bavaria is known for being pretty strongly Catholic, but the alpine areas are especially devout. Every second has Virgin Mary or a saint or “Gott bewahr das Haus” (God protect this house) painted on it. This is a humble shoe shop.

Thereafter ensued some nice huffy puffy on a path that wound through mountain fields mowed by domesticated goats and growling tractors. It’s a pretty nice place to have a farm, I must say. I was jealous of the below guy’s window office view. Those hilly fields do pose some OH&S issues, though. I saw two tractors come up opposite sides of a hill and almost take each other out. Happily it did not end in disaster, but there was much frantic yelling in Bayrisch for me to chuckle at.

One of the things I love about the Bavarian Alps is the little huts that are sprinkled throughout, from the foothills to the highest crags. Even “Mad” King Ludwig himself, of Schloss Neuschwanstein fame, had several regal mountain Schlösschen (little castles) built to order at the end of his favourite walking routes (nice if you can swing it). Most huts aren’t as fancy as Ludwig’s but they all have an undeniable rustic charm about them that simultaneously enhances and blends into the landscape.

That’s one of the unique things about hiking in Europe as opposed to in America or Australia. In the places I’ve lived before, once you get into the woods, you’re really in the wild – there’s nothing and no one else around. In Germany, you’ll suddenly emerge from silent forest into a clearing where some genius has (bless his heart) perfectly positioned a beer terrace to give you the optimal view of your surroundings. Obviously it lessens the feeling of being off the grid - one of the things I like about hiking – but it’s also pretty nice to know there’s a cold beer and a hearty meal waiting for you at the end of your uphill slog. Here’s the best beer view I ever had – in Tegernsee, halfway between Munich and the Alps proper.

These alpine guesthouses will invariably be family affairs, with friendly service and kids who look as young as 10 waiting your table. On a hot day, they’ll put out signs advertising cool, fresh buttermilk by the glass. Is there a better way to rehydrate on a sunny day? All signs point to NO.

Maß Consumption

On the home stretch of my Friday morning runs, the streets of my neighbourhood are always lined with beer trucks. In preparation for the weekend, burly men in safety vests unload keg upon keg of the amber liquid into the pubs and restaurants of Munich.

Famously, Bavarians go through more beer than anyone else in the world – 170 litres per year per capita. That’s almost half a litre a day! Beer is truly part of the lifestyle here. I’ve met many a Bavarian who’s told me that beer isn’t just considered a bevvie to accompany a meal – it’s a food group in its own right.

Munich is famous for its Oktoberfest, the most celebrated celebration of beer on earth. Thankfully for everyone’s livers, during the rest of the year you’ll mostly see Münchners enjoying their alcohol in more reasonable quantities. Admittedly, my personal definition of a “reasonable quantity”has quite altered since I moved here almost a year ago.

You’ll generally find that the smallest serving of beer you can order here is a half-litre. I came to Munich from Seattle, where strong, hoppy ales are the norm. (If you think the American beer scene is all about Bud and Coors and other watery disappointments, please come educate yourself in the Pacific Northwest. I implore you.) So to me, the idea of drinking beer by the half-litre was at first rather intimidating.

But Bavarian beer is so incredibly smooth that it goes down very easily. It didn’t me take very long to become accustomed to larger quantities. These days when I travel outside Bavaria, the standard 0.3L serving of lager has started to seem downright stingy.

A half-litre is pretty much par for the course here, even at a work lunch. But the Starbucks grande of the Bavarian beer world is the maß, or 1L serving of beer. When you order a litre of beer (and I suggest you save this for after office hours), it comes in a giant mug that looks like it was custom made for Shrek, or Frankenstein’s monster. It’'s over a centimetre thick, and considerably heavy even when empty. When it’s full, it’s a good idea to slip your hand inside the handle and curve it around the body of the glass, as the lovely Arch is helpfully demonstrating below. Otherwise your hand may fall off, and then you’ll be tipsy and one-handed. And who knows where that could lead.

Most bars in Munich will offer a selection of the traditional Bavarian beer styles. There’s lager, which comes in two varieties – helles (light) and dunkles (dark), and is probably the most common form of beer across the world. And then there’s weißbier (literally “white beer”), an unfiltered ale brewed from wheat – heavier but smoother than lager.

When you simply can’t or don’t want to order a whole beer, there’s a variety of standard beery mixes. You can order a Radler (bicyclist), or half-lager, half-lemonade. As the weather’s warmed up I’ve found myself leaning more and more to ordering Radler – it’s very refreshing on a hot day. To friends visiting Munich who really don’t like the taste of beer but want to do as the Münchners do, I usually suggest ordering a Rußn, or half-weißbier, half-lemonade. It’s probably the best intro to beer for those trying to get used to the taste.

At various points in the year you can also expect to see seasonal ales on tap. Lent is the traditional time to brew Starkbier (strong beer), which has twice the alcohol content of a regular lager, and got its start as a way for monks to feel fuller while fasting before Easter. You gotta love this attitude towards monastic fasting: “Ok, I’ll stop eating. But I ain’t gonna stop drinking beer for God or for anyone.”

During Oktoberfest, the beer served in the tents is a style called Märzen. It’s about halfway between regular lager and Starkbier in strength. At first I thought this was just a cynical ploy to get people drunker and more spend-happy, but apparently that’s just a happy side-effect of an age-old tradition. There used to be a law that beer could only be brewed in the winter months, in order to reduce fire hazards. Since the beer for Oktoberfest had to be made in March (März in German) at the latest, they had to brew it a bit stronger so the flavour would last over the summer. Hence, Märzen.

Speaking of laws about beer, Germany has had several of them over the years – in case you needed any more proof that they take their beer seriously over here. The most famous one is the Bayerische Reinheitsgebot, or the Bavarian Beer Purity Law, enacted in 1516 by the Duke of Bavaria. This law states that only three ingredients can be used to make beer: barley, hops and water.

There are a couple of explanations about how this law came to be. The conspiracy theorists say it was to make sure the barley monopoly enjoyed by the Bavarian royal family would not be threatened by other grains. A more altruistic explanation given is that the law prevented beer production from diverting wheat supplies and raising the price of bread. Another was that many brewers were using nasty ingredients as preservatives, like soot and toadstools, which was making people sick.

Whatever the motives behind the law, clearly it limited the styles of beer that could be produced in Bavaria. While brewers in other parts of Germany and Europe were experimenting with all sorts of ingredients, Bavarian brewers went deep into refining their signature styles. And personally, I cannot complain about the results. I was never into lager until I moved here and discovered Andechser Klosterbier. Drool.

But after a few months away from Seattle I do often find myself craving a bigger selection of styles again. In Dresden, one of the best things I did was visiting a brewpub that brews other German styles of beer that I’d never tried before, like rotbier, Dresdner cider, and Altbier, the traditional beer of Düsseldorf (my colleague, who grew up around there, got a keg of Altbier delivered to Munich as a birthday present – that made him very happy). I’ve never found a pub like that in Munich, much to my disappointment.

When Bismarck unified Germany in the late 1800s, one of the conditions Bavaria gave for coming quietly was that the Reinheitsgebot should be extended to apply across Germany, rendering a whole bunch of unique regional styles in other parts of the country suddenly illegal. This demand was less altruistic than the original beer purity law, and more a protectionist bulwark against new beers flooding the Bavarian market. It’s kind of sad to think of the interesting styles of beer might have died out as a result of this law (although it seems that Altbier and Kölsch – the local beer of Cologne – managed to survive okay).

The Reinheitsgebot was struck down by the EU a couple of decades ago as completely anti-competitive. Which it is. But here in Bavaria, beer “purity” definitely still lives on as a source of great pride. You’ll hardly find a brewery in Munich that doesn’t boast all over their bottles and bierdeckels how faithfully they’ve stuck to it for centuries.

The thing I still haven’t figured out is how a company like Erdinger, who brews only Weißbier (a wheat beer), can claim that they’ve stayed true to a law that allows only barley, hops and water. Same for the other venerable old Munich breweries that make Weißbier. If someone could explain that to me, I’d be obliged!

I’ll leave you with a lesson in pouring the perfect glass of beer. If you wondered how Germany manages to pump out so many good engineers, look no further than this student robotics project. I’d study hard if I got assignment like this, too…