Herzlich willkommen auf der Wildmoos Alm brauhaus, 1338m.
It’s two days after Valentine’s Day, and my wife and I sit in the main reception room of the Wildmoos Alm brauhaus, wondering where exactly in the world we are. We had traipsed up the mountainside from Seefeld, the Austrian Winter Olympic town, snow crunching underfoot, the sky a hungry blue, our breath silky ice. Now we’re jammed elbow to elbow with hikers, skiers and snow-tourists while Elvis, Abba, John Denver and Austrian folk music play. A jocular waiter weaves through tight tables with beer, trays of schnapps, bowls of strudels, meat dumplings, saying, "Hello, Johnny" to other English tourists. Not us. We are invisible, for the time being. Above is the crowning glory of Evangelical Alpine hunters: Jesus on the cross and stuffed outcasts from Noah's Tirol travels. Under Our Lord’s wounded feet, two shocked grouse; to His right, a devilish looking ram's skull and horns; to His left, a defunct cuckoo clock and the grinning head of a boar with a bell below his neck and a scarf made of dry viper's skin. Under His holy nailed feet half a brown bear rearing out of the wall, mouth aghast in silent road, claws scraping the air, as surprised as we are to be hanging out here. Nearby, clamouring for a space next to the Saviour, is a strange assembly of regional Germanic acolytes: antlers, foxes on their hind legs, stoats in glass dioramas, framed paintings of falcons and deer, photographs of Bayern Munich FC and a random assortment of past wedding guests. Around Purgatory there’s an even stranger retinue: a huge straw-filled Tirol bear, corn cobs drying from a rafter, witches flying from the eves and locked in glass cabinets topped with a marmot, a goose, a wooden Tyrollean farmer; an indoor conifer tree hanging with fairies, flowers, children's tokens; bundles of mistletoe above a corner table. I don’t remember when we left or if we ever did. We are still sitting in the main reception room of the Wildmoos Alm brauhaus, wondering where exactly in the world we are. Jesus looks down at us and sighs with divine disappointment.
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AuthorA poetic-essay style blog with a limit of 365 words. 365 like the days of the year - my name being one of those days! Archives
March 2020
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