Germany Day One

The flight attendant brought us a bottle of champagne. She had noticed it was our honeymoon. This was definitely unrelated to the shirt I wore that said, “Groom.” It had nothing to do with my wife’s matching “Bride” shirt. We were that couple—the cool couple.

Another flight attendant hinted that our row mate might want to move to give us some space. He declined. He even asked if we minded. We politely said we didn’t mind—though we absolutely did. The flight attendant, now fully charged, made the guy move anyway. She came back with the enthusiasm of someone who’d just won a small battle. Victory! The row was ours.

Champagne flowed. My wife fell asleep. I discovered beer and wine were free. I decided sleep was for the weak. These two decisions were definitely related. I didn’t miss a single chance for a refill. Not a bad flight.

At 9:30 a.m. local time, we arrived at The Schiller5 hotel and ditched our luggage. Check-in was at 3 p.m. (still local time, apparently). There was a free walking tour at 10:45 a.m. (again, local time). I clearly didn’t understand time zones.

With an hour to kill, we headed to a café in Marienplatz and ordered white sausages. Weisswurst. The area was famous for them, and we did them justice. We crushed those sausages like we’d been starved for weeks. I didn’t know food could taste that good; I considered writing a thank-you note to the sausage gods.

The walking tour kicked off with the Frauenkirche, a church built so fast they accused the owner of making a deal with the devil. Inside, there was a footprint stomped into the tile floor. Legend had it if your foot fit perfectly, you were the devil. My foot fit so perfectly, tourists started snapping pics like I was some kind of infernal celebrity. I struck a pose. Fame, however brief, suited me.

Post-devilish notoriety, we made seven new friends—despite my general inability to tolerate most people. We banded together and marched to the original Hofbräuhaus. Some ordered Hofbräu Lagers, while others went for Radlers. For the uninitiated, a Radler is how Germans—and therefore the universe—correctly make a shandy.

One of our new friends was a local who gave us a behind-the-scenes tour, like a VIP pass after the regular peasant tour. Not bad for a guy who started the day confused by clocks.

Cut to a ten-minute walk where the group collectively decided that whining about the distance was their new favorite hobby. Somehow, I’d become the Ambassador of Wherever-it-is-we’re-going. I had no idea where that was. I was just as lost as they were, but with better acting skills.

Suddenly, everyone forgot their grievances when we landed at a market selling beer for 2 Euros. A revelation, considering we’d been bleeding 7 Euros per beer all day. Decisions were made. Beers were purchased. We strutted off with our unopened drinks like seasoned pros in the art of casual law-bending.

Our destination? St. Peter’s Church. A charming little place with only 300 steps to the top of the tower. Perfect. I was already gasping for air from the “quick” ten-minute stroll. Now we were hauling beers up the stairs—or stairs up the beers. Whatever. I’d been drinking.

Naturally, the only guy with a bottle opener had vanished to buy a pretzel. Seriously, now was pretzel o’clock? All I wanted was to hammer-fist my bottlecap off against the nearest cement ledge. Just as I was ready to go medieval on it, I heard a satisfying POP. My wife, ever the badass, had popped hers on the ledge like a pro. She casually helped our new British friend do his, too.

Inspired, I cracked mine open—just in time to realize there were still about a hundred steps to go. Great. We paused for a quick beer-chugging session. Hydration is important, after all. Our Australian friend needed his bottle opened, and I obliged. Prost! (Cheers, German-style.)

At the top, beers in hand, we took selfies with the kind of sweaty, victorious grins that only come from stair-induced suffering. And there were the Alps. Just chilling. Like, what are they even doing here?

Once we stumbled down the stairs (gravity finally doing its job), we walked to Viktualienmarkt and found a self-service beer table. The deal was simple: buy their beer, bring your own food. BYOF? Sure, but I wasn’t exactly packing a sausage stash in my pockets. Especially not overseas. So, I bought white sausages because, you know, habits die hard.

At our community table, we were graced by the presence of a 91-year-old woman who was absolutely living her best life. She was chugging beer, clinking glasses, and casually snatching receipts out of the air like a ninja. She even managed to toss in a casual comment about how terrible my German was—honestly, she wasn’t wrong.

Fair play, grandma. Prost to that.

The mini-bar was complimentary. They served wine with breakfast. I suddenly discovered my deep, previously untapped passion for breakfast. The front desk guy immediately skyrocketed to "Best Friend" status—a role he would play beautifully later.

After all this good news, we required nothing less than a Full-on Nap™. Recharged and ready, we headed to Augustiner Keller, one of Germany’s largest beer gardens. We ordered Augustiner Keller Hefeweizens and schnitzels—yes, schnitzels. Is that the plural? Who cares. These schnitzels deserved their own fan club. White sausages, you’ve been dethroned.

Post-dinner, we hunted for more beer, which wasn’t exactly challenging in a place with 5,000 seats. We found an outdoor drinking space, and here’s the deal: no beer menus, no decisions, just one beer. A single, glorious beer poured by a guy who looked like he’d rather wrestle a bear than smile.

This hero of efficiency tapped an actual barrel, scowled, poured, and slid the beer our way with enough spillage to cause concern. I was ready to demand justice until I looked down. The spill had formed a perfect lip of foam hugging the glass’s edge. I wasn’t mad. I was witnessing a masterpiece.

I’d come for beer. I’d stayed for art.

Back at the hotel, I couldn’t get schnitzel off my mind. Dinner had been an hour ago, but my brain was holding my stomach hostage. Sleep wasn’t happening until schnitzel did. So, I marched to the front desk and asked, “Where can I get schnitzel to-go?”

The front desk guy looked at me like I’d asked where to adopt a unicorn. Apparently, schnitzel to-go wasn’t a thing here. After a pause, he squinted and asked, “You want to eat schnitzel in front of the TV?”

He glanced at my wife, then nodded knowingly. “I like him.” That’s how you solidify a best-friendship. He started making calls, and I told him it was fine if he had to admit I was American. I accepted my fate.

It took more than one call, but he got it done. He handed me an umbrella and gave me the directions with a look that said, “Godspeed, schnitzel seeker.”

Out into the rain I went. I got the goods. I also got lost—twice—but whatever. Victory tasted like schnitzel, and it was worth it. I brought back schnitzel for myself and chocolate mousse over pears for my wife. Because, you know, happy wife, happy life.

I inhaled schnitzel, sipped from our to-go 6-pack, and watched pole vaulting with German commentators. I understood none of it, but I took notes. If I was going to keep my title as Ambassador to Wherever-it-is-we’re-going, I needed to step up my language game.