Garmisch-Partenkirchen and Beyond

It’s about 7:30, Munich time. Kay and I are staying in Munich for 4 nights. We are in a hotel that has rooms about the size of what you’d typically find in Japan; you can’t even sit on the beds with a suitcase open. The problem is that as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become an early riser. Normally I’d just drag myself down to the lobby, but this hotel doesn’t have one, or at least not one you’d care to spend an hour in. I’ve found a Starbucks I can take refuge in, and I’m having a latte. By the way, the lattes in Munich are gigantic and are served in ceramic mugs as opposed to the paper cups we have in the US of A, greatest country in the world. We don’t have bullet trains or decent intercity rail either.

Yesterday Kay and I were in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, a small tourist town in the Bavarian Alps. The town is right by the Zugspitze, which is the highest point in Germany at about 2900 meters. For purposes of comparison, Mount Washington in New Hampshire is about 1900 meters tall. You can take a series of cable cars to the top, but that involves standing in line and would have taken all day, so we opted to ascend the mighty Mount Wank.

…All right, let’s have none of your sniggering. First of all, it’s pronounced “Vank”. Secondly, grow the hell up; you are not in elementary school anymore.

Kay and I got to the top, and had lunch at the Wankhaus…

OK, I’m serious. Stop that giggling right now, or I’ll turn this blog around.

Actually, all this talk of wanking makes me recall my own days in elementary school. Back in 1965, in elementary school, we didn’t have pull-outs for art or music; the teacher just had you pull out your flutophone for music or put on your smock for fingerpainting right in the classroom.

They also made us sing songs for some reason, many of which were distinctly un-PC, including ditties like “Old Black Joe” and other racist songs by Stephen Foster. Why the folks at Roland Elementary School back in South Euclid, Ohio, thought these songs were appropriate for Jewish kids to sing in class is beyond me, but there you are. But I also recall that year after year they would also attempt to make us sing “Rock o’ My Soul in the Bosom of Abraham.” First of all, what does that even mean? If I have a soul, why would I want it rocked in anyone’s bosom? I consulted Perplexity AI with the following results:

“Rock My Soul in the Bosom of Abraham” is an African-American spiritual that means seeking comfort, safety, and spiritual rest in the loving protection of Abraham, who represents both an ancestor of faith and, symbolically, the love and security of God. The “bosom of Abraham” is a biblical reference, notably in the Parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus (Luke 16:22-23), where it symbolizes a place of peace and rest for the righteous after death—like being cradled safely in the arms of a caring parent.”

If you say so, Perplexity. But wasn’t Abraham the guy who almost sacrificed his son Isaac because God told him to? Granted, he got the word that the sacrifice was called off at the last minute, but I bet that episode had some unintended consequences, including PTSD for Isaac and a certain tension in the father-son relationship and some discord around the table during family dinners. Personally, I’ve always wondered about these “tests” the Lord sets for his faithful from time to time. If God is omniscient, He (or I guess “They” if I’m being woke) knew in advance that Abraham and Job were going to come through; was He just messing with them? Maybe Jehovah is just bored or has an odd sense of humor? But I digress in the midst of a digression. Plus, I’m not supposed to write Jehovah. Actually, nobody knows how Jehovah was pronounced, since ancient Aramaic had no vowels. It could just as easily have been pronounced “Yahoo-Wahoo.”

But I was making a point. Right, 10-year-old boys compelled to sing:

“Rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham

Rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham

Rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham

Oh, rock my soul.”

Inevitably, all the boys would collapse into peals of helpless laughter, and just as inevitably, the teacher would be annoyed. I have to wonder, what did they expect when they asked latency-aged boys to sing “bosom” 3 times in one stanza? And it surely happened year after year. We could have sung “Itsy-Bitsy Teeny-Weeny Yellow Polkadot Bikini” (also quite popular at that time), but instead it was a song about bosoms. Go figure.

In any case, we hiked through town and caught the small cable car to the summit. It’s about a half-hour trip and about as scenic as you can imagine. They even have cows wandering around the forest trail with those cowbells you always see in pictures of the Tyrol region; I can’t help but wonder if they are resentful of having them ringing every time they take a step. It must be a hell of a lot worse than tinnitus. 

For some reason, all this alpine imagery reminds me of several James Bond movies I have seen. I half expected to see Roger Moore duking it out on top of one of the cable cars going the other way.

Once on the summit, you can see the town way below, like a little diorama. You can also see folks paragliding off the various mountains. I wouldn’t do that on a bet; I might consider it if Kay’s or Jon’s lives were at stake, but I wouldn’t be happy about it. If it were me and the choice was paraglide off the mountain or we’ll shoot you, I think I’d opt for shooting and save myself many long minutes of terror.

We made it back down the mountain and grabbed our suitcases, which we had stored at the Bio Hotel Bavaria, and made tracks for the station.