Rechtenbach/Gleiszellen Germany & Wissembourg France
Today while Erin was at work, I hijacked her computer, installed a few programs, and spent the day working myself. But, when she got home, we packed up and shipped out on adventure. First, we headed to Schweigen-Rechtenbach. If you’re wondering if the town name is hyphenated because of a recent marriage, the answer is… sort of. Apparently, in this part of Germany, areas are called the hyphenated combination of the two closest (neighboring) towns. I guess this would be the equivalent of saying Tampa-Clearwater, South Bend-Mishawaka, Santa Monica-Los Angeles, etc. I’m just not sure why the towns can’t be independent.
So anyway, we first hung out in Rechtenbach, where there’s a winery (weintor) and pretty scenery. We gave ourselves a self-tour of the winery and climbed up to the top of a tall tower for the view. While we were up there, an older man climbed up the stairs and said something to us in German. Erin didn’t have any clue what he was saying, and since I have pretty much a 50-word vocabulary (plus the numbers so I can count change) I had no idea what was going on, either. He shook a set of keys on a pink keyring at Erin. Figuring someone had dropped them, Erin checked her purse, showed him that she had her keys safe and sound, and said “No” a few times. That had little to no effect because, as it turned out, he was the caretaker trying to lock up the tower without trapping us inside. (Ohhhh.)
After we realized our mistake (with much good-natured laughing on the caretaker’s part, too) Erin and I descended the stairs and decided to snack on some flammkuchen. And wine. (It’s a winery! You can’t not have wine in a winery!) Erin tried to explain flammkuchen to me prior to me laying eyes on it, but like any food item, it’s difficult to explain. I’ll do my best. Imagine the concept of pizza. (Easy, right?) Not pizza itself–but the idea of an open-face breadish susbstance covered with toppings. The breadish thing is thin like a tortilla, but not that flimsy, although not cracker-crisp either. The style we got was Vegetarianisch (I probably killed the spelling on that) which meant it had red peppers, sliced pepperoncini-type peppers, chunks of fresh cheese (not sure what kind), and a bit of garlic for spice. (No pizza sauce, because it’s not pizza. It’s flammkuchen.) I thought it would be small, but it came on a large, rectangluar wooden oven paddle. (They’re baked in flame ovens. I know there’s a better word than “flame oven” but I can’t think of it right now.)
Once we were done eating, we got back in the car and crossed the border into France, where we were detained by seventeen armed guards, three tanks, and a helicopter. Actually… Open EU borders means open EU borders, and if there hadn’t been a sign, I would’ve had no idea we crossed into another country. There were no guards, no checkpoint, no nothing. Easy peasy.
We cruised around looking for Wissembourg for a while, and although we did find it, there wasn’t much going on since the main strip was under construction and the detour pretty much detoured us around the whole town. So we came back across the border in search of Gleiszellen-Gleishorbach, where a wine fest was going on.
Unfortunately, we couldn’t seem to find G-G (as I’m calling it, since I’m a lazy typist) so we drove around looking for someone to whom we could ask directions. Erin says, “We need to find someone who speaks English.” To which I said, “Or French. If they speak French, we can get directions, too.” She made no return comment. (Bear with me and you’ll see the significance in a moment.) We head up a residential hill and see a man with a water hose in his yard. Erin pulls over as I roll down my window.
[pardon the spelling below because I speak it better than I can write it.]
“Sil vous plait,” I call out. “Ou est le festival du vin?”
He puts down the water hose. “Bitte?”
Since I’m a moron, I fail to catch the significance of that single word. So, I rephrase. “Je cherche le festival du vin. Est-ce que vous connais ou ca est?”
He makes a crazy face and starts spouting off gibberish. (Or it could’ve been German. I really need to study up.) He then motions over his wife, who cuts across the lawn to join the conversation. (If you can call it that.)
Once again, I launch into another version of “Do you have any idea where we can find the wine festival?” and both of them chatter back in German.
Erin says, “Forget it.” We wave our thanks and take off.
“I can’t believe they don’t speak French,” I say, semi-outraged.
“Yeah,” Erin agrees. “We’re less than 2 minutes from the border.”
I start looking around the neighborhood more closely and my jaw drops. “Hey,” I say. “This is crazy. Even the *signs* around here are in German!”
At this point, Erin stops the car, levels me with a look, and says, “Erica. We’re *in* Germany.”
Ohhh.
I had completely forgotten. No wonder the Germans spoke to me in… well… German.
And that, my friends, is what happens when you combine ADD with open borders. Absolutely no clue what country you might be in or what language you ought to be speaking at any given moment.
So, we drive around the next corner or two and come across two younger (twenty-something) guys with bikes. Erin says, “Ask *them* for directions.”
But now I’m feeling so idiotic that I can’t fathom forcing my French onto another German. She convinces me that the younger inhabitants are multilingual and that we should give it a shot.
We roll up and I ask if they know where the wine fest is. To which they crack up laughing (luckily not at my French-in-Germany) and respond, “Il-y-a beaucoup des festivals du vin.” (There’s a gazillion wine fests.)
Oh. So they ask me which one in particular we’re looking for, and of course I don’t know. I throw out G-G’s town name, and they happen to know which one I mean and give us directions.
Finally, we arrive at G-G where the wine fest is hopping. We park in a field with the other cars and buses and saunter up the streets, decorated with strands of hanging lights and lots of flowers. Clusters of local food and wine vendors line the streets, and the jovial crowd bustles inbetween.
By jovial, I mean *jovial*. The band struck up a tune and everyone starting singing and swaying to various German drinking songs, and even in the winding streets where the music could no longer be heard, groups of people spontaneously burst into drinking songs and chants and whole tables would sway together and join in the song. At times, it was so loud Erin and I couldn’t even talk. The great thing was that everybody was in the spirit, and there was absolutely no censoriousness. If older people passed by a table of rowdy youngsters swinging and swaying, they just grinned and raised their glasses.
Erin and I tried two different wines apiece. Her first one was OK, but a little warm for white wine. My first one was bubbly, kind of like a would-be asti but not quite. (That’s an awesome description, isn’t it? I should totally get a job writing wine labels.) My second wine was bizarre, but surprisingly delicious. It was apple flavored (which makes sense, since apples are in season and orchards are everywhere. Vendors fill the walk-platz with their bags and baskets of fresh apples.) The second wine came in a souvenir glass, which I could return to the tent for my deposit back, or choose to keep. (Naturally, I’m taking that baby home.) The glass is neat–it has a picture of the local vinyard/winery where my wine came from, and the year that the wine was first produced.
Have you visited any wineries or wine/beerfests? I want to hear all about it!
