There’s not much to do in the Westerwald in early spring. We tagged along because our friend was registered in a course and we thought we’d serve as moral support for his Mrs, a good friend of ours. On the way, we stopped to explore the unexpected treasure of medieval Limburg where I snapped a lot of photos and spotted, with my usual precision radar, the oldest bakery in the town center. We stopped for snacks, not knowing what we were fortifying ourselves for.
At the little Westerwald hotel, the stern hausmeister greeted us with a gripping handshakes and recitations of last names. “FRAU MUELLER,” she pronounced, crushing each hand in succession. We responded in kind and I uncharacteristically used husband’s last name, caving under the pressure of Frau Mueller’s stern grip.. During introductions, we wrinkled our noses. The lobby stunk of meat, boiled meat, and not of the best quality. We were passed from Frau Mueller to the equally militant manager. “YOU AND YOU, ROOM THREE! YOU, ROOM FOUR!” “Sir, yes SIR!” I wanted to shout, saluting.
The scent trailed us up the stairs to our French provincially furnished room. No phone. No TV. No hot water, it turned out, either. Okay, that’s not fair, the rooms had their own boilers and we just had to turn it on. We ordered our dinners in advance and went to have a little lie down. Husband was delayed, having been ordered to move the car. “YOU MUST ALWAYS LISTEN TO WHAT FRAU MUELLER TELLS YOU AND YOU WILL NOT FAIL!” he was told. Honestly, we thought he was joking and went in to fits of hysteria.
I’d asked for a veggie meal and was told I’d get fish and salad. Husband was braver and went for the meat. I ordered for him. “HE WILL ALSO HAVE VEGETABLES AND SOUP,” Frau Mueller commanded. “SIR, THANK YOU, SIR!” At dinner, we were hard pressed to contain ourselves. Behind us sat a quiet Dutch family. The other folks in the dining room were students in the course. There were eight or ten of them, but we were making noise enough for the entire room in our laughter.
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