Little Zwiesel goes a long way

With more stars than artificial lights to guide us through the swerving mountain roads, we carried on past the occasional castle, towns with a bar and a few businesses while bright Mars glowed to our north the whole way.

If the constant shifts up hills we could not see beyond the pale of the wagon's headlight got to Chris, he didn't show it too much.

The German tones in the Czech language grow more pronounced as we neared the checkpoint. At a gas station stop, the clerk spoke clearly with that influence. Some little differences a la Pulp Fiction: they only poured coffee ceramic cups - not a To-Go styrofoam to be found - so we had to sit while Chris got his fuel for the last stretch of the night; some local travelers drank Czech lager and smoke cigarettes at a little counter, so I polished off a half-liter of Gambrinus lager as we sat. I didn't even have to hide it in a brown paper bottle bag.

We debated calling it a night under the bright lights of a little town just inside the Czech Republic, but pressed ahead. A longer-than-expected stop at the border, where the guards took delighted interested in Mitzy and Hannah's German surname, put us in Zwiesel, 10,000 strong in the Bavarian forest, a little after nine.

From there, the clock raced, as one guesthouse after another told us they were full for the night, and closing time neared. Hannah ably served as our voice as we hit upon rejection after rejection. Despite Chris' comment that one we hadn't checked looked pricey, we discovered it wasn't in the same range as the others; more importantly, they had a room for four.

The little town was unlike any I'd seen before, with its brick sidewalks, little shrine to Christ on the main drag and loud confluence of two rivers
Stopping long enough to drop our luggage off, the only tavern still serving was a sports bar with an American theme; fortunately, all their beerly wares were solidly local. We talked with relief running deep in our voices, clanged glasses with every round, snapping the group photos we'd not had time for in Prague.

It was all great, but my need to explore our stop for the night was mountain, so my story departs here slightly: The town was shockingly dead outside, with one car cruising the main drag every five minutes at maximum, so with a little alcoholic warmth in me, I was set to wander. I followed the rivers past their meeting point for a while, amazed that I only heard the water.

For a short eternity, I just watched a flock of ducks drill their beaks into muddy, shallow water, hunting for dinner. I didn't need the big city to sate my fascination with big empty spaces and scenes no one else stops to see.

My fellow travelers emerged from the sports bar after a short time, and the hour for sleep arrived.

Or so we thought

A trio of locals left the same tavern shortly after, and proceeded to follow us all the way back to the guest house. I was too overjoyed with my fleeting time to wander a small town and soak in its overlooked intricacies.

As we moved to turn up the stairs and retire, the newcomers followed us through the locked door and struck- The guesthouse chef and manager wanted us to join them for an after-hours drink.

An older, third man, who identified himself as a guesthouse owner from a nearby town in for a visit, chatted with Hannah as the other disappeared then returned with beers. We toasted and they were gone again, though the sizzle of oil on a cooking service became a backdrop for the talking. I refused a beer at first, but soon remembered I was on vacation ... in a foreign country ... with gracious hosts.
The chef emerged again with a plate of sausage, cheese and a tomato relish. He would disappear and rejoin with fresh delectables several times, all the while killing any future urge I might have to taste American-made sausage.

We talked and toasted, though I preferred to listen rather than give our generous hosts a rope of pidgin German from which to hang me. The conversation is somewhat lost in the fog of sensory overload; while it wasn't one of those “meaning of life” types, it was exactly the sort of moment I wanted to rise from the breakneck pace of our German trip.

Though they only offered one beer each, we paid them for more to where we lost track of how many rounds went down (that holds trues for plates of sausages and cheese). The visiting guesthouse owner shuffled off before too long, and we (well, Hannah) continued with chef and manager.

I translated in my head and absorbed as much as possible, nearly euphoric that a moment that almost slipped away. Was it worth the loss of sleep? The value of that little gathering of Americans and Germans in a quiet breakfast room is not a number I dare estimate – nor ever fear forgetting.

(Up next: Just try to Passau)