Whatchawearing
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Europeanvaction1979/25
My father was in the USAF. We spent nearly nine years in Europe. We lived in Greece, Italy and England. Every few years my Grandparents would come to visit. When they did, we were off for a five week journey across Europe. My grandmother kept a journal of our travels. Recently while cleaning out a closet, my Mother came across the journals. The memories came flying back! I decided to share these journels with you. Each day I will post a chapter as she has written them. I hope you enjoy reading these as much as I did.
The first Journal was in 1979. We lived in Hellenikon Greece.
Vomp
Berta outside Salami Shop
Left to Right
Jan,George,Berta,Alva
Ryan and Sean(me age 9)
Vomp
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Day 25-Tuesday, June 19 1979
Packing that morning was probably the wettest, coldest experience of our lives. The VW was pulled under the shelter of an overhang so we could rearrange the boxes which were now showing much wear. A mental note was made to be on the lookout for replacements. Numb with cold, Al suggested to strap down camping gear atop the van. Steaming cups of hot cocoa helped to warm our hands more than our bellies, but there was nothing to aid freezing feet.
Somewhere around eleven-thirty, everything was ready and we were on our way. Earlier we had voted to return to Garmish for one more night. The excuse for this was to buy additional mugs at the Lowenbrau Brewery, but I think the real reason was because we wanted another glimpse of that pretty city with its gables, flowered balconies, and decorative houses.
Al flashed his papers and a smile and thus we passed into Austria. We inspected the Alps' peaks and found them covered with a great deal more snow since we had last passed this way.
In Vomp, we stopped again to buy more of the good-tasting salami, only to find the grocery closed. We never really grew accustomed to the noontime closing of the shops. We'd lose track of time, and come to buy our picnic things after the shutters had been drawn. Today was no different, but because of it, we met Berta Muhlegger and Porky, her dog, and experienced Austrian hospitality at its finest, thus pinpointing the "highlight" of our journey.
As we were about to pull away from the grocery, a jolly old woman came out from the house next door, a black dog at her side. She reminded me of Mrs. Santa Claus sans the red outfit. Her fat face and rosy cheeks set off the twinkling blue eyes and graying hair. She began jabbering away, but we understood nothing of what she was saying. Eventually, two words came through, "Kaffe, come." Almost before we knew what was happening, Al was parking the VW, under her directions, around the back of the house, and we were being ushered into her kitchen. She held the door open wide as all seven of us filed
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in. I was the last in line. With a broad grin, she turned, threw her arms around me in a big bear hug and said, "Mama" as she patted me on the back. I felt like a long-lost relative had found me after years of searching.
Berta treated us like royal guests. She produced beautiful bone china cups and saucers, made coffee and served us delicious rolls piled high with fresh, creamy butter covered with honey. Sitting around the table with painted smiles on our faces, we watched this body of perpetual motion as she puttered about in the small, neat kitchen. Every now and then she'd look over her shoulder and say, "So?" as if wanting us to speak, but we knew no Austrian and precious few German words.
In her eyes, apparently, we looked starved and she was determined to remedy that situation. With a "Mama, eat," and a "Papa, eat," she placed a bowl of steaming rice and some sort of goulash in front of George and me. I wondered what we were to do if we didn't like the concoction, but not to worry! One taste and I knew this bundle of energy was a chef supreme. A quick look at George's face, as he sampled the food, told me he was also relishing every mouthful.
"So?" she said, looking at the other five. "Omlet, Ya?" In unison they shook their heads declining the offer using sign language to denote they had already had enough. She paid no attention as she whipped up an omelet, not as we know it but rather, a folded pancake smeared with marmalade, topped with powdered sugar. Serving first one then the other, she continued to bring these "omlets" to the table quicker than I could blink my eyes.
When she was satisfied that we honestly could eat no more and Porky had been fed the scraps, she left the room briefly returning with a bundle of newspaper clippings wrapped around two cassette tapes held by a rubber band. She carefully opened the papers reminding me of a king unlocking the royal treasure box. Spread out on the table, she indicated to us to examine them. "Jimmy Carter," she said and held her hands to her buxom showing a love for our Pres-
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indent. We understood from her few English words that she saved every article about Carter and had taped his T.V. speech when he was in Saltzburg for the SALT talks a few days earlier.
Berta was trying to get our relationship straight in her mind. Using his hand in airplane motion, George explained how "Mama" and "Papa" and young son, Craig, had flown from America to Greece to visit son and daughter-in-law and grandchildren stationed in Athens. "Ach, ja, ja," she said, grasping this information. Then she questioned, "From Amerika?" George answered, "Florida." Berta repeated, "Flooreedoor, oh ja! So?" Again, using sign language, George said, "Cape Canaveral, where the rockets go to the moon- space shots. I work there." Her reaction was quick as she absorbed this. Both hands slapped her round cheeks in disbelief, then she pounded the table with two chubby fists and said, "No, Mama Mia!" Our laughter rang out probably being heard throughout the entire quiet village.
Too soon it became time to leave. We exchanged names and addresses, took outdoor snapshots and bid Berta farewell. She seemed genuinely sorry to see us leave as she asked, "Morning, kaffee?" but we told her we would be on calling, "Auf Wiedersehen" we drove away. We had been sidetracked over two hours, but what a delightful two hours it had been.
Our VW bobbed up and down the steep grades like a yo-yo as we pushed into Germany arriving in Garmish near three-thirty with a flat tire. The tire changed and beer glasses bought at the brewery put us at the AFRC billeting complex in time for supper at the snack bar.
We had obtained some new boxes, so after the tent was set up, we spent an hour repacking and housekeeping the VW. Then, showers, completed, we sat in the bar lounge drinking beer, a pass-time we would surely miss after we got home. And the cold, drizzly rain continued throughout the night.
