After the Fox

This is Part 6 of the Wir Gehen Nach Deutschland series, which is, apparently, a series now, because I just called it a series, just now, and there are eleven of them, which is bonkers.

Part 1: Fashion Scarves in Fucking Charge

Part 2: Predictable

Part 3: Noishenvantengutencastlestein v. Hitler's Casino

Part 4: Beating Hitler at His Own Game

Part 5: Inhale

Part 6: After the Fox

Part 7: Like Mountain

Part 8: But You Know. Sweden.

Part 9: It's Fine

Part 10: Kiss Off

 Part 11: Red Man Says Nein

We left Dachau thirsty and depressed and in desperate need of ample beers, so luckily we were in the right land for that.  Back in Munich we immediately booked it to the Hofbrauhaus and spent half an hour trying to (a) check in to Facebook, and (b) tell Gyna we were going to be late for dinner.

Checking into Facebook took up about a total of ten hours of our time throughout the whole trip - every arrival into every city was kicked off with a trip into a Starbucks for free wi-fi so we could check into Facebook, because it's not real if it's not on Facebook.  This is something I don't understand, mostly because I don't have internet on my phone.  I'm not anti-check-in or a hater or anything.  I just don't get it.

By the way, if you leave me a comment about how touristy or overhyped the Hofbrauhaus is, you're a jerky elitist and you hate fun for no goddamn reason other than jerkiness and fun-hating elitism.

Poor Gyna waited to meet us for like half an hour, no doubt frazzled and frustrated at our complete disregard for her time.  Sorry, Gyna.

There was wine and dinner, and everyone learned how Katsisch and I hold conversations, which is not so much of a back-and-forth as it is a breakneck foxhunt, and we weave and tangle and plummet and jolt in this excessively verbal, raucous harmony, but we're after the same damn fox.  Philip wore red chinos and we got drunk.

Then there was a bar, and there was beer, and soon we were knee-deep in strange Germans who said wonderful things like, "So, you are the Americans?  Yes, I know.  You have been shouting to the bar.  Yes, Chicago, your sister yelled that.  She is the pretty blonde one?"  Katsisch never learned about vocal resonance or volume, and the more alcohol she had the more obvious this became. 

Eventually all things must end, good and bad, and we went back to Gyna's around two.  Three?  I have no idea, but we had to be up before 6am to catch a flight to Copenhagen.


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