"In Germany, I’m going to wake up with the rooster," Suds tells me.
"In Germany, I’m going to buy a David Hassellhoff CD and sing all his songs as we hike the mountain," I tell him.
"In Germany, I might kill you then," he says.
"In Germany, I’m going to dress like a gay Hitler and sing David Hassellhoff,” I say.
"In Germany," he says, "I’m definitely going to fucking kill you."
And on and on like this we go for the entire flight — the back and forth and fast-forward drivel that beats saying nothing, if only by a fraction. Just enough chitchat to make us ignore the cheesy Jennifer Aniston romantic comedy playing and, for me, just enough alcohol to ensure that I’m a hundred percent pain free by the time the stewardesses have their little hush-hush up near the cockpit and decide I’ve drunk all the complimentary Stella I’m going to drink. And my attitude is like, fine, so be it — look at me, mom, first class, baby.
We land in Germany without incident. On our way off the plane, the woman who thinks I look like Dave Matthews reminds us to watch out for "the radical jihadists on the mountain" and that this is Munich after all, and who can know what she means by this, though I wouldn’t be surprised if she can tell just from looking at me how long it’s been since my penis had been touched.
We take a shuttle to our digs, making the kind of talk you make upon first arriving someplace — the weather, the architecture, what we’re going to eat. It’s our first night in Germany, and so we’ll hit all the tourist spots, acclimate ourselves to the Germanness of it all, and, most likely, buy some steins and fill them with the good local shit.
At check-in, Suds does all the talking. In German. I can’t stand it. I’ll admit as well to being a little disappointed by the girl they got working the desk. I’d expected maybe something more glamorous, something a little more Marlene Dietrich? Claudia Schiffer — she is not. But me, I’m pretty much shut out of things as Suds rolls a spit-fueled rant and the girl takes his credit card without so much as a smile. I’m left standing there with a tightened sphincter and a runny nose while Suds and the German girl laugh about something related to my hair. She hands him two keys and Suds points to our bags and says, come on, kingmaker.
In the elevator: "What was that all about?" I ask.
"I told her you were a famous gay hair stylist," he says, laughing.
Our room looks like any other Holiday Inn room you’ve ever seen, only Germaner. Suds heads for the shower. I turn on the TV and quickly learn that some American shows do not translate well into German culture. A good example is The Office. Instead of just dubbing the original British or Steve Carell version, the German version is a remake called Stromberg that uses German actors and incorporates German business practices and culture. Not funny, or maybe it is, I don’t know, I can’t relate or comprehend any dialogue — same with The Simpsons which they call Die Simpsons here and which, for some odd reasons, reminds me of O.J. Simpson.
Suds rushes out of the shower and quickly gets dressed. He grabs a growler from his bag and pours us both a pint.
A cluster of quality German beer gardens await us and we toast to the health of all air travelers as we leave for the swank European nightlife, which seems to me now, with its chic fashion and its whoosh of constant cigarette smoke, both exciting and dreadful.
Situated a hundred kilometers East of Berlin, Mount Schadenfreude is famous for its natural vistas of steep and narrow paths, its precipitous crags, and its dangerous hiking trail to the summit. It is home to several influential German castles and monasteries where monks of past dynasties made pilgrimages, making Mount Schadenfreude the holy land of isolation and enlightenment.
Known as the "Number One Vast and Vertical Peak under Heaven", Mount Schadenfreude proudly lives up to its reputation through its perilous "der Schwanz", a twelve feet long, one foot wide plank path situated along a jagged cliff, where just one false step means falling in the abyss below.
Extreme weather conditions don’t make the traverse any easier either as fog and vapors rise up from the heavily vegetated valley below, resulting in constant haze and limited visibility. Plus, the tropical downpours cause frequent mudslides.
Those are the potentially deadly obstacles you need to keep in mind if you plan to tackle this beast: Schadenfreude Trail is not about mountain-climbing but hiking. As such, you don’t get to use high-tech equipment that could save your life — it’s just you, nature and, if you think ahead, a few custom-made growlers full of potent farmyard beer.
The morning we began our travels the mountain was in its finest colors. Summer had brought to it a splendid robe, gorgeous and glowing, its green adorned with wild flowers, and the bloom of bush and tree like a gigantic stretch of tapestry. The vast alpine meadows and rocky deserts sprawled out in endless rows and overhead the foliage gleamed, a veil of emerald lace before the sun.
I drank in the glory, eye and ear, but never failed to watch the underbrush, and to listen for hostile sounds. I knew full well that my life rested upon my vigilance and, as often as I had watched Rambo, I valued too much these precious days to risk my sudden end through any neglect of my own.
A mysterious bird which preened itself on a nearby branch caught my attention. When the shadows from the waving shrubbery fell upon its feathers it shined a bright purple, but when the sunlight poured through, it glowed a glossy blue. I did not know its name, but it was a cool bird, a happy bird. Now and then it ceased its hopping back and forth, raised its head and sent forth a deep, sweet, thrilling note, amazing in volume to come from such a small body. Had it dared to sing a full song I would have crooned a bar or two of Sinatra in reply. The bird was a friend to one alone and in need, and its dauntless melody made my own heart beat faster. If a creature so tiny and fragile was not afraid in the wilderness — why should I be!
A peculiar sound erupted out of the rickety unknown. It was so slight that it was hard to differentiate it from the whisper of the wind. It was barely audible but when I listened again and with all my powers I was sure that it was a new and foreign noise. Then I separated it from the breeze among the leaves, and it seemed to me to contain a quality like that of the human voice. If so, it might be hostile, because my partner-in-crime, Suds, was among the missing. We lost each other halfway up the mountain.
The muffled shriek, scarcely more than a variation of the wind, registered again though lightly, and now I knew that it came from the lungs of man, man the pursuer, man the slayer, and maybe, in this case, man the brewmaster, perhaps Suds, the fierce beverage inventor. Doubtless it was a signal, one beer devotee calling to another, and I listened anxiously for the reply, but I did not hear it, the point from which it was sent being too remote, and I settled back into my bed of hedges and grass, resolved to keep as still as a scarecrow until I could make up my mind about my next move.
I was keenly apprehensive. The signals indicated that the pursuing force had spread out, and I was worried that they might enclose me in a fatal circle. My eager temperament, always sensitive to impressions, was kindled into fire, and my imagination painted the whole chase scene in the most vibrant of colors. A mere thought at first, it now became a conviction: terrorists are combing the mountain looking for me. They had stumbled upon my trail by chance, and, venomous about Americans, would follow me for hours in an effort to kill me. I closed my eyes and pictured them with all the intensity of reality, their malignant faces, dirty turbans, powerful guns and explosives.
But my imagination which was so vital a part of me did not paint evil and danger alone — I also envisioned myself refreshed, stronger of body and keener of mind, escaping every trap and trick laid for my ruin. I saw myself making a victorious flight through the cliffs, my arrival at the castle, my reunion with Suds, my handshake with the master monk, and my lips gracing a frosty mug full of the golden nectar.
Before I could bask in the daydream, the bird sang again, pouring forth a brilliant tune, and I ducked down in a hidden position. It had a fine spirit, an optimistic spirit like my own and I knew it would warn me if danger crept too close. While the thought was fresh in my mind the third signal came, and now it was so clear and distinct that it indicated a rapid approach. But I was still unable to choose the right direction to flee and I looked for a sign from the bird. I figured that if the terrorists were charging at us it would fly directly away from them. At least I hoped so, and optimism had so much power over me, especially in such a situation where belief becomes assurance.
The bird stopped singing suddenly, but kept his perch on the waving branch. I swear that it looked straight at me before it uttered two or three sharp notes, and then, rising in the air, hovered for a few minutes above the limb. It was obvious that my call had come. For a breathless instant or two I forgot about the dangerous Islamists and watched the bird, a flash of blue flame against the green veil of the forest. It uttered three or four tweets, not short or sharp now, but soft, long and beckoning, dying away in the gentlest of echoes. My imagination, as vivid as ever, translated it into a call for me to come, and I was not in the least surprised, when the blue flame like the pillow of a cloud moved slowly to the northeast, and toward an obvious path.
We crossed a deep valley and began the ascent of another high hill, rough with rocky outcrops and a heavy growth of briars and vines. I slowed my pace and once or twice I thought I had lost my soaring tour guide, but it always reappeared, and, for the first time since its initial flight, it sang a boisterous ballad, a clear melodious treble, carrying far through the windy woods.
I felt like I was in a Disney film and I believed that the song was meant for me. Clearly it called out for me to follow, and, with equal clarity, it told me that safety lay only in the path I now traveled. I believed, with all the ardor of my soul, and there was no fatigue in my body as I scaled the pebbly gorge. I was between the horns of a crescent, and the top was not far away.
I felt little weariness as I climbed the rugged ridge. My breath was easy and regular and my steps were long and swift. My chivalrous chaperone was flying slowly in front of me. Whatever my pace, whether fast or slow, the distance between us never seemed to change. The bird would dart aside, perhaps to catch an insect, but it always returned promptly to its course.
I reached the crest of the summit, and saw the epic castle in the distance, fold on fold, lying before me. My coveted haven was not so far away, and the great pulses in my temples throbbed. I would reach the top, and I would find refuge in a cold beer.
The forest remained dense, a sea of vegetation with bushes and clinging thorns in which an ignorant or incautious hiker would have tripped and fallen, but I was neither, and I did not forget, as I fled, to notice where my feet fell. My skill and presence of mind kept me from stumbling or from making any racket that would draw the attention of possible extremists who might creep up on me and cut my head off for Allah.
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