Sehr Gut!

I was returning from a sojourn in Europe. Three months in England and a fortnight “on the continent”. My port of exit was Zurich and I had hours to spend before the flight home. I had walked through the whole airport and found myself near a watering hole. Suddenly the idea of a beer felt very appealing.

I had never had a drink alone. I thought that it was as good a first as any and went into the bar. I pushed myself up on to the bar stool. Promptly, the burly bartender with a walrus moustache and huge belly came to me and asked “what can I give you sir?”

“A beer.”

“Which one sir?”

The only name that popped up (or the only one I knew?) was Heinekin. “Heinekin”, I said.

The bartender looked offended, almost.

“We serve only Swiss Beers here sir”, he said, imperiously.

I had to ask him.

“What do you recommend?”

“A Halden Gut* sir”, he replied without hesitation.

“Halden Gut it is, then”, I said. He did not look like a man one could easily disagree with, especially after offending him with the name of a Dutch beer.

He smiled and plomped a huge mug of beer, which looked appetizing. I was suddenly thirsty and took a long swig. It tasted good.

The bartender was scrutinizing me closely. “Good?”, he asked.

I decided to undo some of the offence I had caused by ordering a Dutch beer. He sounded like a German speaking Swiss. I decided to try my luck with my meagre German. I said,

“Halden Gut, sehr gut” and nodded with approval, vigorously.

Now he beamed. Nodded jovially and went on to attend to another customer.

The one and the only Halden Gut I have had in my life.

Sehr gut!

* I looked for Halden Gut on Google after writing this and find that it is brewed by Heinekin Switzerland! Did the bartender not know? Or did it change hands after 1985, the dateline of this story? I do not know!

Van Gogh? Who?

I was in Eindhoven, in the Netherlands, for a three-month long stay there. On a Sunday, I went to the nearby village of Neunen. Being an admirer of Vincent van Gogh, I wanted to see the house he lived in when he was in Neunen and the house of his first, unrequited, love.

It is a small village and I thought that it would be easy to find the place. I walked around the totally deserted streets and saw no road signs pointing to the place I sought. I had assumed that there would be. I came across a statue of the man himself, walking with a satchel with art material on his back. Click!

Further down the road I came across a pub promisingly named after the very man I was after. Confident of getting the directions to Vincent’s place I walked into the pub and asked the lady cleaning the floor if she could direct me to the place van Gogh lived in. She had a blank look on her face. She did not even seem to know what I was talking about. She looked questioningly at the small bearded man sitting on a barstool, smoking, (he almost looked like a small version of Vincent himself!) who shook his head with certainty - he too did not know what I was talking about.

How could I go back, having come to Neunen, without seeing Vincent’s house?

There was a small coffee shop nearby. I had a coffee (and the free biscuit that comes with it in many Dutch coffee shops) and without much hope, asked the young lad manning the shop about Vincent’s house.

Yippee! He knew and gave me directions.

I could then see his (father’s) house, his lady love’s house, the church where his father preached, one of the churches that Vincent painted while in Neunen…..

Mission accomplished.

At the end of the long walk I came across an organisation connected with Vincent and a small museum run by it. I even learnt that they organise a tour of the village with Vincent as the theme – on weekdays! Alas I had no time to visit the place on a weekday. I am thankful for even that one visit.

Rome to Which All Roads Lead

It was my second visit to Germany and the first drive on one of its famous Autobahn. As I and my colleague left the Frankfurt am Main Flughafen (airport) and were driven on the Autobahn, I saw a road sign that said Ausfahrt. I assumed that it was the name of a city or town to which the road below it led.

A little later, I saw the very same name again. I thought it was another road leading to the same place. Then every time there was a branch off on the Autobahn, there was the very same name on the board above it. As we drove further, it looked as if the very name was on the other side of the Autobahn. Now, how could that be?

I decided, almost in desperation, that Ausfahrt meant Rome. After all, don’t “all roads lead to Rome”? Our driver did not know much English. I gingerly asked him anyway. “What does Ausfahrt mean?”

My pronunciation must have been so bad that he did not understand me. As we were struggling to make him understand that, there was that board again. I frantically pointed at it.

“Ach zo! Auzfagggrt! Sat iss eggzit” he said.

Ach so!!!!

Read this for further enlightenment including a picture of the Ausfahrt