Cows’ urine and rabbit poo

It did nothing but rain yesterday. Frau Schmidt had me sitting in front of a “Super Thermolite” heat lamp that looked like it dated back to the Middle Ages, which was supposed to help my congestion. She gave me ointment to rub on my chest, oil drops for my nose to stop me suffocating, and some “bonbons” for my sore throat.

I can’t taste a frickin thing. For all I know, this evening I could’ve been drinking cows’ urine and eating rabbit poo at Gasthof zur Rose, rather than regional white wine and Hungarian goulash soup. It all tasted the same… of nothing. When the chef came over–I think to ask if I liked my meal–all I could do was smile and say, “Ja, gut, danke schön,” and pat my tummy like it was the best stuff I’d ever had.

German food just doesn’t excite me. I don’t start salivating when I look over the menus, at dishes such as: “toast with cured trout fillet with scrambled eggs,” or “young salted herring fillet with apple, pickles, onions in sour cream and boiled potatoes.”

One thing I’ve found strange about Germany is that when you ask for your meal check/bill, the waiter comes immediately, gives you your check, and then hovers around with their change pouch while you scramble to pull money out of your wallet. There seems to be no such thing as a “holding period,” whereby you get a few minutes to look over what you’ve spent, or deliberate with the other guests around the table if the price is correct. Okay, so I had no other guests to talk about my 9,30 €, but that’s not the point.

Despite all of the pampering and gastronomic delights, I’ve decided to move on and make my way to “B” in Liechtenstein. There’s only one—Balzers—so no hat’s required.

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