Instead we rented a car and headed south towards the Hungarian border and a lowland lake system called the Neusiedler See. The region is well known among birders as prime habitat for migratory waterfowl. We found a bungalow to rent at a small resort complex called ‘Feriendorf Vogelpardies’ (roughly translates to ‘Holiday Village Bird Paradise’(???)).

This must be the stupidest thing we’ve done in the last 10 months, and at first we didn’t handle it very well. For awhile we all stomped our feet and hollered at each other that it must be YOUR FAULT! Then we went down to the bakery and had a piece of strudel and decided it was not such a big deal.

This dear old lady with her granddaughter is Grossmutti Danner (Leopold’s mom).

Come dinnertime we’d drive into town to stop in at Das Gasthaus Traube. A jolly and rotund proprietor named Josef Gruber greeted us as long-lost friends each time he saw us.

It’s a Festival Day at the Village Square and Josef asked us along. Everyone was dressed in their Tyrolean finery (dirndls, lederhosen and loden jackets) and the village band merrily thumped out waltzes and polkas. Food and beer were sold, and two fair mädchen walked about dispensing fiery schnapps from a small wooden cask.

The festival is a centuries-old custom whereby money is raised for funding of village civic works such as street repair, fire/medical service, etc. Josef was the Master of Ceremonies and made us feel welcome. Much of the money raised comes from the final event of the day: a ‘raffle’ wherein the Maibaum (the gaily decorated great pole raised on May 1) is won by the person who last puts money into the hat when a giant alarm clock goes off. Several times we put money in the hat but fortunately did not win, because we’d be hard pressed to send home a 30-meter tall Spruce tree.

After breakfast we said goodbye to the Lackners and headed off on our way. They’ve invited Ty to return and spend next summer with them. We drove south out of the mountains to Lienz, and crossed the Italian border at Helm. This part of Italy still feels very German, except that immediately upon crossing the border the roads and driving courtesy noticeably deteriorate. We continued southwest to Bolzano where we tried to find lunch and were lost for hours. From there we found a tiny road up and over Dolomites at Mendhalpass, and after a long day found a hotel room at Tutto L’Anno.

We came to a toll-station near Milano that was very confusing. We stopped and pressed buttons, but nothing happened, and since the gate was already raised we gave up trying to figure out what to do and continued on. Mistake. 150 km’s later when we tried to exit the autostrada north of Turin, the man in the toll-booth got real upset that we didn’t have the right ticket. He spoke naught but Italian, and after 45 minutes of fussing around charged us a 12,000 Lira toll, and gave us what looks to be a fine for 108,000 Lira ($65US). Since we can’t figure out what to do with the darn thing, we’re keeping it as a souvenir. So now we’re international fugitives.

All afternoon we drove through picturesque mountain towns northwest of Turin, looking for lodging. Citizens of Turin seeking respite from their hot, smelly city had already taken every appealing room. Late in the day we drove down into the Po Valley and finally found a room at Hotel Griselda in the ancient town of Saluzzo.

Dan and Kaaren had a memorable culinary experience at a little, hole-in-the-wall restaurant called Trattoria dei Basso; the manager of our hotel recommended it to us. Only after being seated did we realize that we were in an establishment for discerning gourmet diners. Each of our several courses of pastas, grilled fungi, veal, etc. was a culinary delight, but what was most special was the cheese at the end of the meal. The proprietor wheeled up a cart piled with many dozens of different cheeses for our selection. We know nothing of cheese, so we asked him to choose for us. He neatly cut off chunks and arranged a plate of 14 different varieties and indicated the order in which we should sample them. We savored each distinct flavor and texture, clearing the palate with a sip of sweet cherry liqueur before trying another. The last morsel in the middle of the plate was the ‘King Cheese’, made in a village high up where the Po River begins, called Castel Magno. In a word . . .exquisite!