The Day of Wine and Posers (or: How to Piss Off the Gift Shop Gestapo)

I’m not usually in the habit of providing a disclaimer before I let my sardonic interpretation of an event run wild, but I will say this about the upcoming anecdote: I try never to get slapped with that label which is so widely scorned (and rightfully so), known as the “Ugly American.” But sometimes that steadfast avoidance is at odds with my rabid infatuation with squeezing every conceivable drop of humor out of a situation, like a mentally deranged lemonade-stand operator. So please ignore the seeds mixed in with the tart essence of what follows, because it should nonetheless quench any thirst for sarcasm and hyperbole…just as this disclaimer has probably killed your taste for metaphors.

And now, on to the story…

Krems, Austria, in the Wachau Valley, is one of those idyllic slices of European culture that is often fondly reminisced about following a vacation, once you’re comfortably settled into your airplane seat or lounging at the local bar back home.  Yes, it’s a beautiful place, indeed.

Until you make your first enemy there.

Something reminded me today of an incident during our honeymoon years ago. It could have been the way the sunlight sparkled on the pond out behind our house, like it did on the surface of the Danube. Or it could have been the way the cashier at Winn-Dixie slam-dunked the cantaloupe down on my loaf of pumpernickel and didn’t even try to pretend like it was an accident. Either way, it brought back this memory.

While driving back towards Germany from Budapest, Hungary, my husband and I thought how quaint it would be to cruise through some of the Austrian vineyards along the way. Ah, how romantic! And what a great idea to pull spontaneously into one of the wineries to check it out, since no one knew us there or understood what lushes we are. In Europe, our sometimes over-indulged wine palates would just seem “sophisticated.”

There was a small crowd already gathered within this elegant-looking Weingut, so we joined them just as one of the employees was walking amongst them, passing around flutes of sparkling wine (called Sekt over there). Delighted, we accepted a couple of glasses and toasted to our good fortune and impeccable timing.

A big brawny dressed-to-the-nines woman was talking, obviously presenting us with a mandatory education about the bubbly stuff. She was speaking in German of course, which, since we’d been too lazy to finish going through all the Rosetta Stone courses at home, meant that we merely stood there and smiled.

Whatever. Just keep the booze coming.

At last, when everyone began to disperse and exit the building, the gentleman next to me, who was obviously a local, turned and smiled, saying—well, something—to which I responded with a warm smile of my own.

“Sie sprechen Deutsch nicht,” I said lightly, to let him know that I was not exactly fluent enough for a chat.

He looked startled and then simply confused, before nodding politely and shuffling away. (Later, in the car, I would realize that I’d just told the poor guy, “You don’t speak German!” I had actually meant to apologize for my lack of linguistic skills, but ended up only hurting this dude’s feelings, like I was implying his primitive monkey-speech was beneath my cultured Deutsche tongue. By the look on his face, I might as well have sneered and added “you dumbass!”)

In any case, we next ambled up to the samples counter to greet the woman with graying blonde hair and the meticulously starched charcoal pencil skirt who’d been addressing us all in such an amiable manner. We asked if she spoke English. She said, “Ja,” which made me think she didn’t understand the question. Then her dark eyes lowered to the glasses in our hands. She snapped her gaze back up and, with the expression of someone whom you’ve just told they look like Gary Busey, she growled, “You are not part of the tour group. What do you want?”

And it may have been a trick of the light, but I swear I saw her pupils flare bright red and there was the distant sound of agonized souls screaming from the depths of hell’s Fifth Circle.

In unison, we immediately set our glasses on the counter and stepped back, like we’d both seen and heard the same thing. At the very least–and judging by the speck of foam at the corner of her mouth–she was about to whip out a ruler and go all “Blues Brothers Nun” on us.

It was at that point that it finally dawned on us that we’d accidentally joined a formal tour-by-appointment in progress and had innocently pilfered a few sips of Sekt. That shouldn’t land us in Austrian prison, though, right? (A place I think she moonlighted at on the weekends.) But I was ready to run if she grabbed a bottle, busted it against the counter’s edge, and held the jagged end toward me, screaming in German that she would cut me.

Now, ordinarily, in our experience, Austrians are the embodiment of hospitality, ready with a genuine smile and a friendly “Grüß Gott!” when they meet you. But this chick was, instead, the embodiment of a Mel Gibson mood swing. It soon became apparent that what flowed through her veins was little more than eis wasser and misanthropic contempt.  Sure, she could fake an air of affability for paying guests. Arrive unannounced, however, and you’d best hope the authorities can later identify you by your dental records. But optimistically, we thought we knew how to make it up to her.

Buy something. (Or sacrifice a goat. It was a coin toss.)

We asked her where the gift shop was, which we figured would automatically untwist her lederhosen. The scowl not leaving her face, she jabbed a finger at a doorway behind her and ordered us to wait there for her. (And never had the Lord’s Prayer flashed so desperately through my brain as in that moment.) Then she swept past us, pasted on the hospitable smile, and went out to bid farewell to the real customers. You know: the ones who had not just thrown dog sh*t all over her day. So we wandered into the back room, hoping it really would turn out to be a gift shop and not her private dungeon where she water-boarded wayward tourists like us.

Thankfully, there were the usual cutesy cork stoppers and whimsical wine bags along with actual bottles for sale. We proceeded to browse for a while, selected two Grüner Veltliners, and hoped it would be enough to let us escape with our kneecaps unbroken. When she returned, we set our goods nervously beside the cash register. We waited, holding our breath, while she eyed them. After an uncomfortable pause, I grabbed a keychain with some grapes dangling from it and slid it toward her before casually wrapping a hand around my throat to protect my jugular.

That final addition of merchandise evidently met with her approval. So when it became fairly certain that she had decided not to descend upon us in a blind fury and feast on our entrails, she rang us up. She smiled, which was actually more terrifying than her I’ve-got-a-pair-of-rusty-pliers-with-your-name-on-it glare from earlier.

“Danke. Have a nice day.” But then her voice lowered and she leaned toward us over the counter.  “Next time, you will have an appointment, ja?”

Red pupils. Distant chorus of screams.

We were gone so fast, it would have shamed a Kenyan Olympic athlete. But just before we reached the front doors, my husband snatched an empty wine glass that one of the authorized visitors had left on a table. He shook it at me.

“I’m taking this,” he announced defiantly.

And before either one of us ended up being buried with that wine glass in the vineyard out back, we hoofed it to the Ford Focus rental and never looked in the rearview mirror again. Because chances were very good that we’d see Frau Ratched morphing into her natural demonic form and taking wing.

But damn. I gotta admit: As much as we woke up in a cold sweat on the nights to follow, those Grüners were tasty.