Greetings from Munich, or Munchen in German, which I’m tempted to pronounce “munchkin” as though this Bavarian capital is the Land of Oz. It may as well have been Narnia, though, on Feb. 14 as a light snowfall dampened the sounds of a bustling morning in Marienplatz, the city center.
I spent five Euro to climb the 13 flights of stairs to the top of St. Peter’s Church, soaking in the snow globe scene.
The precipitation slowed by the time I descended back to the town square for the glockenspiel concert at the top of the hour.
The night prior, my crew and I imbibed at Hofbrauhaus Munchen, one of the famed beer halls. The German menus stumped a fellow pilot, who asked our waiter for a recommendation.
“I recommend an English menu,” he said.
A liter of hefeweizen or helles is always a safe option, as is the wiener schnitzel or “schweinshaxe,” pork knuckle that will challenge everything you think you know about the size of pigs.
Until next time, auf wiedersehen.
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