Geoff was stationed in Germany near the Czech border and cousin Charles & his wife Laverne were living 'on the economy' in Hamburg where he was a purchasing agent attached to the Army. Dick and I had 3 whole weeks. It was a lovely trip. The dollar was strong, people were friendly and the scenery was amazing.
We found a lovely small resort hotel called Zum Turken on a mountain above Heidleburg. It had been run by the same family for 4 generations, barring the takeover by the Reich during the war.
Charles and Laverne were attending a Lutheran Conference at 'The General Walker', a large military hotel about a mile above Zum Turken. Charles had learned of a Mexican restaurant on the next mountain over, in Bishophof. You have no idea how good Mexican can sound until you have lived on the wonderful, thick, saucy cuisine of Bavaria for a couple of weeks with no respite.
The trek was on.
The tiny rental Ford was crammed with 3 large guys and 2 medium sized women. With Charles at shotgun we found Bishophof and eventually the restaurant. I vaguely recall a stone built single story ediface with a wishing well in the yard and an Irish setter lying in the sun across the entry. The dog did not stir as we stretched our legs over her and entered. The front was a dark alcove, the center room was bright with windows, small booths and tables. Few people were there...not surprising viewing the stony, narrow, winding and steep approach.
We found a roomy booth in the dark snug and began checking the menue. It was well and truly Spanish/Mexican. Ahhh! Heaven. The food was excellent, the beer delicious and eventually Laverne and I needed to make our way to the Ladies'. The setter now lay across the entry to our booth. We stretched our legs over her again.
Two men who were living the description of 'mountain guide' sat in a small booth by the windows drinking the local brew. Both nodded as we passed on the way to the restroom. On our return the guide facing us smiled at me beerily and slurred "My name is Mike. You haf be-u-tiful moun-tains!" The face of his boothmate turned an even brighter red than his healthy glow. He stuttered and stumbled over the appology for his friend's boozy statement.
"His name not Mike. He is Michel! He is too much drinking!"
I could hear the reactive laughter from the snug.
It wasn't the first time I had been complimented in a bar, and maybe not the last...but I freely admit it was the only time my mountains had been publically admired.