Working on a farm, eating cheese and meat with hearty bread every morning, and getting lost in the fairy-tale forest just wasn’t Bavarian enough for me. I demanded more. I demanded to be so drowned in Deutschland that I could burst out into the national anthem at any moment.
Well, that (minus the singing of the national anthem) happened yesterday.
It started with me wanting to go to church. I knew I wouldn’t understand a word of it, but I am familiar with the Lutheran and Catholic service forms, so I thought I’d be able to pick up on some of what was going on. Michaela did a bit of research for me, and discovered that the Catholic church in Hahnbach was holding a service in the evening… in the middle of a beer festival!
So around 4:00, Michaela, Zack and I started walking down the paved paths to the church, winding our way through the typical picturesque countryside. We ended up climbing a wooded hill. A Baroque-era church stood at the crest, surrounded by the bustling festival.
The festival was a cross between a carnival and a Renaissance faire. Wooden booths sold toys, pastries, pizza, beer, and even "American mini-donuts!" Benches and tables filled the open spaces, stacked back to back, filled with people laughing and wearing lederhosen and drinking beer out of massive glass mugs. Michaela took us first to the church, which was in the process of being restored. The people of Hahnbach promised God that if He took away the Black Plague, they would build a church. The Plague subsided, and the people were true to their word. It was intricately ornate, highlighted with gold leaf, curling into designs, illustrated with paintings. I wanted to take pictures, but with the pews full of people in intense devotional prayer, it didn’t seem appropriate.
Michaela showed us some small paintings hung in the back of the church. They were of varying artistic talent, showing people in colonial garb praying to different saints. She explained that when a person was healed of an illness or a prayer was answered, he or she was encouraged to paint a picture of this and hang it in the church. These paintings were all from the 1700s.
With still some time left before the service, Michaela offered to buy us drinks and food. How could we say no? Within a few minutes, I was staring at the fare before me: bratwurst resting on a bed of sauerkraut, with a giant pretzel on the side, and a mug of (nonalcoholic) beer. I didn’t stare long— I added a huge glop of mustard to the side of the plate, and dug in. It was unbelievably hearty, flavorful, and tangy: Bavaria on a plate. Within minutes I was stuffed to the brim.
After that, we attended the church service, which was held outside because of the renovations. Although I didn’t understand anything other than “Jesus Christus,” “Gott,” and “heilig,” I breathed in the sensory aspect: fragrant smoke from the censer drifted into the air, catching the beams from the sun setting through the trees. The priest’s Gregorian-chant liturgy whirled among the sound of the church bells’ tolling, stirring the cool air. The distant sounds of the festival. The aftertaste of beer in my mouth. The whole scene was deeply sensory. It felt holy.
As we shouldered our way through the crowd to get home, Michaela told us, “In summertime here, if there is no bratwurst and beer, there would be nobody at church.” And I smiled, because I was truly, unmistakably, in Bavaria.
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