I Have Lived The Sound of Music

I ended up going to Neuschwanstein after all. Despite the crankiness of my last post, I must admit that the excursion was worth taking. However, it definitely wasn’t because of Castle Neuschwanstein, which was even kitschier than expected. The outlook was bleak from the outset: before the bus even stopped at the foot of the hill leading to the castle, Brandon and I had already decided that it looked like it was made out of plastic. A closer inspection made the castle seem even more fake, and the call number system of announcing tours only heightened the Disney effect. It turns out that the facade of Neuschwanstein wasn’t the only thing that inspired old Walt; he probably learned a thing or two about herding tourists there, too.

After the tourist has fought epic crowds to get through the castle’s front gate, he must work hard to maintain his position in the courtyard until his number is called. At that point, he can enter one of three fenced-in line areas. These strongly resemble the passages that cows follow to the slaughter. The only difference is that you pay nine euros to secure a place in one of these. When the tour time comes, the gate at the end of the fence swings open, and a nice young Bavarian man encourages the tourist to go forward, inward, into the Fairy Tale Castle. Thus begins a 40-minute express jog through the elaborate, silly rooms with elaborate, silly paintings of scenes from Wagner operas on the walls. The tour dumps the tourist right in front of a silly gift shop–one of two in the castle. In fact, I’m fairly sure that about half of the castle is occupied by commercial operations.

We stayed in a state-owned hostel in Oberstdorf that night. It turns out that every German establishment with a cash register–even state-owned youth hostels–sells alcohol. And so I and some friends found ourselves wandering around a rural Alpen community at midnight with a hostel desk attendant named „Ringo“ (he had the hair) looking for cows to tip. Luckily (or unluckily; it’s hard to tell) it was too cold for cows to be at pasture overnight. We came back less injured than we would have to find that the entire hostel was awake, and a good portion of it was speaking very loudly.

After breakfast, we got onto a bus, were told that we as a group were not tough enough to enjoy a „real hike in the Alps“, had our shoes inspected for appropriate soles, and were discouraged from coming. By „we“ I really do mean everyone in the bus. Our hike leader was very serious about his Wanderung. I decided to come despite the fact that my shoes had been judged unsuitable. The hike turned out to be not the lowest common denominator country stroll I had expected, and rather a breakneck scramble up the melting-wet face of Mount Fellhorn. I’m sorry mom, but I really messed up my Campers.

The good news is that when we finally made it to the top I came the closest I’ve ever come to Arcadia. A few happy-looking people of all ages relaxed and walked around a clear blue lake nestled in a ring of rolling green hills. Large brown dairy cows with giant bells on their necks used the same paths as the hikers, providing surprisingly pleasant background music. A few dragonflies buzzed over the lake and the sun shone improbably bright. It’s so sad that Ludwig spent so much money to build a personal paradise when something like this was already so close.