by Oipndudeln in Middle Earth – That was yesterday… Oda?
Oiso, it’s me, Sepp. And I’ll say right up front: It was awesome! Well, if it hadn’t been for Zenzi, my wife, who circled around me like a bloodhound at the folk festival. But let’s start at the beginning.
Yesterday was the day: Oipendudeln in the Shire, with the Blaubeerschnuten and other bands. Well-known bands, but I forgot their names. Never mind, (tasty little and big people, every note like a freshly whipped foam cap on a beer). The festival area in front of the tavern was packed, hobbits had set up folding chairs, and a dwarf – I think it was Bragomor – brought two-metre yodelling horns with him (“for the Blassloge!” he said). And right at the entrance: proper beer barrels from the Mälzer Brauhaus. I don’t know if it was sponsored, but I didn’t pay anything. Nothing! A miracle, I say, a holy, drinkable miracle. So I helped myself. One, two, three… nine pints? Yeah, something like that. “How many have you had?” the barman asked me. “Enough that I can still remember my name.” – “What’s your name?” – “I’ll be right back,” I said.
Music is o’ganga, a real Gaudi. My heart was beating in three-four time, my legs in Plattler mode.
And then I saw her: Mrs Tunvil. Oho! Silver blonde hair, like freshly shaved moonlight, that’s why they call it “moon soil”, I think, but whatever, and wood in front of the hut, you lie down there. I’ll just say: a magnificent specimen of a woman… I also, polite as one is in Bavaria:
“Servas, you lovely creature, would you like to come with me to the shed for a moment?”
She laughs – a laugh like a velvet-covered bell. I was close to success…
when a cold wind blew in my neck: “Sepp.”
Cold shock. It was Zenzi, my old lady.
She stands there, hands on her hips, looking like, well, I won’t say it. “Sepp, sneak away, leave Tunvil alone.” End of the song. Tunvil waves friendly, I wave back – and get an elbow in the ribs from Zenzi.
Good. Plan B: Meanwhile, sway to the music, sing a little (I have talent, at least I think so). Luna is sitting on the bench… Lunä… Lunatic? Damn, what’s her name… what was it again? Never mind, I’ll stick with: Luna. A pretty girl, a good figure, everything fits. A bit of wood in front of the hut, but that’s okay. I introduce myself politely:
“Hello, Luna, do you feel like it – would you like to come with me? In the back of the barn, a little window”
She grins and rolls her eyes: “Sepp, you’re a dog. Get lost!” I can see it smouldering; two more sentences and it would have been over. Then, of course, Zenzi comes around the corner: “No way! That’s something you do at home!”
I think to myself: “Yeah, if only something sensible would happen…” – bang I get a slap on the head.
“Leave the woman alone!” he says.
I nod wisely: “Yeah, okay woman,” and continue on my way.
I think: Plon C – Dringa. Someone says: “Sepp, try the Beorninger honey schnapps!”
“Honey?” I say. “It’s practically medicine.”
Two shots and I’m medically completely taken care of. I yodel, I dance, I explain to a dwarf how to properly make a woman happy (“Look closely until you get it right!” I said), the music plays,
everything was great.
In between, I meet Mrs Tunvil at the bar again. She raises her glass: “To the music!”
I raise mine too: “To you!” “To … Zenzi,” she says with a wink. I sigh: “To Zenzi.” When she has to go
And just as I’m about to take a second sip, the brewer’s dog jumps up at my legs. I shout: “Oida!” – “That’s not Oida, that’s Hasstel,” says the brewer. “Hasstel, off!” The dog sits down obediently and looks at me as if to say, “Sepp, stay clean.” I thought to myself, I’ve had too much to drink, and then I left.
Right at the back, where the birch trees stand crooked like my life, there sits Bragomor again.
His face looks like a bent-over cabbage after a night at the pub.
A hobbit leans forward: “I’m a bit… ” – “Wait, I’ll get a bucket!” I say.
Five minutes later, the whole gang is there: elves, dwarves, the brewmaster, the pipe-weed lover – all the belly rebels of Middle-earth.
And I say: “There it is, the Kotzhügl.”
I call this thing “the Kotzhügl” – a place of pilgrimage for the exuberant. Every pint, every shot, every yodelling bonus counts twice there.
I didn’t look any further, otherwise I would have felt sick. But to be honest: it’s worth seeing at a festival like this. Everyone should go there at least once. Whether you’re a victim or a visitor.
The Zenzi finally finds me there. “Sepp, where are you?” – “Here I am” I say –
She grabs me by the ear and drags me away from the hill. I muttered: “I just wanted to help, sweetheart.”
On the way home, I dare to pay her one last compliment: “Zenzi, I love you.” “
She sighs, smiles a little and says: “Me too, you idiot.”
“So, I’m a proper idiot,” I say proudly.
At home – I’m lying like a herring in a row – I think about the blueberry song and the cool Tunvil and Luna. Oipndudeln was a bull’s eye: music to kneel down to, beer to lie down to, friends, stories, and a hill for great regrets. Tradition is tradition, after all.
Oipndudeln? Sauguad!
Zenzi? Unerbittlich.
I? A Gentleman, ja eh kloar
P.S. And I heard that next year there will be 16 days of Oipendudeln. I’m already looking forward to it!
