We’re living like bachelorettes; that is, I’m making Kasespaetzle with pre-grated cheese, and we’re hitting up the Billa for sandwiches at lunch.  And I don’t care how many orange Fantas my daughter consumes. We have fallen in love (in 36 hours!) with a type of sparkling mineral water labeled “prickly” for its effervescence. I figure the holiday will be over once our sea freight (or the boys) arrive, so we might as well have some fun.


My German is returning, albeit not as quickly as I’d like. I haven’t said anything like, “My American is not good. Please speak slowly to me.” in German yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

Wicked, unseasonably hot here (33 degrees today!)  I’ve seen a lot more European skin than I probably should have. Even the oldest of Frauleins weren’t sporting any support hose today. Yes, I know that image is one that will not go away easily. And to think I was worried about being properly dressed. 

On Wednesday we ventured out only until early afternoon, to stalk the neighborhood where one of our favorite flats is located, along with the closest park for Clayton Theodore. Then we retired to our Communist-esque apartment during the hottest part of the day. Care to tour our luxe accommodations?

This is the entry and “kitch” of our apartment; the space designated for cooking does not meet my definition of a full kitchen.  Obviously there is an AC vent directly above Clayton Theodore’s spotted belly.
The living and dining space is a spacious 10 x 14; the two sofas convert to beds for the children, and there is a bedroom upstairs for us. Basically, there is no space. I observed our neighbors moving in yesterday with two portable “pack and plays” and wondered if they weren’t putting their children on the terrace to sleep.  And, speaking of terrace…
Our apartment is on the 4th European floor, so we do have a pleasing view from the terrace. And we also have a trouser press. Or “HosenBugler.”  I prefer the latter. 
The apartment has several quirks, if you will. A master switch must be engaged in order for the bathroom lights and the AC to run. We did not figure this out until after our first warm and stuffy night; the 8 page guidebook to the apartment discusses at length the various television channels and country calling codes, but falls a little short on routine matters.
The cooktop can only be used in 15 minute segments without resetting the timer. It’s a safety device, of course, but still a damned annoying one, more annoying than having to wash the dishes by hand.
On the master bed headboard there is a built in radio that runs constantly.  There is no way, or I haven’t yet discovered a way to turn the device off, only down low to a setting akin to a mosquito buzz at night. I’ve taken to sleeping at the other end of the bed, but I’m afraid that may prove a yoga challenge for Tony when he arrives.  I know, I know, I could ask about the radio at the reception desk, but see the second paragraph of this post and you’ll know why I haven’t. The guidebook doesn’t discuss this, it’s not a routine matter.
It’s all part of the adventure.