In which it is July in Michiana.

This summer, I spent three weeks in various parts of the US, spending time with family and friends and this beautiful, glowy thing called sunlight. The first major chunk of the trip took place in Indiana and southern Michigan, first at the music camp that so positively affected my life from middle school onwards. My brother is still working there, as are many good friends, and my parents, sister-in-law, and niece were all there visiting at the same time. It was an overwhelming day and a half and nigh on impossible to get in the amount of quality time with everyone that I so deeply wanted, as has usually been the case since making my life abroad. Still, it was something, and I am so grateful for that. 

After that avalanche of jetlag and All The Feelings, my parents and I said goodbyes and headed north to see my grandmother, traveling through several hours of Indiana on the way.

Is this what the sky always looks like over Walmart?

Thus began several days of family reunion in northern Indiana and at a gorgeous camp in southern Michigan.The family involved was that of my downright amazing paternal grandmother, her siblings, and all their descendants. This meant a very fun and full few days with her, my parents, and aunts, uncles, and cousins of varying degrees, my immediate family of whom I had not seen in years and the most of the rest of whom I had never met. Oh, and one of my friends from Hamburg had also decided to come along for fun, so we picked him up along the way and enjoyed incorporating him in the family as well. But srsly, what a special time. I assumed my relations (hailing from all over the country) were probably a fun bunch of people, and I was so pleased to finally meet them. Cool, creative, compassionate -- what a treat to have had this time together, to have learned about our family history, and strengthened our connections.

The camp itself where the 40 or so of us gathered was pretty magical, and had some beautiful walking trails and boardwalks. The lake offered much-needed refreshment from the heatwave and I was thrilled to go kayaking with Dad for the first time since leaving Maine.

An early morning stroll:

 

And a morning full of clouds:

The weekend had to end eventually, and with many goodbyes the family loaded into cars and spread itself back out across the country, glad for the time together and somewhat mellowed by the uncertainty of when we might all next meet again. Luckily a large contingent of my immediate family got to spend one more evening together back at home base in Indiana, which I greatly treasured.

That time, too, came to an end the next morning, and before we knew it, my parents, Hamburg friend and I were driving south to the airport and then flying over fields and farms to dry, dusty deserts, through storm systems and clouds of all kinds, finally landing under a dramatic New Mexico sky for the start of the next adventure.

More on that later.

In which the hills are alive with the sounds of the Wiesn.

Oh, what a weekend in that most Bavarian of capitals, that mecca of prachtvolle Tracht, and home to my friend Jules since she left our Baumhaus over a year ago. As our calendars finally coincided enough to allow for a visit, I flew south to Munich at a painfully early hour on Saturday morning and promptly and passionately slept the rest of the morning away while Jules tended to her studies. My second start to the day was much more pleasant and involved a lot of sunshine and umazing udon before hitting the Wiesn.

In the six years that I've lived in Germany, it took me the first two or so to figure out what this famous Oktoberfest was, another to figure out it's actually in September, and up until two days ago to go there. Ah, Oktoberfest, the Proud Birthplace of Bavarian Stereotypes. Proclaimed the "world's largest Volksfest", it is a very, very large fair where a very, very large number of people in dirndl and lederhosen pay a lot of money to drink a very, very large amount of beer out of very, very large beer steins. Of course there are also roller coasters and other rides that you might want to think twice about getting on after several steins and large quantities of meat and spätzle. Walking through it on a beautiful Saturday afternoon, it was very much like walking through the Hamburger Dom -- Hamburg's own very, very large triannual fair -- with the exception of the brewery tents and holy moley lederhosen. The majority of the crowd was dressed in cleavage-empowering dirndl dresses and "these-leather-shorts-will-make-any-macho-man-look-like-a-little-boy" lederhosen, from high-quality haute couture to the gaudiest, gauziest kitsch of the kitsch. And this all over the city, both locals and tourists (of all ethnicities) alike. Jules says it's not like that all the time, but for all the people who only visit Germany for Oktoberfest, I can certainly see why the beer-drinking, Tracht-wearing German stereotypes are so persistent. 

If you're thinking, "Gee, that kind of situation sounds like it could pose a few security hazards", you're not alone. In the wake of scary stuff in France and elsewhere, they upped security this year and were not allowing anyone to bring large bags into the fairgrounds, and were randomly checking the contents of smaller bags that were allowed in. Still not the safest, and honestly I don't think it would make much of a difference to anyone with a plan to do something terrible, but hey. Wiesn, ho!

Anyway, we walked through, had a good time people-watching, and then left for quieter streets and the most delicious ice cream I have ever experienced.

If you'd like to see more, I just discovered the webcams on the official Oktoberfest website (and am amazed that with all the money they make, their English-language site still says things like: "We expect woderfull weather for the 2nd Oktoberfest-Week").

Elsewhere, in Museumland, sunbathing.

So that was an entertaining cultural experience to check off the list, but the truly woderfull adventure and absolutes Highlight of the weekend started the next day on a packed train to Tegernsee -- a picturesque town on a lake about 50 km south of Munich and kick-off point for the Bavarian Alps. Ever since my time spent hiking in Austria last year, I've been dreaming of the Alpenland and wanting to get back. Fernweh at its finest. Therefore, I asked Jules if there was a way for us to go a-mountaining and yes, oh, yes, came the reply. Therefore, I strapped on the trusty hiking boots, we found the train, found a trail map, slathered on some sunscreen, agreed on a general direction and off we went through the town, along a creek, and up and up on a gentle trek to the Kreuzbergalm.

The trail was busy, especially at the old café at the top where the last buttermilk, Würstl and Kasbrot of the year was being served. People of all ages were enjoying the last of the warm weather, and to our particular delight, there were many happy dogs to cuddle with our eyes. 

We chose a different route coming down that luckily had more sheep than people. Just us and a couple o' leaping lambsies, clanging cowbells and the truly tangible warmth of the sun. And how neat that now, at the end of September with the leaves on the brink of yellow, it so often looked like a forest in springtime.

 
The people reappeared again en masse once we reached the town, and we wandered around for a while at our leisure. 

Why yes, those magical sunbeams do smell very strongly of incense.

 

This poofball pom-puppy was hilariously practicing its "attaque de puce!" on another dog's face.  

A trio of alphorn players was performing in front of the castle. I'd never heard them played live before and was impressed with their beautifully clear tones. Maybe it was the swigs of beer consumed by the players between each piece, though more likely it was was their years of practice and magical mustaches. 

We slowly wandered our way along the lake in the late evening sun before boarding a train back to Munich. 

One kickass burger and a deep sleep later, I found myself back on a train, a plane, and poof! back at my desk at work in Hamburg, as if the weekend had never happened. I might doubt it, too, if it weren't for the sore muscles and still-warm memories of a perfect weekend fresh in my mind -- not to mention a small sampling of photographic evidence. 

Thanks, Jules.