Charles Lindbergh, A Thrashed Turbo-Deisel and David Hasselhoff

My driver, I swear he said his name is Charles Lindbergh, looks mild enough--late 40's, trim mustache, glasses--but he is absolutely flogging the little Citroen. We're hurtling from Munich to the Austrian border at about 180 kph. I'm a bit thrashed myself and fall asleep for a bit, waking up to the same hum of the motor, the speedo still riding high, and a little blue sign on the side of the road denoting that we are crossing in to Austria. He begins to talk to me about the big downhill ski race in Kitzbuhel--he builds the finish area for it--and as we slingshot past bicycles, trucks and fun-spoliers, he gives me a general lay of the land.

There's an inn that we pass (quickly) and Charles Lindbergh tells me it has been open every single day since 1750-something. I ask if they serve beer and his return look tells me he now thinks I'm an idiot. He says only, "Schnietzel." Then he asks about Sarah Palin.

The airline lost my bags, all of them, tools, jackets, underoos, so when the car stumbles to the curb of my hotel and gasps for mercy, I make the general stop at the desk and let then know to get the gear to me asap when it arrives. I say goodbye to Charles Lindbergh and find my room for a deep and drooling nap.

Now maybe it is the altitude, the travel velocity, or that I have a strange response to hearing the German language, but I dreamed of David Hasselhoff. He was dressed up in his Knight Rider issue and getting married. Who the lucky bride was, I don't know, but I was crying like a baby. Inconsolable.

So, I woke at about 5 this morning. The sun is on the mountain tops. I can see brown cows on the far hills. My bags still aren't here, but there is work to do. Tchuss.