Picnic

K had been up with some new guests, as well as the French, as well as the Austrian winemaker who had been just passing through, until 2 am; so naturally the next day she organized a picnic for 40.
Thomas, as those who love him know, has a strong instinct to protect the vulnerable, the duckling who seems to be paddling but not quite keeping up. So his sights are set squarely on K. He is this close to having her kidnapped and sent to a zen retreat for a year or two.
We sent Frederick with the group into the wilderness, and took the long way over the mountain to the picnic. It took about 2.5 hours, (900 calories according to Thomas' special watch) which is not long for lech standards. But there has been a cumulative effect of all this hiking, and we both announced to each other and no one in particular, that it was time to stop. It is time to lie on our backs while someone dribbles chocolate mousse into our mouths. It is time to go sailing.

But we arrive in a place that is simply a joke it is so picturesque: little hut, grazing cows, bubbling river, and turquoise swimming hole at the end. We jump in because cold water does wonders for legs that never ever want to walk up hill again.
This is the spread: sausages followed by sausages. I am not kidding. Little salamis that I briefly thought we were supposed to roast, (G, in his most five star Austrian hotel owner way, gently pointed out that one does not roast a salami. ) then bigger ones...bratwurst, weiss wurst..all of them,,which we put on sticks and cook. (warm? hell if I know) Of course I attempt this with a tiny little branch...again, the error of my ways is pointed out by someone....um, San Francisco? that is not going to work. The American wife of the 15th generation wine maker says to me, yea well just wait til it comes time to make smores! we will crush them. Also the sight of her husband with his vuarnets (ok maybe he didn't actually wear those, but it is funny) to protect his face from the smoke, and this slightly dissatisfied, unsure, skeptical look that only a 15th generation French winemaker can make, is killing me. If only I had a picture.
K had made potato salad, bread, blah...at this point I am shoving anything in. Then a beer cooled in the river, then collapse on blanket listening to all these wonderful Austrians talking really fast and my brain is having so much fun trying to keep up. The accent is difficult to dissect, especially when they speak quickly- it feels like being pulled along behind the car. But this particular accent is the voice of the mountains to me, and I bathe in it.

We leave before the rain comes, get on a little local bus, and head back through the valley back to the village. K then goes home and prepares dinner for another 10. Thomas and I go out to dinner because we cannot watch this. She says, oh we are brining the chicken for Tuesday!

Thomas is sure she will be soon be seen in nothing but her apron, her protective onion glasses, and a gun running through town killing all tourists.