Drinking in Dorfgastein

Then I realized that it had to be about being in the mountains this past weekend. So I wrote this one:

I am allergic to small towns. I sneeze hard, often spraying snot all over. The back of my throat starts itching in the place that I cannot scratch without gagging myself. My eyes start to burn, water, and turn red like a vampire’s. My doctor tells me that I am allergic to the nature that inevitably surrounds the small town, but I know better. I am sure it is the town itself that afflicts me. So when I heard I would be spending a weekend in Dorfgastein, Austria, I wasn’t very thrilled. It is a very small town and I knew my allergies would be kicking in. When I got there I started sneezing and soon realized that it was the smallest town I’d ever been in. It is so small in fact that the entire population of the town knew about our group before we got there. They knew that we were a group of twenty Americans, we were friends of Frau Weissgarber, and we were staying in the Pension Theresia.

After seeing the entire town in seven minutes, I still had a day of miserable allergy attacks ahead of me. Two tissue boxes and a bottle of Claritin later, the sun finally set and I was very happy when the group decided to go to a bar to get ice cream. Ice cream would surely make me feel better. The ice cream came out in an oversized wine glass with whipped cream, chocolate sauce and a stick that had silver confetti spurting out the top. I quickly swallowed enough calories for the next month. There was a free jukebox and a member of our group picked Sweet Home Alabama just to ensure everyone knew that Americans were in the bar.

After we had rocked out to a few songs, the bar tender came out carrying two circular trays with big circumferences. On the trays were small glasses filled with a reddish liquid. He placed a glass in front of each of us, smiled, and proclaimed something in German with his deep voice. We all stared at the glasses of alcohol like deer in the headlights. We are Mormons, alcohol virgins. Into my head flooded the voices of countless concerned adults with slightly furrowed brows that have said to me, “Don’t drink alcohol, don’t do drugs, and don’t have sex.” My Mormon Church leaders also throw in “don’t dress immodestly, don’t drink coffee, and don’t swear.” Until this point I had, with a few exceptions, adhered to those rules.

Those voices continued to run through my head as I picked up the glass and studied it. Upon a closer look I saw that the opaque drink was the color of my favorite nail polish, OPI St. Petersburgundy. I sniffed it. It smelled too much like cherry cough syrup. It should have smelled better than that. It is alcohol. It should have smelled like rebellion, not like the syrup my mother gives me when I don’t feel quite right. There was one ice cube floating on the top bumping against the right edge of the glass. The condensation on the outside of the glass got my hand wet so I held on a little tighter to keep from dropping it.

That was the first time such a forbidden fruit has been placed in front of me. I found that a little ironic. I was in the smallest town I had ever been in and yet that was the moment I had to choose if I would listen to the adults with furrowed brows or not. Above my head was a sign that says “Kein Alkohol unter 16. Wir achten darafu.” I laughed at the foolishness of the bartender. I wouldn’t be sixteen for a few weeks and yet he had just handed me a drink. I held the glass in my hand, unwilling to put it down or lift it up and drink. It stayed at the halfway point between my mouth and the table waiting for me to make my decision.