Okterberfest

The Polka. Was it the official dance of Bohemia? Or Bavaria? And then Germany? Not certain, but drinking Bavarian beer and dancing to grown men dressed in lederhosen playing tubas and horns at Oktoberfest is where Fiona's next adventure begins. Ellie, Maya, Abby and I were last  found at the Bavarian Inn, located in one of the the beer-capitols, Milwaukee,Wisconsin.

     Under the chalet, breaking for a rest after our polka-la-looza,  we ate kielbasa sausage with sauerkraut, and glanced around the outdoor hall. We were by far the youngest of those polkaing, and no longer that young any more. On the parquet dance floor, women with beautiful blue hair swirled in up-do's embraced arms with handsome...distinguished gents with alpine feathered caps. The couples had gracefully out-polka-ed us. Hard to keep up with stout German lineage.

      But Abby still danced. Possibly, since she boasted of her direct line of predecessors to Poland and Germany, she couldn't back down, or be out oom-pa-pa-ed by her elders.The three of us looked on, as she polka-ed hard, like she was head-banging in a mosh pit. Maybe she hadn't made it for all the Foo concert last month, and was making up for lost dance time.

     I took a swig of my ale from the German beer stein, and the lid flipped down and slapped my lip."Time to get out there and polka our Edelweiss hearts out."

     Maya and Ellie bowed out, and let me go on my own. I met up with Abby as she unhooked arms with her latest polka partner, an octogenarian wearing a felt Miesbacher jacket. The band started up a rockin' version of Roll out the Barrel  and the crowd shuffled, or hurried, out to dance. Abby and I, in front of the stage, polka danced. And didn't stop. Well, eventually we needed our bier.

     But we made a decision. We'd celebrate our fiftieth birthdays in Munich, Germany for Oktoberfest. That will be an adventure.

Road to Ruin

A crisp September morning  we drove five hours to see the Foo Fighters in St. Paul, Minnesota. We piled into a minivan loaded with liquor and trail mix to see Dave Grohl. The four of us, Ellie, Maya, Abby and me, Fiona, broke away from our daily lives.With eleven kids, total, between us, homework, school, sibling rivalries and chauffeuring ruled our days. We headed north for a night of Foo.

Maya and I talked about wheat and carbs, and debated over who was sexier on "Flight of the Conchords", Bret or Jemaine?
We listened to the Pixies and Bob Mould.
In St. Paul we ate a late lunch pumped with iron and fiber: spinach salads.
And drank. Newcastles, chardonnay and possibly a dirty martini or two. I think.
We arrived at the Excel Center for Dave primed and ready for some head banging. But we forgot one thing. With so much talk about food and healthy diet we forgot Lesson 101 in drinking: eat big to drink big.

Dave finished wailing "The Pretender" and Abby made tracks to the ladies room to make best friends with a toilet.

"She needs water and potassium!" Ellie shouted above Taylor's crashing cymbals. Her honed mom instincts kicked in fast and hard. I scrambled through the wall of sweaty gyrating bodies in the mosh pit to the concession stands. The sweet little old lady, dressed in a red and white candy-striped shirt at the counter, I was sure, would help us.

          "We need a banana!"

          "Bananas? No." She yelled struggling to control fits of laughter.

          Maya scurried around to another vendor asking for bananas. I heard more laughter echo in the cavernous hall outside the arena, while the Foo played

 "Road to Ruin".

Ellie, with Abby propped on her shoulder, hobbled out of the bathroom. Maya ordered a wheelchair from one of the snickering security guards. We plopped our fellow Foo fan in for a ride back to the hotel to sleep it off. I danced to "Monkey Wrench". Maya pushed Abby to the elevator. Ellie bought a tee-shirt. We did the right thing and left the concert early for our fallen "Hero".


I don't know why but I truly believed that Dave would notice the four moms missing from the thousands of screaming fans in the mosh pit. I expected Dave to stop the foreplay with his guitar and give us a shout out, "Hey where the f*** are you four going?" (Insert gum smacking here)...Oh well. He didn't.

We missed Dave, Taylor and the rest of the Foo Fighters' in concert, and belly laughed until our sides hurt the whole way home.  Was it an adventure?  "F*** Yeah!"