In which men in lederhosen are more attractive than they have any right to be.

12:31 -- Deutschlandsberg, Austria

Orientation has been held in what we have taken to calling the uber-hostel (with an umlaut over the u, but I'm not technically savvy enough to make that happen except in my imagination). This hostel is warm, with big fluffy pillows, really great water pressure, bowling alleys and a sauna. Which is great, because it's freezing outside (and even more freezing in the castle up the hill, which I toured, and in which people were long ago tortured in the following method: placed in a barrel [our charming Austrian tour guide called it a "large wine box, ja?"] and fed until the natural processes of the human body ate away at the prisoner.)

Far and away the best story to come of my adventures thus far has to do with a group of traditional Austrian folk dancers, led with distinction by Hans, an old man accordion polka player whose wife sent us baked pastries. The group of dancers (all men) came directly from the pages of Abercrombie & Lederhosen and taught us to dance (but not very well) and always were encouraging more drinking (one of them came up to me with a big bottle of clear liquid and said, "Shot, ja?" I said, "Ja, danke," because what else does one say to a lederhosen-clad Austrian offering you alcohol? Even Hans, the enigmatic accordion player would pause between songs and holler "Bier!" at which point one of his merry men would come barreling through the crowd with the largest, heaviest mug of beer I have ever seen. End parentheses.) All of my lady-friends would have appreciated in particular the virtues of one man who--well, let's see. You know the new Britney song? Womanizer? He is who that song is meant for. In lederhosen.

In sum, I can now polka with the worst of them, also learned to waltz (in preparation for the Viennese ball season, which is in full swing) and generally have had such a fantastic time that I will be loathe to ever return to the United States.

Just kidding, Dad.