For my 30th birthday my brother gifted me a trip to the beer capital of the world. Bavaria, Germany. I had plans to go a few other times in the recent years: the first was with The Boyfriend (then pandemic happened), the second was with The Brother (then third-wave restictions happened). So three years later, in the dead of winter, I took my first plane ride in over a year and half to Munich, Germany. Next stop, beer.
Day 1. Arrive in Munich
The plane ride was less than 2 hours. I have an irrational fear of the cheap-budget airlines, and had spent the last 15 months discovering the corners of Italy by train and bus, rather than spend my weekends jet-setting to another country. However, I felt somewhat guilt-free as I used Lufthansa Airlines with travel points from a credit card that nearly stunted financial stablity in my 20s. I guess it worked out?
The trains were clean and easy to understand. But the weather outside was dreadful. Not ideal for a weekend of galavanting around town. Now if you’re reading this, you probably already know about my background and my constant search for sustainable food systems at work. The theme of this trip was beer (obviously), but think artisan beer - not popular beer. For example: in Munich, I could have easily visited the infamous Augustiner-Bräu and grabbed a traditional liter with all the other foreigners. It was conveniently located next to the train station, and any beer in Germany must be good right? I refused to believe that. Have we decided on a term other than off-the-beaten-path places? Because I was looking for those.
I decided to check-in at a friendly, natural wine shop to get the skinny on where someone my age, and of my interests would possibly find artisan beer. Wine people usually know a thing or two about that. Walter & Benjamin Weinhandlung is a natural wine shop that had all of the answers. The owner walked me through the shop and dove into detail about the challenges German wine regions are facing in regards to climate change. I was a bit distracted by the rows of riesling.
As one always does when they visit a new place, I began to fantastize about moving here. If I did, my apartment would have to be near this shop - which was also conveniently close to the Eataly.
In Italy, I never ate Mexican food, I could count on one hand the number of avocados I had purchased over the year. Mainly because the vendor at the Foodie in Monteverde told me, the avocados they bought were from his friend’s family farm in Peru. It was cold, I was tired and hungry and had no clue where to go. A first for me. When I travel I usually have at least three-four saved options for lunch and dinner. I got a bit lost on my way back to the train station, mainly because I took a bus to a “new brewery” I was excited to try. The sign on the door said they were opening at 17:00. Story of my life. Drunk from hunger I stopped in my tracks as a delivery guy stuffed few bags of something that smelled great into the food carrier attached to the back of his bike. I looked up and in giant red letters there it was, the answer I didn’t know I needed. pureburrito. While large scale, fast-casual restaurants, especially the ones infamous for making burritos, go against what I believe in (as far as sustainable food), in that moment, I needed warmth and I needed calories. The guy behind the counter greeted me in German, and I with the biggest, most humbble smile I could muster, apologized that I only spoke English. He said no problem. I ordered a burrito with rice, black beans, grilled vegetables, and three different kinds of salsa, plus guacamole - not thinking twice about the sourcing of the ingridents. Is this how normal people go through life?
Day 1. Part 2. Train to Nuremberg.
Disclaimer: this was my first time staying at a hostel, and despite what everyone told that about Germany having some of the nicest places, I was nervous to sleep in a dorm with potentially eight other women. On paper I am not afraid of solo travel and going someplace new, but I needed a safety net in the form of a independent room or apartment where I could lock the door. I did my research and chose what seemed to be the most safe, secure, female approved hostel in Nuremberg. It ended up being cleaner and safer than some of the Airbnbs I had stayed in over the year. Plus the coffee from the reception desk was very well recieved by me.
For this trip, I wanted a mix of traditional and innovative. Just like Italy, I know there cannot be change without institutions. For dinner, I decided to try a typical Franconian restaurant; known for their food, but mostly their beer. Aesthetically, it was tavern(y) and warm, but masculine. The waiter was obviously shocked to see an American girl, dining alone in the middle of January. He tried to sell me on schnitzel to which I responded that I was vegetarian and his face dropped in enthusiasm. I ordered, what was described on the menu as a cheese plate with salad and bread. I ordered a side of fries just in case. 6/10.
I needed one more beer to settle my nerves about my first night in the hostel and to brave the cold walk back. Luckily, there was a beer hall right across the street. I sat at the bar and people watched. The chef came out from the kitchen and poured himself a shot of something off the back bar. Groups of friends sat around big wooden booths and EVERYONE ordered beer. I had never felt more alone in that moment. It was as if all of the sadness I had suppressed over the last three years washed over me, all at once. The pandemic, the break-up, the restaurant industry crumbling, the the vast void of my future, and my bank account, made me feel utterly astray. In less than two weeks, I would be heading back home to the USA, with a stop in Southern California, to a home with a dog, a cat, drip coffee and 60 degree weather. Then off to Washington, DC to see if this shiny new master’s degree was worth anything. I knew I needed to get a grip, and be thankful for everything I had done over the past three years. I had finally made it to Italy, and now to Germany. I wanted this, and now my pity party was ruining it. The thing I love most about beer is the community, and that fact that no matter where I am in the world, I can always find refuge in a beer bar. In that moment, I felt so displaced, I started to feel dizzy. I chugged the rest of my black beer and embraced the cold walk home.
Day 2. Nuremberg Part 2.
The itinerary for the day included visiting a winemaker and a brewery in Fürth. I wanted to include at least one winery visit while I was in Franconia so I searched for the most local of the natural wineries on the Raisin app. I don’t remember how I connected with the winemaker in the first place, but alas, after a few DMs on Instagram, I was standing at his front door.
His mom answered the door, completely unaware that they were expecting company. I asked if Andy was home, and felt like a five year old asking to play after school. She said she didn’t know an Andy and began to close the door. I quickly held up my phone to show her, her son’s Instagram profile. Still not entirely sure of who I was, or what I was doing there, she let me inside and led me to the garage/backyard. There “Andi” was in nothing but a fleece pullover, basketball shorts, and rain boots hosing off equipment in the sub freezing temperature. Despite the rocky start, I learned a lot from my little tour. He showed me the amphorae buried in the ground, they currently held the wine from this past vintage and the vintage before that. We walked through the cellar which gave me Haunted Mansion vibes. He told me if I wanted to come back for harvest next year, that they would be putting together a team come May. The days were long, but the parties and BBQs were worth it. He used to be DJ in college when he lived in Berlin, so you can imagine. I thanked him for the hospitatlity, only a little surprised we didn’t sit once, or inside, or even taste any of the wines. But I guess that is true salesmen, give them the story and then make the people buy the product. The tour lasted around 45 minutes, and we were outside for all of that time. I was far too cold to endure the walk back to the train station, so I asked to wait inside while I waited for the bus. He said that was fine and went back outside and continued cleaning.
Thus began the most pivotal travel experience of my young life. Here I was in this tiny town, freezing and fragile. The train left the station every hour, the next one was leaving in 10 minutes. I was currently a 16 minute walk away. After living in Italy, I learned not to leave the bus up to chance. In my mind it was not coming, it never does. It was 30 degrees outside, and I still couldn’t feel my toes or fingers. I had to make a choice. I could be stuck here, for another hour or I could make a run for it, literally. I pulled my backpack strings the tightest they would go, left the house swiftly, and set off on the gravel road that I fantasized looked beautiful in springtime. I had a brisk pace, not a sprint, but not a jog. I looked down at my Blundestone boots against the gravel. These boots have officially seen everything. I made it to the train station with four minutes to spare. My fingers were white, I had been struggling with Raynaud's disease for years and didn’t know it. I stuck my hands under my armpits like Mary Katherine Gallagher to warm up. The train arrived and I grabbed a seat near the window, I would much rather watch the cold world go by than run in it.
The spot I had planned to go for dinner was not set to open for another half hour. A normal person would have just chosen another spot to eat, but again, I am not normal. If you are craving a burger, do you settle for a fast food burger, because it’s coinvienent? Or do you wait to find a great spot because it has a bathroom, a good beer list and hot fries to accompany the burger? I was down to wait, but I needed a place to wait out my wait. And in true Tana fashion, I had a few other places saved. Grüner Brauhaus is a historic brewery that was seemingly the watering hole for the entire town. The flyers and posters near the bathroom advertising the month’s schedule of stand-up comedy shows and musical performances. I ordered a lagerbier and took a seat on the rail, my five euros at the ready.
After what seemed like the longest day of my newly turned 30-year old life, I was rewarded with a liter of beer, the warmest, richest plate of spätzle I could have hoped for, and a side of fries. As much as I adore Italian food, something about this German pasta healed me in ways I couldn’t explain. Perhaps it was the mountain of mountain cheese (that’s what the menu said) melted on top and the crispy onions. I finished the whole plate, and saved the rest of my fries to enjoy with one more beer. I deserved it.
I made it back to Nuremberg and back to the hostel, a belly full of spätzle and cold keller. I took the hottest shower of my life, and was in bed by 8pm. I watched Gilmore Girls on my phone with the speaker on. One perk of being the oldest person in the hostel, all the youngins were starting their night at around the time I was going to bed. It worked out perfectly.
Day 3. Day trip to Bamberg.
The next day was the BIG day, my trip to Bamberg. Bamberg had the most breweries and beer halls on my visit wishlist, however, the hostel in Nuremberg was far less expensive than in Bamberg. It was late Saturday morning when I arrived, and despite the cold, everyone was out doing their weekend shopping and fun activies. My first stop was lunch at Schlenkerla - home of the rauchbier, (smoked beer). Story has it the smokiness is an aquired taste, so it’s recommended to drink two or three to understand the flavor, the joke being after three beers you are already loosened up. The beer was in fact, smoky, but after a few sips, my palette understood it. I wouldn’t order three, but the roasty flavors seemed to have a warming effect on my insides. For lunch the Smoked Weizen (wheat beer), and potato dumplings with carmalized onions and the wettest salad I have ever had. Like SOAKED in dressing. Honestly, it kind of worked.
My next stop was the one I was waiting for the entire trip. You see because my last name is Schwarz, for years my brother and I have been searching for the best schwarzbier. I finally found it. Schwarz means black in German and these types of beer have notes of chocolate and coffee. I again, was the only women in the entire place, and while the server was a little confused when I said “I just wanted a beer,” he let me sit at the communal table. It really was the best beer I ever had.
After stopping for a real coffee (not just a coffee tasting beverage and pretzel (I felt like I had to and it was only 90 cents), I headed in the direction of my lodging for the night. The map suggested I took the bus. The Brewery/Inn I was staying at was six kilometers away from the train station. In retrospect, it was irresponsible of me to stay somewhere, that far away from the city center, especially when I needed to be on the 8am train the next day. But like I said, I had been waiting for this trip for years, I wanted to get the most out of it.
I arrived at Brewery zur Sonne and asked the women at the front desk if this was where I checked in. She didn’t speak English. I pulled out my phone and showed her the email confirmation that had no number, and no other information other than “Okay, we will see you then” as a response. That seemed to jog her memory. An on a giant calender on the desk in front of us, there was my name written under the date. She handed me a key. We still had exchanged no words. She got up and started to walk away, so I assumed I should follow. We walked through the dining room of the resturaunt, where people where already enjoying a few liters of the house beer. I looked to my left and saw what seemed like the service bar, the beer towers and no more than four taps. One man behind them, pouring beer after beer - the foam rising and falling like the volume levels on a soundboard. I couldn’t help but notice the dish pit in the kitchen, which was a straight shot down the hallway and brightly lit. Posted on the wall in clear view, was a calender, with a blonde model, completely topless. I could see her nipples from where I was standing. I was definitely not in the USA anymore.
The women walked up a few steps and then pointed to the room at the top of the stairs with the number 4 on the door. I took that to mean, the tour was over. I quickly let myself into the room, and shut the door behind me. The aroma of stale cigarette smoke, maybe the 70s maybe from yesterday, hung in the air. As I expected, no welcome information, no pamplet about breakfast times, or restaurant hours and no wifi password. I found out I only had functioning service from the bathroom. I left a voice message for my friend back in Rome, to let her know of my whereabouts and of the calendar.
Where was I? How did I find this place? I was on a mission to learn the real deal about authentic German beer, this surely had to be it. At an appropriate dinner hour, I ventured downstairs, luckily there was a server in the resaurant. A women my age who greeted me in English. Word must have gotten around that a strange American girl was here. She led me to a table and apologized for not having an English menu, but she would help explain anything. I told her I would eat anything vegetarian, with a side of french fries if they had them, and a cold lager.
I was sure one was potato, the squares were fried cheese (tasted like drier feta) and I was 60 percent sure the disks were zucchini, but then again who knows. Everything tasted pretty good dunked in that sauce so I was content. A figure appeared behind me and I froze for a moment. It was the same man pouring beer at the service bar. He was older, in his 40s, and in his broken English he said “I will be done working in two hours and I will sit at a table over there. If you want to talk about the beers, I will be avaliable.”
The first rule of solo female travel - NEVER let a man know that you are alone. In another life, a younger life, I might have had more spunk and eagerness to join him and learn more about the beers, the inheriant sustainbility and the glass bottle recycling program I know Germany is known for. That was the reason I came all this way in the first place. But I didn’t know who he was, assumingly the owner and brewer and assumingly harmless. But I was staying in a room right at the top of the stairs, the last thing I wanted was to feel like my safety was compromised.
I sat there and milked the rest of my beer, the man’s propsal discouraged me from getting a second. The dining room smelled so much better than my cigarette room. A large party of 15 sat at the long table in front of me. A family, mixed of grandparents, parents a bit older than me and a handful of kids-ages ranging from 5-1. I watched as the kids squirmed in their seats, threw food on the ground and begged their parents for attention. I guess parenting is the same in every country.
Day 3. Back home to Rome.
I made it through the night. I did have a brief freak out when I realized that the buses were not running on Sunday, and because I had no phone service or wifi, there was no way to look up a number for a cab company. I went to sleep without a clue of how I was going to get to the train station, or if anyone would even be on duty to retreive my key. I walked downstairs and found an older women setting up the breakfast buffet. She spoke English and said she would call me a cab. I was about to cry tears of joy. She invited me to take a small plate for breakfast while I waited. The spread was deli meats, and cheese, and instant coffee. I graciously declined. I got in the taxi and completely forgot the German word for train station. I asked him in English, Spanish and Italian, we still hadn’t gotten anywhere. I still had no phone service either, so no Google Translate. Luckily, I had a screenshot of my train tickets, and showed him the schedule. Bahnhof was the word I was looking for.
I couldn’t let myelf relax until I was on the train and on the way to Munich. From there I had a about an hour to grab something to eat, and hopefully a non-instant coffee before taking the metro to the airport. I tried my luck at a few popular brunch places, but they were all completely full. None of them offered to-go food either. I turned the corner when I saw a familar glow shining through the window of a small cafe - aptly named L’Americano. I walked in and was greated by a buongiorno from a man behind the corner, a wave of relief came over me. I scanned the pastries on display, and ordered a plain cornetto and one filled with jam, and a cappuccino.
This trip was just the start of one of the most trying years of my life, and the start of my 30s. I realized that I didn’t have the travel bug or urge as much as others did. I found comfort in my cappuccino at my corner bar and I was blessed that my favorite beer hall in Rome always had a Franconian kellerbier on tap. I didn’t realize that I had made Italy home, anywhere I went in the country, I could at the very least order a drink, dinner, ask for directions or request a ride to the train station. In Germany, I felt so out of my element, those three days felt like a week. I realized that I don’t like the winter without some sunshine in between, and that it’s okay to have a burrito once in a while, it might just be the best thing for me.
Sometimes I think back and regret that I didn’t take more videos, make a reel, film a day in my life as an American living in Italy, on a beer-soaked weekeend in Bavaria. But then again, short clips will never be able to truly speak to the experiences I had and what going on behind the phone. That’s why writing this story and stories like these, have a become a priority of mine. Maybe they won’t make it into a book agent’s inbox, but it will make into all y’alls. I can tell by the women who restack and like my posts have have simliar stories and paths as mine. And whether it’s about sustainable food, solo travel, wine, beer or a love for Italy, I am happy to have you here. Thanks for reading.
Postscript:
Normalize taking photos of food and drink AFTER you consume it.
I really enjoyed the portion sizes in Germany. As you can see, half of a cinnamon role was the size of half a breakfast wrap. I knew the ingrideints inside the wrap were not local, or seasonal - avocado, lettuce and tomato. But honeslty, I needed a win after the night before. Plus who knew what the day had in store for me, I need the calories - sustainable or not.
POST Postscript
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Thank you for reading,
Tana
We might be the same person—except your adventure took you to Europe, and mine took me to Latin America.