(From Rob) "It Takes a Real Man To Wear Lederhosen" or "Horseshoes from Hell"

Will is showing off the Alpine version of horseshoes, made to be thrown by men in Lederhosen who drag trees up the mountain and kill wolves with a dirty look. They are called, in typical understated Austrian fashion, "Plattn" or "platters." In reality, they are heavy little rings of death with spikes in the bottom of them. Object of the game--to throw them closest to the "Hasen-Ei" ("Rabbit's Egg"), a little wooden block. Only problem: The block is about 65 feet away. And to make sure they don't just roll away and scalp a neighbor kid, you have to make sure they have a high arc and land flat. Oooof.
Here is the owner of the Haus Tirol, Harald Bukovics. He is showing me the techniques involved in hurling one of these little death-savers. He invariably dropped the heavy little metal thing with a satisfying "Thud" a few centemeters from the block. He played on a local team for years, and is something of a legend around here. Never, never make him mad and then run away. Harald always makes the spikes land downward.

Here is the Haus Tirol on the left (our room is the one right under the peak of the roof). Harald has just hurled the Plattn. If you look above the mountains, you will see a fleck. That is the little spiked ring'o'murder about to drop like a kilo of lead a few inches from the block. It looks, however, like it is about to take out some hapless singing nun running down the hills (now THAT is how you solve a problem like Maria!)
No, I am not flipping off the lonely goat-herd. I have just hurled the Plattn. After a few very embarassing attempts ("No, We really were'nt going to use our rhubarb plant anyway"), I actually made two spectacular hurls (out of about 50). One landed only about 12 inches away from the block, and I swear on a stack of black cats that I hit that wooden block 65 feet away from me and it flew like a bat out of Salzburg. My arm will hurt until I am 43. Alps Schmalps--the boy from the Wasatch Mountains could, with practice and divine intervention, turn into a Plattn Playa.

Maria Bukovics kindly invited us to dinner, and we ate unbelievabley good grilled trout that Harald and his 11-year old son Josef had probably pulled out of a freezing mountain stream with their bare hands.

Meanwhile, the Kids stayed wisely out of Plattn-danger and chased the rabbit, played on the swings and in the sand, and picked some of the Bukowics' thriving berries.
Black Currants are an acquired taste. There is something almost like meat when you first bite in. Sugar helps.

While Will falls firmly into the "Kirplink, Kirplank, Kurplunk" category, and eats all of berrries right away in a very Sal-like fashion, Maddie is a master picker. All of this goodness goes onto our cereal tomorrow, with "Landliebe" Yogurt from a glass jar that tastes like no joy you have ever felt and clogs your arteries while still on your tongue. Servus!