Thursday, 21 June 2001 - I Arrive in Kirschroth

Thursday, 21 June 2001 - I Arrive in Kirschroth

The real fun begins back in Frankfurt on 21 June. By now I’ve been in Germany over a week and many German words are creeping from my subconscious back into my vocabulary. I remember things that mein Großvater used to say to the cows. Since I’m not sure what these words mean, I refrain from saying them, except to myself. I rent an Audi C2 six-speed (which I now know as a Mietwagen, or rental car). At the Frankfurt airport I set off on my 90 KM trek to Kirschroth. If all goes well I should be there by 1300, 1400 at the latest. And since no one is really expecting me, I can take my time and do some sightseeing along the way. I briefly consider just visiting Frankfurt and nearby Wiesbaden for a few days and skipping Schlarbtreffen 2001 altogether, but I remember that I have reservations at Gasthaus Schlarb and duty calls. It’s about now that I realize that I can’t find the detailed directions that Timo was so kind to email me. Timo is the son of Gerold and Margit Schlarb, the owners of Gasthaus Schlarb.

Hey, no problem. I know that Kirschroth is near Bad Sobernheim which is on my map - so I will just drive there and ask for directions at a gas station. After a wrong turn in Mainz that takes me almost to Darmstadt, I get back on track and eventually arrive in Bad Kreuznach. (OK kids, if you get out your map of Germany, you can trace the misadventures of Grandpa Roger with a yellow highlighter). A nice young man at the gas station who has never heard of Kirschroth searches his map and sends me off to Simmertal to ask there for directions. Since there are no gas stations to be found in Simmertal, I leave the main road and head north to Kirchberg which is only 25 KM away. Instinctively, I know I’m on the right path. About 10 KM later the road gets narrower as it goes higher into the mountains. The scenery is green and beautiful, but I begin to question my instincts. I find a pottery shop in Gemünden where I ask again for Kirschroth and again get the same blank stare. However, this lady takes pity on me and goes across the street to her home to ask her husband. She comes back with a big smile and sends me back south to Meddersheim where I should go to ask for directions. (I find that in Germany you seldom get directions to a specific place, but you can always get directions to a place where you can go to ask for directions). In Meddersheim I ask again for Kirschroth and learn that it is really pronounced Kirsh-root or Kirsh-rote which probably accounts for many of the previous blank stares. At last I get detailed directions, but only in German. I feel that I have left the English-speaking world behind. However, since I know my Recht from my Links, I set out through the woods and fields up the one-lane road that leads over the top of the hill and down into the beautiful wine village of Kirschroth.

How do I describe Kirschroth? At that moment I was euphoric that it even existed. The vineyards extend almost to the top of the hills on the north side of the village. The houses are all well-maintained and many seem to be loosely connected to one another to form a large apartment complex with tractors, geese, ducks and chickens. Flowers are everywhere. The church at the top of the village dominates the view from all points. I drive up to the church and find a stone set into the side of the church wall dedicated to the Kirschrothers lost in the wars from 1914-1918 and 1939-1945. When I see Otto Schlarb 1921-1945, I know that I am home.

Since there seems to be no one out on the narrow streets, I just drive around taking it all in. With only a few streets to explore, I soon find Gasthaus Schlarb and it looks just as I had imagined it with linen curtains and flowers hanging from every window.

Unlike Frankfurt and Hamburg, parking in Kirschroth is not a problem. I enter Gasthaus Schlarb and find a few couples eating dinner. There are three men sitting/standing at a short bar enjoying some steins of beer and glasses of wine. Seeing no other alternative, I muster up my courage and scan my memory for the correct German words. “Guten tag. Ich bin Roger Schlarb. Wo kann ich… (damn, what’s German for find?) …finden Gerold Schlarb?”

Turns out that I am talking to Gerold Schlarb, but I have pronounced Gerold so poorly that he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. The young man standing with Gerold introduces himself as Edgar and says, “Ich bin auch Schlarb”, or “I am also Schlarb”, the phrase that I am to hear repeated many times in the days to come. Gerold offers a glass of wine which I politely refuse. I later learn that refusing a glass of wine in Kirschroth without written permission from your doctor is anything but polite. An intense discussion auf Deutsch ensues and Margit is summoned from the kitchen. I’m sure that I am in big trouble, but Margit greets me warmly and assures me that they have been expecting me and indeed, I have a room. Margit offers me a drink and I decide that a glass of wine would taste very good right now. Although Margit’s English is pretty good, we struggle with süssen oder trocken, which we finally determine to mean sweet or dry. The Kirschrother Wildgrafenberg Riesling - trocken 1998 is very good, I highly recommend it. By now Edgar is getting into the spirit of the discussion and asks me, in English, about the Kalifornienweines. I explain that we make Riesling and Merlot and White Zinfandel and that California has many areas like Sonoma and Napa Valley where wine grapes are grown. Big smiles break out and the discussion auf Deutsch becomes even more animated. I suddenly realize that I am a California boy in a German wine village discussing wines with real wine growers - boy, am I in over my head. What do I know about wines? Before things get completely out of hand, I ask if anyone knows Yvonne Schlarb. Again the blank stares. So I try alternate pronunciations. When I hit upon Yvonne (rhymes with cone), Edgar lights up and says that Yvonne is the daughter of his brother, Karl-Heinz Schlarb who everyone calls Charlie.

Margit brings out a binder with more information on the Schlarb Family than I ever imagined could exist. Then she takes me to a back room where she has drawn the Schlarb family tree on wallpaper stretched out on 20 foot tables. I find many John Schlarbs (Johan, Johannes, and Jakob), but nothing that looks like it could represent our little Schlarb family.

Some time passes as we sip our wine and struggle to make conversation. Edgar translates for Gerold and shouts to the kitchen for Margit when he gets stuck. Out of the blue, Edgar asks if I want to go see Yvonne. I run to the car to get the rubber Policeman doggie toy that I brought to give to Peggy from Doodles and confirm with Edgar that Geschenk von Doodles is correct German. We walk up the street and there is Peggy guarding the Schlarb family courtyard. It's almost as if Peggy is expecting me. I am greeted by Yvonne’s mother who smiles a lot but speaks no English. I smile a lot and can remember absolutely no German, even though I have practiced for this exact moment. Yvonne’s older sister pops her head out of an upper floor window and says “Hi”. Soon Yvonne appears and says, "Hello and Welcome to Germany". I give her the Policeman toy for Peggy which evokes much laughter. It seems that her father, Karl-Heinz, is a policeman.

I am relieved that Yvonne speaks very good English. She shows me around the courtyard and introduces me to the many animals (cats, rabbits, turkeys). She explains that she is getting ready for her graduation party, but that she would like to see me tomorrow (Friday) afternoon to give me a guided tour of Kirschroth. I gladly accept and say, “auf Weidersehen und bis Morgan” which confuses everyone because I’m saying “until tomorrow morning”. We have a discussion about “morning” and “afternoon” and, realizing my error, we agree to meet at exactly 1400 (vierzehn hundert).

Back at Gasthaus Schlarb, I realize that it has been a long time since breakfast. I scan the menu and select the Zwiebel Schnitzel with fried potatoes and assorted vegetables. If you haven’t had this lately, rush to the nearest German restaurant and order it. It’s a thin breaded pork cutlet smothered in fried onions. Excellent! You vegetarians can order it without the pork cutlet. Gerold offers me a half-full bottle of the Kirschroth Riesling and a nearly full bottle of the Kirschroth Müller-Thurgau which I should drink when I have finished the Riesling. I wonder how many steps it is up to my room. As I am eating, I’m joined by a man who introduces himself as Adolf. I ask if he is a Schlarb, and he replies no, that he is a long-time friend of Margit and Gerold. We have a long and pleasant discussion in which he explains that he learned his English working for many years on the U. S. Army base at Bad Kreuznach. Working as an automotive mechanic, he developed a way to make large wood-fired BBQ grills out of surplus metal parts.

On Saturday I get to see two of these mega-grills in action as they prepare six meter-long rolled pork roasts on individual motor driven rotisseries, enough to feed about 200 people!

Margit shows me to my room and bids me “gute Nacht, bis Morgan” which I immediately understand. The room is well furnished, extremely clean, and nicely decorated with a very modern bathroom and shower. I marvel at the price of 33 DM per person (about $15) which includes breakfast! But don't expect a phone, TV, or Internet access.

Since it is too early for bed, I decide to wander around Kirschroth in the evening light and take some photos. The people I meet appear quizzical but greet me with a cheery “Guten abend”.

Everywhere I look I see signs denoting the Schlarb residents. I'm especially intrigued by the "J Sch - 1892" above the door of Erich Schlarb's home with a printed sign below that says "Schlarb since 1820". Could it be that my great-great-great grandparents once lived here?

As I stroll up Merxheimer Strasse, a man with a full but neatly trimmed beard waves broadly and shouts, “Roger??” And so I meet the policeman Karl-Heinz. His English is very good and he seems very pleased to meet me. We chat about my trip and I tell him how much I have enjoyed exchanging email with his daughter Yvonne. I explain that I am walking around looking for a shop where I might be able to purchase a small woodcarving. He laughs and says that there are no shops in Kirschroth: no butcher, no baker, “But we have four Gasthauses, Weinstubes, and Restaurants!” He offers to meet me the next day and drive me to Bad Sobernheim where we can find some shops. I am astounded at his generosity and gratefully accept.

I return to Gasthaus Schlarb and sleep solidly for 10 hours under a mountainous feather comforter. Life just doesn’t get any better than this!