On Friday morning, we head to Prague’s Hlavní Nádraží and board the train to Dresden. The train is cool and we have time to plot out our weekend. It’s Germany. There’s a tour of the old town Friday afternoon and a street festival on Saturday.
The plan: we will do culture and then reward ourselves for being cultural by drinking beer and eating brats on Saturday. In this context, ‘brat’ (pr: women’s foundation garment + T) is short for a particular style of German sausage, not a spoiled child who behaves badly.
There are things one does in Germany. One drinks beer. One treats schnapps like a cologne and sauerkraut like a breath mint. One does not argue with police officers. And one treats brat like a verb.
We bratted yesterday in the old town.
Are we bratting tonight?
We have bratted a few times on our trip.
All of the preceding would make no sense in any other civilized place. But in Germany they make perfect sense. It’s as though the place lives with its own geographic grammar.
We do our tour in heat that could melt a Peruvian pigeon’s knuckle hairs. Our guide (Leo) does his best to steer us into little groves of shade while telling us about famous Saxon royalty. (If you’re ever on a quiz show and have to guess a Saxon royal’s name, just go with August and follow it with a single number and you’ve got a decent shot). The tour is indeed quite brilliant and the guide is funny, and that is something I never thought I’d say about a German tour guide.
Despite the tour’s fascinating aspects, I was a bit distracted while walking and sweating into my sandals. I was thinking to myself: Will I brat?
You see, the internet has ruined my life. One day I was scrolling and – as usual – everything was bouncing off of me. End of civilization. Bounce. Climate disaster. Bounce. Some idiot in the GOP says anything. Bounce.
But then there it was. A video of a pig. Someone videoed a pig on its way to a slaughterhouse and the poor thing was genuinely terrified. It was shaking. It looked a little like my dog, who – when she has a fresh haircut – looks a little like a pig.
Well, this didn’t bounce. Pork was ruined.
There are moments in life when you are faced with a truth that ruins something. Christmas is never quite the same after some adult talks to you about Santa Claus. Eating takes on a little less joy when you realize that just about everything that tastes good is going to kill you slowly. And now pork has a face?
Damn.
It didn’t stop there, either. I found out that fish feel pain, plants cry, and house flies have families. What’s next? I am afraid to look online.
In Germany, surrounded by brats, it was hard to deny their allure. I worked my rationalization muscle like it was triceps and I was a triangle push-up: Pigs are treated more humanely in Germany. (Maybe, but I have no way of knowing that.) If I don’t eat a brat, someone else will. (Try again.) Fish also feel pain, at least I’m not eating one of those. (Somewhere in Pittsburgh, my sophomore logic teacher felt a chill up his spine.) The rules of travel should overrule rigid personal guidelines. (Bingo!)
I didn’t feel good about it, but this shame was mostly discarded by the immensely good taste of the brat. Brats. Before we leave, there are three of them. I don’t feel good about those either.
Please don’t tell my dog. She’s just had a haircut.
