Memoir Monday: Puking Drunk

I've been meaning to participate in my bloggy buddy Travis' Memoir Mondays, where those of us who are willing, take a stroll down memory lane. But life, with its usual twists and turns, has gotten in the way of late. It's still in the way, truth be told, but I'm going to regale you all with the story of the one and only time in my life I have ever been puking drunk. And when you're done here, head on over to I Like To Fish where Travis will have links to other participants' contributions.

It was April of 1993. I was 24 and had been living and working in Heidelberg, Germany for a little over six months at that point. My German host-parents invited me to go with them to Austria during Easter break, and I happily accepted their offer. When I had been an exchange student living with them during my senior year in high school, we'd taken a trip to Austria over Easter, and I had very fond memories of that trip, so it was a no-brainer for me when they offered to take me along.

We lucked out that year because there was a Heuriger in the same little village where we were staying that was already open for the season. The word Heuriger (pronounced 'hoy-ree-ger') literally means this year's, as in this year's wine. In Austria, local wine growers are allowed to open their doors to the general public and sell that year's wine, along with cheese and cold cuts, for a two-week period (give or take). Unlike restaurants, they are strictly prohibited from selling any wine that was not produced by their own vines. The various wine growers in the region try to stagger their two weeks so that there is always at least one or two Heurigen open from early spring through late summer.

So off we go, me, my host-mother Siegi (pronounced 'Zee-gee') and my host-father Karl. When we arrived at the Heuriger, things were in full swing, and every table was occupied by at least two or three people. In Europe, however, this is not a problem. If there are any unoccupied chairs at a table in a cafe, restaurant, bar or Heuriger, they are fair game whether you know the people sitting at that table or not. It is perfectly acceptable to walk up to the table and ask those already seated if the empty seats are available. If no one is sitting there, they will tell you the seats are available and you can sit down. This is an utterly alien concept to an American, but because I had already lived in Germany as an exchange student, it didn't faze me when we sat down at a table that was already occupied by a few of the locals.

We ordered wine and a plate with cheese and cold cuts, and then, as these things are wont to happen, particularly whenever my host-mother was around, we ended up in conversation with the folks at our table. I was a bit of a conversation piece because it soon came out that I was an American, but no ordinary one, since I was that strangest of all beasts, an American who could speak German. We talked and laughed, ate cheese and cold cuts, and drank lots and lots of wine. The wine was served in small glass tumblers that had a grape leaf motif along the top of the glass. One of the locals at our table was a spry and frisky 86-year-old named Ferdinand Däubl (pronounced doy-bel). Every time the level of wine in my glass fell below the grape leaf motif, ol' Ferdinand would pipe up and say to me with a wink and a leer "Deine Blätter sind welk!" as he poured more wine into my glass. Roughly translated, "Deine Blätter sind welk" means "Your leaves are wilting," and it was Ferdinand's way of saying I needed more wine in my glass. Before I knew it, the old rascal was proposing he and I take a walk in the tall rye grass. No doubt ol' Ferdinand had gone walking in the rye with quite a few Mädels in his day, but I wasn't going to join their ranks. I declined the offer, which only made the others at the table howl with laughter and ol' Ferdinand blush. Ferdinand was aptly named because 'Däubl' is a dialect version of devil. Ferdinand was definitely a devil, even at 86.

I had a great time that night but didn't realize how drunk I was until it was time to walk home. The damn pavement was suddenly a lot more uneven than it had been earlier in the evening as we walked to the Heuriger. When I got to my room and laid down, the room began to spin like mad and I was burning up. I managed to get myself upright and ripped off all my clothes in an effort to cool off, laid back down but kept a foot on the floor in the hopes it would keep the room from spinning. But I was way too drunk for even that to help. Next thing I knew, I had to hurl. I left my room and made a mad dash for the water closet just down the hall, buck naked. I made it just in time to puke all over the wall and floor of the water closet instead of in the toilet. Once I finished puking, I went and grabbed some towels and attempted to clean my godawful mess up and that's how my host-mother found me, kneeling buck naked in the hall, half in and half out of the WC. I was quite a sight, I'm sure. The only thing that would have been worse was if my host-father had found me instead. I tried to apologize for the mess, but Siegi just shooed me to bed, saying she'd clean the rest up.

The next morning, with the worst hangover of my life, Karl came into the kitchen. I was sitting at the breakfast table drinking coffee but in no condition to eat solid food yet. Karl said to Siegi that there was a funny smell in the WC and wanted to know if she had any idea what was causing it. I looked up quickly and thought my head was going to detach from my shoulders at the movement, and winced at both the pain and the imminent humiliation. But Siegi did something completely unexpected. She shrugged and told Karl she had no idea what was causing the smell. Then, when Karl wasn't looking, she gave me a little wink. It hurt to smile, so my smile was closer to a grimace, but I gave it my best.

Moral of the story, boys and girls: If you ever meet a man named 'Devil', do NOT drink wine with him.