The Polka. Was it the official dance of Bohemia? Or Bavaria? And then Germany? Not certain, but drinking Bavarian beer and dancing to grown men dressed in lederhosen playing tubas and horns at Oktoberfest is where Fiona’s next adventure begins. Ellie, Maya, Abby and I were last found at the Bavarian Inn, located in one of the the beer-capitols, Milwaukee,Wisconsin.
Under the chalet, breaking for a rest after our polka-la-looza, we ate kielbasa sausage with sauerkraut, and glanced around the outdoor hall. We were by far the youngest of those polkaing, and no longer that young any more. On the parquet dance floor, women with beautiful blue hair swirled in up-do’s embraced arms with handsome…distinguished gents with alpine feathered caps. The couples had gracefully out-polka-ed us. Hard to keep up with stout German lineage.
But Abby still danced. Possibly, since she boasted of her direct line of predecessors to Poland and Germany, she couldn’t back down, or be out oom-pa-pa-ed by her elders.The three of us looked on, as she polka-ed hard, like she was head-banging in a mosh pit. Maybe she hadn’t made it for all the Foo concert last month, and was making up for lost dance time.
I took a swig of my ale from the German beer stein, and the lid flipped down and slapped my lip.”Time to get out there and polka our Edelweiss hearts out.”
Maya and Ellie bowed out, and let me go on my own. I met up with Abby as she unhooked arms with her latest polka partner, an octogenarian wearing a felt Miesbacher jacket. The band started up a rockin’ version of Roll out the Barrel and the crowd shuffled, or hurried, out to dance. Abby and I, in front of the stage, polka danced. And didn’t stop. Well, eventually we needed our bier.
But we made a decision. We’d celebrate our fiftieth birthdays in Munich, Germany for Oktoberfest. That will be an adventure.