Heil Irony
While on vacation in Mexico last week, Debbie and I had the distinct pleasure of taking a delicious cooking class, endulging in a chocolate massage, touring around the surrounding towns and purchasing cookware for 80 cents.Yet, perhaps one of our best memories was courtesty of Deutscheland and its progeny. You see, we had a German tour guide for the trip to see the ruins of Monte Alban (like a Mexican Machu Pichu), churches and a town that sells colorful wooden figurines. Besides being so very German in her speech "you have precisely 5 minutes to see this museum" and "they knew precisely how to measure everything perfectly," she gave us some cause for concern.
Debbie and I, both Jews and inquisitive people, ask questions. As we were stuck in the rear seat of the tour van with our guide, Debbie asked her where she was from. This is her exact response: "I am from Berlin but I did not know anything about my parents." Now, this would be akin to having a wife ask her husband how his day was and him saying, "it was great and i didnt cheat on you with my secretary." I mean sure, I would assume her parents were nazi's just because she was from Berlin and looked about 50 making her parents prime WWII candidates, but why would you offer up that extra bit of information. It was, at the least, conspicuous and at the worst damning.
After some time in the van, someone asked how Debbie and I met. When we responded JDate (a popular Jewish dating service) much of the conversation turned to Jews, Jewish rituals and, for some reason, World War 2. This was not a topic broached by either debbie or myself but it was one that we listened intently and enjoyed. Nothing but utter silence from the tour guide.
Now, to her credit, the tour guide wasnt goose stepping around the ruins or asking us to look low and HEIL at the many different things one sees at a 5,000 year old site in the mountains. What was perhaps the funniest part about this story was, in fact, her jeans. As our guide was getting into the van, i noticed that the brand of denim chosen was...wait for it...FUROR. Or as one phonetically reads that- Fuhrer. Could this have been a subconscious purchase on her part? Was I reading into this a bit much? Probably both, but nonetheless a wonderful exclamation point to a unique experience.
And yes, being good Jews, we did tip her at the end of the day.
posted by UpperWestSideGuy @ 5:50 PM
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