The hammer of socialism descended again on our little ship (or big boat) the night before our planned visit to Wurzburg, and the passenger’s optimism is sickled o’er by the pale cast of thought that the concerns of the undeserving will slither behind us trying to swallow the cheerfulness of privileged convenience that Viking River Cruises promise. Each day the strike puts our bus trips an additional 30 minutes from our targeted tourist spot. The oppressed workers of the world, who are required to put down their poker decks and turn a valve or two, have demanded pay in keeping with the value of their efforts and talent, which one might have presumed could save the government substantially. We proceed, but are hobbled. Each day we will take a bus to the city we intended to see and return to a stalled ship. Each night, the workers allow a few dozen ships pass several locks, but gawking delayed is gawking denied.

If this is the würzburg, I’d like to see the bestburg. These towns are in Bavaria, which remains majority Catholic, despite Friar Luther’s groundless complaints about the pervasive influence of money in the execution of God’s will. (I bet today’s Congress would really put his frock in a knot.) Our first stop was the Bishop’s palace—every member of the high clergy should live so grand. I mean, what better illustration of the promises of a perpetual, ecstatic afterlife than to recreate it here (within the boundaries of human toil) for the pious to demonstrate.

Würzburg lunch
View of Square from Restaurant

Rod and I were in a different group from our dinner buddies (something I will rectify tomorrow), so shortly after the guided tour we separately wandered around for lunch and shopping. Then we rode our two-steps-forward-one step-back bus to the boat.

At dinner, I am asked to join a duplicate bridge game. I accept, which turns out to be an act of near treason. The alternate entertainment is a trivia game with a champagne prize. When I reconnect with my dinner mates, they ask me several questions that they missed and I foolishly answer them correctly (by chance they are 50’s history) creating the lament that as a group we would have won decisively. Yeah well, bridge did not go all that great either.

Published by Sambandar

Hiker, bridge player, and amateur opinionist living in this wonderful American city for nearly 30 years. I maintain a silly blog when traveling.

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