From Bad to Wurst by Maddy Hunter Page B

apocalyptic, she’d probably be distraught for all of a minute. Two minutes, tops.
    While Mom and Hetty exchanged seats, Wally resumed his announcements. “We’ll be in Oberammergau for four hours. Please take note of the murals painted on the façades of the houses because it’s one of the features that make the local architecture so unique. The majority of murals depict religious scenes, but if you take a stroll down Ettaler Strasse, off the central plaza, you’ll be treated to whimsical scenes from Little Red Riding Hood and Hansel and Gretel. Visit the museum on the main street if you’d like to be wowed by 350 years of local art, and if you’re in the mood for an afternoon snack, I’d recommend the Hafner Stub’n. The food is great, but the exterior is so spectacular, you might want to devote your time to picture-taking rather than eating. The bus will drop us off at the Passion Play House. From there it’s a short two-minute walk to the main street.”
    Zola clasped Mom’s hand, pinched her eyes shut, and in a matter of minutes unearthed her first tidbit.
    â€œI see bookshelves with many, many books. Do you work in a bookstore, Mrs. Andrew?”
    â€œBeats the hell out of me,” said Mom.
    â€œShe works in a public library,” I advised.
    â€œOf course,” said Zola. “I can see it now. And you need to upgrade your technology because you’re still in the Dark Ages, using the Dewey decimal system.”
    â€œThat’s right,” I said, duly impressed. But how did she know that?
    â€œAnd I see soup cans in some kind of kitchen pantry…and they’re all in alphabetical order. Dozens and dozens of soup cans.”
    Otis and Gilbert glanced at me, apparently awaiting an opinion. “She’s good, guys. Really good.”
    While Zola continued to entertain us by outing Mom’s eccentricities, we followed the course of a meandering river and soon entered a wide valley that was flanked by sprawling mountains whose sloped shoulders were nearly black with forest. Unlike Norway, there were no waterfalls cascading from crags and niches. Unlike Switzerland, there was no snow capping the highest peaks. But given the valley’s lushness and isolation, I felt as if we were in Scotland, about to enter the fictional world of Brigadoon, minus the Broadway set and the musical soundtrack by Lerner and Loewe.
    â€œAnd you’re about to witness some serious limelight,” Zola predicted as the bus slowed to a crawl. “A once in a lifetime event. So put a smile on your face and enjoy.”
    To our left, a tidy expanse of green space beckoned visitors with shade trees, walking paths, and an intriguing array of statuary. To our right, a building that could only be the Passion Play Theater stretched the length of a football field. Mostly windowless, it resembled an updated warehouse with a soaring roof and horizontal stripes that alternated between basic white and a color that Crayola would refer to as Desert Sand.
    â€œAre we done?” Mom asked her.
    â€œThat’s all I’ve got.”
    â€œOh, good.” Mom looked across the aisle at me. “I’m not quite remembering, but did she happen to mention where we are?”
    We coasted to a stop in front of the theater, which was our cue to gather up our belongings and perch on the edge of our seats until the doors opened. I could feel the excitement begin to build. Shoes scraping the floor. Cell phones at the ready.
    Wally threw out a few final instructions. “We’ll meet at this exact location in four hours. We couldn’t arrange a tour of the Passion Play House, but I suggest you stroll around the outside to get an idea of how enormous the theater is. The last renovation was completed in 1999, which enlarged the seating capacity to 4,720, allowing it to accommodate more patrons than either the Metropolitan or Sydney Opera Houses.”
    The doors