Monday, September 28

From	To	Distance (km)	Average Speed (km/hr)	Max Speed (km/hr)	Odometer (km)	Riding Time (hr:min:sec)	Push-Ups
Neusäß, Germany	Nördlingen, Germany	84.08	16.9	40.5	1309	4:58:18	202

(5651 words)

Following the Romantic Road

This morning the alarm went off at 6:30, because breakfast was set for 7:00. I woke up feeling like I was getting a cold, with some sniffles and a mild tired feeling. I attributed this to yesterday's strenuous 126 kilometer day of riding, a ride in which I had to some extent pushed the limits of my physical abilities. Despite my symptoms, I got up and went down to breakfast. Taking my cue from the guy at yesterday's breakfast, I boldly asked for two eggs -- one for Matt and one for me. We got them, soft-boiled, served in a little platform and accompanied by a little spoon. Along with my egg I ate two brötchen, sliced into halves and smeared with jam. Instead of coffee I had tea, my preference whenever I feel a cold coming. Despite the early breakfast, we didn't get out on the road until 8:55.

Our master plan had been to follow the Romantic Road (the #2) all the way to Rothenburg. According to our map, however, the Romantic Road turned into Autobahn for a while north of Neusäß. For this reason we decided to ride on the side streets west of the Romantic Road until it turned from Autobahn back into a regular highway. We rode through the small towns of Hirblingen and Gablingen to Stettenhofen, where we got on the Romantic Road. Here the Romantic Road was regular highway, not Autobahn, but unfortunately, it was packed with traffic. As we rode up the barely perceptible shoulder, cars and large trucks rumbled past belching fumes.

When we came to Langweid, we hit some road construction so substantial that we stopped and discussed whether we should continue on the Romantic Road or go back to taking side streets. From the looks of it, this next stretch of the Romantic Road was being transformed into Autobahn. (Given that our three-year-old map showed no sign of this transformation, we decided that it might be time to replace the map.) The construction project appeared to be about half-finished. Both north and southbound traffic were being directed onto one side of the divided highway, the side that would eventually carry only southbound traffic. The northbound side -- the side we happened to be standing on -- was unfinished and quiet. One of the options we were considering was simply to ride up the northbound side, but we were concerned we might run out of pavement, run into construction vehicles, or run into some Autobahn-authority and get yelled at in German.

As we were standing on the side of the road trying to decide what to do, a passenger in the cab of a passing northbound truck leaned out the window and yelled, "Bundestrasse!" at us, a one word sentence to which I wasn't quite able to attribute a meaning. I knew that a Bundestrasse is a major highway in Germany, with two way traffic, potential cross traffic, and occasional stop lights. A Bundestrasse is one step down from an Autobahn, which is a divided highway with entrance and exit ramps. Bicycles are not allowed on any Autobahn, but they are allowed on a Bundestrasse. The advantage to riding on a Bundestrasse as opposed to riding on side streets or taking bike paths is that it is usually the fastest way to get from point A to point B on a bike. The disadvantage is traffic. According to our map, the Romantic Road was primarily a Bundestrasse, though in a few places it turned into Autobahn. Matt and I had chosen to take the Romantic Road primarily out of concern for making progress.

I didn't know if the fellow who yelled 'Bundestrasse!' at us was trying to say that this was the Autobahn and we should take the Bundestrasse. Or perhaps that this was the Bundestrasse and we should take the side streets. Or perhaps even that this was the Bundestrasse and we should go directly back home to America. The only thing I was fairly certain the fellow in the truck was trying to say, mostly because of the "get a clue" tone of his voice, was that Matt and I should be riding elsewhere.

In the end, Matt and I decided to take side streets. We rode around a barrier and up a closed exit ramp, turned right and rode over an overpass to the west side of the Romantic Road, and began meandering our way north through to the town of Langweid.

Working and Waiting

Before long we saw a grocery store and stopped. While Matt waited outside, I went in and procured two bananas, two apples, four brötchen, two yogurts, a box of meusli, and a bottle of orange juice. When I emerged from the store, Matt and I began dividing the foodstuffs and packing them into our panniers. We also started arguing.

"What took you so long?" Matt asked.

"Nothing." I replied.

"Well, why does it always take you so long to do something simple like buy groceries for lunch?"

"I didn't take that long. I just rounded up the stuff, took it to the register, paid, and came out."

"Well why does that require twenty minutes?" Matt asked.

"I didn't take twenty minutes." I said.

"Yes it did."

"No it didn't."

"Yes it did."

"No it didn't."

"Yes it did."

"Oh it did not. It just always seems longer when you are waiting. What did you do while you were waiting?" I asked.

"Nothing, just waited,...and waited, and waited, and..." Matt replied.

"Didn't you write in your journal or something?"

"Nope."

"Well, next time write in your journal. It will make the time go by faster and you'll get something productive done. Here, do you want to split the OJ?"

Matt and I split the orange juice between us, each of us pouring half into an empty water bottle. Having packed away all our groceries and filled a water bottle each with orange juice, we climbed on our bikes and continued north.

Desperately Seeking Relief

I was looking forward to that orange juice to help my body fight off the looming cold. I like to drink a lot of water and orange juice when I feel a cold coming on, and as we rode north through Zollsiedlung, Erlingen, and Westendorf I dipped often into the liquid in my water bottles. By the time we came to the next town, Nordlingen, it was getting fairly urgent that I find a bathroom.

When we're on the road, Matt and I normally take bathroom breaks at gas stations. When we came to Nordlingen, I told Matt we'd better go into town looking for a gas station. We rode through Nordlingen, which turned out to be mostly residential. No gas station in sight. I saw a man standing outside his house, so I pulled up and asked him where we might find a restroom. He pointed up a street and said something about a train station and a restaurant. We hurried up the street and discovered a restaurant across from a tiny train station building. The restaurant looked closed.

"There's the restaurant," Matt said.

"It looks like it's closed," I said. "Why don't we try the train station itself?"

I rode up to the train station, got off my bike, and walked around to the platform. I peeked in the building. I saw no bathroom.

I suddenly became aware of someone standing on the platform behind me. "What are you looking for?" the stranger asked.

"A bathroom."

"There's no bathroom here. You'll have to go to the restaurant across the street."

"Thanks," I said and returned to my bike.

I should have checked the restaurant first, I thought, it must just look closed. I rode over to the restaurant, got off my bike and approached the door. I grabbed the handle and turned. It didn't move. I shook the door. It didn't budge. The restaurant was closed after all.

I walked back to my bike, and climbed -- gently -- onto the seat. Matt and I rode back up towards the center of town, and stopped not far from where I originally questioned the man who was standing outside his house. Matt and I looked at the map and argued about which way to go.

I figured we should ride north, the direction we were supposed to be going anyway, and look for a gas station in the next town. "I think we should just should go straight ahead here, to go to the next town north of us. This road," I said, pointing straight ahead, "is this road," I continued, pointing to the map.

"No," Matt countered. "That road," he began, pointing to the map, "is back there," he said, gesturing to our left.

We argued for a while over whether we should go straight or left, until Matt abruptly suggested that we go to the right.

"Why would we want to go to the right?" I asked.

"Maybe we'll find a gas station over there," Matt answered.

"But that road is going uphill. It will probably just take us over the Romantic Road."

"Maybe. But maybe there's a gas station over there."

We settled on going to the right and began climbing the hill. On the way up the hill, we passed an old lady in a purple sweater riding a bicycle.

"Good morning," I said to the woman as we rode around her.

"Good morning," she replied.

Shortly after we passed the old lady in the purple sweater, Matt and I found ourselves on an overpass, the Romantic Road beneath us. In front of us, about a kilometer to the east, we could see a small town. Otherwise we saw only fields. There was no sign of a gas station.

After rolling down the other side of the overpass, we discovered a paved bike path that headed north through the fields. Even though we couldn't see any town at the other end of this path -- it just disappeared at the horizon -- we took it because it was heading north. But after some riding and some discussion, we turned around and headed back the way we had come. At the corner where we had first gotten on the path, we turned left and headed instead towards the small town to the east that we had seen from the overpass. We figured that my urgent need to find a bathroom justified the approximately one kilometer detour to the east.

Before long we pulled up behind the same old lady riding a bicycle in a purple sweater. Although we had already passed her once and she was riding slowly, she was in front of us. She had gotten ahead of us when we were riding up the paved bike path. We went around her a second time.

"Good morning once again," I said to her as I passed.

"Good morning," she said and giggled.

We soon arrived in the small town and found ourselves in what seemed to be the central square. We stopped for a quick glance at the map. The name of the town was Ellgau. We saw no gas station, but Matt pointed out a restaurant and a pension up the street to our left. I figured I'd try at those places for a bathroom.

As I was standing over my bicycle, my map spread out on my handlebar bag, the old lady in the purple sweater reappeared. She pulled up next to my bicycle and stopped.

"Do you need any help finding your way?" She asked. She had seen me looking at my map.

"Actually, we are looking for a place to go to the bathroom." I said. "Is there a gas station in this town?"

"No, we don't have a gas station. The only two businesses in this town are the restaurant and the pension up this street." She pointed up the street to our left towards the places that Matt had already noticed. "But I don't know if they are open today," she added.

The old lady and I chatted a bit more as I put away my map, then she rode on -- in effect, passing us once again. It occasionally happens that we pass a local person on a bicycle, and they pass us, several times. Even though Matt and I may be riding at a greater speed than the local, we take wrong turns or stop to look at the map and debate directions. The local bicyclist gets to the destination first because they know where they are going and Matt and I don't.

Matt and I turned left and rode up to the restaurant, the closest of the two businesses. It looked closed, but I got off my bike anyway and tried the door. It was locked. We rode further up the street to the pension. Here I tried all the doors. They were all locked.

In defeat and discomfort, I climbed back on my bike. Matt and I continued up the same street, because it was taking us north. When we emerged into the fields at the north end of Ellgau, I looked ahead and saw a beautiful sight. There, about a half a kilometer away in the middle of the fields, was a section of land that hadn't been cleared. On both the left and right sides of the road stood my salvation: Trees. Lots of trees. A veritable forest. Enthusiastically, I rode north.

When we arrived at the trees, I pulled over to the right and leaned my bike against a gate. Matt rode on ahead. I hopped across the road and danced a few meters into the woods. At long last, I had found my bathroom. I returned to my bike a happy man.

Heading to Donauwörth

I got back on my bike and started rolling. A short way up the road I saw Matt's bike. Apparently, he had parked his bike against a picnic table before disappearing into the woods himself. I kept going. I had begun thinking that this would be a good time to do a set of push-ups, so I started looking for a place to do them.

Up ahead I saw a large white building in front of which the ground was flat and paved. This looked like a promising site for push-ups. As I rode towards the building, however, I began hearing a strange noise. The closer I got to the building, the louder the noise became. It soon hit me that I was hearing the sound of thousands or perhaps tens of thousands of chickens that were packed inside the white building.

When I got near the building full of chickens, I could smell them. At the cement pavement in front of the building, the odor was so strong and repulsive that I started to gag. I had to hold my breath to keep from throwing up. This was no place for push-ups. I hurried up the road until I was out of range of the stench, then stopped to wait for Matt. Although I couldn't smell the chickens anymore from where I was waiting, I could still hear them. It was an eerie sound.

As I waited for Matt, listening to the chorus of chickens, I remembered what I had heard about how chickens were sometimes farmed. The chickens are kept in cages their whole lives. The lights are left on at all times so the chickens will eat more and grow faster (so they can be slaughtered sooner). As cages are stacked on top of each other, chickens are constantly being bombarded by droppings from upstairs neighbors. I heard that sometimes they are packed in so tight they can't move, and as a result their feet fuse to the cage. When it comes time to remove the chicken from its cage to be slaughtered, it has to be cut loose.

I didn't know what was going on inside this particular white building. Perhaps these chickens had comfortable, meaningful lives before being slaughtered. Or perhaps these chickens were being kept for eggs rather than being raised for meat. All I knew was that, judging from how strong the stink of chicken droppings was outside the building, it must smell awful inside.

When Matt arrived we discussed the lives of chickens a bit before moving on. Matt said that the horrible condition in which chickens are raised was the kind of thing that made him decide to be a vegetarian. We turned and headed north, leaving the chickens in the white building to their fate.

We cycled north and northwest towards Eggelstetten, arguing about which way we should have gone in Nordendorf. We rode through fields -- sometimes on roads, sometimes on unpaved paths -- surrounded by landscape that I found uninspiring.

As I rode I noticed a persistent feeling like someone was poking a pin into my leg about halfway up my left calf. I rubbed the area, but the pin-prick feeling didn't fade. I concluded that in addition to trees, the woods in which I had relieved myself must have been populated by some kind of stinging plant. Matt reported that his both his calves were being attacked by an army of pin-pricks. Apparently, he had hiked deep into a stinging nettle forest, because his legs were still tingling when we walked to dinner that evening.

From Eggelstetten we rode up through Hamlar and turned left on the 16, which we took to Donauwörth. We meandered through side streets until we found a bike path that led us over a bridge to the north side of the Danube, to the center of Donauwörth. We began looking for a nice bench on which to eat our lunch of groceries. Matt suggested we turn left and cross a small bridge to what he thought looked like an island in the middle of the Danube. As we crossed the bridge, I glanced to my right and spotted another bridge that I thought I recognized as a place that Matt and I had been on the previous year's bike trip. I pointed it out to Matt, but it didn't look familiar to him. I decided that I would go check it out before we left town.

Once on the island, Matt and I found a small garden that was surrounded by benches. We sat here and ate our lunch among the flowers. Near the end of my meal, an old woman appeared and sat at a bench near us. As we readied our bikes to ride further, the woman said something to me in a thick regional dialect of German. I could tell she was making a friendly comment by the tone of her voice, and I figured she was saying something about our bicycles because she gestured at them, but otherwise I had no idea what she was saying. I asked her to repeat twice, but couldn't even begin to understand her. Sometimes older Germans don't speak high German, only their native dialect, and I have trouble understanding them. I regreted that I was unable to understand this woman at all. I appologized to her (she seemed to be able to understand my German), saying that my German wasn't very good. Then I rode away.

Herr Schnell and the Macho-Competitive Speed Contest

I led Matt to the bridge I had seen that evoked a memory of our previous bike trip the year before, but he still had no recollection. A year before, Matt and I had taken a four week bike trip through Germany that included riding along the Donauradweg, a bike route that followed the Danube. I knew we had been to Donauwörth on that trip, because I remembered the name of the town. But I couldn't retrieve any particular memories of what we did in Donauwörth just given the town's name. Standing on that bridge, however, I was beginning to suspect that Donauwörth was where Matt and I had bid farewell to a bicyclist we came to call "Herr Schnell" (Mr. Speedy).

Matt and I had found the Donauradweg to be fairly well marked, but occasionally difficult to follow. One morning, shortly after we left the town in which we had stayed the previous night, Matt and I found ourselves at one of the confusing parts of the Donauradweg. By checking the map and exploring a bit on the bikes, however, we figured out which way to go. Just as we started riding, a guy on a mountain bike with two rear panniers rode up to us. This was the guy who Matt and I later dubbed, Herr Schnell.

"Do you know which way the Donauradweg goes?" Herr Schnell asked.

"Which way are you going? East or west?" I answered.

"East."

"That's the way we're going. The route goes this way," I pointed ahead, "and then turns right onto that path in front of the corn."

"Thanks," Herr Schnell said.

Herr Schnell fell in behind us. He followed us as we turned onto the path in front of the corn. Soon, however, he pulled around and passed us. In my head, a bell started ringing faintly. I watched him gradually pull away from us. The ringing in my head gradually became louder. The farther away he got, the louder the bell.

Now, I try to be a sensitive guy of the nineties, confident in my manhood with no need to prove my virility to other males. When passed by another bicyclist I often feel a mild tug of competition, but usually ignore it. When Herr Schnell sped up and passed me, however, something about his demeanor or attitude set off an alarm in my head. He had inflamed my competitive instincts.

I looked over at Matt. Matt looked back at me. I raised an eyebrow. Matt nodded. We both sped up and before long pulled up next to Herr Schnell. Herr Schnell noticed our presence. He glanced over at us, then looked back ahead. The macho-competitive speed contest was on.

In the next two hours, the three of us rode more or less together. We pushed hard and by the end of the two hours had covered 50 kilometers. Herr Schnell liked to be in front, and Matt and I often let him, but we stayed close behind. I remember feeling a sense of satisfaction at one corner where Herr Schnell missed a turn and continued riding straight ahead. As Matt and I correctly turned right onto a paved path, I called out to Herr Schnell, "This way!" I saw him look back and brake. Herr Schnell was now behind us.

As this contest was one of those macho-competitive guy things, the three of us didn't talk much. In general, our relative positions on the road were communication enough. At one point, however, I pulled up alongside Herr Schnell, whose real name we never learned, and chatted with him in German. Perhaps to make him aware that he should be doubly impressed by my speed, I told him I wasn't feeling 100% energetic.

"I'm a bit tired feeling today," I said, "probably because I had a beer last night."

"One beer?" replied Herr Schnell, emphasizing the "One" and implying that I was sooo un-macho. I like German beer, but usually avoid it on nights before riding days because it often makes me feel sluggish. The previous night, however, I had succumbed to temptation and had a tall, cold Hefeweizen.

"Do you drink a lot of beer?" I asked.

"Not too much," said Herr Schnell, "just six or so a day."

"Six?!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, six. I usually have two beers with lunch," explained Herr Schnell, "and four with dinner."

"Every day?" I asked.

"Yes, every day," replied he.

When I related this to Matt in English (Matt's German wasn't very good at the time), Matt said, "Six?!"

Matt and I, perhaps in part to console ourselves for losing the macho-competitive beer-drinker contest, decided that Herr Schnell was an alcoholic.

After two hours of hard riding, Matt, Herr Schnell, and I arrived at a town. It was nearing noon, so I asked Herr Schnell about his plans for lunch. He said he wanted to eat in a restaurant. (I pictured him sitting in a restaurant, two tall glasses of beer foaming in front of him.) I told Herr Schnell that Matt and I wanted to have a lunch of groceries. We parted company on a bridge -- Herr Schnell went to a restaurant on one side of the bridge and Matt and I to a grocery store on the other side. This was the bridge that I suspected I was once again standing on. I was forming the theory that Donauwörth was where Matt and I had said goodbye to Herr Schnell.

"This bridge still doesn't look familiar to you?" I asked Matt, now that we were standing on the bridge in question.

"Nope."

"You don't remember the place where we bought groceries, then I asked a girl who was passing where there was a picnic table, and she told us to follow her. She led us across a bridge -- I think it was this bridge -- then up to the left, through a tower and over a pedestrian bridge, to a picnic table next to a bike path. I think this may have been where we said goodbye to Herr Schnell too."

Matt didn't have any recollection, so I told him I'd try and take him to the picnic table. We headed off the bridge and up the street. This street looked only vaguely familiar to me -- I wasn't certain this was the place I remembered. I remembered we had turned left somewhere, but didn't see anything on the left that looked right. I made a best guess and I turned left into an alley. Matt followed. We meandered through some small streets between buildings that didn't look at all familiar to me, and eventually came to a dead end.

"So much for your theory," commented Matt.

Matt and I looped back around and came once again to the bridge. I pulled out the map. My theory having been shot down, I set my mind towards figuring how to get through Donauwörth and back onto the Romantic Road. I studied the map and compass until I got myself oriented.

"I think we need to go in that direction," I said, gesturing to our left.

"But we just went that way on your wild goose chase, and it led us to a dead end," Matt replied.

"Well," I said, "I guess we'll just have to try meander our way through town until we find a way through it. The Romantic Road is in that direction."

"Or we could go this way," Matt said, pointing to the right.

"Why?" I asked.

"To get a closer look at her," Matt answered, still pointing to the right.

I looked to the right and saw a blonde woman walking briskly down the road on the other side of the bridge. She wore a short brown skirt and tall tan stockings, a combination that left an intriguing patch of bare leg between the hem of the skirt and the top of the stockings.

On a self-guided bike trip, there isn't usually only one right way to go. Misturns sometimes lead you to beautiful scenery that you are later glad you were able to experience. I placed the map back into my handlebar bag and zipped it closed.

"OK, let's go," I said.

Matt and I turned right. As we rounded a corner, we got a better look at the blonde woman, which unfortunately wasn't as good as the view from a distance. But I was glad we had come this way, because as I rolled along this sidewalk I kept experiencing strong flashes of memory. I became convinced that this was the place Matt and I had completed our race with Herr Schnell. Matt and I stopped at a corner next to the entrance to a grocery store. The blonde woman, who had been walking on the opposite sidewalk, turned a corner and disappeared.

"Matt, this is the place where we were last year. See, this is the grocery store where we bought our food. Do you remember now?"

"It doesn't look familiar to me," Matt said.

"We parked our bikes up there. We bumped into the girl on the sidewalk here and she led us across the bridge and through the town to the picnic table," I insisted.

After a short silence, Matt said, "Oh, yeah."

We turned around and rode back across the bridge, determined to find our way to the picnic table. Just on the other side of the bridge, Matt said, "Hey, that's the restaurant where Herr Schnell ate lunch."

"Oh, yeah," I said, recognizing the restaurant for the first time. "He drank two beers in there."

"At least," Matt said.

We rode up the vaguely familiar street again, but this time we went farther before turning left. We recognized our way then, and rode through some cobblestone streets, under a tower, and over a pedestrian bridge. Before long we arrived at our picnic table.

Riding to Nordlingen

At the picnic table, we stopped and discussed our next move. Given that Donauwörth looked large and upscale enough to support an internet café, we decided to go back and inquire whether Donauwörth had one. If it did, we'd go there and work on the internet for a while as we sipped a coffee. If it didn't, we planned to sit down at any old café for a coffee before riding on.

We rode back across the pedestrian bridge to the cobblestone street, where we parked our bikes. I walked into a travel agency and asked about an internet café. The answer: no internet café in Donauwörth. So we sat down in a nearby Italian ice cream café and ordered coffees. As I drank my coffee, I wrote in my notebook and gobbled down my three remaining Prinz Rolle cookies.

After finishing our coffees, Matt and I climbed back on the bikes and headed once again towards the picnic table. As we rolled across the pedestrian bridge, however, a drop of rain landed on my nose. I looked up at the sky. It was gray and ominous. As we turned left at the picnic table and headed up a path lined by trees, the rain took hold and rapidly increased in intensity. I noticed that up ahead a German woman had pulled her bicycle off the path and taken shelter under a tree. I pulled over and leaned my bike against this woman's tree. Matt pulled over at the next tree up the path. The woman whose tree I was sharing had apparently not been expecting rain, as she had no jacket or umbrella. She became progressively wetter as I donned my full rain gear -- jacket, pants, booties, even my stylish plastic-bag-under-the-helmet head gear. Once I was safely encased in my rain outfit, I bid the wet woman farewell and continued up the path.

The path ended and we turned left onto a road that took us a short distance to the Romantic Road, our chosen route north. At this intersection, however, the rain was so heavy that we dashed under the roof of a gas station for cover. We waited a few minutes while the clouds got the hard stuff out of their system. Once the rain slacked off, we continued on up the Romantic Road.

For the next one and a half hours we rode in a light rain. We rode on the highway for a while, until a path appeared to the left of the highway. We crossed the road to the path, and took the path all the way to Harburg, where we had to climb a relatively steep hill. Shortly after the hill, the rain abated and the sky was filled with a variety of shapes and colors of clouds that were pleasant to look at. I gazed at the sky as I rolled up and down the gentle slopes surrounding Harburg.

We followed the Romantic Road to Nördlingen, where we had decided we would begin looking for a Gasthof. As I was tired (I was still feeling like I might be catching a cold), I was looking forward to getting settled into a room. Just as I entered Nördlingen, however, I discovered to my chagrin that I had yet another flat tire -- my third for the trip.

I leaned my bike against a large tree next to a busy intersection, and began working on the tire. Matt sat on the sidewalk and began writing in his journal. A few minutes later I walked over to Matt and stretched my hand out where he could see it. In the upturned palm of my hand lay the culprit: a shard of clear glass about one centimeter long that had become embedded in my tire. Matt was impressed by the piece of glass. I was thankful that the flat wasn't a compression puncture, which would have been "my fault" for not pumping my tire enough. I replaced the tube and we headed on up the road.

About a kilometer from where I fixed my flat tire, we found a place to stay: the Gasthaus Goldenen Schlüssel. I took a warm shower and washed my hair, in an attempt to avoid getting a cold. (One of the Chinese superstitions that I follow is that to avoid getting a cold you should wash your hair after you've been out in the rain.) After our showers Matt and I walked into Nördlingen, which we discovered was surrounded by a wall probably dating back to the middle ages. Inside the wall, we found an Italian restaurant, The Pizzeria Italia. In an effort to give my body ammunition to fight off the cold, I ate a lot: a bowl of minestrone soup, a plate of spaghetti mafia, a peppermint tea, a sparkling apple juice, and an on-the-house amaretto.