Just One Vice

I think I have just one vice. No, not smoking. Not gambling. Don't run the ponies (I heard that expression in a movie once). A drink, sometimes more than occasionally, but can really take it or leave it. Some would say sugared cereal is a vice of mine, but I can leave that, too, when the waist band starts to tug too tightly. But there is one substance that I might not have the capacity to ignore or pass, even when the angel on my right shoulder is shouting in my ear to resist. "My name is Jan, and I'm a chocoholic," is what I occasionally declare.

Our recent whirlwind trip through Holland, Germany and Austria has not been good for me in that regard. The germanic countries seem to compete for best chocolate reputation. We certainly learned that in our time in Switzerland. This time it started with a simple visit to the train station grocery store in Munich in search of snacks for the train trip to Garmisch. One of Eric's favorite cookies - at least I think it was Eric, or maybe it was just me projecting onto Eric - the chocolate covered biscuit, spoke to me in petite tones. Further down the isle, a Lindt dark chocolate bar (70%) spoke  in a low grumble. Both ended up on the checkout belt. Little did I know that many additional temptations would be presented during our whirlwind trip through southern Germany and Austria.

First at the Zugspitz hotel, in the form of tea-time chocolate cookies, offered at the top of a three-tiered plate of delectable desserts. Not to mention the bedside chocolates. But the avalanche of threats to will-power and resistance came in Salzburg. Furst we had to stop at the Furst confectionary in Altstadt Salzburg, given the connection to the family of our son-in-law (name only). Walking in the shop surrounds you with nothing but sweet chocolate. Mozart chocolate balls (a Salzburg specialty), hot chocolate with layers of whipped creme and a small square of imprinted dark chocolate, and all manner of chocolate incarnations. Then checking into the Sacher hotel, with its own brand of super rich, super dense chocolate tort, presented in a small gift format upon arrival. Also with bedside chocolates, in the event your heart survived the onslaught of sugar and cocoa. 

Back in the Netherlands, the providers of our short stay apartment included M&M candies in our welcome box (seriously low class for such a competent outfit). Sister Evelyn had Droste chocolates splayed on a dish in their apartment. At first there were many, but soon after my arrival there were few. The Dutch really know how to infiltrate chocolate into the mainstream, with chocolate bread spreads (who needs butter), chocolate syrups for pancakes and, of course, milk or ice cream. How is a bonafide chocoholic expected to survive under those conditions?

By the time we entered the security line at Schiphol airport in Amsterdam, my fingers were stained brown, my pockets lined with partially melted goo, and evidence of eaten stores in the corners of my mouth. It was time for detoxification - to dry out, in the vernacular of alcohol. The Christmas lines were so long, that we had no time to shop on the way to the plane. Thank heavens, no more temptation. Until after we were cruising at 35,000 feet, the flight attendant served a tiny lunch box with the chocolate covered marshmallow…..