"Oh God, gouda balls! Pay for first class and you still get wax wrapped gouda balls!" Françoise was in bitch mode. At 30,000 feet, there was mucho attitude to accompany the altitude. Aeroflotsam Flight 366 from Paris to Innsbruck was packed with revelers headed for Oberundsoweiter and the Winterfest. Françoise vacillated between haughty disdain and withering stares. One of her icy glares suddenly locked onto a hapless passenger; after five seconds, his forebrain fried into a filigreed frazzle. The flight attendants were not having fun; two of them had started a collection to pay for a hit man. Her husband Peirre wanted to be somewhere else, somewhere more pleasant; Calcutta came to mind. In a rare display of assertiveness, he finally said "Françoise, just shut up--do you ever think about anyone but yourself? Are the words "compassion" and "love" even in your vocabulary anymore?"

       "And why should love be in my vocabulary?!" thundered Françoise. "It has been said, and I agree, that 'Love is just another burnt match, floating in a urinal'!" Solomon Abramovitz, child of Dachau survivors, Mossad operative, ice-climbing mega-geek, trying to sit inconspicuously back in the coach section, could hear her tirade, and it made this brave man tremble. He too began to pine for Calcutta.

       The man across the aisle from Pierre had interesting taste in reading material--The Hite Report, the latest from tha sub-simian Rush Limbaugh, and Mein _____ (Pierre couldn't see the rest of that title). Pierre had heard a flight attendant call him "Herr Strenger"--he thought to engage him in some distracting conversation, anything to get away from Françoise. "Going to Innsbruck on business?" Pierre queried. Helmut Strenger, the result of Hermann Goering's unholy union with Elsa, She Wolf of the SS, shifted his blond 6'3" frame and stared at Pierre with ice blue eyes and said succinctly, but articulately, "No." Helmut's herpetological stare gave Pierre a reptilian chill. Pierre thought the converstion would die there like yesterday's catch of the day. But then Helmut offered "Heading to Oberundsoweiter for the Winterfest." Once engaged, he became very talkative--and inquisitive. He was very curious about the Schreckkind Kontest, where Pierre and Françoise were staying, and how long they planned to stay. Pierre was so relieved to not be talking to Françoise, that he really didn't notice that Helmut was being a bit too friendly and too curious.

       As the Zugspitze galumphed below, the plane began its descent. Pierre, a bit green, muttered "Flight is long hours of boredom parenthesized by two moments of sheer terror." Françoise couldn't pass an opportunity for one last barb; the captive audience of climbers and climber-wannabees heard her sneer "Pierre, do you know why you are not a climber? It's because you are such a sad and shoddy slug, a sophisticated yet spineless specimen of substantial slimyness, at your best, only a succulent slurp for some saturnine swan's summer supper." As if missing its cue, the plane landed without a crash. The limo drive to Oberundsoweiter passed in absolute silence. Pierre knew he would have to leave Françoise; life with her had become more terrifying than a Neil Diamond concert. Yes, he would leave her, and it would be soon. Little did he know the strange canine twist his life would take and how he would once again fall into the arms (or at least the forelimbs) of yet another bitch.

       It was early evening, and Oberundsoweiter had become a zoo--climbers, celebrities, media, and touristoids of all stripes had disharmoniously converged, and now they infected the town like giddy maggots in a McDonald's dumpster. Françoise and Pierre reached their hotel, and Marie was waiting for them--and so was Helmut. Françoise and Marie immediately left Helmut and Pierre and headed for the Eis, Eisen, und Tod Bar and Grill (and now we are finally back to the end of Episode 2; linearity is just an excuse for not rambling well).

       The women bellied up to the bar, and soon were sucking down suds of Baum Frosch Bier, permitting the bustle of the bar scene to soothe their weary travelers' nerves. All the while Sister Mac was in a corner slammin' down G & Ts. Françoise and Marie couldn't help but keep looking over at the nun with the cocktail. Two quaffs into her third steinful, Françoise--suddenly tense--began to sense the approaching hollow howl of Alpenschmerz; the mysterious ethereal wind that seemingly knew her name, knew her destiny, and always knew where to find her. And now every time she caught the nun's eyes, a blast of Alpenschmerz tingled Françoise's spine.

       Suddenly, Sister Mac slapped down her glass, walked over, and popped a handstand on the bar. In a blatant show of virtuosity, alternately progressing on flattened palms and fingertips, she traversed the bar from end to end, joking with patrons as she passed them by. She "strode," if you can call it that, back to our Parisian pair, and without asking permission, perched on one hand, grabbed Françoise's bierstein and guzzled down the brew in robust gulps. "But, but. . . I thought you drank gin." was all Françoise could inanely utter in her stunned voice. "No my dear," said Sister Esperanza Immaculata, OMMM, still balanced on the fingertips of one hand, wiping the suds from her mouth onto the sleeve of her habit with the other arm, "when it comes to alcohol, my tastes are very catholic."

       Up-righting herself, she heartily shook hands with and beamed at Marie. "Never had the chance to meet you, but your mother was a decisive and wonderful influence in my life. Hmmm . . . I see you've got your mother's nose. Of course, heh, heh, your mother still has your father's nose! On that sling around her neck, that is. Sorry, that's in poor taste. But it's true. And you my friend," as she pounded the increasingly dizzy Françoise on the back "and I, your new climbing partner, are gonna find her Daddy's nose, Oh yeah," she offered, seeing their confusion, "I suppose Solomon didn't tell you the whole plan yet. Oh well, there's time for that later. Now let's get ourselves another round of that Baum Frosch Bier."