Actually, I wanted to tell you how many architecture awards our bathhouse has racked up recently. That's a wonderful thing, really! And certainly well "worth" a few minutes of your attention, which is already being eagerly, almost worryingly, competed for as the end of the year approaches.

But such a State Award for Architecture is only of use if you actually have a building where you can hang it up. And at this point, things came incredibly close last Advent— Hallelujah, truly close.

The thing is: the Hirschen was on fire. And I don't mean that in my commonly known, casual slang as a reference to peak performances on the dance floor. I mean literally! But let’s take it one step at a time, just as my German teacher explained to me back then for writing a factual report:

Act 1 — Sleeping Peter

Sometimes, even the most dedicated host gets knocked out. That's exactly what happened to me on Thursday. Neither Wick MediNait nor gentian schnapps could prevent an early night in bed. So, accepting my fate, I surrendered to the sheets. And there I fell into a strangely deep sleep. Until my phone rang...

Act 2 — Alarm, Alarm

It was Niko, whom you most likely know as the always cheerful restaurant manager of this venerable establishment. Now, I've known the guy for quite a while. And let me tell you, he doesn't call me unless the place is on fire.

Until recently, I would have meant by that: a guest with a difficult request outside of moral business hours, a chimney falling off the roof (which actually happened), a heating failure, or a car driving into the garden wall. Or something like that.

This time, however, it was more like: "Peter, smoke is coming out of the heating. Don't think it's supposed to be like that." — Peter, fast asleep: "Niko, I don't smoke. Why are you calling me so late? — "Then I'll call Jonathan!" — "He doesn't smoke either!" — "Oh boss, I mean call!"

3 minutes later, another call. The fire alarm. Virgin Mary, suddenly very, very awake and finally understanding the smoke thing. So, bolted upright like I'd been stung by a tarantula and raced towards the Hirschen. The fire brigade was already there. Probably only Vol.at is faster in this country. Speed of light, F32, supersonic jet, Vol.at, fire brigade, Hermann Maier. The order of speed must be something like that.

Act 3 — The Hirschen is burning!

Upon arrival, a sea of blue lights is mirrored in the delicate windows of the 270-year-old houses on the village square, reflected by neon-yellow safety vests, slowly dissolving into a massive cone of smoke above our temple of hedonism. Ah, seeing that sight really squeezes your heart a little.

Briefly back to the factual report, without digressions:
Niko called Jonathan — heroic intervention with a garden hose — glowing embers behind the chimney in the bar — apprentice Elisabeth suddenly turned professional evacuator — house guests and the Felder Metall Christmas party all moved to the dance house — fire brigade takes over — turntable ladder, tanker truck, Vol.at, drone, water, smoke, ambulance, police, Sacre Bleu! — fire brigade begins sawing open the facade — smoke is pouring out from everywhere in the Hirschen — the Hirschen team accommodates all guests in the Wälderhaus — no end in sight — wait, an end in sight — breakfast is organized — the first craftsmen appear in the middle of the night — fire brigade says "we've got it" — inspecting the damage — the fire brigade are clearly surgeons with a Stihl chainsaw — hardly any water damage inside the building — but a huge hole in the wall — beer in the Jägerstube — making a plan — keeping fire watch — tour of the house — 1 hour of sleep in the Jägerstube.

Act 4 — Hirschen, what do we do?

In view of the sprawling length of this newsletter, I will continue in staccato for now:

6:00 AM WhatsApp to craftsmen — 7:00 AM craftsmen trickle in — coffee & looking at the hole — "Sure, Pedro, we'll get that done" — stove is gone by 10:00 AM — carpenters start plugging the hole — press arrives — 1000 calls and messages — we notify all guests, but actually don't even know what to say yet — it turns out we might be able to open again in the evening (really?!) — rallying the team — even the painter shows up — setting up air purifiers — deep-cleaning the bar — 6:00 PM the first 2 beers are served — unbelievable, a Christmas miracle.

Act 5 — Reopening

Somehow, it feels like we've been given another chance. A wonderful chance, wrapped in golden light, to continue running this place. We are so enormously grateful that this is the case.

This is only possible thanks to
— the prudent actions of the Hirschen team
— the professional approach of the fire brigades and emergency services
— the incredible helpfulness of the craftsmen and the village
— the coolness of our guests

Act 6 — Ending & moving forward

Wow, wow, wow, is what is so often said at the end of a story in this house. It seems there is a new one to be told that ends exactly the same way.

We get to serve another drink!

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