+48° 35' 0.62", +7° 44' 16.42"

Well, eventually a someone from the hotel shows up with one of those carts to help me with the luggage, and together we roll it into the lobby, and I head to front desk.

Henry is nowhere to be seen, but Bertha's talking on her cell phone, and when I look at her and try to give her the International Tourist Sign Language for "Is this the right place?" (surveying the room with upraised spreading palms and quizzical eyebrows), she nods and points to the desk. So I go and book a single room for myself, and then the clerk asks me about the rest of my party.

I look around—no sign of Henry, Bertha's still on the phone, Lambert is sitting on a couch, his nose in a little black book, and Bruno is on a more distant couch, with Conrad, who is playing peacefully for once with his PSP. Well, at least there aren't any AC Milan fans in this place.

The clerk looks at me expectantly.

Now this is the point where you might be asking, "What the hell did he expect?" But in fact, I could swear that I've made myself very clear about who would pay for what on this trip. I could look up the emails—I know I kept a copy. I said I would handle the driving, and the minivan rental, and the gas—basically all the transportation costs and duties—but I know I made it quite clear that we'd all be on our own for food and lodging. Those were the very words I used—"we'll all be on our own"—something like that, anyway. That's clear isn't it?

Well, the clerk seems to be used to dealing with groups, and he murmurs something about just needing a credit card to finish the check-in, he assures me that I'll be able to work out the details with my party at my leisure. So I get out my card and book a room with two singles for the monks, and a family room (double bed and cot) for Henry, Bertha and Conrad. At the very moment my credit card touches the counter, I hear this voice over my shoulder.

"Are you ze steward?"

It's a big blond kid, early twenties, kind of a jock, with a big duffel bag over his shoulder. "What?" I say.

"You know, ze keeper of ze Treasury? For Henry? Ze Kaiser?"

"No, no..." I say. "I'm just a blogger, I'm driving the minivan..."

"Yah, yah, you're ze vun. I am Feller ze Blessed! Call me Benedikt! Good to meet you, bro!" He turns and gestures to a group of about half a dozen other guys, who bring their their duffle bags up to the front desk.

"So," I say, "You guys... you're Henry's entourage..."

"Ve are Reilenger Kraichbach Schlabbe!" says Feller. "Ve are Fastnacht Fanatics from Reilengen..."

"Reilengen..." I say. "I think we drove past there..."

"Henry calls us ze Rabbit Varriors! Gang nach Canossa!"

"Cool," I say. "You're coming with us?"

And then, while I'm shaking hands with the other Rabbit Warriors, Feller tells the clerk he needs a couple of big rooms. He doesn't care how many beds there are. He laughs and slaps my shoulder. "Ze vuns zat don't get lucky vill crash on ze floor!"

He turns back to the clerk. "Just put it all on zis dude's card!"