On behalf of everyone in Fergus Falls who was embarrassed by a fake Der Spiegel magazine story about their beloved town, I thought it would be fair to visit the offices of Der Spiegel, which is German for "The Spiegel," and see what they were like.
The offices are located high in the Alps, in a castle. A sign reading "Anyone not wearing lederhosen, turn back now!" was stuck by the side of the road, but my driver, a dimwitted lad named Horst, explained that it wasn't meant to be taken seriously.
"It's not like we judge people using stereotypes based on their appearance," he said. Then he offered to sell me his Alpine hat so I'd "fit in."
The receptionist, Ilsa Shewolff, 32, a former women's prison guard, gave me a fearsome stare, picked a fleck of tobacco off her red lips, then led me to down a hall lined with busts of former editors who had invaded other European magazines at various points. She opened the editor's door and gave a mocking smile.
"He will see you now," she said, adding under her breath, "swine."
The editor, Adolph B. Beethoven, was sitting behind a massive desk, studying a map of Europe, conferring with a sallow man in a brown uniform about logistics. I thought he might be planning an invasion, but it turns out he was a UPS guy.
"Jahowl," he said to me. "Sitzen, bitten." He was a compact man in his 50s, dressed in lederhosen; on his head was a green felt pointed cap with a feather stuck in the brim. He had a Luger on his belt. "Schnapps?" he said. "Schnitzel?"
I declined both, thanked him for seeing me, and started my recorder.
