One crisp autumn morning after a long night of Wildbrau beer and Spaetzle noodles, I awoke atop an Ikea bunk bed to find David Hasselhoff hovering over me, wearing nothing but his "Baywatch" bikini. I was disoriented. He was tan and hairy, with a smile the size of Stuttgart. When I leaned in to have a closer look, we bumped noses. Lucky for me, he was just a magazine pinup taped to the ceiling. (Darn the low clearance in these Hanseatic-era houses!) I heard a muffled giggle from the b....
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