Notes and pictures from Mozart’s town — and Christian Doppler’s and others’ . . .
If classical music ever dies — not that it will (right?) — Salzburg, Austria, will be the last to know about it. For six weeks in the summer, this little burg becomes something like the classical-music capital of the world. (The Salzburg Festival runs from mid-July to the end of August.) Music seems to pour out of every building, as people practice and perform. An expression comes to mind: “little town as conservatory.”
And the little town is easy on the eyes.
Hey, have a picture of a typical street. At the end of it is the Altes Rathaus, i.e., the old city hall:
• You will agree, I bet, that there are worse sounds than that of church bells reverberating over stone. I have never tired of it.
• I am impressed by young people who work in stores throughout Salzburg — and who usher at concerts, etc. They are friendly, open, eager. (I generalize.) They look you in the eye.
Do we have that at home, in the U.S. of A.? I worry . . .
• For a few days here, it’s cool. Like, 60 degrees. (I have never learned Celsius. Or the metric system. I can’t be forced into it either, being a mule.) I welcome this cooler weather, because it has been baking where I live. I am in shorts and a golf shirt, as usual. But the Salzburgers, many of them, are bundled up — in winter-ish coats.
Everything is relative, I suppose, like the humidity.
• Over the years, I have written a lot — a lot — about Gypsies, or Roma, and their organized begging in European towns. I do not expect to spend much time on it in this journal. I have observed this racket — this tragic way of life — since I was 18, in the early 1980s. It has never abated. The grandchildren of the beggars I first encountered are now begging. The cycle — generation after generation — has not been broken.
I alternate between anger at the beggars and pity. They were born into this racket. There is no doubt great coercion. What agency do they have?
This is too big a topic for this breezy lil’ journal I am jotting . . .
• Earlier, I mentioned church bells. Let’s give equal time to cow bells:
I have a stray thought: Are the cows ever bothered by the sound — the reverberant clanging — of those bells around their necks? Are they ever bothered by anything?
• For some years, on a certain street, there were two grocery stores, side by side: a Billa and a Spar. I patronized both. Liked them both. They offered different things. This year, the Spar is gone.
“We drove them out,” a young cashier at the Billa tells me. “To be honest, I liked the Spar better.” She and I agree that this’ll be our secret.
(Have I spilled it? Ah, but there are many young female cashiers at the Billa, and the powers-that-be are unlikely to be readers of mine, darn them.)
• How civilized — utterly civilized — to serve a side salad with a sandwich:
In New York, where I live, the side salad has pretty much gone the way of the dodo bird. If you want one, you have to order a pretty big salad for like twelve bucks. Uncivilized . . .
• Let me stop grousing and just offer this:
• Mozart is the No. 1 guy in this town — the No. 1 Salzburger. No. 2? Probably Christian Doppler, who had an effect on science. Here is a Gymnasium — a secondary school — named after him:
Incidentally, the house in which Doppler was born and the house in which Mozart lived are about 25 yards from each other, in Makartplatz.
• And what campus is this sign pointing to?
“PMU” would be Paracelsus Medical University. (I wonder how their fight song goes.) Paracelsus was a genius scientist in the Middle Ages — Swiss, more or less — who came to Salzburg to settle.
• We are on a scientific jag: On this spot did Einstein first present his theory of relativity (1909):
Einstein was 30 years old, soon to be world-famous — indeed, historic.
• A sign giving the speed limit says “Tempolimit.” To me, it is like a musical marking . . .
• In a post office, a youngish woman working behind the desk is wearing a name tag: “Frau Nguyen.” She is conducting business, briskly and efficiently, in both German and English. America is known as “a nation of immigrants,” and so we are. But many nations are such nations.
• On a rainy day, a young woman is visiting the Mirabell Gardens. She is perhaps from Japan. She is practically the only person in the gardens at the moment. And she is listening to “Doe a deer” on her smartphone. (I realize that this song is more formally titled “Do-Re-Mi.”) Kind of sweet.
• The Sound of Music Tour is popular here in Salzburg, and I see groups bicycling and singing all the time — especially around the pond (lake?) in front of Schloss Leopoldskron.
Hang on, let me give you a shot:
• Back to the gardens. One day, a mother — French — is frustrated with her little boy, who keeps trying to be independent. She says — in a voice so firm it startles me — “Tu. Me. Donnes. La. Main.” (“You will give me your hand.”)
On another day, an Italian mother admonishes her little girl. I love what she says: “O la mano. O in passeggino. O in braccia. Scegli.” In fact, she says it twice. “Either give me your hand. Or get in the stroller. Or be carried in my arms. Choose.”
Given that I was walking through, I’m not sure how the little girl chose . . .
• Well, I have a simple field for you — still kind of special:
• Have a shot of the Old City, from across the river:
• Up on the Mönchsberg, I see a Korean family: father, mother, daughter. The dad is wearing a T-shirt with a picture of Castro, and it says “Viva Fidel.” I think: Forgive him. He doesn’t know better. He’s been lightly educated, or propagandized, like countless others.
Still, I burn a little. I know, or know of, so many victims, either of murder or of torture.
• I like this T-shirt better: “Straight Outta My Bed” (playing on the “Straight Outta Compton” motif).
• Care for a language note? An erudite Salzburger says to me, “When we speak to Germans, they often look at us as though we should have straw in our hair.” Austrian-accented German is thought bumpkinish by some . . .
• I love this scene — I love that wood:
• They know how to do a woodpile, these Austrians:
• Shall we have a look up the river? (Or is it down?)
• Let’s have a look at some cars — starting with this Bentley:
Big ol’ Caddy — glorious:
I kinda like this lil’ brown Bug:
Feast your eyes on this Bel Air, baby — 1956:
• I see Bianca Jagger, attending concerts and strolling about. She constantly promotes human rights in her native country, Nicaragua. She puts what pressure on the dictatorship she can. Specifically, she is trying to save the life of Rolando Álvarez, an imprisoned bishop. I admire her for her efforts.
• Here is a “stumble stone” — a slightly raised plaque on the pavement:
“Here lived Maria Kurz,” deported on May 21, 1941. There are many, many such stones, such plaques. (In 2013, I interviewed Marko Feingold, the head of the Salzburg Jewish community. He was 100 at the time. He would live to 106. For Part I of my write-up, go here, and for Part II, here.)
• I see some young people smoking — boys, aged about 16. Smoking cigarettes. I am almost relieved. It seems so . . . old-fashioned. Where I live, I never see young people smoking cigarettes. They smoke worse . . .
• One of life’s great pleasures, I have discovered, is almond ice cream. “Mandel,” they call it here. (If you know someone named “Mandelbaum,” he’s an almond tree.)
You know Bounty, the candy bar? Well, now I have had Bounty ice cream — Nirvana.
• I have never heard of a hot ice burger. All I can say is: Bring it on.
• Judgments will vary, of course. Some will find this sign offensive. Others, kosher. In any case, I don’t think we would see it at home . . .
• Have a peek out a window in the Great Festival Hall:
• You like this castle — now a hotel — up on the Mönchsberg?
Here is how it looks from farther away:
• You know about Americans and ice (in drinks) — and Europeans and ice (in drinks). At intermission in the Karl Böhm Saal one night, I say to the young man behind the bar, “A Pepsi Max with ice, please.” Taking his scoop, he says, thoughtfully, “One cube or two?” (And these cubes are small — cube-lets.) I say, “I’m an American, so four would be just fine.”
Presenting my glass, he smiles broadly and says, in English, “There you go.”
Nice.
(I say to him, “Where’d you learn ‘There you go’?” TV shows, of course.)
• The Vienna Philharmonic once played a concert in Kentucky. (Louisville, probably.) A member of the orchestra tells me that they were all made Kentucky Colonels. “I know it’s kind of silly,” he says, “but I am rather proud of it — proud of being a Kentucky Colonel.”
• You’ve heard of Burger King? Well, I give you the Barber King:
• “Hair Spot”? What about Bald Spot?
• According to my Midwestern self, a driveway needs a basketball hoop. And here is one, on a Greater Salzburg mountain:
The fetching row of yellow flowers is a bonus.
• I’m not sure I ever tire of this scene:
• Or this:
• Say hello to the Main Man, Mozart:
• And here is his character, from The Magic Flute, Papageno (in Papageno Square — where else?):
• A reminder of Salzburg’s horsey past:
• My friends, if you ever have a chance to have a pretzel croissant in the morning — freshly baked — do take it. A great luxury.
• Leaving for the airport, I have the Uber pick me up at 8 Makartplatz — Mozart’s house. Kind of interesting, to be picked up at Mozart’s house. To type his address into the app. A bit surreal, actually.
I wish you the best. Thank you for joining me today. Will catch you soon.
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