Sights and sounds in Mozart’s town
One of the first things I notice in Salzburg is smoking — the smoking of cigarettes. I almost never see or smell cigarettes at home. Back home, we have a lot worse, chiefly “skunk weed” — which is well named.
• I have been coming here for 20-plus years, and I’m always startled at how good-looking the old people are — the grandmothers and grandfathers. Fit and attractive. What do they do (if anything)?
• On my first trip, I saw a policewoman, very attractive. I thought, “Where I come from, policewomen don’t look like this . . .” I see several more of those cops this time.
• In the world of bottled water, there are two options, usually: still or sparkling. In grocery stores here, they give you a middle option: mildly sparkling, a bit sparkling. Good option.
• I first came to Europe in 1982. That was my first encounter with the Gypsy begging racket over here. I have written about it many, many times over the decades. I will spare you my reporting, analyzing, and ranting. But I must say, I hate what the racket does to people, generation after generation. Girls and boys are born into it. I wish they could break out of it. Some do, I’m sure. I hope the racket can be broken altogether, one day.
• Quick shot?
Another one?
Another angle?
• During Festspielzeit — festival time — thousands of people come to Salzburg, from all over the world. You hear a multiplicity of tongues in the street. “But not as many as in Queens,” I think.
• This summer, there are lots and lots of Italians in Salzburg — more than I have ever noticed. And I am amazed, as I have been since I was a student, at the variety of Italian accents. North, south, middle — up and down the boot. Sometimes, it is futile to ask an Italian, “How do you pronounce this word?” It may be pronounced differently a town or two over.
• Is there anything like Italian women? Their openness, their flair, their theatricality? Can I say “operaticness”? (It is especially interesting to see Italian mothers deal with their children. Also, you notice that the daughters are little versions of their mother.)
(I am generalizing here. If you don’t like generalizing, this journal’s not for you.)
• I hear, or overhear, many a German conversation here. And there is often a snatch of English. For example, two guys are talking, and suddenly one of them says, “another one bites the dust.”
The Queen song (1980) immediately pops into my head. Indeed, it was the Detroit Lions’ theme song during the 1980 season. Care to see a video? Here.
(I am wary of nostalgia, and the Lions’ 1980 season brings it on . . .)
• Walk out into Salzburg in the early morning — or any time, really — and beauty engulfs you: beauty both natural and manmade.
Have a shot:
How ’bout this?
Look closely at this field, and you can see ponies:
Striking hotel, right?
Often, in the morning, there’s mist. Typical:
• Rainstorms in Salzburg are amazingly violent. Amazingly so. Absolutely furious. And then — they’re over. Like a child, who throws a tantrum, and then is the picture of contentment.
• Just about every day, I walk through the Mirabell gardens. (They’re on my route.) And the people there are so happy: the tourists. (Mainly young women.) They strike poses for pictures; they dance; they sing. They are in a setting of The Sound of Music. They are utterly unashamed of their gaiety and delight. I’m happy for them.
I think Walt Disney called his theme park “the happiest place on earth.” This is a pretty happy place too.
Here is a slice of the gardens — fairly early in the morning, which accounts for the absence of people:
• I have lunch with an old friend — an eminent Italian businessman — who likes Tafelspitz, a lot. It is his standard order in Salzburg. For this lunch, he orders something else, sighing, “You can’t have Tafelspitz every day.” Then, brightening, he says, “But it’s only noon!”
• A friend of mine — an American — says, “This is the best fried chicken in the world.” No offense to the Colonel, but it may be . . .
• A glimpse of the crowd before a concert:
• It is always a pleasure to see Japanese women in kimonos at a concert here. One night, I see something I have never seen before: a Japanese woman in a dirndl. Cross-cultural and fetching.
• Formal wear comes in different types. I think this dude caught me taking his picture. Oh, well.
• In the Grosser Saal of the Mozarteum, some Asian kids bring in bottles of Coke. Austrians — patrons, ticket-holders, not ushers or other officials — go nuts, admonishing the kids in a language they don’t understand.
• Here is Donald Kahn (a bust of), the man who brought me to Salzburg all those years ago. (He was an important benefactor of the festival, and a reader of mine.) (Nephew of Walter Annenberg, grandson of Moses.) (Once came on a National Review cruise.)
• Salzburg is so very, very clean. Yes, the city gets a thorough cleaning by workers every morning. But also: It’s cultural. The people don’t make the city dirty in the first place.
• Odd to be in a place where the street musicians play classical music — or sing it. I pass a woman singing “Gretchen am Spinnrade” (Schubert). (He wrote this immortal song when he was 17.)
• People tend to work at particular jobs all their lives, all their careers. One hotel clerk, I have known since the early 2000s. I ask him, “When did you begin here?” He says, “Late 1980s.”
Some call it stability; some call it stagnation. There are lots of articles and books on this subject. And I’m jotting a quick journal . . .
• Have a look at Schloss Leopoldskron:
There are Sound of Music tours going around the pond, most every day. People on the tour ride bikes, sometimes singing as they go.
The pond is full of fowl: ducks, geese, swans. My eye spots a little “stained glass window” in the knot of a tree:
Schloss Leopoldskron was once owned by Max Reinhardt, the theater director, who was a co-founder of the Salzburg Festival. The place was in decrepitude when he bought it, and he spent 20 years restoring it, splendidly.
Here is a picture of Reinhardt in the library:
Another shot of the library?
The lady is Aušrinė Stundytė, and she is talking to a student. Stundytė is a Lithuanian soprano, and a superb singing actress. (I will have more to say about her elsewhere.)
A shot from the terrace of Schloss Leopoldskron? Here you go:
• I meet a lady who lives in Germany now but is a native Salzburger. She works in the classical-music business. She tells me how she got interested. When she was a girl, her family hosted Fritz Wunderlich (the great tenor), who was booked at the festival. The family had five children, and he sang folk songs with them in the garden.
That would do it . . .
• On the street, I see a man wearing an interesting T-shirt — which reads, “Don’t worry, get curry.”
• A confession: When people start yelling in German, I am slightly — slightly — unnerved. Growing up, I saw too many war movies . . .
• Are these weeds? Or flowers? No matter, I like them:
• How you like them apples?
• A floral median — not atypical:
• Behold the Villa Schmederer — nice digs, right?
• I don’t see Domino’s; I don’t see Little Caesar’s; but never fear — Pizza Mann:
• An optical shop (and better decorated than the LensCrafters near me at home):
• In a prominent hotel, I meet a woman from the guest-services staff: Martha. I say, “You sound like an American.” She says, “I am an American.” She is from Minnesota. We are fellow Midwesterners. She came to Salzburg 25 years ago, fell in love with the place, and stayed.
I introduce her to Riccardo Muti, the conductor. On hearing her name, he sings to her the tenor aria from the opera Martha, by Flotow.
Marvelous.
• There are lots of immigrant children in Salzburg. Will they assimilate? Does this country have the assimilative powers of the United States? I suppose we will see . . .
• “Mozart was not an Austrian,” a Salzburger tells me, somewhat playfully. That is true: In Mozart’s life, Salzburg was a prince-bishopric. It did not pass to Austria until the 1810s.
• See this shop, Azwanger? It was established exactly 100 years before Mozart was born:
I once met a man of the Azwanger family. He told me that the shop’s original phone number was 9. Seriously.
• Quick shot of the Grosser Saal of the Mozarteum, maybe? The stage is set for a piano recital by Arcadi Volodos (a living legend).
• There are several bridges over the Salzach, the river that divides the city. One is named for Mozart, naturally. Another is now named after Marko Feingold. He lived from 1913 to 2019, passing away at age 106. I interviewed him in 2013, when he was 100.
(Part I of my write-up is here; Part II is here.)
Mr. Feingold was the leader of the Salzburg Jewish community, such as it was. He had survived four concentration camps: Auschwitz, Neuengamme, Dachau, and Buchenwald. He was known to quip, “I could write a Michelin guide to the camps.”
He spent decades trying to inform his fellow Austrians about the Holocaust. He told me that Germany had done a good job coming to terms with the past, but Austria had not. He devoted his life to remedying that.
This summer, on the Marko Feingold Bridge, there are signs — placards or posters — giving details about Jewish history in Salzburg.
I salute the city officials.
• Stefan Zweig was from Vienna, but he lived in Salzburg for 15 years (1919 to 1934). There is a square named after that genius writer:
• The name “Schubert” is known all over the world, for music. But here in Salzburg, the name might stand for smart clothes:
• Don’t you love the German rendering of the name “Rumpelstiltskin”? (We are talking about a German fairy tale, of course.)
• A sign outside a store, in English (meaning it is intended for all who come to this burg):
• A nice touch:
• For years and years, Manfred Siebinger has been taking pictures at the Salzburg Festival. Why not take a picture of him?
• An elegant, stately room — the Karl Böhm Saal, where people have drinks and talk, before and after performances (and during intermissions). (Who was Böhm? An Austrian conductor, who lived from 1894 to 1981.)
• In the Felsenreitschule, The Gambler (Prokofiev) is being staged. The production uses roulette wheels, which resemble flying saucers. What if the Oslo Philharmonic comes to the Felsenreitschule to give a concert? Well, the “saucers” remain:
• In early twilight:
Again:
At about 11 p.m.:
• Austrians, on foot, always wait at traffic lights, even when no traffic is coming. My American feet want to move, move, move. On my last morning here, I cross the street, when “Don’t Walk” is in effect. I think, “Not very Austrian. Then again, neither am I . . .”
• At the airport, I see a family: father is Austrian, apparently, mother is Thai (I believe). The kids speak in English, and so does their paternal grandfather, who has accompanied them to the airport. His English is heavily accented. Grandfather and grandchildren obviously adore each other. They call him “Opa.”
A touching scene, to me.
• On the plane, in mid-morning, they give you a bar of chocolate. Civilized.
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