The evening after the climb T., Ge., and I went to a concert at the music school in Ebensee, which was one of the official events of the reunion but also open to the general public. We were early so Papa, who was bringing us, drove us around Rindbach and showed us a boat launch on the Traunsee first. My great-grandparents' families had spent their summers in close proximity to each other, and Rindbach was where they had met. The Fichteneck (Fir Corner), once the haunt of the Mendelssohns, no longer exists, being torn down in the 1960s or so, but the Dreieck (which is just down the road) persists. Papa took us past both these properties, and after seeing the lake, too, we returned to the school.
This was the concert programme:
Felix Mendelssohn: String quartet in e minor, Op. 44 No. 2
Fanny Hensel [N.B. Felix's sister]: Piano trio in d minor, Op. 11
Felix Mendelssohn: Octet in E flat major, Op. 20
We were still early and so I watched the rest of the audience and kept an eye out for people I knew. There was Uncle Pu, of course, and later Aunt L. and M., whom I was especially excited to see. Then I recognized the daughters of Opapa's youngest uncle, despite only having seen each two to four times (one of those times being back in 1995), and, with pleased surprise, Opapa's cousin from the US, who we thought for some reason wouldn't be coming after all. Then I looked around the room, which attached to a yawning storage room that also served as the musicians' passage to their green room, and where the stage was marked by the cluster of spotlights hanging from the ceiling. There is also a chandelier, a modern take on a traditional flower-like fixture, over the rows of chairs, and windows from which the dark reddish curtains had been drawn back. In front there is an haut-relief in bronze, a contemporary take on the portraiture of medieval royalty, which I found particularly peculiar as most of the figures were in their birthday suits and their anatomy was highly stylized so that one unfortunate lady appeared to be sprouting twin billiard balls on her bosom and her stomach was detached into a sort of spherical balloon. Anyway, the room was torridly hot, so naturally I flushed beet-red, which bothered me until I noticed that everyone else was in similar straights. I did fan myself but wondered whether it was polite to do so, and was careful not to send whooshes of air toward the nice lady sitting beside me lest it annoy her; a little while later she had removed her coat and so it was probable that she wouldn't have minded the ventilation.
Then the music began, and soon proved to be of a high calibre, not only technically, and I enjoyed it very much. It did not come across as rehearsed and the first violinist, though as Pudel later opined not one of the great violinists, had a very good sense for Mendelssohn's style. I was only surprised and a bit disappointed to find (when she was finally visible betwixt the heads of the audience) that she is a Grimacer. At the beginning the playing was rather chaotic but in the course of time it was better calibrated, the violinists being particularly in synch with each other. There was a lull after the first movement of the quartet when the cellist (and Opapa's niece) rose with wryly smiling determination, stalked across to the window, and finally let in fresh air. The relief of those assembled was tangible.
The trio was composed of a pianist, a different violinist, and the same cellist; they went for a heady passion and more high romantic approach that gave Hensel's composition a distinctly Schumannian flair. I felt that the approach wasn't entirely right but, in a weird revisionist way, it worked.
Lastly there was the octet, which was considerably enlivened by the thunderstorm that broke out during it. The chandelier flickered and if I were a betting sort of person I would have said the odds were 1 to 5 of it going out entirely and plunging us in darkness. Musically I felt that the concert hit its stride here and that everything came together. In a grand coup, a cellist formerly of the Amadeus Quartett was to have played in the octet, but he fell ill along the way to Austria and had to turn back. But I thought it was nice either way.
The concert entrance, by the way, had cost 10 Euros, which considering the transportation fare of the musicians and other logistical questions was probably reasonable, and considering the quality of the music was extremely reasonable.
I could write more, but I've already given detailed run-downs once each to Mama and Papa, besides contributing my two cents in a brief post facto discussioon with Pudel, and don't want to bother doing it again. Besides, I don't like carping about the hard work of others or running the risk of being inaccurate and at the same don't want to gush indiscriminately, so exhaustive music reviews are an ordeal out of which I will in this case wriggle.
At any rate, we drove away again pretty much right after the concert had ended, and threshed through the impressively thick rain back to Bad Goisern.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Holiday in Austria, Part VIII: An Afternoon near Munich
On the final day I was still sleeping like a log when Mama came around to those of us who were less than awake to tell us that, if we wanted to see Uncle Pu before he drives back home, now was the time to arise from our slumbers. A while afterward I toddled down to the kitchen table and informed the round that I had interrupted REM sleep for this session and that they could feel flattered (which was not meant, and hopefully did not come across, obnoxiously). During the breakfast we bade goodbye to Pudel; after it we packed everything up and finally left before noon.
Our route to the German border was an eminently picturesque, circuitous one that took us through the mountains around the Dachstein. We crossed the border near the Chiemsee (a surprisingly huge lake nicknamed "the Bavarian sea") and then hastened on to Munich. What really kept me busy, besides admiring the mountains, was admiring the multiplicity of license plate origins. This stretch was a veritable European Parliament, with cars and trucks and motorcycles from all over Austria, and then from Germany, Slovenia, Czech Republic, Belgium, Hungary, and Italy, and there were one or two each from France, Great Britain, Italy, Spain, Latvia, Bulgaria, Romania, Denmark, Norway, and even Russia.
It was saddening to leave Austria again especially because it seems to me to be such a lively and lovely country, from the geographical and architectural and botanical point of view, and because I'm so fond of mountainous terrain. But I was looking forward to being near Munich again.
The town that was our destination lies outside of the city, and lies in a region noted for harbouring well-to-do people who wish to live in retirement from the sordid hurly-burly of the urban sphere. The streets were narrow and winding, and though the neighbourhood (aside from the Four Seasons hotel along the way) did not seem especially rich the houses often had gardens and were large enough. Being used to the generous property sizes of North America, my awe was within bounds. Logistically it was a bother trying to find a parking spot and navigating the narrow thoroughfares, besides which it was hot. We paused at a train station so that Papa could consult the map, when a round-faced man evidently at a loss for other ways to while away the afternoon came trundling over from a distant table to inform us in surly fashion that no parking was allowed at that spot. A sign had already informed us as much, but as far as we could tell we were in nobody's way for the short period we were there. Mama told us later, slightly huffily, that the man, grumbling as he turned away, had called us "Saupreußen," or Prussian pigs.
After this interlude we adjourned to a Biergarten for refreshments. Having forgotten my theoretical horror of it as usual, I wanted dessert and therefore ordered vanilla ice cream with bilberries (Heidelbeeren). Gi. and T. and J. got two king-sized bilberry pancakes, dusted with powdered sugar and studded in the centre with a neat mound of vanilla ice cream, and they looked delectable. Papa, long deprived of it, chose a sirloin tip roast (Tafelspitz, and based on the cooking method he says that it could be properly denominated a pot au feu) that arrived with grated horseradish, boiled potatoes, rice, and a half tomato. Ge. and Mama went the traditional route and opted for Bavarian white sausage (Weisswurst), which arrived in a white covered bowl with lion-head-shaped handles, with a basket of two obligatory large pretzels and a little plate of packages of sweet mustard. To drink we had coffee, mineral water (mine again!), beer, and Coke.
At around 5:30 the Prussian pigs were expected at the house of a friend of the family, P.K., with whom Papa had studied and worked in his early years at the Freie Uni. Now this friend is a doctor and married with two little children, and though the latter were off with his wife to be immunized, he gladly welcomed us and, sitting in the garden at a round table, Papa and Mama and he caught up. The last time they had seen each other was in 1989. One topic that recurred was medical ethics, especially the lack thereof, and medicine in general. I was surprised when P.K. posited that talking and personally engaging with patients helps far more than medication does. The other remark that struck me, and which not knowing much of the profession I didn't understand, is that the majority of his work is statistics. Perhaps it means that many likelihoods must be calculated when one treats a patient, for instance the likelihood of a certain diagnosis being correct and of a certain drug working or conversely of a certain drug having bad side effects, etc. Anyway, all of this interested me particularly because I've often thought of going into medicine; because I was around and very much involved when my grandfather and great-aunt were ill, and when they were helped or not by their prescriptions; and because Papa has read and seen and thought a lot about the field and likes to discuss it. Later, at any rate, we walked around the garden, where the hydrangeas and other blossoms were flourishing, as were the tomatoes and beets and other vegetables, and I wished yet again that my enjoyment of gardens were not tarnished by the consciousness of the hard and tedious work that goes into them. (c:
By 9 p.m. we had to take our leave again and drive back to Berlin. A gentle sunset accompanied us as Munich receded in the distance, and then it was entirely dark and rather boring. I was tired but was pretty sure that Papa had probably gotten less sleep than me, and so decided to stay awake in solidarity. Mama and I therefore spent some two hours straight travelling through our song repertory: folksongs, gems from The Sound of Music (alas (c: ) and Mary Poppins, classical pieces including a handful of Schubert Lieder, and Beatles hits. Unfortunately I doubt any of us can sing a Beatles song all the way through, but we muddle through at least the first verse of "Nowhere Man," "Hey Jude," etc. anyway. Ge.'s knowledge is comparatively encyclopaedic but since he didn't sing along that didn't help. Then I was too tired to stay awake or be selfless any longer, and thought that I had helped to stave off a hypnotic silence long enough, and therefore had a nap. I woke up again before we reached Berlin and was immensely grumpy that we weren't there yet. But it was exciting to drive through the deserted city streets when we were at last there, and I was chipper enough to carry a lot of luggage and baggage up from the car into our apartment. Then, having unpacked my stuff in an unusual example of swift action, I went to bed and slept like a dormouse.
Since then the sense of deflation after an adventure, which I had expected to set in and make life difficult for the next few weeks, has not set in. The trip was strenuous and I can't say it was the most fun I've ever had in my life; but I have been feeling surprisingly enterprising and energetic after all, and I am happy that Austria is even nicer than I thought.
Our route to the German border was an eminently picturesque, circuitous one that took us through the mountains around the Dachstein. We crossed the border near the Chiemsee (a surprisingly huge lake nicknamed "the Bavarian sea") and then hastened on to Munich. What really kept me busy, besides admiring the mountains, was admiring the multiplicity of license plate origins. This stretch was a veritable European Parliament, with cars and trucks and motorcycles from all over Austria, and then from Germany, Slovenia, Czech Republic, Belgium, Hungary, and Italy, and there were one or two each from France, Great Britain, Italy, Spain, Latvia, Bulgaria, Romania, Denmark, Norway, and even Russia.
It was saddening to leave Austria again especially because it seems to me to be such a lively and lovely country, from the geographical and architectural and botanical point of view, and because I'm so fond of mountainous terrain. But I was looking forward to being near Munich again.
The town that was our destination lies outside of the city, and lies in a region noted for harbouring well-to-do people who wish to live in retirement from the sordid hurly-burly of the urban sphere. The streets were narrow and winding, and though the neighbourhood (aside from the Four Seasons hotel along the way) did not seem especially rich the houses often had gardens and were large enough. Being used to the generous property sizes of North America, my awe was within bounds. Logistically it was a bother trying to find a parking spot and navigating the narrow thoroughfares, besides which it was hot. We paused at a train station so that Papa could consult the map, when a round-faced man evidently at a loss for other ways to while away the afternoon came trundling over from a distant table to inform us in surly fashion that no parking was allowed at that spot. A sign had already informed us as much, but as far as we could tell we were in nobody's way for the short period we were there. Mama told us later, slightly huffily, that the man, grumbling as he turned away, had called us "Saupreußen," or Prussian pigs.
After this interlude we adjourned to a Biergarten for refreshments. Having forgotten my theoretical horror of it as usual, I wanted dessert and therefore ordered vanilla ice cream with bilberries (Heidelbeeren). Gi. and T. and J. got two king-sized bilberry pancakes, dusted with powdered sugar and studded in the centre with a neat mound of vanilla ice cream, and they looked delectable. Papa, long deprived of it, chose a sirloin tip roast (Tafelspitz, and based on the cooking method he says that it could be properly denominated a pot au feu) that arrived with grated horseradish, boiled potatoes, rice, and a half tomato. Ge. and Mama went the traditional route and opted for Bavarian white sausage (Weisswurst), which arrived in a white covered bowl with lion-head-shaped handles, with a basket of two obligatory large pretzels and a little plate of packages of sweet mustard. To drink we had coffee, mineral water (mine again!), beer, and Coke.
At around 5:30 the Prussian pigs were expected at the house of a friend of the family, P.K., with whom Papa had studied and worked in his early years at the Freie Uni. Now this friend is a doctor and married with two little children, and though the latter were off with his wife to be immunized, he gladly welcomed us and, sitting in the garden at a round table, Papa and Mama and he caught up. The last time they had seen each other was in 1989. One topic that recurred was medical ethics, especially the lack thereof, and medicine in general. I was surprised when P.K. posited that talking and personally engaging with patients helps far more than medication does. The other remark that struck me, and which not knowing much of the profession I didn't understand, is that the majority of his work is statistics. Perhaps it means that many likelihoods must be calculated when one treats a patient, for instance the likelihood of a certain diagnosis being correct and of a certain drug working or conversely of a certain drug having bad side effects, etc. Anyway, all of this interested me particularly because I've often thought of going into medicine; because I was around and very much involved when my grandfather and great-aunt were ill, and when they were helped or not by their prescriptions; and because Papa has read and seen and thought a lot about the field and likes to discuss it. Later, at any rate, we walked around the garden, where the hydrangeas and other blossoms were flourishing, as were the tomatoes and beets and other vegetables, and I wished yet again that my enjoyment of gardens were not tarnished by the consciousness of the hard and tedious work that goes into them. (c:
By 9 p.m. we had to take our leave again and drive back to Berlin. A gentle sunset accompanied us as Munich receded in the distance, and then it was entirely dark and rather boring. I was tired but was pretty sure that Papa had probably gotten less sleep than me, and so decided to stay awake in solidarity. Mama and I therefore spent some two hours straight travelling through our song repertory: folksongs, gems from The Sound of Music (alas (c: ) and Mary Poppins, classical pieces including a handful of Schubert Lieder, and Beatles hits. Unfortunately I doubt any of us can sing a Beatles song all the way through, but we muddle through at least the first verse of "Nowhere Man," "Hey Jude," etc. anyway. Ge.'s knowledge is comparatively encyclopaedic but since he didn't sing along that didn't help. Then I was too tired to stay awake or be selfless any longer, and thought that I had helped to stave off a hypnotic silence long enough, and therefore had a nap. I woke up again before we reached Berlin and was immensely grumpy that we weren't there yet. But it was exciting to drive through the deserted city streets when we were at last there, and I was chipper enough to carry a lot of luggage and baggage up from the car into our apartment. Then, having unpacked my stuff in an unusual example of swift action, I went to bed and slept like a dormouse.
Since then the sense of deflation after an adventure, which I had expected to set in and make life difficult for the next few weeks, has not set in. The trip was strenuous and I can't say it was the most fun I've ever had in my life; but I have been feeling surprisingly enterprising and energetic after all, and I am happy that Austria is even nicer than I thought.
Holiday in Austria, Part VII: The Reunion Proper
On Sunday we breakfasted as customary, I after having been awake since around 3:45 a.m. because I couldn't sleep. I had wanted to tackle the Predigstuhl again with Gi., to have a better memory of it and conquer the near-trauma that the sight of it inspired, but my parents and in the end Gi. vetoed it. I decided to respect the veto because proving something to myself wasn't worth causing them to worry, but didn't do it happily, and for this and other reasons I was in a really irritated and depressed state. It was all the more irritating because I dislike being the slave to irrational and passing moods, and behaving disgracefully as a result. But at least I went back to sleep and was therefore better rested.
Anyway, after breakfast we betook ourselves to the house, named the "Dreieck" presumably because of its right-angled floorplan, where my grandfather's family once spent its summers. It is a big but snug house (it would sprawl if it were constructed in a different style and climate, because of the number of rooms), shutters painted a bright darkish green that tends very slightly to the turquoise, and its outer walls are siding that has been painted a wintry brown-black shade. A garden runs on all four sides, a little pool to the right and a little kitchen garden to the left, and behind it a low wall draped in ivy and a plant whose dusty leaves resemble those of the lavender runs on the crest of a slight dip that looks out onto a field. Above the house, to the left, there towers a wooded hill.
When we arrived we were greeted at the front door and guided into the room at the back, which gives out onto the back yard, and then shook hands with the first brace of unknown relatives. It was less of an ordeal than expected. Then we looked at a big album of black-and-white photos of Mendelssohn connections that lay on the table in that room; I recognized my great-grandmother (or, as my father and his siblings called her, Omi) often, and even where the people were unknown the zeitgeistiness of the pictures was amusing. There was also a book of interviews with the sculptor Rodin, published as far as I remember in 1911 but bound in what seems to me to be a mildly anachronistic and elaborate leather binding lined with marbled paper, and full of good photos partly of Rodin's sculptures and partly of the paintings and sculptures of the older artists (e.g. Praxiteles, Michelangelo) who inspire him. It also held a photo of the bearded artist standing in his garden, nearly dwarfed by two swans in the foreground. The book, as far as I could tell, was bought by Omi, who was a devoted sculptor and painter herself.
On the wall there were posters of the family in its different branches, which I didn't peruse much, except to recognize portraits of the distant ancestors from the Mendelssohn archive in the Staatsbibliothek (State Library) and to find it funny which photos of us were chosen. J.'s photo was about fifteen years old, for instance, though it is a lovely one; it would take a keen physiognomist indeed to recognize that the endearing two-year-old and he are one and the same. Either way, it was comforting to see the photos of Opapa and Tante Nora, and to know that they are neither entirely gone, nor forgotten.
Then we ambled out into the garden and so on and so forth, and had photos taken of one generation at a time, until the luncheon was ready. I decided to wait until everyone else had taken their portions and took something to drink first. It was mineral water, which seems like a very diet-y choice, but the truth is that the toothache experience in December has turned me off sugary juices and even inspired a horror of sweet desserts. (Fortunately I often forget the latter and therefore eat as much chocolate, ice cream, etc., as I like.) And I didn't feel like having wine. Then, at any rate, we sat out on the benches and talked.
Normally the whole family sits together, but it is a tribute to the relaxed atmosphere that we were broken up this time and that this didn't make me uncomfortable. Part of it was that nobody addressed duty-conversation to me, or at least it didn't seem like duty-conversation; not that I mind such conversation except that talking about myself, which generally ends up happening, is awkward and uninteresting. When I'm left to myself but have enough going around me to prevent me from being or looking bored it's easier to relax, let go of my inhibitions and forget the insecurity that usually poisons social situations for me. Anyway, my parents discussed squirrels and other wildlife with my father's cousin's husband, and I pitched in from time to time.
As for the food, of which I did partake, it consisted of divers salads of lentils, couscous, tomatoes, etc., and cured salmon and other things I didn't have, as well as Marillenknödel, or apricot dumplings, for dessert. These dumplings are a local specialty, and consist of an apricot at the core, then a glutinous Spaetzle-like dough, and then a loose coating of sugar, breadcrumbs, butter, and maybe cinnamon. Aunt L. made sure I had some, and I especially liked the soft and nearly disintegrating apricot at the centre.
Then, since most people were out in the garden and out of earshot, I played the upright piano in the dining room after asking permission. My mood had improved in any case but the music made everything much better. Then Papa and I were asked to play a little together, since there was an informal concert planned. The original idea was more to provide background music, but most of the guests gathered in the chairs along the wall of the room, and we played Saint-Saëns's "Swan," a largo by Händel, and a folksong by Schumann. At the piano I had my back to the audience, which moreover gave out a friendly and undemanding aura, and I was in an absorbed mood, so there wasn't much room for nerves. The music in general would have gone better if Papa and I had practiced beforehand, and I think that some in the audience had expected a polished and carefully prepared performance instead of the spontaneous performance it was. We didn't announce our pieces in advance, either, as the musicians who came after us did. But to me it was more important that the music would be nice and sincere, and I think it was.
This mini-concert was also a good experience for me because it helped lay the ghost of the last time I played in front of so many people. It was when I was fourteen or fifteen years old, and I had been having difficulties with the two pieces I performed even when playing them at home; so at the concert I made so many mistakes that it was already, as Mama said, impressive that I didn't break off before reaching the end. Though I understood even at the time that most of the audience were total strangers, and interested more in how their pupils and children played, it was pretty crushing. After that, whenever we drove past the church where it took place, I would look the other way, and I didn't like playing the pieces any more though I kept at them to try to overcome the bad association. This time I didn't have a melt-down and didn't play too differently from the way I play at home, so I was pleased and proud of myself.
After we were done, another relative played Schumann's Kinderszenen, which she executed extremely well. Then my grandfather's cousin's granddaughter, who is only sixteen, played a Mozart concerto movement on the violin, and I liked it very much — unpretentious, conscientiously worked out, and genuine. Of course there were criticisms to be made, but with house music it feels churlish to remember or mention them. Then the concert ended with the string musicians among us (Uncle Pu being one, of course (c: ) sight-reading Austrian folk dances.
After that some of the relatives took their leave, and others (like us) went for a walk to a waterfall. This waterfall is reached by winding along the road for a while, then turning off to the right and ambling through the forest, where stacks of felled trunks were piled up along the left and right of the road, the bark trodden into the muddy ground and the ensemble giving off a strong scent of resin which I've missed since we left Canada. At length we snaked up a path that finally leads to a wooden bridge over the creek, and above it the waterfall, an impressive series of gouged slides of pale rock over which the water plummets into kettles (also known as potholes) and then threshes out again on toward the flatter gravel-bottomed course of the creek. Rock and forest rise to the left and right, with wild flowers and brush in the sunny areas, and wet leaves and soil and rocks exposed in the shadowy ones. The rest of the path was barred due to recent tree slides, so we paused here before retracing our steps to the Dreieck.
Upon returning we sat down in the garden, where we were gradually joined by the others, and the best part of the day unfolded itself as we drank wine and talked and ate a little as the sun sank past the mountain to (presumably) the east. The conversation was at times amusingly erudite, touching among other things on Elias Canetti and Vladimir Nabokov's posthumously published, unfinished book, literary fame with its pros and cons, and gnosticism. L.'s husband M. also discussed green energy and heat storage with Ge., and I enjoyed listening to it especially since it was animated by a quiet, understated devotion to the subject. Later the general conversation turned to computers and the incompetence or malice of software developers (which of course immediately caught Papa's attention) and I liked that, though in essence the drift was the same, it was a subtler variation on the customary lamentations of the incomprehensibility of computers to the older generation, or of one's own stupidity. In the house the musicians were playing Haydn's trio in G major, a Mozart quartet, and other things, which drifted down to us, and there were also chocolates but I didn't have any.
Then we took our leave after signing the guestbook (I summoned the courage to formulate a message myself, in German, though I fear the result was a little generic; the others decided to sign underneath it). Altogether I was very happy and satisfied, and felt that, even if we hadn't gone to the art exhibition opening, lecture, boat ride, and other events, our portion in the reunion had been well rounded. There were people there whom I know well and care very much to see, and can't see often because they live too far away, and also people whom I'd very much like to know better. So the social side of it was — even considering the unhappy and grumpy mood I had been in and the stressfulness of interacting with relative strangers — rewarding.
Anyway, after breakfast we betook ourselves to the house, named the "Dreieck" presumably because of its right-angled floorplan, where my grandfather's family once spent its summers. It is a big but snug house (it would sprawl if it were constructed in a different style and climate, because of the number of rooms), shutters painted a bright darkish green that tends very slightly to the turquoise, and its outer walls are siding that has been painted a wintry brown-black shade. A garden runs on all four sides, a little pool to the right and a little kitchen garden to the left, and behind it a low wall draped in ivy and a plant whose dusty leaves resemble those of the lavender runs on the crest of a slight dip that looks out onto a field. Above the house, to the left, there towers a wooded hill.
When we arrived we were greeted at the front door and guided into the room at the back, which gives out onto the back yard, and then shook hands with the first brace of unknown relatives. It was less of an ordeal than expected. Then we looked at a big album of black-and-white photos of Mendelssohn connections that lay on the table in that room; I recognized my great-grandmother (or, as my father and his siblings called her, Omi) often, and even where the people were unknown the zeitgeistiness of the pictures was amusing. There was also a book of interviews with the sculptor Rodin, published as far as I remember in 1911 but bound in what seems to me to be a mildly anachronistic and elaborate leather binding lined with marbled paper, and full of good photos partly of Rodin's sculptures and partly of the paintings and sculptures of the older artists (e.g. Praxiteles, Michelangelo) who inspire him. It also held a photo of the bearded artist standing in his garden, nearly dwarfed by two swans in the foreground. The book, as far as I could tell, was bought by Omi, who was a devoted sculptor and painter herself.
On the wall there were posters of the family in its different branches, which I didn't peruse much, except to recognize portraits of the distant ancestors from the Mendelssohn archive in the Staatsbibliothek (State Library) and to find it funny which photos of us were chosen. J.'s photo was about fifteen years old, for instance, though it is a lovely one; it would take a keen physiognomist indeed to recognize that the endearing two-year-old and he are one and the same. Either way, it was comforting to see the photos of Opapa and Tante Nora, and to know that they are neither entirely gone, nor forgotten.
Then we ambled out into the garden and so on and so forth, and had photos taken of one generation at a time, until the luncheon was ready. I decided to wait until everyone else had taken their portions and took something to drink first. It was mineral water, which seems like a very diet-y choice, but the truth is that the toothache experience in December has turned me off sugary juices and even inspired a horror of sweet desserts. (Fortunately I often forget the latter and therefore eat as much chocolate, ice cream, etc., as I like.) And I didn't feel like having wine. Then, at any rate, we sat out on the benches and talked.
Normally the whole family sits together, but it is a tribute to the relaxed atmosphere that we were broken up this time and that this didn't make me uncomfortable. Part of it was that nobody addressed duty-conversation to me, or at least it didn't seem like duty-conversation; not that I mind such conversation except that talking about myself, which generally ends up happening, is awkward and uninteresting. When I'm left to myself but have enough going around me to prevent me from being or looking bored it's easier to relax, let go of my inhibitions and forget the insecurity that usually poisons social situations for me. Anyway, my parents discussed squirrels and other wildlife with my father's cousin's husband, and I pitched in from time to time.
As for the food, of which I did partake, it consisted of divers salads of lentils, couscous, tomatoes, etc., and cured salmon and other things I didn't have, as well as Marillenknödel, or apricot dumplings, for dessert. These dumplings are a local specialty, and consist of an apricot at the core, then a glutinous Spaetzle-like dough, and then a loose coating of sugar, breadcrumbs, butter, and maybe cinnamon. Aunt L. made sure I had some, and I especially liked the soft and nearly disintegrating apricot at the centre.
Then, since most people were out in the garden and out of earshot, I played the upright piano in the dining room after asking permission. My mood had improved in any case but the music made everything much better. Then Papa and I were asked to play a little together, since there was an informal concert planned. The original idea was more to provide background music, but most of the guests gathered in the chairs along the wall of the room, and we played Saint-Saëns's "Swan," a largo by Händel, and a folksong by Schumann. At the piano I had my back to the audience, which moreover gave out a friendly and undemanding aura, and I was in an absorbed mood, so there wasn't much room for nerves. The music in general would have gone better if Papa and I had practiced beforehand, and I think that some in the audience had expected a polished and carefully prepared performance instead of the spontaneous performance it was. We didn't announce our pieces in advance, either, as the musicians who came after us did. But to me it was more important that the music would be nice and sincere, and I think it was.
This mini-concert was also a good experience for me because it helped lay the ghost of the last time I played in front of so many people. It was when I was fourteen or fifteen years old, and I had been having difficulties with the two pieces I performed even when playing them at home; so at the concert I made so many mistakes that it was already, as Mama said, impressive that I didn't break off before reaching the end. Though I understood even at the time that most of the audience were total strangers, and interested more in how their pupils and children played, it was pretty crushing. After that, whenever we drove past the church where it took place, I would look the other way, and I didn't like playing the pieces any more though I kept at them to try to overcome the bad association. This time I didn't have a melt-down and didn't play too differently from the way I play at home, so I was pleased and proud of myself.
After we were done, another relative played Schumann's Kinderszenen, which she executed extremely well. Then my grandfather's cousin's granddaughter, who is only sixteen, played a Mozart concerto movement on the violin, and I liked it very much — unpretentious, conscientiously worked out, and genuine. Of course there were criticisms to be made, but with house music it feels churlish to remember or mention them. Then the concert ended with the string musicians among us (Uncle Pu being one, of course (c: ) sight-reading Austrian folk dances.
After that some of the relatives took their leave, and others (like us) went for a walk to a waterfall. This waterfall is reached by winding along the road for a while, then turning off to the right and ambling through the forest, where stacks of felled trunks were piled up along the left and right of the road, the bark trodden into the muddy ground and the ensemble giving off a strong scent of resin which I've missed since we left Canada. At length we snaked up a path that finally leads to a wooden bridge over the creek, and above it the waterfall, an impressive series of gouged slides of pale rock over which the water plummets into kettles (also known as potholes) and then threshes out again on toward the flatter gravel-bottomed course of the creek. Rock and forest rise to the left and right, with wild flowers and brush in the sunny areas, and wet leaves and soil and rocks exposed in the shadowy ones. The rest of the path was barred due to recent tree slides, so we paused here before retracing our steps to the Dreieck.
Upon returning we sat down in the garden, where we were gradually joined by the others, and the best part of the day unfolded itself as we drank wine and talked and ate a little as the sun sank past the mountain to (presumably) the east. The conversation was at times amusingly erudite, touching among other things on Elias Canetti and Vladimir Nabokov's posthumously published, unfinished book, literary fame with its pros and cons, and gnosticism. L.'s husband M. also discussed green energy and heat storage with Ge., and I enjoyed listening to it especially since it was animated by a quiet, understated devotion to the subject. Later the general conversation turned to computers and the incompetence or malice of software developers (which of course immediately caught Papa's attention) and I liked that, though in essence the drift was the same, it was a subtler variation on the customary lamentations of the incomprehensibility of computers to the older generation, or of one's own stupidity. In the house the musicians were playing Haydn's trio in G major, a Mozart quartet, and other things, which drifted down to us, and there were also chocolates but I didn't have any.
Then we took our leave after signing the guestbook (I summoned the courage to formulate a message myself, in German, though I fear the result was a little generic; the others decided to sign underneath it). Altogether I was very happy and satisfied, and felt that, even if we hadn't gone to the art exhibition opening, lecture, boat ride, and other events, our portion in the reunion had been well rounded. There were people there whom I know well and care very much to see, and can't see often because they live too far away, and also people whom I'd very much like to know better. So the social side of it was — even considering the unhappy and grumpy mood I had been in and the stressfulness of interacting with relative strangers — rewarding.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Holiday in Austria, Part VI: "Reminiscensing"
The following morning I woke up at 6 a.m. pretty much on the nose. I went for a walk again, as slowly as an elderly lady due to the exercise of the preceding day, and enjoyed it. Breakfast was nice again, and after it we piled into the car and set off for a long journey around the places where Papa has lived. The first place was a town near Lambach and the farm on the Traun River where Opapa and the children once raised pigs (-> sausages) and cows (-> milk) and sheep. The second place was Salzburg, where the family lived for four months in relative poverty and on rations, if I remember the tale correctly, of sardines and grey bread.
This time the scenery was so immensely idyllic that from time to time it was difficult to grasp that it was real and not imagined. First we meandered around a mountainside to reach the Attersee, and once there saw before us a picture-book view of a vast spreading lake, perfect green hills loosely scattered over with snug farms, and bright villages clustered at the water's edge. Later the land just lazily sloped down at either side in similar perfection, and at the crest of one mountain I was surprised to recognize a scene that I had seen in a dream. In that dream there was also a tall hill overgrown with sunbleached grasses, and a forest of pines or firs reaching over the crest a little to the left and more to the right, but leaving an unbroken gap of blue sky between them. Whether horses or cows grazed on the field in the dream I don't remember; in real life it was cows.
Because of the constantly threatening rain and the fact that the abbey appeared to be closed we didn't linger in Lambach, though said abbey is apparently well worth seeing. Instead we drove off into the countryside straight away, and with a bafflingly precise sense of direction, Papa navigated a series of apparently featureless fields and found the farm. This farm is now embowered in a tall rim of trees, through which the cornfields, Traun, etc., are brokenly visible; the field at the river is overgrown by deep grass; a dusky reddish hollyhock grows at the house; and the house itself is big and, though as far as I could see its floor plan would probably be a classic square, complicated-looking, but not at all luxurious. It is, so Papa and later Aunt L. said, lamentably run down. The car tucked behind the house had a Linz license plate, which would also appear to indicate that the present landlord or -lady is considerably absentee.
Then we went on to Salzburg. As is unsurprising given the fact that I had slept around six hours after a very demanding day, I drifted off to sleep. Upon waking I found that we were essentially at the destination, and Papa curved up the roads to the church of Maria Plain, which had the effect of being a well-kept open secret. We parked there and walked up to the church proper, a summery edifice in a yellow, white-trimmed, and black-roofed colour scheme and in a hilltop setting that reminded me forcibly of the chapel my friend and I visited in Würzburg last summer. At the corner, at the top of the path from the parking lot, there is a white marker to commemorate the 80th birthday of one of the Austrian emperors — Franz Joseph I, perhaps. A lawn runs down toward the city of Salzburg and, off to the right, the abruptly rural villages, forest-steeped, in its orbit.
Salzburg turned out to be a littler city than I had anticipated. Its population, as a certain online encyclopaedia informed me later, is around 150,000. From the vantage-point of Maria Plain we saw the grassy expanse of airport to the right, the swell of Hohensalzburg with its wide crown of pale medieval fortress and immediately underneath and to its side older and elegant buildings, the mountains rising heavily above, a curve of the Salzach River in the centre, and then lots and lots of unappealing modern housing and industrial construction. The Hohensalzburg was luring but the rest of it was a major disappointment, probably because I've been carrying around a mental image or impression of the city for a while, which was perhaps fixed by my trip to Munich, and whatever I expected was certainly not that.
With our feet hastened by the dark grey raincloud that was pouring down from the mountain behind the city, we returned to the car and drove into the city. Papa manoeuvred a little tentatively around the streets at the left, past Brutalist apartment buildings that spoke of impoverished city suburb and past tidier houses with gardens that evoked Berlin-Dahlem a little, and near the tracks of the railway we came across the house in whose ground floor Papa had once lived. We only rolled past, but were pleased to have found it, especially considering the fact that we didn't have a proper map. Then we followed the railway track, and once again there was a scene that I recognized from a dream, not in its details but the general effect, and it was just an odd scene of urban wasteland.
At length we were curving around the streets of the old quarter, which underwhelmed me. There were tour buses, taxis, and everything was a bit chaotic; the apartment house façades were lacklustre and altogether inferior in originality and beauty to many of the ones I could see in Berlin just by walking down the street; the modern architecture looked, or so I thought, flamboyantly and soullessly ambitious; and it just wasn't especially pretty. We passed the entrance to the Mirabell Palace, which did look nice but I only caught a glimpse of the gardens through an archway. At some point we also saw the house where Mozart once lived, which looked more like a gift shop than a residence to me, and which was surrounded by a loose ring of tourists who had to hold back because a foreign dignitary was coming to visit it. There were six security men in navy-blue uniforms and berets at the entrance, and as we drove on a cavalcade of black compact cars and vans, sandwiched between two police vans, passed us. J. saw the flag on one of the cars but we haven't properly identified it yet.
Then we wound up past the Salzburger Festspielhaus, which I didn't see properly because I was on the wrong side of the car, so I only got the impression of an equine mural in pastel colours that didn't really speak to me, and I don't even know if that actually was the Festspielhaus. I did see a poster for a concert with Christine Schäfer, though, which is something . . . I guess. (c: Anyway, what was gripping was the rock face that rises above it and going through the mountain tunnel, which one doesn't precisely expect to find in the heart of a city. Based on my express desire Papa tried to find the parking lot for the Hohensalzburg fortress, so that we could explore it a little, but it was in vain. I think the parking lot is actually tucked away in a recess of the mountain. The others were eager to get something to eat and go home, but I thought that it would be nicer to take a little more time so that the experience wouldn't feel throwaway and rushed and so that the visit to Salzburg would end on a good note. Ironically I think it was the tedious to-ing and fro-ing around that occupied the next half hour or so that did help make the experience feel less rushed. In any case, we were frankly all grumpy and eager to get out of Salzburg.
What did make the trip end on a good note was our crossing of a bridge over the Salzach at a remove from the city centre, where the forest began again and isolated mansions that must have been built in the 18th century or so peeked majestically out from the tree crowns, and where the river itself looked tranquil and beautiful. If I return to the city I will try firstly to explore the old city by foot, which should be much less awkward than by car, and secondly to find the serene spot at the riverbanks again. And I might try it in autumn or winter.
Anyway, we drove back to Bad Goisern, which took an hour or so, and every time a pub or other eatery would come up and then recede into the distance someone would deliver a eulogy to the probable deliciousness of the foregone meal. I was fuming for various reasons, not least because of my eatery-related hang-ups. It's difficult for me to eat at a restaurant unless I know or otherwise trust it, just like when I was little. Secondly, being served makes me extremely uncomfortable, except in the rare cases where the waiter or waitress is naturally hospitable and enjoys his or her job, and where the fact that the customer is paying for services rendered and that there is a nasty element of classism about it slips one's mind.
The other major objection I had was that, if it makes sense, there are some luxuries that feel necessary (e.g. the trip to Austria and the integral gasoline, and car and cottage rental, costs) and others that really don't (e.g. a restaurant meal when we could have eaten delicious and filling and less expensive food at the cottage). I've trained myself not to buy unnecessary luxuries, and I've even trained myself not to want them. (It feels unhealthy, and if it weren't for the years of guilt about not having a job I don't think it would be endurable, but that's the way it is.) So it annoys me, until I reason myself out of the unworthy feeling, when others don't exercise as much self-restraint. Either way, I didn't express these thoughts or talk much at all, except to say that we were certainly not starving so there was no reason to fuss; I was in a glum mood and, though fairly certain that I was being ridiculous, didn't know how to snap out of it.
Back in Bad Goisern we went to a pub where the others (minus Papa, who stayed at home to play the cello and relax, and me, who was fast asleep) had gone on the first evening, and had a hearty meal of beef broth with parsley and shreds of egg frittata; beer or mineral water or sparkling apple juice (in Austria that mostly isn't called Apfelschorle but Prickel-something); the main course; and a tall glass of vanilla ice cream, whipping cream ("Schlagobers" in the local dialect), fudge sauce, and twin wafer pipes; and coffee. The main courses were a "Fitnessteller" of salad (chicory, lettuce, grated carrot, corn, etc.) and fried chicken; a pan of sauerkraut, ham, and fried potatoes with an egg, sunny side up, on top (this is what I had); a Wiener Schnitzel, turkey or pork, with buttery potatoes and what looked like cranberry sauce, as well as the choice of salad from the bar; and semolina dumplings. Altogether the food was hearty and geared toward those who want a solid meal without frills. As for the ambience, it was rather nice. One feature that amused me is the blue-trimmed cloth coverings for the lampshades that hung from the ceiling, which much resembled one leg of a Victorian bloomer.
By the time we went home again I was in a better mood.
This time the scenery was so immensely idyllic that from time to time it was difficult to grasp that it was real and not imagined. First we meandered around a mountainside to reach the Attersee, and once there saw before us a picture-book view of a vast spreading lake, perfect green hills loosely scattered over with snug farms, and bright villages clustered at the water's edge. Later the land just lazily sloped down at either side in similar perfection, and at the crest of one mountain I was surprised to recognize a scene that I had seen in a dream. In that dream there was also a tall hill overgrown with sunbleached grasses, and a forest of pines or firs reaching over the crest a little to the left and more to the right, but leaving an unbroken gap of blue sky between them. Whether horses or cows grazed on the field in the dream I don't remember; in real life it was cows.
Because of the constantly threatening rain and the fact that the abbey appeared to be closed we didn't linger in Lambach, though said abbey is apparently well worth seeing. Instead we drove off into the countryside straight away, and with a bafflingly precise sense of direction, Papa navigated a series of apparently featureless fields and found the farm. This farm is now embowered in a tall rim of trees, through which the cornfields, Traun, etc., are brokenly visible; the field at the river is overgrown by deep grass; a dusky reddish hollyhock grows at the house; and the house itself is big and, though as far as I could see its floor plan would probably be a classic square, complicated-looking, but not at all luxurious. It is, so Papa and later Aunt L. said, lamentably run down. The car tucked behind the house had a Linz license plate, which would also appear to indicate that the present landlord or -lady is considerably absentee.
Then we went on to Salzburg. As is unsurprising given the fact that I had slept around six hours after a very demanding day, I drifted off to sleep. Upon waking I found that we were essentially at the destination, and Papa curved up the roads to the church of Maria Plain, which had the effect of being a well-kept open secret. We parked there and walked up to the church proper, a summery edifice in a yellow, white-trimmed, and black-roofed colour scheme and in a hilltop setting that reminded me forcibly of the chapel my friend and I visited in Würzburg last summer. At the corner, at the top of the path from the parking lot, there is a white marker to commemorate the 80th birthday of one of the Austrian emperors — Franz Joseph I, perhaps. A lawn runs down toward the city of Salzburg and, off to the right, the abruptly rural villages, forest-steeped, in its orbit.
Salzburg turned out to be a littler city than I had anticipated. Its population, as a certain online encyclopaedia informed me later, is around 150,000. From the vantage-point of Maria Plain we saw the grassy expanse of airport to the right, the swell of Hohensalzburg with its wide crown of pale medieval fortress and immediately underneath and to its side older and elegant buildings, the mountains rising heavily above, a curve of the Salzach River in the centre, and then lots and lots of unappealing modern housing and industrial construction. The Hohensalzburg was luring but the rest of it was a major disappointment, probably because I've been carrying around a mental image or impression of the city for a while, which was perhaps fixed by my trip to Munich, and whatever I expected was certainly not that.
With our feet hastened by the dark grey raincloud that was pouring down from the mountain behind the city, we returned to the car and drove into the city. Papa manoeuvred a little tentatively around the streets at the left, past Brutalist apartment buildings that spoke of impoverished city suburb and past tidier houses with gardens that evoked Berlin-Dahlem a little, and near the tracks of the railway we came across the house in whose ground floor Papa had once lived. We only rolled past, but were pleased to have found it, especially considering the fact that we didn't have a proper map. Then we followed the railway track, and once again there was a scene that I recognized from a dream, not in its details but the general effect, and it was just an odd scene of urban wasteland.
At length we were curving around the streets of the old quarter, which underwhelmed me. There were tour buses, taxis, and everything was a bit chaotic; the apartment house façades were lacklustre and altogether inferior in originality and beauty to many of the ones I could see in Berlin just by walking down the street; the modern architecture looked, or so I thought, flamboyantly and soullessly ambitious; and it just wasn't especially pretty. We passed the entrance to the Mirabell Palace, which did look nice but I only caught a glimpse of the gardens through an archway. At some point we also saw the house where Mozart once lived, which looked more like a gift shop than a residence to me, and which was surrounded by a loose ring of tourists who had to hold back because a foreign dignitary was coming to visit it. There were six security men in navy-blue uniforms and berets at the entrance, and as we drove on a cavalcade of black compact cars and vans, sandwiched between two police vans, passed us. J. saw the flag on one of the cars but we haven't properly identified it yet.
Then we wound up past the Salzburger Festspielhaus, which I didn't see properly because I was on the wrong side of the car, so I only got the impression of an equine mural in pastel colours that didn't really speak to me, and I don't even know if that actually was the Festspielhaus. I did see a poster for a concert with Christine Schäfer, though, which is something . . . I guess. (c: Anyway, what was gripping was the rock face that rises above it and going through the mountain tunnel, which one doesn't precisely expect to find in the heart of a city. Based on my express desire Papa tried to find the parking lot for the Hohensalzburg fortress, so that we could explore it a little, but it was in vain. I think the parking lot is actually tucked away in a recess of the mountain. The others were eager to get something to eat and go home, but I thought that it would be nicer to take a little more time so that the experience wouldn't feel throwaway and rushed and so that the visit to Salzburg would end on a good note. Ironically I think it was the tedious to-ing and fro-ing around that occupied the next half hour or so that did help make the experience feel less rushed. In any case, we were frankly all grumpy and eager to get out of Salzburg.
What did make the trip end on a good note was our crossing of a bridge over the Salzach at a remove from the city centre, where the forest began again and isolated mansions that must have been built in the 18th century or so peeked majestically out from the tree crowns, and where the river itself looked tranquil and beautiful. If I return to the city I will try firstly to explore the old city by foot, which should be much less awkward than by car, and secondly to find the serene spot at the riverbanks again. And I might try it in autumn or winter.
Anyway, we drove back to Bad Goisern, which took an hour or so, and every time a pub or other eatery would come up and then recede into the distance someone would deliver a eulogy to the probable deliciousness of the foregone meal. I was fuming for various reasons, not least because of my eatery-related hang-ups. It's difficult for me to eat at a restaurant unless I know or otherwise trust it, just like when I was little. Secondly, being served makes me extremely uncomfortable, except in the rare cases where the waiter or waitress is naturally hospitable and enjoys his or her job, and where the fact that the customer is paying for services rendered and that there is a nasty element of classism about it slips one's mind.
The other major objection I had was that, if it makes sense, there are some luxuries that feel necessary (e.g. the trip to Austria and the integral gasoline, and car and cottage rental, costs) and others that really don't (e.g. a restaurant meal when we could have eaten delicious and filling and less expensive food at the cottage). I've trained myself not to buy unnecessary luxuries, and I've even trained myself not to want them. (It feels unhealthy, and if it weren't for the years of guilt about not having a job I don't think it would be endurable, but that's the way it is.) So it annoys me, until I reason myself out of the unworthy feeling, when others don't exercise as much self-restraint. Either way, I didn't express these thoughts or talk much at all, except to say that we were certainly not starving so there was no reason to fuss; I was in a glum mood and, though fairly certain that I was being ridiculous, didn't know how to snap out of it.
Back in Bad Goisern we went to a pub where the others (minus Papa, who stayed at home to play the cello and relax, and me, who was fast asleep) had gone on the first evening, and had a hearty meal of beef broth with parsley and shreds of egg frittata; beer or mineral water or sparkling apple juice (in Austria that mostly isn't called Apfelschorle but Prickel-something); the main course; and a tall glass of vanilla ice cream, whipping cream ("Schlagobers" in the local dialect), fudge sauce, and twin wafer pipes; and coffee. The main courses were a "Fitnessteller" of salad (chicory, lettuce, grated carrot, corn, etc.) and fried chicken; a pan of sauerkraut, ham, and fried potatoes with an egg, sunny side up, on top (this is what I had); a Wiener Schnitzel, turkey or pork, with buttery potatoes and what looked like cranberry sauce, as well as the choice of salad from the bar; and semolina dumplings. Altogether the food was hearty and geared toward those who want a solid meal without frills. As for the ambience, it was rather nice. One feature that amused me is the blue-trimmed cloth coverings for the lampshades that hung from the ceiling, which much resembled one leg of a Victorian bloomer.
By the time we went home again I was in a better mood.
Holiday in Austria, Part IV: Predigstuhl, cont'd.
Not long afterwards the gravel path petered out into an earth path, and then that earth path sprouted tributary paths by the handful, and whether these were made by overly intrepid hikers, hikers following the right path, wild animals, or some other influence was wholly unclear. We eventually stopped and held a long debate, then decided to advance up the highest of the hills around us. Undergrowth brushed against our shoes, a fallen tree trunk barred our path, our feet sank in rotten wood — cannon to left of us, cannon to right of us, cannon in front of us volleyed and thundered — etc., but stormed at with shot and shell, boldly we rode and well, and we still went half a league, half a league, half a league onward. By dint of this perseverance, we finally reached the top of the hill and had a breather. I emerged out into the sunlight and looked around a little, and there, on an abruptly rising slab of rock, was the cross which undoubtedly marked the summit of the Predigstuhl!
We clambered up the steep rock with the help of a guiding rope and of steps, and when an ant latched onto my hand I at length brushed it off into blueberry bushes, and then we all emerged out onto the rather small platform that was the peak. Toward the Dachstein mountain streamers of white linen with messages written on the fluttered from the thin bushes, and the other sides of the scene were rimmed by mountains in what is retrospectively probably the medieval European's idea of the end of the world, if it were not for the open vista beyond the Hallstätter Lake and the human habitations that liven up the solitude. Mama entered us into the logbook, kept in a little metal box affixed to the cross, and we realized that it was her birthday and sang accordingly. Gi. took photos of us with his digital camera, and we drank and partook of candies and dextrose tablets. It was a triumphant and festive interlude.
What goes up must come down, of course, and so we set off again to find our way down the mountain and return to Bad Goisern by a different path. This time it was well marked, so the chance of getting lost was minimal. But pretty much at the top my foot slipped into a crevice at the side of the path and both my knees were scraped. The left one quickly bled and the right one, though at first it was hidden by dirt, also bled a little. We hadn't brought along the bandaids and iodine salve; our water bottles were pretty much empty so rinsing the scrapes was out of the question. So the only alternative I could think of to prevent infection was to pinch the cuts so that they would bleed more and hopefully wash away the germs a little. When I did catch up to the others I felt rather like a drama queen with the blood trickling down from the knee in lurid contrast to the admittedly pasty hue of the skin, etc. It was only long afterwards, however, that the bruises formed and rounded out the spectacle in an achy rainbow of colours.
Anyway, the path was continually steep and peppered with loose rocks on which it would be easy to slip. All of us were on edge and the sound of someone sliding, though fortunately we would always recover quickly, was particularly unnerving. I was in an impatient mood, so it took a great mental effort to be careful and not to mind lagging behind the others as a result. And frankly the whole hike was as strenuous mentally as physically, perhaps even more so.
Then we reached a broad gravel road that winds, very leisurely, down to the parking lot of the Berghof Predigstuhl. The sun blazed on it and I felt more smug than ever about the sunscreen that I had applied with atypical prudence back at the cottage. What was not so nice is that my feet had slipped in the shoes all the way down the rocky slope, so my foot was a mass of tingling blisters and there were even little separate ones distinguishable on the toes. Then my back ached from time to time and so did the knees, though the scrapes only smarted at times and were otherwise well-behaved.
We reached the parking lot and looked at the map. According to the legend, a green dot denoted our position. Unfortunately there were two green dots on the map. Fortunately two other hikers passed us and informed us which green dot was the right one. So then we continued down along the asphalt road and began the immensely long descent into the valley. The slope of the road is very gentle, which must be a relief to those going up it, but for us it meant a seemingly endless back and forth along its windings. The asphalt was murder for the feet, especially blistery feet, and to be honest I intermittently felt like crying not because the pain was sharp but because it was so emotionally draining. On the positive side, the scenery was perfect — forest, brush, creeks, pastures, houses adorned in gingerbread, sleek cars gliding up the road, cyclists, inquisitive goats, cows whose bells sounded as they grazed, sheep, etc.
At last we wound through Lasern, down a little further to Bad Goisern, and in short order we were back at the cottage. I finally sat down and cried a bit, and that relieved the tension and made me feel better, though not much because even looking up at the Predigstuhl afterwards was dully traumatizing. It turned out that this ordeal had taken six hours. It's one of those experiences where it's hard to tell whether it was more worthwhile or awful.
[N.B.: Part V is next; it has slipped up above Part VIII on the blog.]
We clambered up the steep rock with the help of a guiding rope and of steps, and when an ant latched onto my hand I at length brushed it off into blueberry bushes, and then we all emerged out onto the rather small platform that was the peak. Toward the Dachstein mountain streamers of white linen with messages written on the fluttered from the thin bushes, and the other sides of the scene were rimmed by mountains in what is retrospectively probably the medieval European's idea of the end of the world, if it were not for the open vista beyond the Hallstätter Lake and the human habitations that liven up the solitude. Mama entered us into the logbook, kept in a little metal box affixed to the cross, and we realized that it was her birthday and sang accordingly. Gi. took photos of us with his digital camera, and we drank and partook of candies and dextrose tablets. It was a triumphant and festive interlude.
What goes up must come down, of course, and so we set off again to find our way down the mountain and return to Bad Goisern by a different path. This time it was well marked, so the chance of getting lost was minimal. But pretty much at the top my foot slipped into a crevice at the side of the path and both my knees were scraped. The left one quickly bled and the right one, though at first it was hidden by dirt, also bled a little. We hadn't brought along the bandaids and iodine salve; our water bottles were pretty much empty so rinsing the scrapes was out of the question. So the only alternative I could think of to prevent infection was to pinch the cuts so that they would bleed more and hopefully wash away the germs a little. When I did catch up to the others I felt rather like a drama queen with the blood trickling down from the knee in lurid contrast to the admittedly pasty hue of the skin, etc. It was only long afterwards, however, that the bruises formed and rounded out the spectacle in an achy rainbow of colours.
Anyway, the path was continually steep and peppered with loose rocks on which it would be easy to slip. All of us were on edge and the sound of someone sliding, though fortunately we would always recover quickly, was particularly unnerving. I was in an impatient mood, so it took a great mental effort to be careful and not to mind lagging behind the others as a result. And frankly the whole hike was as strenuous mentally as physically, perhaps even more so.
Then we reached a broad gravel road that winds, very leisurely, down to the parking lot of the Berghof Predigstuhl. The sun blazed on it and I felt more smug than ever about the sunscreen that I had applied with atypical prudence back at the cottage. What was not so nice is that my feet had slipped in the shoes all the way down the rocky slope, so my foot was a mass of tingling blisters and there were even little separate ones distinguishable on the toes. Then my back ached from time to time and so did the knees, though the scrapes only smarted at times and were otherwise well-behaved.
We reached the parking lot and looked at the map. According to the legend, a green dot denoted our position. Unfortunately there were two green dots on the map. Fortunately two other hikers passed us and informed us which green dot was the right one. So then we continued down along the asphalt road and began the immensely long descent into the valley. The slope of the road is very gentle, which must be a relief to those going up it, but for us it meant a seemingly endless back and forth along its windings. The asphalt was murder for the feet, especially blistery feet, and to be honest I intermittently felt like crying not because the pain was sharp but because it was so emotionally draining. On the positive side, the scenery was perfect — forest, brush, creeks, pastures, houses adorned in gingerbread, sleek cars gliding up the road, cyclists, inquisitive goats, cows whose bells sounded as they grazed, sheep, etc.
At last we wound through Lasern, down a little further to Bad Goisern, and in short order we were back at the cottage. I finally sat down and cried a bit, and that relieved the tension and made me feel better, though not much because even looking up at the Predigstuhl afterwards was dully traumatizing. It turned out that this ordeal had taken six hours. It's one of those experiences where it's hard to tell whether it was more worthwhile or awful.
[N.B.: Part V is next; it has slipped up above Part VIII on the blog.]
Holiday in Austria, Part III: The Predigstuhl
Before rejecting it as too long, I had considered entitling this episode as "Tackling the Predigstuhl," but then the thought immediately came to mind that, in truth, it tackled us. T. had spotted this mountain in her guide book and was eager to conquer it, and I was eager for hiking in general and even had my eye on the Traunstein, which is a taller peak that towers over the Traunsee like a great, barren tooth and had been visible from the highway for a long time. (As it turns out, ignorance — even egregious ignorance — was bliss.)
Anyway, on Saturday I woke up before 6 a.m. and spent some time writing and ambling around the town. Every quarter hour the Protestant church struck, once for :15, twice for :30, thrice for :45, and four times for the hour. Mingled with these four times there would come the more melodious and deeper tones of the Catholic church to ring out the hour properly. The light was still an early morning blue, though the sky was visible and the details of the mountains, as well as the fog that rose from beyond the railway tracks, were beautifully clear. A handful of birds twittered or chirped at various distances and the subdued roar and rush of the creek swelled from its hidden course. As the day grew brighter the clouds were tinged with apricot, the bird and ambient noises gathered in number until the creek was no longer audible, and the visibility even worsened a little as the mist began to rise from the trees and pastures and the valley. I could have used more sleep in lieu of it but it was a nice experience.
Mama and I went grocery-shopping and it was great to be in a generous-sized store again instead of the tiny Plus across the street. We bought Julius Meinl coffee, "Marillen" (the Austrian term for apricots, which are otherwise known as "Aprikosen" in German) marmalade, Gmunden milk and butter, buns, etc. Back at the cottage the others gradually woke up and we made a meal of it. I even had coffee (I normally avoid it because it feels too much like reckless tinkering with the nervous system — and yes, I am quite uptight).
Then Papa drove us up the slope of the Predigstuhl as far as a gravel road, which was not such a simple procedure because the Joseph-Putz-Straße which he had wanted to ascend was essentially hiding from us, and we kept seeing cars passing along a road further up the mountain but we couldn't get at it. One thing that set my teeth on edge in Austria is the tightly winding roads that are so narrow that literally only one car can pass at a time, and the road we eventually took was of this order. But we tumbled out of the car and waved goodbye to Papa cheerfully, and then set out on our merry way up the slope.
A little while later, especially once we were ascending a hiking path proper, our way was no longer so merry. I was particularly out of shape; aside from the morning when we started on our trip to Austria, I think I hadn't even set foot outside our apartment for over a week. My legs were sturdy and the will-power (viz. grim endurance and the determination not to lag or whine) was there in spades, nor did I sweat much, but I was almost hyperventilating in the effort to get air into my lungs. Then we strayed onto the wrong path. But our good mood held, and by the time we had stopped plodding along the rich, deep, needle-strewn ground and were passing along the sunny stretch of the Ewige Wand the progress was easier. I was pleased when I looked over the edge of the path and contemplated the forest and rockslides far below us without a hint of vertigo. On the other hand, the same flexible steely ropes that formed the railing of the path also served as climbers' guiding-ropes out onto the sheer rock faces, and though in films like Cliffhanger the thought of such climbing never bothered me, when one actually sees one of those slopes in person the realization strikes that it is truly mad. Still, the views were good, and Bad Goisern and the Hallstätter See, along with the surrounding mountains, were neatly spread out before us. (There was even what looked like wild oregano flowering on the thin strip between the railing and the precipice.) Anyway, the path also led through tunnels which, though a trifle dank, were interesting, too.
A long while later, travelling ever higher through the trees and tiny blueberry bushes, over the white chalky stones and exposed roots, past the anthills and past the sunlit observation points where the wildflowers bloomed among the tall tanned grasses, we found what appeared to be, in the absence of proper signage to the contrary, the peak of the Predigstuhl. It was marked, however, in a lacklustre triangle of the same red and white paint that had been applied to the trees and stones to mark out the route earlier. As Mama remarked, the "peak experience" (or, in her German, "Gipfelerlebnis") was not there. Exhausted though we were, and irritated by the woodpaths which we had followed (the only other proper hiking we've done is in East Sooke Park, back in Canada, and there it was much harder to stray onto spurious paths), we walked on down the slope a little to try to find signs.
There we saw an even higher mound rising before us, of whose identity we were unsure. After a while the certainty dawned on us that this was the proper Predigstuhl. At first we had no intention of continuing, but by now it was a point of pride to reach the true summit. So we descended the lower hill which we had so painfully ascended, then ascended the higher hill. The path was broad and clear, and we cheerily took it through the patch of brush, but then it forked and there was no sign which prong was the proper one. We went to the right.
Anyway, on Saturday I woke up before 6 a.m. and spent some time writing and ambling around the town. Every quarter hour the Protestant church struck, once for :15, twice for :30, thrice for :45, and four times for the hour. Mingled with these four times there would come the more melodious and deeper tones of the Catholic church to ring out the hour properly. The light was still an early morning blue, though the sky was visible and the details of the mountains, as well as the fog that rose from beyond the railway tracks, were beautifully clear. A handful of birds twittered or chirped at various distances and the subdued roar and rush of the creek swelled from its hidden course. As the day grew brighter the clouds were tinged with apricot, the bird and ambient noises gathered in number until the creek was no longer audible, and the visibility even worsened a little as the mist began to rise from the trees and pastures and the valley. I could have used more sleep in lieu of it but it was a nice experience.
Mama and I went grocery-shopping and it was great to be in a generous-sized store again instead of the tiny Plus across the street. We bought Julius Meinl coffee, "Marillen" (the Austrian term for apricots, which are otherwise known as "Aprikosen" in German) marmalade, Gmunden milk and butter, buns, etc. Back at the cottage the others gradually woke up and we made a meal of it. I even had coffee (I normally avoid it because it feels too much like reckless tinkering with the nervous system — and yes, I am quite uptight).
Then Papa drove us up the slope of the Predigstuhl as far as a gravel road, which was not such a simple procedure because the Joseph-Putz-Straße which he had wanted to ascend was essentially hiding from us, and we kept seeing cars passing along a road further up the mountain but we couldn't get at it. One thing that set my teeth on edge in Austria is the tightly winding roads that are so narrow that literally only one car can pass at a time, and the road we eventually took was of this order. But we tumbled out of the car and waved goodbye to Papa cheerfully, and then set out on our merry way up the slope.
A little while later, especially once we were ascending a hiking path proper, our way was no longer so merry. I was particularly out of shape; aside from the morning when we started on our trip to Austria, I think I hadn't even set foot outside our apartment for over a week. My legs were sturdy and the will-power (viz. grim endurance and the determination not to lag or whine) was there in spades, nor did I sweat much, but I was almost hyperventilating in the effort to get air into my lungs. Then we strayed onto the wrong path. But our good mood held, and by the time we had stopped plodding along the rich, deep, needle-strewn ground and were passing along the sunny stretch of the Ewige Wand the progress was easier. I was pleased when I looked over the edge of the path and contemplated the forest and rockslides far below us without a hint of vertigo. On the other hand, the same flexible steely ropes that formed the railing of the path also served as climbers' guiding-ropes out onto the sheer rock faces, and though in films like Cliffhanger the thought of such climbing never bothered me, when one actually sees one of those slopes in person the realization strikes that it is truly mad. Still, the views were good, and Bad Goisern and the Hallstätter See, along with the surrounding mountains, were neatly spread out before us. (There was even what looked like wild oregano flowering on the thin strip between the railing and the precipice.) Anyway, the path also led through tunnels which, though a trifle dank, were interesting, too.
A long while later, travelling ever higher through the trees and tiny blueberry bushes, over the white chalky stones and exposed roots, past the anthills and past the sunlit observation points where the wildflowers bloomed among the tall tanned grasses, we found what appeared to be, in the absence of proper signage to the contrary, the peak of the Predigstuhl. It was marked, however, in a lacklustre triangle of the same red and white paint that had been applied to the trees and stones to mark out the route earlier. As Mama remarked, the "peak experience" (or, in her German, "Gipfelerlebnis") was not there. Exhausted though we were, and irritated by the woodpaths which we had followed (the only other proper hiking we've done is in East Sooke Park, back in Canada, and there it was much harder to stray onto spurious paths), we walked on down the slope a little to try to find signs.
There we saw an even higher mound rising before us, of whose identity we were unsure. After a while the certainty dawned on us that this was the proper Predigstuhl. At first we had no intention of continuing, but by now it was a point of pride to reach the true summit. So we descended the lower hill which we had so painfully ascended, then ascended the higher hill. The path was broad and clear, and we cheerily took it through the patch of brush, but then it forked and there was no sign which prong was the proper one. We went to the right.
Holiday in Austria, Part II: Bad Goisern
Photo by Gi., 24/07/09 A view of Bad Goisern from the Ewige Wand. Right-click on the photo and "view image" to see it in (much) greater detail. The churches I describe below are both near the backwards L-shaped building with the turquoise roof.Bad Goisern is a town at the tip of the Hallstätter Lake, the trim houses flocking along a valley through which an idyllic creek flows, a railroad track leads, and a road runs to Bad Ischl and beyond. A mound of mountains culminating in the Predigstuhl (1278 m) rises to the far side of the road. It is predominantly covered in forest that is a mixture of leafy and needle trees, but there are also beautiful sloped pastures and stately wooden houses in cheerful white and chocolate brown, which look like something straight out of Heidi. Bared at the top in a long, rough bluish-grey facade of rock known as the "Ewige Wand" ("eternal wall"). On the other side there is an even more impressive backdrop of mountains, tall and a little somber, which looked on the first day as if they were drawn in grey pastel and smudged with a shade of pine-green so dark as to be nearly black where the evergreen trees tentatively cloak the steep folds. One peak is grassy and sparsely speckled with loose rocks, and it reminded me forcibly of the Scottish Highlands. Surprisingly enough the height of the mountains is not too oppressive and the valley feels, if anything, brightly snug.
There is a market in Bad Goisern, housed in a large circular white tent on the designated marketplace; at least two schools, one of which was evidently constructed in the 1960s; a little museum with a wooden salt barge in front of it; a recreation centre; a public bath; and two churches that I could see. One is a Catholic church, which was mostly built in the 19th century but has been around in one form or another since the Middle Ages, and which while true in its simple way to the Gothic aesthetic, is surrounded by asphalt and isn't that lovely to begin with, though reasonably or not I found the way the red roof was tiled delightful. The other church is a Protestant one, cheerfully painted in yellow and white trim, and surmounted by a black spire; it also has a graveyard beside it, the surprisingly merry type I also encountered last year in Füssen (Bavaria), where the ground is covered in light gravel and the graves are decked out in vivid live and cut flowers — marigolds, begonias, impatiens, roses, lilies of the valley (the blossoms of these were long gone), etc. As far as I remember it originated in 1791, but the oldest gravestones appear to hail from the 1960s. At the entrance there are plaques, one commemorating the victims of an avalanche, and another the ca. 275 men from Bad Goisern who died or went missing in World War II. Two elaborate plaques listed dates and places as well as names with the photos of World War I veterans, of which there were evidently over fifty.
Altogether most of the buildings are older or at least traditional — gingerbread and shutters and all — though the sprawling grocery stores are decidedly modern. As I noticed in Munich last year, the chimneys are fitted out with tiny (and not infrequently adorable) roofs, though in Bad Goisern a boring tendency was to merely affix an inverted curved piece of metal over them. The roof tiles often have hooks on them, and Mama suggested that this might be meant to let the snow slide off better. The windows are mostly diminutive rectangles and the ceilings are not high, presumably to preserve warmth in the winter, but at least in the summer the effect is not depressing.
We stayed in a trim wooden cottage beside the graveyard and the facilities were quite nice. The bed linen was provided, stacked on a chair beside the door of the upper floor where the beds were; so was a combined kitchen and dining room on the ground floor, which was presumably converted from a stable and has thick fieldstone walls; a round table and two chairs greeted us on the balcony, from which torrents of pink and periwinkle and red petunias hung; and a tennis/volleyball court as well as two miniature soccer goals were at our disposal out of doors. From what I could tell, the architecture of the cottage is remarkably sturdy, livable, and complete, though it is very little.
Photo by Me. This is the cottage in which we stayed, and in particular of the fieldstone-walled ground floor where the kitchen and dining room are located. Note how, due to my pathetic photography, the unimportant things are big and the important things are small. (c:On the first evening we wandered along the creek until we reached the monument to the 19th-century philosopher and one-time village mayor Konrad Deubler. The banks of the watercourse were manicured within an inch of their lives, but I liked it. There were pear trees, a stately house in pale lime green that was overrun by dense vines, ducks, a sloe bush, hostas, etc., and thinking of the bleakness of winter I thought that it was, like the valley as a whole, a welcome oasis in the wilderness.
Altogether the scenery was so harmonious and contented, and so free of disturbing factors at least to me, that I felt entirely at ease. It was good to know that I could go for a walk and there was a chance of not meeting a single other person along the way, and at the same time it was by no means desolate. I liked it, too, that people greet each other in the streets, and it being Austria, "Grüss Gott" was as common as "Guten Morgen," etc. As for the natural environment, it was very much the world of the Romantics, but true and tangible and therefore very much to my taste. It often reminded me of Schubert, especially his Schöne Müllerin ("Ich hört ein Bächlein rauschen," etc.).
At around 8 p.m. I went to sleep, after Uncle Pu (who stayed in the cottage with us) had finally come in his car after being held up by fallen trees near Passau. I woke up again after dark to the sound of rain, as lightning flickered nearly constantly and rolls of thunder resounded now and then through the great bowl of valley and mountain. Even though I am fond of thunderstorms in the abstract, at that altitude the experience toed the line between awe-inspiring and scary. Still, going back to sleep was not difficult.
Holiday in Austria, Part I: On the Road
This account is not as good as I'd like it to be, and if I had much more time I'd try to write it in a more genuine voice, but I've already revised it often and I don't want to wait too long after the event to post it. It should be a thorough overview of what happened; I haven't censored the disagreeable parts and I've only left out things that are too personal and navel-gazing. Hopefully the final result isn't too long.
July 23rd proved a good day to embark on a road trip. The cityscape and landscape were much more cheerful for the sunshine, though when our journey began at 10:10 a.m. the light was peculiarly subdued in a way more befitting the evening than morning hours, and for once the pine woods (relieved by birches, furled oaks, beeches, red-berried ash, and the other leafy trees that flock along the highway) and stark fields of Brandenburg looked relatively lively. At the roadside I spotted what looked like Queen Anne's lace, yellow-flowered mullein stalks, etc. There was even a field plunged in shade by slender lines of dusky, translucent tree and illumined by the sun and the intensely green grass, and scattered over with cows in divers tints of beige and brown, and it could have been a French or English landscape painting.
There were sunflower fields bristling with the heavy golden heads, wheat fields evidently shorn of their grain, pastures as vividly emerald as if it were spring, corn fields where the silk was browning at the tip of the sizable husks, and hay fields. In some of these hay fields the grass still grew tall and golden; others had been shorn and the grass lay in squiggly lines to dry; others had been harvested entirely, so the bales were gathered and lying in their plastic hulls.
The car was jam-packed with the lot of us, but Papa had on the air conditioning all the time, because the brisk coldness keeps the mind alert. Since I am one of the Little People anyway I had no difficulty with the scant leg room either. We had plentiful provisions, purchased by Gi. and covering quite thoroughly what Homer Simpson once termed the "neglected food groups." Mama had also made sandwiches and we had an artillery of water bottles, too, so it wasn't all unhealthy. We paused a couple times at rest stops, which varied from a pleasantly rural lane adorned on the right side with a solitary portable toilet, to commercial complexes with gas station, chain fast food store, etc.
After leaving Brandenburg for Thuringia and Thuringia for Bavaria, we entered Austria, going through Passau and crossing the Inn River. The signs diverted us to a gas station where Papa bought a toll ticket for ca. 7.80 Euros. But thanks to the Schengen Agreement there was no rifling through our luggage or filling out of forms or displaying of passports (we had along our personal ID cards, of course, since that is obligatory even within Germany anyway). Then we drove on and crossed the Danube three or four times, and contrary to expectation its idyllic grace did live up to its elevated cultural role. It was dark and tranquil and spread elegantly between the banks, where deserted pastures and trees held the water at bay, and no sordid traffic or industry was visible either on the river or beside it.
After a pit stop at the Voralpenkreuz, or a big highway crossing in the prealpine region, where we bought a map and the facial traits of the attendant reminded me intriguingly of my great-aunt's, we finally found the town of Gmunden and curved around the Traunsee, or Traun Lake, toward Bad Goisern, the location of our cottage. The roads were lined and busy with a colourful procession of cars, and as we passed along the lakeside the beaches were even more colourful with the sun- and proper bathers. Apparently the water is bone-chillingly cold, but the scene was Mediterranean. As for the lake itself, it is broad and dull, and mountains rise out of it from all sides, giving it a cooler and perhaps more Nordic flair, but then we did see it in the evening and perhaps it can look as lively and blue as a glacier lake at other times. It reminded me of Okanagan Lake, back in Canada, though the shores of that lake are lower and more gentle.
July 23rd proved a good day to embark on a road trip. The cityscape and landscape were much more cheerful for the sunshine, though when our journey began at 10:10 a.m. the light was peculiarly subdued in a way more befitting the evening than morning hours, and for once the pine woods (relieved by birches, furled oaks, beeches, red-berried ash, and the other leafy trees that flock along the highway) and stark fields of Brandenburg looked relatively lively. At the roadside I spotted what looked like Queen Anne's lace, yellow-flowered mullein stalks, etc. There was even a field plunged in shade by slender lines of dusky, translucent tree and illumined by the sun and the intensely green grass, and scattered over with cows in divers tints of beige and brown, and it could have been a French or English landscape painting.
There were sunflower fields bristling with the heavy golden heads, wheat fields evidently shorn of their grain, pastures as vividly emerald as if it were spring, corn fields where the silk was browning at the tip of the sizable husks, and hay fields. In some of these hay fields the grass still grew tall and golden; others had been shorn and the grass lay in squiggly lines to dry; others had been harvested entirely, so the bales were gathered and lying in their plastic hulls.
The car was jam-packed with the lot of us, but Papa had on the air conditioning all the time, because the brisk coldness keeps the mind alert. Since I am one of the Little People anyway I had no difficulty with the scant leg room either. We had plentiful provisions, purchased by Gi. and covering quite thoroughly what Homer Simpson once termed the "neglected food groups." Mama had also made sandwiches and we had an artillery of water bottles, too, so it wasn't all unhealthy. We paused a couple times at rest stops, which varied from a pleasantly rural lane adorned on the right side with a solitary portable toilet, to commercial complexes with gas station, chain fast food store, etc.
After leaving Brandenburg for Thuringia and Thuringia for Bavaria, we entered Austria, going through Passau and crossing the Inn River. The signs diverted us to a gas station where Papa bought a toll ticket for ca. 7.80 Euros. But thanks to the Schengen Agreement there was no rifling through our luggage or filling out of forms or displaying of passports (we had along our personal ID cards, of course, since that is obligatory even within Germany anyway). Then we drove on and crossed the Danube three or four times, and contrary to expectation its idyllic grace did live up to its elevated cultural role. It was dark and tranquil and spread elegantly between the banks, where deserted pastures and trees held the water at bay, and no sordid traffic or industry was visible either on the river or beside it.
After a pit stop at the Voralpenkreuz, or a big highway crossing in the prealpine region, where we bought a map and the facial traits of the attendant reminded me intriguingly of my great-aunt's, we finally found the town of Gmunden and curved around the Traunsee, or Traun Lake, toward Bad Goisern, the location of our cottage. The roads were lined and busy with a colourful procession of cars, and as we passed along the lakeside the beaches were even more colourful with the sun- and proper bathers. Apparently the water is bone-chillingly cold, but the scene was Mediterranean. As for the lake itself, it is broad and dull, and mountains rise out of it from all sides, giving it a cooler and perhaps more Nordic flair, but then we did see it in the evening and perhaps it can look as lively and blue as a glacier lake at other times. It reminded me of Okanagan Lake, back in Canada, though the shores of that lake are lower and more gentle.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
South of the Border
Within one and a half hours, if all goes well, Papa, Mama, T., Gi., Ge. J. and I — in short, the whole family — will be en route to northwestern Austria for a family reunion. Yesterday evening I wrote up a list, which I normally like to do a day or two before the journey starts so that there's enough time to think of and add items that didn't come to mind at once, and began packing, and now all that's missing is the toothpaste and toothbrush. Besides that, I've disposed of the sock collection that has been lurking under my bed for weeks (thanks to my habit of going barefoot in hot weather, there weren't too many of them), changed my bedsheets, and heroically disposed of much of the perishable food in the kitchen.
Normally when a major journey lies before me I'm too excited to go to sleep at a reasonable time, but the heightened nervous state brought on by this excitement means that I can tell myself to wake up at a certain hour, for instance 4:15 a.m., and I will. Last night, however, I wasn't sleepy, and therefore didn't put the body clock to a test. My schedule has been unorthodox anyway, and even though a glass of red wine (we have an open bottle and it seemed wise to finish it before it turns sour) made me lethargic, I promptly developed a toothache which thoroughly counteracted the lethargy. So, after taking an aspirin, then lying in the dark and vainly trying to be sleepy for quarter of an hour or more, I decided to ditch that approach and instead read an online book or two until everyone else woke up. The toothache vanished. Now I'm in the wired mood that usually follows a sleepless night, and grumpy.
Anyway, I'm looking forward to the trip a great deal. Most of the people at the reunion will be strangers, though Uncle Pu and Aunt L. will be there, and we're at least acquainted with the two organizers. The North American branch of my father's family is the most familiar, but the States-siders at least are, we gather, staying home because of the financial crisis. Honestly, what makes me most cheerful is, first of all, the opportunity to see something of Austria and especially a corner of it that meant a lot to Opapa, secondly, the opportunity to swim and climb mountains, and thirdly, the road trip itself. Besides, I look forward to taking detailed notes about everything.
Normally when a major journey lies before me I'm too excited to go to sleep at a reasonable time, but the heightened nervous state brought on by this excitement means that I can tell myself to wake up at a certain hour, for instance 4:15 a.m., and I will. Last night, however, I wasn't sleepy, and therefore didn't put the body clock to a test. My schedule has been unorthodox anyway, and even though a glass of red wine (we have an open bottle and it seemed wise to finish it before it turns sour) made me lethargic, I promptly developed a toothache which thoroughly counteracted the lethargy. So, after taking an aspirin, then lying in the dark and vainly trying to be sleepy for quarter of an hour or more, I decided to ditch that approach and instead read an online book or two until everyone else woke up. The toothache vanished. Now I'm in the wired mood that usually follows a sleepless night, and grumpy.
Anyway, I'm looking forward to the trip a great deal. Most of the people at the reunion will be strangers, though Uncle Pu and Aunt L. will be there, and we're at least acquainted with the two organizers. The North American branch of my father's family is the most familiar, but the States-siders at least are, we gather, staying home because of the financial crisis. Honestly, what makes me most cheerful is, first of all, the opportunity to see something of Austria and especially a corner of it that meant a lot to Opapa, secondly, the opportunity to swim and climb mountains, and thirdly, the road trip itself. Besides, I look forward to taking detailed notes about everything.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Introspection, Yet Again
Today I had one of the long piano sessions where I go from one composer to another as if it were a journey, feel as if I were living out the music as I play it, and do that for hours until I feel satisfied. Normally my fingers feel stubby and awkward, but lately they've been agile and altogether fine, so that impediment is gone. This time I would have liked to play longer, but it was nearly 8 p.m. and I didn't want to tax the patience of our neighbours. It's been over a year since one of them complained, but it isn't much fun to play with the consciousness that it might really be bothering someone, especially as I know how antagonizing and invasive music can be if one doesn't want to hear it. (Even though I've learned to tune it out or to listen to other music.)
In case it wasn't already evident, I'm extremely insecure about the way I play the piano. When I was little it went well enough, but later it was impossible to play without making lots of errors. I never liked it when others listened to me or when I had to play in public, because I was convinced that it was insufferably mediocre. Then I became nervous easily, which was quite as unpleasant — my fingers and hands and even legs would tremble, my concentration was shot, and it was painful to butcher the music and let everyone down. I still become nervous and trembly but it's become easier to control, and it's nice to have the opportunity to practice controlling it. On the other hand, making mistakes hasn't become easier to bear, though fortunately there are fewer of them. What has always confused me, too, is that at the same time I suspect that I can play remarkably well; so the question is why I don't — I blame myself for it, which naturally doesn't improve matters — and at other times if I'm not stupidly conceited. Compliments unsettle me except if they're understated and, as far as I can tell, justified, because they tend to make me feel even more aware of my shortcomings and to fear that I'm misleading people into having a higher opinion of my playing than they should.
But I don't regret not having practiced more when I was little. I didn't consciously need music as badly as I do now, and I think that any attempts at training precocity would have made my understanding of it shallow and egotistical. Now there is a strong motive to impel me to play as well as I can, and what does console me for falling short now is the consciousness that I like working away at it and that it might very well keep me happily busy for the rest of my life. If the piano repertoire ever seems too limited to me, there are other instruments and composition, besides which I can always mend my ignorance of music history, counterpoint, etc.
Anyway, I've realized that I blame myself for a lot of things, and that perhaps it isn't right to do that. It's just that since I was very little it has seemed to me that I was singlehandedly responsible for all my imperfections and for correcting them. Besides, whenever anyone has been mean to me I've always felt that it was my fault for not being more courageous and strong, or for putting myself in a position that invited it. That's one reason why I've become a hermit. If I keep strictly to myself and don't provoke attention then no one will be tempted to say or do anything tactless or cruel, and I won't take these things too much to heart and suffer in a way that wasn't at all intended.
Sort of à propos, I've decided not to urgently look for work any more. I keep on looking up job listings and working on stories, but most of the time I daydream and do other things, enjoyable and harmless things like playing the piano or experimenting with recipes or reading. The purgatory of guilt I've been putting myself through for the past three years hasn't brought me any job and besides it's really not the way I want to spend my life. Despite appearances, I know that I am not that lazy or self-indulgent, and deep down I've known that for a while, so it's time to stop punishing myself for sins that do not exist. Financially I'm leeching off my parents, but I think that being around for them and my siblings really compensates for it, and that I help make them happy. Usually I'm afraid of accepting favours or kindnesses because I don't think that I can reciprocate them, but in this case it feels profoundly right.
In case it wasn't already evident, I'm extremely insecure about the way I play the piano. When I was little it went well enough, but later it was impossible to play without making lots of errors. I never liked it when others listened to me or when I had to play in public, because I was convinced that it was insufferably mediocre. Then I became nervous easily, which was quite as unpleasant — my fingers and hands and even legs would tremble, my concentration was shot, and it was painful to butcher the music and let everyone down. I still become nervous and trembly but it's become easier to control, and it's nice to have the opportunity to practice controlling it. On the other hand, making mistakes hasn't become easier to bear, though fortunately there are fewer of them. What has always confused me, too, is that at the same time I suspect that I can play remarkably well; so the question is why I don't — I blame myself for it, which naturally doesn't improve matters — and at other times if I'm not stupidly conceited. Compliments unsettle me except if they're understated and, as far as I can tell, justified, because they tend to make me feel even more aware of my shortcomings and to fear that I'm misleading people into having a higher opinion of my playing than they should.
But I don't regret not having practiced more when I was little. I didn't consciously need music as badly as I do now, and I think that any attempts at training precocity would have made my understanding of it shallow and egotistical. Now there is a strong motive to impel me to play as well as I can, and what does console me for falling short now is the consciousness that I like working away at it and that it might very well keep me happily busy for the rest of my life. If the piano repertoire ever seems too limited to me, there are other instruments and composition, besides which I can always mend my ignorance of music history, counterpoint, etc.
Anyway, I've realized that I blame myself for a lot of things, and that perhaps it isn't right to do that. It's just that since I was very little it has seemed to me that I was singlehandedly responsible for all my imperfections and for correcting them. Besides, whenever anyone has been mean to me I've always felt that it was my fault for not being more courageous and strong, or for putting myself in a position that invited it. That's one reason why I've become a hermit. If I keep strictly to myself and don't provoke attention then no one will be tempted to say or do anything tactless or cruel, and I won't take these things too much to heart and suffer in a way that wasn't at all intended.
Sort of à propos, I've decided not to urgently look for work any more. I keep on looking up job listings and working on stories, but most of the time I daydream and do other things, enjoyable and harmless things like playing the piano or experimenting with recipes or reading. The purgatory of guilt I've been putting myself through for the past three years hasn't brought me any job and besides it's really not the way I want to spend my life. Despite appearances, I know that I am not that lazy or self-indulgent, and deep down I've known that for a while, so it's time to stop punishing myself for sins that do not exist. Financially I'm leeching off my parents, but I think that being around for them and my siblings really compensates for it, and that I help make them happy. Usually I'm afraid of accepting favours or kindnesses because I don't think that I can reciprocate them, but in this case it feels profoundly right.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
