You know, it’s a good job I’ve got all this to talk about because, apart from Epiphany yesterday, there’s not much going on in Symi right now. Not that I would have seen it had there been. It’s windy, cloudy, sometimes wet, not too cold, I’m pleased to say, but still, not even the Rainbow Bar is open. Although other places are, it’s that staying-in time of year for me. Which gives me time to continue wittering about the recent trip. I hope you are keeping up.
Innsbruck to Salzburg
All but four of our 15-day trip began with a journey. Innsbruck was no different, except the usual order of breakfast, pack, railway station became pack, breakfast, railway station, because rather than pay €14.00 each extra at the hotel, we used a local café. Harry was, by eight o’clock, twitching for a caffe Frodo, or whatever a shot of caffeine with watery ice is called, but could we find one in Italy? No. Could we find one in Austria? Nein. Not even in our little café, where they hid us and our 10 bags of luggage around a corner.
Cosy breakfast done, we waddled towards the railway station like refugees bearing our entire world, through the cold morning, to another cold, but always interesting railway platform. I’ve never used a Greek overland train (not even the one on Symi), but I’ve used trains in the UK, which, in my experience, have always been hit or miss. My journeys with various companies there, and even good old British Rail, have either been as smooth as you like, or as tedious, delayed, crammed, and as filthy as you wouldn’t like. The stations themselves were never very helpful either, but in Austria, and other parts of Europe, there’s this thing called Customer Care, or Passenger Thoughtfulness, in this case. Not only is the displayed information accurate, and not only are the trains (usually) on time, but there is also a guide showing you where to stand on the platform. You are here, and carriage 233 will stop there… So, you can be in the right place when the train pulls in. Very helpful for us bag people, and helpful and more efficient for the train company too – fewer delays.
Nice. Of course, the surrounding views of mountains and ski slopes add to the charm. I mean, it’s not Folkestone, is it?
Our train, this Christmas Eve eve, left precisely at 10.16 and took us north through more scenery none of us had seen before, to arrive in Salzburg at 12.03 as promised. From there, it was another case of following the bouncing puffer jacket through streets broad and narrow until we reached our hotel not far from the station. In other words, it wasn’t among the Old Town and Christmas markets on the other side of the river, but somewhere quieter and more unused. A working district, if you like, and I don’t mean for workers of the night, but for offices. It was also the first hotel so far to not allow an early check-in, so we dumped the bags and headed straight out for some Mozartian adventures.
Well, for some sightseeing of the ‘must do’, like the Mirabell Palace Gardens famous for that Sound of Music fountain moment. [Inserts yawn emoji] We viewed it through the railings, as we were in a hurry to find food for the teen before it erupted, and so, after the obligatory pic, a little tram spotting, and after crossing the river, we came to the part of Salzburg famous for commercialism. In other words, the Christmas market.
When I last visited Salzburg with my Kiwi friend, Bernie, back in 1995 (or ‘96), we entered the Cathedral Square to find only a few people outside a café and a duo busking under the arches. They were singing duets from The Magic Flute, and it felt as though we had the town to ourselves, even though this was late September. This time, to reach the square, we weaved through hordes of people, past glittery shops selling all manner of things you never knew you wanted until you saw them, and stopped for lunch in one of the few places that had free tables. After another local feast (I think sausages were involved), we continued, and entered the square not to the sounds of Bei Männern, welche Liebe fühlen, but to the sound of something ‘pop’ blaring from a live radio broadcast beside the cathedral. This was backed by the chatter of a thousand people, and the screams of delight and otherwise of twice that many children. Wading through, we gazed dazed on the live broadcast stage and whatever was going on, and like many persecuted before us, took sanctuary in the cathedral (where Mozart had been an organist when a teenager – but only after breakfast, I suspect).
The cathedral is dedicated to Saint Rupert and Saint Vergilius, which is lovely because they don’t get many dedications – not even played for them in the live radio broadcast. This time, H and I looked at each other, knowing the routine, and I suggested we go together. Passing through the narthex, we took the nave to the transept, there to stop, agree the spot, and turn to see the organ. The cathedral actually has seven, which seems a little greedy, but also rather delicious, just like the main instrument. Which we admired, before viewing other interesting things and moving on.
It was at this point in the trip that educational side quests came into play.
My motivation for revisiting Salzburg was to take my piano student to the place where Mozart was born, and I mean, the very room. For Jenine and Neil, it was something far more cerebral and industrious, worthy and technical: an apple strudel baking class.
Our party divided at this point, each pair with their own side quest to accomplish, and Harry and I set off towards Getreidegasse 9, otherwise known as ‘The Mozart Birth House.’ This, to me, sounds rather too functional; as if it is still in use as a public facility. ‘Husband! The child comes. Haste! We must away to the Birth House.’ (Bequeathed by Mozart for the good burghers of Salzburg.)
Again, on my last visit here, Bernie and I wandered in from a street with few shops and fewer pedestrians, paid our tuppence to a lady at a wobbly table in a courtyard, and took the stairs up to the apartment. There, with two other couples, we admired the little there was to see, stood in the very room, and wandered out again. Simple.
This time, I was able to secure tickets in advance through the phone, and had them electronically delivered while I was on the loo. So, that was taken care of, and just as well, because the ‘attraction’ was popular. However, showing the lady (now in a glass booth with a heater and coffee) your phone is easier than using cash, and apparently saves trees while feeding Chinese hackers. The process, though, was made farcically complicated by the Greek electricity company, ΔΕΗ. For weeks, they had been plaguing me with phone calls at inconvenient times, so I had done a lot of ignoring. They’d tried me when I was in Rhodes, eating, then again during the transfer in Athens, and even when I was sightseeing in Verona. I’d become adept at forgetting about them, thinking I would deal with them on my return.
So, there I am, phone out, showing the lady the first ticket, and scrolling down to find the second when a thing pops up on the screen. It’s only the bleedin’ ΔΕΗ, isn’t it? I press the button to turn it off, while apologising to the nice lady, and the queue building behind me, but somewhere, a voice starts jabbering in Greek.
‘You answered,’ Harry tells me.
‘Well, how do I turn it off?’
I’m pressing buttons and sliding fingers, and nothing’s working. She’s still jabbering about plans and policies, and the queue starts tutting.
‘Talk to her,’ the teen sniggers.
‘I can’t talk to the electricity board. I’m in Mozart’s house.’ I swipe and slide, and the second ticket appears. ‘I don’t want to speak to the bloody woman while…’
‘She can still hear you.’
‘Oh, bloody hell…’
The nice lady is now also sniggering as she scans, and a woman in Piraeus is trying to sell me electricity, while a distinctly deviant child is preparing to kick me in the back of the knees.
‘Done it!’
Both tickets shown, and off we march to the stairs. Once deserted, they were now overrun with fake fur and Gucci… And I can still hear Mrs ΔΕΗ jabbering.
‘You’re still connected,’ H tells me, and I hand him the phone in desperation.
Dear Passepartout. So resourceful. He defeated and banished the ΔΕΗ in one fell swoop, and we pressed on, our side quest nearing its finale.
Yes, it was busy, and yes, they have had to put in a one-way system, toilets, and a shop, but on the other hand, people from all over the world were there to see where Mozart was born. There to see, as you now can, a lock of his hair, some of his belongings, such as small cigarette boxes given in lieu of payment for an opera, and even the violin he played when he was five. Being in such a place can still be moving if you block out the background noise, fur, and Gucci, and this is what we did as we stood in ‘The Birth Room’ and took photos for posterity.
Escaping from the side quest was tricky, and involved seeing a few more rooms that I don’t remember being there before – museum rooms which were simple, but informative. It also involved negotiating those incapable of reading signs and following large arrows, the backflow of people who hadn’t meant to find the shop, and passing the toilets which smelt much as they would have done in Mozart’s day. Had his family had one.
Back in the open air… Sorry, back in the crowded streets where the air was scented with sugar and baking, and where the approaching dusk was challenged by thousands of twinkly lights, we had time to kill before meeting the B Team. To start with, we wandered more streets, and Christmasy enclaves we found in 18th century courtyards, and we paused to admire a shop that sold teddy bears. One of these was actually a full-sized brown bear guaranteed to traumatise any child who didn’t settle down at bedtime. We considered taking it home, but it would have needed its own seat on the plane. Then we considered taking the stuffing out, putting one of us inside, and seeing if we were challenged at customs. Then we saw the price of €2,200 and moved on.
To buy a hat! There are not enough hats in the world, so I did my bit to water the drought and bought what I was told was an ‘Austrian deer hunting’ hat. I think the guy was a temp and not a hatter, so I took that with a pinch of cinnamon. Later research has proved the hat to be a ‘Hiker’ made (probably) in Italy of 100% wool fine felt. It features a teardrop crown, leather band, and downturn dimensional brim. This hat is water repellant, packable, crushable and will never lose it’s shape! (The spelling/punctuation is all sic. See Mike the Hatter.)
Hat bought and worn at a jaunty angle, we did what every music lover should do in Salzburg, and had a beer in an Irish pub. This was near where the Team B side quest was taking place, and we were prepared to wait for them to succeed before regrouping. However, we received a communique stating they were delayed by a free bowl of goulash while the strudels were baking, so we should press on.
Beer downed, we did, and our route took us past the theatre of strudel war, so we pushed our noses up against the window to see how things were going. Neil and Jenine had their station not three feet away from us, and although they had their backs to the window, they seemed to be having a great old Todd & Lovett time rolling biscuits.
We left them to it, took the riverside path to a bridge and over, past the famous gardens, and into the deserted district to finally check us all into the hotel. I just had time for a quick shower when my phone buzzed, and I received one of those passive/aggressive inquiries from a teenager. ‘Are you hungry yet?’ In other words, ‘I need feeding.’
To finish the day, we found a café/restaurant that was all about health food and other such horrors, but where they advertised tomato soup, and that being one of my weaknesses, we set about ordering. Trouble was, not only did you have to order through an electronic menu, so the server not two feet away could make up our order without actually having to speak to us, but there was no such thing as a simple bowl of tomato soup. One had to add a ‘base’ of rice or noodles, and a ‘complement’ of this or that, and there was no way around it. Anyway, we were able to order, silently collect our trays as though partaking in an ancient rite, and find a table at the window where we could watch for the returning Conquerors of the Strudel.
They arrived, we caught up on news, ate healthy things and drank beer, before returning to the hotel so the B Team could finally land.
Day five done. Level accomplished.
