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Brahms, Strauss and Singing Toilets

Brahms, Strauss and Singing Toilets

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Sometimes at home I have to think a minute–or a few minutes–about my daily posts. What thoughts have come to me during a walk in the suburbs? What snatch of ordinary life do I want to write about today?

But now ordinary life is standing on end. Into our ears pours the mellifluous sounds of spoken Austrian (which Suzanne tells us is distinctly different from German). Into our eyes comes a constant stream of images. Every sense is alerted. This is a different country, a different way of living in this world.

So what do I pick today? On our first night, crossing into the First District through the underground shopping area of Karlsplatz, we passed a singing toilet. The melodies of Strauss poured from the open door. It was corny, schmaltzy, complete kitsch. But this is Vienna, the city of Beethoven and Strauss and Brahms. So all is forgiven.

Castle Weather

Castle Weather

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If yesterday was spring in Stockholm, today was winter. It was cool and misty in the morning; I even borrowed gloves. But we defied the weather; we hiked through a fairy-like forest, then had a picnic lunch.

It was the perfect day to visit a cold and drafty castle. And Gripsholm fit the part; it glowered at us as we strolled toward it, crossed over the moat and walked through the thick and forbidding walls into the courtyard.

Kings were imprisoned in this castle, and one abdicated his throne from it. Inside were portraits of royalty, and room after stunning room, some with painted wooden walls, others with damask coverings and one with warm wood paneling. The castle was an intricate maze of passageways and stairways and, on the top floor, a theater.

When we left the place to stroll through the village of MarieFred, my head was spinning, and no wonder: I had left the 16th Century and was suddenly re-entering the 21st. I wasn’t sure I was ready for the trip.

The Checklist

The Checklist

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I’m reading (actually, racing to finish, because it’s a library book) The Checklist Manifesto by Atul Gawande. I discovered Gawande’s writing through one of those Best Essays volumes and have continued to read and enjoy his books.

This one is about how checklists save lives. He tells one riveting story about an operation gone wrong (his own error) and how a checklist ensured there was a large supply of blood on hand to transfuse the patient. One of the items on the checklist was for the surgical team to introduce themselves before the operation began. As a result, Gawande says,”We came into the room as strangers. But when the knife hit the skin, we were a team.” It was teamwork and cool, methodical action that saved the patient’s life.

Two days before our departure, I’m making my own checklists. Passport. Check. International Driver’s Permit. Check. I’ve always been a list-maker–and I’ve often faulted myself for it, thinking it the sign of a limited imagination. But reading this book has made me feel better about my habit. If lists save lives, think of what they can do for vacations.

Hallstatt!

Hallstatt!

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We leave a week from today. Time for some inspiration. So into this world of deadlines and errands, broken computers and broken glasses, appointments and schedules and list after list after list, there comes a breathing space, a long sigh. This is Hallstatt, a village in Austria’s Salzkammergut, an area of mountains and lakes east of Salzburg. Is it possible that we will see such a place? Is it possible that such a place even exists?

Dream Come True

Dream Come True

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A friend I haven’t seen in years reminded me of a dream we shared in high school. We were going to throw our own ball — ladies would wear long gowns, we would swirl and twirl to waltz music — it would be the next best thing to Vienna.

In two weeks Tom and I are going to Vienna. We’re going to see Suzanne, who’s been studying there all semester. We’re planning very little — we’ll let her show us her world — but there will be music and art and coffee houses and Mozart and Beethoven and Brahms. There will be no dancing — the ball season is in January and February — but that doesn’t matter. Suzanne was able to dance through two of them (see her photo above) and I’m content simply to return to Vienna, which I saw so many years ago.

Dreams are funny things. They never fade away, but they soften with time. They’re replaced with gratitude, I think. And with memory.

The Way West

The Way West

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This is for Drew and Brenda, who are heading west the day after tomorrow. “We’ll be living a hard day’s drive from Denver,” said Drew. And knowing my brother, he’ll make that drive. Often.
I don’t know if my parents planned it this way, but when you pack four kids in a station wagon and drive them across the country a few times at young and impressionable ages, at least a couple of them will end up with incurable wanderlust. In my family, Drew has it the worst. That he will soon be living in a city known as the “Gateway to the West” is very appropriate. I have a feeling that he will be using that gateway often. And who can blame him?

Sláinte!

Sláinte!

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The Irish may not be great walkers, but, by God, they are great talkers. And since walking and talking are meant for each other, and since this is the day that everyone is Irish (or would like to be) let us raise a glass to the sons and daughters of Erin wherever they may be. Sláinte!