Land, Ho: Salzburg

The day was balmy when we arrived in Salzburg. It was unusually warm, in fact, although the rains still swept through in the evenings and washed the stickiness from the air. By this time I was used to the layer of sweat that clung to me like a second skin, and the disregard for air conditioning. I kind of liked it actually; something about walking and sweating made me feel travel-worn and productive, like when a good pair of boots wear down and become covered in dust.

So the train lurched to a stop, and we lurched with it. Filing off, we congregated in the vaguely cooled station. Our first taste of Salzburg was laced with the salt of sweat and flies and impatience. We took a bus to our hotel, the Castellani Parkhotel. I really did like that hotel. Maybe I'll dedicate a post to it, because it fulfills some forgotten fantasy of mine. I'd like not to forget that.

Mozartplatz part 1

Mozartplatz part 2 

             
We set off in search of lunch, that enticingly simple meal of market fruits to be washed in local fountains and pretzels, in the old town: Altstadt. We followed the path along the Salzach River, whose roar was dimly felt. It was robust and brown and, on the other side, sat the mountains with their whispering trees and laughing brooks. I never thought a river could be beautiful unless is was clear and blue.

It was very hot. Sweat slid between our shoulder blades and those carrying backpacks shifted the weight from shoulder to shoulder, revealing darker patches on their shirts. It was a kind of glory, you understand, to sweat beneath the Austrian sun. To sweat and think about food and feel excited by our ignorance of a new place.

Wolfgang "The Stud" Amadeus Mozart

We found the old quarter, called Mozartplatz after the city's resident darling, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. We were left to our own devices for a while, with languid instructions to meet back at some hour I can't remember for our tour.

My chief interest was not food; while abroad, I didn't have much of an appetite. Although the pretzel was good, although the peaches were plump and sweet, I had to force myself to eat. Perhaps it was the excitement.

Our guide was named Philipp, a mild mannered history teacher who seemed so quiet in comparison to our burly Markus in Munich. Not once did Philipp pound his chest and cry "Salzburg!". I didn't mind, though. I liked him too; something in his voice reminded me of an old grade school teacher, who read to us as we cooled off in the air conditioned room after lunch.

In the cathedral (which we entered gratefully after the heat of the day), we sat somewhat irreverently in the pews and listened to our guide. When he finished, I concluded to myself that Mozart must have been great fun to be friends with. He threw grandiose parties, and spent his money like water. He did not, Philipp assured us, live as an impoverished musician (common misconception), but was at times quite wealthy.

Mozart was a genius, granted, but it was his father who recognized his son's talent, and coaxed it out, cultivated it, presented it to the world. Had little Mo been born in the mountains, where there was no need for something as frivolous as music, perhaps his genius would have remained buried. I liked listening to that part.

Casa Mozart

When we left the cathedral, my skin was cool and dry. The hot air became merely a curiosity after the stone-chill inside. We saw the house Mozart was born in, a yellow structure with a system of wires outside acting as doorbells. We passed a gajillion shops selling the famed Mozartkugel.

Tomorrow I will tell you about the fortress, and maybe St Gilgen. 

The old town, with the formidable Hohensalzburg Fortress towering from above