Day 25 - Salzburg

---

Day 25
Friday, July 26, 1997

I love Friday’s. Sure, it is still pissing rain outside but I have a cheery backpacker’s attitude and a trusty raincoat ready to take on the deluge. Ok Ok. Forget all that whining and blathering about getting soaked in Prague. Nope. This is a good rain. Everything is different. The air smells different. It is fresh. Clean. Cool. Rejuvenating.

My morning began with one of the best breakfasts I have enjoyed so far. The menu: several slices of hot fresh bread, hearty scoops of tasty marmalade, chunks of rich cheddar cheese and generous slabs of ham…and the cherry on top of my delectable treat…. a bottomless mug of hot coffee. Mmmmmm-Mmmmm. Simply incomparable. Looking around at my fellow diners, I noticed that my female friends were nowhere to be seen. Hours ago when I was savouring my splendid rest, the ladies were already up-en-attem. They had scurried down the hill and lined up for a bus tour through the mountains. I agree that the prospect of rewarding my eyes with a day replete with scenic beauty and awash my lungs with fresh mountain air is very hard to turn down, however today we had extremely divergent priorities.

The ladies dolled out mitt-fulls of marks for the celebrated prospect of having a bus haul their cabooses up and down windy mountain roads. Their ticket included panoramic visages of mountains covered in pea-soup fog and the opportunity to be inundated with the torturous soundtrack from the musical The Sound of Music being played in an endless loop. Yes, it is true. These sad individuals paid money to have Maria von Trapp irritate the hell out of them for a whole day. Oh the horror. Sure, you may ask, considering the clientele wouldn’t this also be my chance to hit on a bus filled with Sound of Music hotties? Like fish in a barrel? I could get real close and personal in the back seat while humming melodies with Melody? But to the contrary….I am certain that that my mere presence would signal to the young ladies that I was either gay or well, probably just gay.

Aside from being held hostage for 5 hours listening to that dreadful soundtrack, there was also the fact that it was raining outside and the mountain was covered in fog. I looked out from our cliffside chalet and could barely see the city down below. The fortress in the distance? Forget about it. For Christ’s sake, the fog was so thick that I am certain they could not see ten feet in front of their bus. With that viewpoint, I was expecting to hear that their bus ended up colliding into the poor doe's that the song banters on about? Fa would be a long, long way the wee beastie would fly after he wandered into the path of that vehicle. Maybe I am burdened with logic, but if I was a sappy twit and desperately wanted to see the land of the eight humming Huns I would probably wait out the foggy mess and see the Van Crapps one day later. The hills will always be there. Why not wait for that ray…that drop of golden sun to return and check out the sights in better weather?

James the Vancouverite eventually joined me at the ‘table of bottomless coffee’. Like me, he was into history and the study of warfare so there was no problem convincing him to tag along later when I ventured out to investigate the Hohensalzburg Fortress. Standing on the terrace of our hostel, a most imposing castle glared back at us. Sorry, yesterday it glared. Today, it squinted at us through the fog. Thankfully after about an hour, the fog started to clear and we were able to make out the image of our destination in the distance. Stoutly poised and elevated well above us poor saps wallowing out on the edge of some cliff, we saw that the fortress was bounded on three sides by even more steep rocky cliffs. Braving the thick air and the steady rain, James and I set out to find it.

Most visitors to the fortress enter by following the signage and taking the pathway that leads to the entrance gate. Some of the heftier (American) tourists even pay for a trolley car to drag their obese haunches up the side of the hill. They get dropped off right at the ticket booth. However, James and I were no ordinary tourists. We were barbarians. Roads? Pathways? Freight elevators for plump Yanks? I said we were barbarians. We took the ‘least-travelled’ route. From the chalet, we trudged through mud, clear cut our way through old growth forests and bashed our way over rain-soaked bushes in an attempt to mirror the plight of our forefathers. James and I intended to locate and siege the castle without relying upon the assistance of chevrons painted onto pathways or following the directions written on the posted signage. Yet…within moments of embarking on our campaign, we got lost, turned around twice and got really soaking wet. The hands on my watch spun around in jest at our clueless wandering. Eventually we decided to retrace our muddy prints and go the other way. Question? How could two adventurous barbarians not be able to find one of the most recognizable and prominently placed buildings in all of Austria? It was during this episode of ironic introspection when, standing at the proverbial edge of both a cliff and despair we looked over our shoulder and saw it right there before our eyes. Barbarians are morons.

Despite the difficulty locating the castle, our walk turned out to be fairly interesting. We could now see first-hand what it would be like for an invader 500 years ago when he tried to take the castle. Simply put…it was impossible. The outer walls climbed straight up ensuring that the barrier would be disheartening to even the most ardent and confident of armies. Thus, when we dirty wet barbarians approached the entrance of the fortress, we took the easiest path to entry…we paid the requisite fee. Within moments of wandering the pebble stone covered compound we got bored fairly quickly. Hohensalzburg may seem very exciting from the exterior but was actually rather bland from the safe side of the walls. While it was a medieval military fortress, the style of architecture was understated. Everything was painted white, a dull greyish white and there was little character to the place. A combination of pea gravel pathways and cobblestone accounted for the ground covering. Sure, it was old. Old like a 70ish old lady wearing a sweatshirt from Walmart, tube socks and staring out the window. I am certain there are some stories in there, but nothing to make my ears perk up.

Then my bland stroll suddenly turned to ‘blitz’. I don’t know what happened. Maybe our hidden barbarian identities were uncovered. Maybe we happened to visit at the wrong time. Regardless, it was akin to being attacked by bees or birds or those wee little irritating midgees. Our relaxing tour was suddenly interrupted by those ever-so-familiar beasties. With the queen at the head of the swarm we desperately tried to evade their smothering onslaught. We dodged to the left. Finding no sanctity, we dove behind a display of multilingual brochures located on the right. It was fruitless. In what seemed an eternity, we were trapped in the small entranceway to the museum with a never-ending stream of them flooding in and sucking the life and air out of the room. They were tourists. However, they were no ordinary tourists. They were tourists being lead by a life-sucking tour guide.

Tour guides. They are the bane of my existence. I hate them with a passion. I hate their incessant banter. I hate that fact that I do not recognize any of the dialects they use when speaking English. I hate the fact that everything emitted from the gaping hole in their yapper is yelled. And most of all, I hate their umbrellas, their sticks with socks tied to the end, the blow-horns and the flags they hoist high above the flock of brainless sheep to keep them from wandering. And yet despite my pure hatred for them, they follow me everywhere. They follow me and drag along their motley crew of clueless Yanks, snap-happy pods of Japanese or groups of throaty Krauts clad in their lederhosen. Thus, when I was corralled by the mass and was left standing beside a sign that read “Hohensalzburg Tours”, I looked at the lady selling tickets and thought of Mamon. She sat in her booth and my eyes were drawn to her evil claws that were clutching a roll of red coloured tickets. Five feet of distance and my inner strength were the only things that separated me from another ignorant tramp through another European museum. Should I, who forgot to bring my Rosetta Stone, hopelessly attempt to decipher the German writings on the display placards that described the castle and its’ history….or should reach into my pocket, pull out some coins and pay some clueless, multilingual twit to tell me all about it in broken-English? It was one of the hardest decisions in my life.

As I crunched the torn square of numbered paper in my hand, I raised my eyes to see the tour guide assigned to our group. Remember how I referred to her as Mamon? Mamon as in Mammaries. Meow. The aforementioned ticket now gained a slight coating of dampness as I looked across and disrobed the young sphinx with my vivid imagination. Recognizing that the tour would teach me nothing more than the relative dimensions of this lady’s fabulous figure, I gleefully accepted the futility of the situation and soldiered on. She was a youthful sprite, barely awash in the knowledge of elementary school academics yet being paid to teach two historians about the storied past of one of Europe’s greatest fortresses. While quite attractive, most of the nonsense Herr Honey spewed forth from her gub was pretty much worthless. But she was cute and I remained interested and intrigued. I think the most exciting part of her performance were the occasional times when she would depart from the pleasant school-girl demeanour and transform into a hardcore member of the Nazi youth corp. If my thoughts were not on contemplating how I could request a private tour of the fortresses’ royal bedchamber, I would have purposely stepped out of line. Over herr, look at me…I am touching the display case. Punish me. I am a bad tourist.

One ancillary benefit of my tour was the fact that our entrance fee included access to two museums. The first museum, the Burgmuseum, was a military museum that outlined Austria’s history and participation in the two great wars. The second was the Raniermuseum. It housed a vast assortment of medieval armour and weaponry and told the regional history of Holy Roman Europe. Their displays included recreations of medieval knights wearing full suits of armour, jousts that were used in tournaments as well as a wide assortment of maces, spiked balls and chains. There was even one suit of armour that still had a gaping hole in the chest-plate. I think that the German placard told of how a joust, held forth by a knight pierced the poor fellow on the other horse, a la shish-ka-bob. Very cool.

In reference to my relative inability to decipher the German writings that accompanied each display, I suspiciously wondered what lies those Nazi bastards were spewing. Exactly what propaganda were they drumming into the heads of visiting kiddie krauts? While I couldn’t read their accounts, but I could still sense their nefarious intentions. Let me submit English versions for English displays. I would correct the historical awareness for the massed vanquished. Beside the WW1 machine guns displays, I would write captions about how Canadians, Brits, Aussies etc. used these similar guns to spit lead through the bodies of Austria’s heroic sons. For the Second World War displays, I would include a charred piece of wood and beside it simply write on the accompanying placard, “Dresden”. In a beautiful case down from the plank of burnt wood, there would be a chunk of broken concrete labelled “Berlin”. The masterpiece artefact would be located in a serene part of the museum. It would be a book that listed page after page of Axis war dead. The book would be titled, “Our (mis)Adventure in Stalingrad”.

The museum housed a substantial amount of weaponry from both great wars. I reflected upon this hardware as I perused the display cabinets. Included in the cabinets were machine guns used by Axis soldiers in both wars. As I studied the Bergmann and Maxim machine guns, I had an incredibly odd feeling about those particular weapons. While the chances are nil, I pictured one of these very guns being used to shoot down young lads like my great-grandfather at Canal du Nord in 1918. Eerie. Isn’t it? Don't worry. I plan to have a similar denouement when I get to London and visit the Imperial War Museum. When I visit, I will get to touch and feel similar displays of Allied military hardware. I will put my hands on weapons named Vickers, Lewis and Browning. Then I will think back to Hohensalzburg and wonder if Grandpa or Uncle John used that gun to shoot down Jerries when they took the hill in Cambrai.

Following our time at the Burgmuseum, we continued onto the Raniermuseum. After immersing myself in the Burgmuseum’s Axis weaponry exhibits, it was a nice break to recede into the world of King Arthur’s court to lighten up the mood. James was quite useful in providing the odd historical insight to the items in the display cases. Being a rather learned ‘chain-link, body armour, full-metal jacket aficionado’, he was able to tell me about the history and how they were used. We continued to the adjoining room that contained an assortment of jousts and accompanying body armour typical of the age and fashion. It is common knowledge that medieval knights protected themselves from the enemy's weaponry by fastening sheets of metal together into protective clothing. However, interestingly enough they also decorated their horses with similar armour. Occasionally, the suits of armour for their loyal steeds were as intricate and fashionably designed as their own suits.

We ended our visit to the fortress with a thorough analysis of the battlements and attempted to decode the functionality of the system of gates that protected the only entrance to the castle. We went a little psycho on trying to uncover how each defensive system was used. However, that is what historians do. We watch, study and then formulate an opinion on a wide myriad of topics and trends based upon our observations. That is the interesting aspect of history and historians. It is difficult to say that one is wrong and the other is right. It always depends upon which evidence is used and which is ignored. For example, the most famous adage about modern history is that “to the victors go the spoils”. The spoils can mean the local women, their chests full of gold, stockpiles of weapons and also get the opportunity to write the official history of the battle or war. However, this would only be true if one never read a book written by the vanquished. There are thousands of books about Vietnam, written by Americans. I have personally read several books on the War of 1812 written by Americans. The interesting fact you will find when reading a book about that war is depending upon who wrote the book, you will end up with two different official histories of the event. Thankfully, there are other ways a historian can learn about what really happened years ago. For example, in the case of the War of 1812 Americans decided to leave no ambiguity for who was the victor. They left the White House painted the colour white (to cover up the fact that our boys torched the original). They also stand up and sing to celebrate the British’s “rocket red glare” in their national anthem to commemorate when we blew their match-stick capital to smithereens. God save America. God, go and get a bucket of water!

Leaving the fortress, we returned to the city streets down below. As my cranium was jammed with too many local facts, James and I set out to conduct some aimless wandering. While we were able to conduct a cursory survey the city streetscape last night, it was during a rain storm and our female companions only wanted to stuff their gub with globs of ice cream. Thus, in a light drizzle we decided to reinvestigate old Salzburg. This was also a great opportunity to pick up a souvenir or two. To be precise, I needed to buy some new clothes. A nice t-shirt with a Salzburg logo ironed on the front would suffice.

This task was overdue and required. The wardrobe I currently have jammed into my backpack requires emergency augmentation. My t-shirts have been disfigured through overuse to such an extent that they no longer resemble human forms. One particular rag has a neck opening so wide that it is difficult to determine which hole is for my neck and which one is for my waist. It was time to retire those tattered threads. I checked out the street vendors whoring their imitation cheap shirts on unsuspecting tourists. They had a wide variety of cotton shirts ready to be shrunk down to a third of their size. I leafed through piles of garments, each emblazoned with a different irrelevant slogan or a multicoloured cartoonish logo. After rejecting all those which were thin enough to make out the vague outline of my male aureole, I found one for $7 with the inventive slogan “Salzburg” written on the front. Mission accomplished.

As we stood in the misty rain, we watched the most interesting spectacle occurring in the centre of the main town square. Situated neatly within the town square was another series of squares. Measuring about thirty feet by thirty feet was the largest chess match that I have ever seen. Each game piece was stood about five feet tall and the player had to drag it across the square in order to make their move. The game provided us with some very interesting street theatre.

Across from the mammoth chess game was the Salzburg Cathedral. That was our next stop. While the present structure was built in the 17th century, the site was first used as a sacred place for sacrificing beasts in the 8th century. If this were up to me, I would reinstate its’ former use and apply it to the culturally inept (aka the ignorant beast who happened to be touring Salzburg with me). Jimmy Snap-Happy, my Canuckian hostel companion, tried to replicate a fashion photo shoot with his camera lighting up each and every part of the cathedral. I tend to rant on about the use of cameras within the Lord’s house. If I don’t let strangers come into my apartment and allow them to document the sad life of a student loan-avoiding deadbeat on film, why should visitors feel they can freely enter this house and mindlessly snap photographs of people who are searching for a quite place to achieve serenity, contemplation, reflection and remorse? How can we help? Simple. Purify the place…and I am not talking about squirting people with the wet sponge they hang near the entrance to churches. I am talking about using the altar for what it was made for. Father Gallagher, Canon cameras, the snap-happy photog and an oversized sledge hammer. Peace achieved.

The evening was yet another ‘gold star’ entry into my ‘spectacular record of monumental events in the exciting life of a touring lothario’. I really can’t understand why but I am attracted to Austria but for reasons unknown to me, Austria likes me back. In Amsterdam, I hauled on hoolies with Melanie and Veronica who were from Austria. When I got to Wien I met the Spanish diva, Yolanda. Now I am in Salzburg, home of the hoard of happy harmonious Huns, and I meet another young Austrian fraulein. The darling for the evening was a lady named Marion. A virtual damsel in distress, she turned out to be my very own ‘Maid Marion’ while I was her knight in shining armour. I must admit that her sense of taste should be put under speculation for on this day the only way Sir Slob-a-lot was shining was from an unwashed head of hair and greasy skin. I looked like I just completed hand-to-hand combat with the dragon and he proceeded to drag me around the tournament grounds in the mud.

After tramping through the woods and dragging ourselves around Salzburg in the rain, rather than return to the hostel, James and I continued our adventure by grabbing a bite to eat in town. The decision was fairly clear-cut. Going back to the hostel to wash up would have required us to climb back up the cliff along the steep meandering pathway. Our preferred option was to quickly find an old pub and suck back pints. Therefore, sporting a pair of filthy dirty jeans, mangy shirt and baseball hat that hid my greasy dishevelled mop we set out for an evening’s pleasure. To top off my GQ look, I tied a green plastic raincoat around my waist. I was a real find. Ironically, I was a real find. Apparently Marlboro men are in short supply and high demand in Austria. Jeans, ball cap, encrusted in dirt from head to toe…it is no wonder I was picked up with this get-up! Cultured, Austrian ladies’ love that look! Here is how it all went.

Before making it to the pub, James and I stopped at a local Internet café. We wanted to brag to our loved ones back home that we were in Salzburg and they weren’t. This took about 15 minutes before we proceeded to a British pub located next door. This was the perfect place to relax after a long and successful day. As a reward for stomping around like barbarians we placed ourselves atop some comfy bar stools and drank like barbarians. To further entreat ourselves, we sat near the picture window that faced the quaint cobblestone street. Barbarians slurping on pints need to rudely gawk, ogle and exhibit our overt manliness at the young hun hussies stumbling by. It was during mid-gulp when some dude came into the bar and interrupted me. He proceeded to tell me that, while I was pecking away at the internet café a few moments earlier that his lady-friend noticed me and desperately wanted to meet me. She must have been swept away from my display of well-honed businessman demeanour that I recently developed while working in an office job. My style and manner shone through my rough exterior look and captured the attention of one Marion.

Within moments of being notified that I should expect a guest, in walked a very attractive young lady. She come over, sat down and joined us for a drink. Back home I never get this level of attention. Sure I often sit by windows in pubs and gawk (pathetically stare down) at ladies wandering passed windows, but they never come in. However, I am across the world and this young lady notices me and for reasons that I still find unclear, wants to meet me. Marion, her friend, James and I enjoyed a pint together. The first lead to a second and we cemented our “get-to-know a stranger” session with a third. With each pint I remembered less and less of what we were speaking about. Then, suddenly, as I was running out of three word sentences, Marion invited us to join her to watch the “light show”. Really, I had no clue what she was talking about. I think she said ‘light show’…but she was talking in her guttural Austrian accent and why would Salzburg have a ‘light show’? What is a light show? I also thought I heard her mention something about a ‘cliff’…either that or she asked me if I was ‘stiff’. I nodded and followed her out the pub.

Marion led us through the zigzag of city streets. We ended our walk at a stand of scaffolding…which faced a sheer rock cliff. She said cliff. It was here where we watched some local chaps shine their light machine on the rocks. Sure, it sounded strange to me too. However, we were treated to a light spectacle where multicoloured shapes, patterns and images were projected onto the face of a rocky cliff. An eerie combination of gothic and techno music accompanied the light show to finish the effect. It turned out to be pretty cool. The only think missing to make the theatre truly spectacular was a little square of LSD (Light Show Drug). However, we decided to forgo the chemical enhancements and just enjoy the show…au naturel.

Our next stop was to an exclusive night club. Interestingly, Marion introduced me to more of her boyfriend’s friends. Did I mention that? Yes, all the guys that Marion was hanging around with were friends of her boyfriend who happened to be out of town for the evening. He must have been a very bad boy. While we enjoyed some free drinks in the bar, James began to feel like the proverbial third wheel. Unfortunately, Marion did not bring a wingman to entertain James so he did the honourable thing and slipped quietly out the door.

Except for the three of four male friends of her boyfriend who still happened to be mulling around us, we were able to get to know each other a bit more intimately. Now, I must admit that I was not the instigator in the episode of juvenile petting that was being displayed. Rather, I did feel a bit uncomfortable and expected to be left bloodied and battered in a Salzburg alleyway from an expected attack from a returning jealous boyfriend. Yet, we continued and continued onto a third bar.

Wow, this lad was a very popular fellow. He had very cool friends too. Standing beside this incredibly attractive young lady, our hands intertwined, I was introduced to a legion of guys who thought nothing about me hanging out with Marion. Actually, they were all very interested in introducing themselves to me and learning about where I was from, how long I would be in town and where I was off to next. Very strange. It was getting late and the bar was packed. It was during this time after being pressed up against young Marion where I learned how well honed she was. Coincidentally, it was also the same time when she learned how excited I was to meet her.

Before I continue, here is a little description of the lass whom had caught my fancy and attention for the past few hours. Marion was an extremely fun lady. No only was she hot, but she had this look. It was not a knock-out, 'va va voom', 'meow, meow' look but there was something else. A “je ne sais pas.” Killer body. Long slender legs. Staring at her hot tight pants made me think that of the film Lawrence of Arabia. (Four hours of watching camel toes will do it to a young man) While Marion was a young 30 years old, she looked 25. I am 25 and she said that I looked 19. Two wee babies. Marion and I bid adieu to her friends and left the bar seeking more intimate surroundings.

The scene must have been from a book of fairy tales. Hand in hand, we took a stroll down by the riverside. The babbling river drowned out the noise of the surrounding city. We walked fingers interlaced, along a path that lined the banks of the river, over an old stone bridge, paused to watch the moon shimmering on the ripples below before we slowly continued up the street. I really did not know where she was taking me. It seemed like we were heading towards a building unit and upon arrival my crossed fingers and toes signified my hope that it was her house. It was better.

She led me into the lobby where after a nod and a wink to the security guard, he gave his blind eye permission for us to use the elevator. Riding up to the top floor, we emerged onto the eighth floor rooftop of one of Salzburg’s riverside buildings. We settled together on a bench that overlooked the old city with the projection festival still fluttering in the distance. Incredible. Simply incredible. Together, we stared at the projections for approximately…30 seconds before our attentions founds a more fulfilling viewpoint. A little while after that we went back to doing the stuff we were doing when we weren’t watching the projections. It was a show of our very own. Eventually, it was getting late. Marion’s boyfriend must have started to get worried. Together we brushed ourselves off and returned to the deserted streets below. The goodbye lasted and lasted. Standing atop the ancient stone bridge, the moon shimmering on the river running beneath the street, for what seemed like eternity we were one. Then, we were two. As she walked away I stood atop that bridge and watched her. Across the street, she walked up a block, turned left and disappeared into the darkness of an adjoining lane. That was the last I would ever see such a fascinating and exciting attraction.

---