In the Tyrol

Some ten years ago, in the days before 9/11 changed everything, I made an extensive trip through South Asia. Near the end of that trip, having passed through at least a dozen airports, I remember thinking how wonderful it was to travel in these modern times, just before the turn of the millenium. You buy a ticket and the marvels of modern travel -- efficient, fast and convenient -- are yours.
Those days are gone now, probably forever. International travel has become an ordeal. I’m not complaining, mind you, it’s just that everything has become such a hassle. Every one of my three flights on the way to Graz was totally full, and there were the usual long lines, security inspections and concerns with meeting carry-on requirements -- all this compliments of our Muslim friends who would like to kill us.
I had arranged to pick up a rental car on my arrival in Graz. The rental agency was, however, in the city itself. And I don’t know Graz at all. Thanks to a friendly and helpful gentleman I met waiting for the train, I found the place without too much trouble, except for having to schlepp two heavy bags around. If there is one thing I hate, it’s being burdened with luggage. I was given my vehicle, a brand new Skoda sedan (I’ve never heard of it either), and was on my way. It was a challenge to deal with an unfamiliar vehicle, driving stick shift (something I haven’t done for years), not knowing where I was going -- not to mention being jet-lagged and totally wired. But somehow I managed, found the Autobahn (freeway) headed west, and was on my way.
There are mountains around Graz, but not very high ones. It isn’t until you pass Klagenfurt that you are in the high Alps. My views of them were only intermittent, as thunderstorms besieged the area. At times it poured with ferocity, then the clouds would part affording dramatic views of mountain peaks. It’s a spectacularly beautiful area. I had planned to drive no further than the town of Lienz (pronounced lee-ents, and not to be confused with Linz, a much larger city which lies further north), but I hit Lienz at rush hour, it was pouring again, and I didn’t see any signs to the hotels I had looked up on the internet. I had taken one power nap of less than an hour along the way. I wasn’t sleepy, but my eyes were burning and I really needed to stop driving. In the few small towns along the way (I was on a seconday road now), hotels looked like they were not open for the season. And then suddenly I was in Italy! I drove through what appeared to be a border crossing (no guards, completely open) and was in the South Tyrol. This is an interesting corner of the world. The inhabitants of this area are German-speaking and ethnically Austrian, but after he debacle of WW I, the area was awarded to Italy (politicians in smoke-filled rooms deciding the fates of millons...), and it has remained so ever since. There was a separatist movement going on for a number of years in the 60’s, with the occasional bomb and assassination, but that seems to have died down. The South Tyrol has been granted the status of an autonomous region, where they have more say in their own affairs. I drove as far as Toblach (Dobbiaco in Italian). It’s a town I stayed in, passing from south to north, some thirty years ago. Only later did I learn that the great Austrian composer Gustav Mahler had spent some time in Toblach and wrote “Das Lied von der Erde” as well as his ninth and (unfinished) tenth symphonies here. This is a landscape to inspire anyone to greatness.
It seems that Toblach was hosting a huge choral festival, housing choral groups from all over the world. There was not a room to be had -- except for the one I got. The blond, blue-eyed, handsome young hotelier of the Hotel Rosengarten said he had one room left, a ‘Reservezimmer’ (a room not normally let out), but he would show it to me. I was so grateful for a place to rest my weary bones. The room was simple, but it had everything I needed. He quoted me a ridiculouly low price, threw in dinner and breakfast, and then invited me to a beer as his guest. What more could I have asked for? Once again in my travels, I was taken care of. So, with that first glass of cold beer in Europe, I proposed a silent toast to Dr. Mary Jane Wilder, as I promised to do, in honor of her being awarded her doctorate, whilst gazing at the ragged peaks of the Dolomites, feeling pleased as punch at my good fortune.