Last Hurrah in Toblach

The photo is the view from my window in the Hotel Rosengarten. I was a little sad to leave this beautiful place. The trip to Graz took exactly four hours, via Lienz, Villach and Klagenfurth. Most of it was on a fine autobahn. It was a rainy day (there have been very heavy rains in central Austria, especially around Salzburg for days now). Approaching the outskirts of Graz I had to drive through that unattractive part of town which every city has, industrial and commercial blight. Then I drove in circles for a while. It seems every other street is one way. I was a bit down when I finally got here: coping with city traffic after a week in the mountains is a bit hard. It was good to meet up with colleagues from last year. A group of us went out to dinner. Walking back home through the beautiful late 19th century streets of Graz in the twilight reminded me how special this city is.

Babel

Toblach; Thursday. Thunderstorms were in the offing for the afternoon today and besides that I am even more sore today than I was yesterday. When I was in my late twenties I went treking in the Himalayas. At that time I carried a full backpack and did a hike about as difficult every day of the trek (about ten days) as I did up to the Sarlriedl. You couldn't get me to undertake again what I did the other day with a gun barrel jammed between my shoulders. No way. I am a bit disappointed because the reward, namely spending some time in the unique high alpine milieu, is worth the effort. I guess I will have to rely on cable cars like every other person of modest capabilities or out of shape/unmotivated tourists. Sigh.
I took care of small matters this moring, checking out the quite lovely town of Toblach. My main quest was for an internet connection so that I could post my blogs. The small public library came to the rescue. While I was working at one of their (two) computers I overheard a woman reading a story to a young girl in Italian. It was so cute -- especially the girl's comments. (If she can speak Italian that well, why can't I?) The pic of the day is of the main street of the town. I was in a store and momentarily forgot where I was. When I stepped out this view took my breath away.
The deal here in the Hotel Rosengarten includes a fabulous breakfast and a really superb multi-course dinner (and they are happy to accomodate my dietary needs too). The beer and the local wines are all wonderful. There is a veritable babel of languages to be heard amongst the guests: mostly German, some Italian, Dutch, Norwegian, French, Irish English, etc. I'll bet that I am one of the few Americans to have ever stayed here. At the table next to mine there is a very friendly and energetic German lady (retired/widowed) who is here for three weeks. She is really fit, walks and bikes long distances. It's nice to have somebody to converse with, to share common enthusiams about the area, and compare notes with over dinner. She is yet another European who is THRILLED that Barak Obama is the President of the USA. All I can say is: Amen to that!

As I have mentioned before, the South Tyrol belonged to either the Bavarian or Hapsburg realms for centuries. It was only after the First WW that the area was given to Italy as a prize. At that time it was 90% German speaking. That was (and still is) one of the great injustices of European history. The Italians behaved very badly since then with a program of ethnic cleansing and suppression of German language and culture. There was a period of unrest with acts of sabotage against the Italian State. Many Tyroleans left but they are still 70% majority in this area. In recent years they have gained a status of political and cultural autonomy, though still part of Italy. And that is why all signs are bi-lingual. In the main square there is an info kiosk which includes a brief history of the S. Tyrol. It very conveniently glosses over the sticky period of the Italian take-over. The Tyroleans seem to be content with the arrangement now and are glad to have German-speaking guests. Ironically, both Austria and Italy have embraced the currency of the Euro, so a major aspect of division has been wiped away. Call me a rabble-rouser, but I would like to give a shout-out to Tyrolean self-determination: Freiheit für Süd Tirol!!! (I'm always a supporter of the underdog.)
In the area just south of Toblach, around Cortina d'Ampezzo, signs are also bi-lingual. These are not Italian/German, but Italian/Ladin. The latter is a language that is a corrupted form of Latin left over from the days of the Roman Empire, a language that has survived for 15 centuries in this mountainous region. (Switzerland has a similar phenomenon with Romansch, the official fourth language of that country.) Ladin is virtually incomprehensible to Italian speakers. The goulash of languages in the alpine regions is fascinating.

And yet more...

The mountain view is in the Dolomites, looking from the Hotel Rosengarten in Toblach, South Tyrol (the first overnight on my road trip); the charming old building is one of the many picturesque corners in Estavayer-le-lac, Switzerland; finally, there is a photo of a plaque on the wall of a building next to the Villa Diodati. It reads, in translation: Lord Byron/English poet/author of "The Prisoner of Chillon"/lived in the Villa Diodati in 1816 and wrote the Third Canto of "Childe Harold" here.

More Mountains

The next morning was completely clear. It was the perfect summer day. Is it possible to suffer from an overdose of too much gorgeous scenery? I came close. During the entire drive into Eastern Switzerland I saw one jaw-dropping vista after another: verdant valleys surrounded by towering peaks, often covered in snow, charming villages, alpine chalets with flowers cascading from their balconies, the smell of fresh-mown hay, lazy summer clouds drifting across the bluest sky -- it was almost too much. OMG was the mantra of the day. The plan was to traverse the Swiss canton of Graubuenden (Les Grisons in French), heading west and reaching Lausanne by evening. From Dobbiaco I passed the lovely ancient towns of Bruneck (Brunnico), Brixen (Bressanone), Bozen (Bolzano) and Meran (Merano). Brixen was founded in 1100 and is celebrating its 908th anniversary -- now, that’s old! I turned off on an even smaller secondary road to reach the Swiss border at Val Mustaire. I love the unexpected pleasures of exploring an unknown area. One of those was the perfectly intact medieval Tyrolean town of Glurns (Glorenza), just before the Swiss border, that I had to drive through. It was an enchanting little burg, like entering a time warp. I had to remind myself that I was actually in Italy, since everything was so Austrian in appearance, and nearly everyone spoke German. Entering Switzerland I crossed the first of about six high mountain passes. The views were always spectacular. With the alpine driving that entailed many winding roads, and becoming stuck behind large busses, tractors, and once even behind a garbage truck (!), I made slow time. I might have made it to Lausanne that evening if only...if only I hadn’t missed a right hand turn somewhere. I’m very good at reading maps and had made myself a map with the names of important towns and route numbers. Somehow, I wasn’t on route 19 anymore. I climbed yet another steep pass, then the villages had Italian names, then there was a sign that read: ‘Welcome to Ticino’. I had inadvertently gone south and crossed over into the one Italian canton of Switzerland. The Ticino is nearly inaccessible to the rest of Switzerland as it is surrounded by very high mountains. One wonders how it ever ended up in the Swiss Confederation (which, by the way, is the official name for the country) at all. Not being in any mood to cry over splillt milk (more breath-taking scenery) I found a room in a charming Albergo in a town called Olivone, halfway down the mountain on the other side, and called my friend James in Lausanne to let him know that I wouldn’t be making it for dinner. He took it well, knowing that it was unlikely I would reach Lausanne in a day and a half of driving. Funny, it doesn’t look all that far on the map...

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.