The Steiermark

I set off on a bright, sunny morning. I had my route all planned. There is no direct route from here to Graz. I started off on the autobahn in the direction of Innsbruck, got off a bit too early and got stuck in a small town, unable to find the road I wanted. It was Saturday morning and everyone was out shopping. The roads were clogged in Wörgl and it took me 45 minutes to get out of it. Europeans are wealthy, they all have cars, and they all want to go somewhere. The official travel season hasn't even begun yet. When the schools let out the roads will be even more congested. At times the traffic is really thick. Later on, in Kitzbühel, it was bumper to bumper through the whole bloody burg. I went over another pass, this one only half as high as Furka (again, thank god for that!) and bypassed the Grossglockner, the highest mountain in Austria. Gawd, these mountains are big. The OMG mantra continued for much of the day. This poor Skoda is really getting a workout. Eventually I crossed into the province of Salzburgerland, and then into the Steiermark (Styria in English), of which Graz is the capital. The landscape became less dramatic, the mountains not as imposing, the valleys wider. It reminded me of being in the Rockies, then the Catskills. The scenery was delightful. I didn't want to end up in Graz, so I got off the main road onto a really small country road. I had no idea where I was headed; I just wanted to find some bucolic country inn. And find one I did. I couldn't have found a more inviting place to stay. It was as if I were led to this place. There was a sign that read 'Kulturpension'. What in the world would that be, I wondered. It is an old farm house, recently remodeled and converted into an inn and art gallery by an enterprising local couple. The grounds are simple and lovely, with many fine old trees and open fields. It's hard to believe that we are only 30 kilometers (about 20 miles) outside of Graz. The couple who run the place are very friendly and hospitable. The place is officially called: Landhaus Feuerlöscher bei Deutschfeistritz. Isn't that a mouthful?
I bow to the Mother of the World, to Lord Manjushri and to Lord Shakyamuni Buddha for watching over me. I feel that I have been taken care of at every turn on this trip. Tomorrow I drive into Graz, return ye olde Skoda and begin the adventure of teaching at AIMS. I have already been purusing the brochures of the Steiermark, considering the weekend excursions I want to make...

In the Tyrol, again

The rain had stopped during the night, but it was still cloudy. It was supposed to gradually clear up during the day. I thought a trip into Innsbruck might be worthwhile, so I headed down the road. But a funny thing happened on the way to Innsbruck...I didn't go there. Why traipse around a large city, I thought, even if it is in the Alps? I'm in the Alps now. At the town of Zirl I turned north. These names of towns in the Tyrol are so interesting. They don't even sound German. I suspect that they derive form Celtic names that were then appropriated by the Germanic tribes that settled here after the demise of the Roman Empire. Some other examples, besides the charming 'Zirl', are: Imst, Stanz, Telfs, Prutz, Dalaas, Axams, Vols, Fulpmes, the sloppy sounding Bschlabs, the always merry Grins, and the very delicate Egg. My favorite name for a town was in Graubünden: Bitsch, with Cunter a close second. I'm not making this up.
It was a short, but steep ride to the German border and into the town of Mittenwald. It is famous for its violin makers, for its alpine setting and its charming Bavarian painted houses. Still, it is a tourist trap; already by 10 AM it was overrun with (European) tourists. The real gem of the place was the church of Sts. Peter and Paul (Nu? Vone goi vasn't enough? Ya needed two?), a splendid example of late Bavarian Baroque. It was consecrated in 1749. Simple on the exterior, the inside is a riot of decoration, gold, marble, statuary and frescoes.
Further down the road was the town of Garmisch-Partenkirchen, renowned for having hosted the Winter Olympics (quite a while ago, I'm not sure when) and for being the home of the composer Richard Strauss. I made some attempt to find the Strauss Villa, but didn't succeed. No matter, I have seen it before, some 40 years ago. Garmisch is much bigger than Mittenwald and, to my mind, prettier. The clouds still hadn't lifted but I continued on anyway and re-entered Austria into the town of Ehrwald. This burg is on the other side of the Zugspitze, Germany's highest peak. The pinnacle of the Zugspitze was shrouded in clouds, but it was still an impressive sight. It occured to me that today is the Fourth of July. No flags and fireworks here.
When I got back to my inn (which is a restaurant/tavern/hotel) Frau Frischmann, the owner, told me that there would be a 'Blaskonzert' (wind-band concert) in the village this evening. I didn't know what to expect. The players are drawn from communities in the area. Some were youngsters, some were older. They all wore a uniform, a traditional Tyrolean Tracht: black pants, dark red vest, dark green woolen jacket, topped off by a pointed black hat with some brush-like thing on it. It was quite fetching. They lined up further down the street (in front of Gasthof Frischmann, actually) and marched in formation, playing some Tyrolean march, to the modest band shell. The procession was led by the band leader with a large baton and two lovely damsels in their pretty Tyrolean dirndls. The band was terrific. This was the real thing, local people celebrating their cultural identity, a simple event unsoiled by any kind of commercialism or mass appeal. I felt fortunate to witness it. I also thought of Gustav Mahler hearing something just like this in his village, and the effect it had on his creativity. His symphonies are full of folk tunes and the glimmer of marching bands. There were tables set up, the locals having a great time, devouring fried chicken and downing untold quantities of beer. I sat on a bench on the side for a while, not wanting to intrude in this local event. One of the regulars from the tavern where I'm staying, whom I have greeeted coming and going, approached me. He was very polite and told me he thought I must be a refined and highly educated person (okay, thanks for the compliment) and invited me to join him for a beer at his table. It had gotten really chilly and I was about to leave. Besides, I had had my quota of beer with dinner, so I declined. The beer drinking ritual can go on for hours. We chatted for a while and, without asking, he bought me a Schnapps. It was a fruit liquor, something like Calvados. He told me that the castle which is visible on a high hill down the valley was built in the 14th century. This valley is the only direct route going east/west through the Alps. It must have seen a lot of traffic, wars and plundering in the Middle Ages. This is really a lovely village. I was very fortunate to end up here.

Mils

I have been extraordinarily lucky with the weather. My five days in Switzerland were sunny and warm. In the night a front came through and it rained intermittently most of the day today. I took the autoroute north towards Bern, then turned east, by-passing Interlaken and Luzern. The rain stopped and the clouds lifted around that stretch, and a good thing it did because it's a fabulously beautiful region. If it is pouring rain you may as well be driving from Hoboken to Hackensack, since you see virtually nothing. There are no freeways bigger than two lanes in each direction, and there is never a median. Space is at a minimum here. Sometimes the autobahn turns into a normal road for a stretch as there is no way to by-pass some towns in the narrow valleys. I couldn't begin to count how many tunnels I went through today. With some difficulty I did find the last stretch of road I wanted, from the town of Sargans to the border. This is not far north from where I entered Graubünden on Saturday. I'm glad I took the scenic route then, even though it was much longer. At Sargans the road turns north, skirting the principality of Liechtenstein. Crossing into Austria at Feldkirch, you have to traverse a bit of that tiny country. It is technically independent, but Switzerland administers its services. I'll bet I'm the only guy on the block who can boast having filled his tank in Liechtenstein. That's probably the most exciting thing you can do there anyway.
Actually, after I saw a turn for the Gotthard Tunnel I pulled off the road to have another look at the map and re-consider my destination. With a car at my disposal and Italy not too far away, why not drive south? I considered it: I could be in Milano in a few hours; the sun was surely shining there; I had never visited Verona, etc. But I realized that I would have to drive very far to traverse Italy west to east in order to reach Graz by Sunday morning (when I have to return the car), and that it would take me three days of relentless driving. So, I passed on the idea. A short time later I heard a traffic update on the radio that reported a major accident in the Gotthard Tunnel, blocking both directions, that there was a back-up for many kilometers. Lucky I didn't go there, I thought.
Austria is more relaxed and laid-back than its neighbor to the west. In comparison, it looks a little shabby and neglected. I have even seen the blight of billboards on the outskirts of towns here, something you just wouldn't find in Switzerland. There is an autobahn that heads east through the valley of the Inn towards Innsbruck and beyond. I got off of it after a while and drove on the parallel local road in order to find a place to stay. And I did, in the tiny village of Mils, about 30 miles west of Innsbruck. This country inn is so reasonable I think I'll stay here two nights. If it's rainy tomorrow I can visit Innsbruck; if it's nice -- another hike! From my window I can see the back end of the village, the pretty village church with its tall Tyrolean bell tower, and then a hugh mountain going straight up with a dramatic ravine in it. Now, at dusk, it looks a little scary.
The dialect spoken here is softer than the rather gutteral Swiss German, but it's related to it and to Bavarian. This is a narrow part of Austria and both Germany and Italy are quite close, except that you have to drive over or through mountains to get there.
Cindy's Diner. That's the last thing I expected to find at a rest stop off the autoroute in western Switzerland; an American-style burger joint doesn't usually send me into ecstasies in anticipation of a good meal. But, being quite hungry, I stepped through the door of the place to see what was up. It was a re-creation of a 1950's American diner, replete with formica tables and vinyl chairs, a black and white tile floor, and lots of chrome. The photo of Elvis on the wall was the coup de grâce to the atmosphere. Their menu claimed to serve the best burgers in Switzerland. It also included a 'vegi' burger (which they pronounced 'veggi' for some odd reason). I don't know what the burger was made of, but it was tasty (though small), and it was smothered in grilled (not steamed) vegies, and had a delicious sauce. It was really good (though I've had better burgers stateside). The bun was fresh multi-grain. The lettuce was not of the iceberg variety. Europeans will not eat junk -- why do we? But, that burger (no fries), a glass of mineral water and a cup of coffee set me back SF 29, or $25. Gulp.

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.