WELCOME...
... to the Viking Cruise travel log. If you were on the cruise, Ellie and I hope that you enjoyed it as much as we did, and that you'll enjoy these reminiscences. (You can skip the first entries to the beginning of the cruise if you want, and ignore the family entries at the end.) Please note that you can enlarge the images simply by clicking on them. Meantime, as they say, anchors aweigh!
Heathrow - May 18, 2007
Well, here we are in Merrie Olde, en route to Munich for the first lap of our journey. Well, it's hardly Olde. This is Heathrow Airport. And not really very Merrie. Long lines everywhere, particularly at security. Strictly enforced rules. Ellie was carrying her side bag AND a very small handbag, and the sign said one bag only. Before being allowed to enter security, she had to put the hand bag into the side bag--to create... yes! one bag. The airport at Heathrow is a veritable rabbit warren and a polyglot, so many human beings headed importantly, like ourselves, in their various directions. Across the way from where I sit at my pay computer (two pounds in the slot!) I see Harrods of Knightsbridge--the airport version. Somehow it doesn't feel like the "home" I emigrated from so many years ago.
We had an easy flight, though. Ellie had bought our tickets months ago, and thanks to her foresight we were able to upgrade to business class for the transatlantic leg of our trip. United seemed to have improved quite a bit since our last lengthy trip. Good food, pleasant service, easy access to flim and music. All in all, the time went very fast. Grateful for that. We're waiting, now, for our Lufthansa flight to Munich. Ellie is perusing the shops while PaL sits at his little rental computer, posting this note to The Buddha Diaries. (I was grateful also, this morning early, for a good half hour's meditation on the plane. It makes all the difference to the waiting in lines!)
I'll post more later, from Germany, assuming I can find the access, which should be no problem. And the time, of course. That could be harder. Good wishes to all Buddha Diaries friends!
PS I notice there are several comments on yesterday's entries. Thank you! Please understand, though, that I won't be responding very much from Europe. I love to hear from you, always read you--and often respond. But patience, please, for the next three weeks! Cheers, PaL
We had an easy flight, though. Ellie had bought our tickets months ago, and thanks to her foresight we were able to upgrade to business class for the transatlantic leg of our trip. United seemed to have improved quite a bit since our last lengthy trip. Good food, pleasant service, easy access to flim and music. All in all, the time went very fast. Grateful for that. We're waiting, now, for our Lufthansa flight to Munich. Ellie is perusing the shops while PaL sits at his little rental computer, posting this note to The Buddha Diaries. (I was grateful also, this morning early, for a good half hour's meditation on the plane. It makes all the difference to the waiting in lines!)
I'll post more later, from Germany, assuming I can find the access, which should be no problem. And the time, of course. That could be harder. Good wishes to all Buddha Diaries friends!
PS I notice there are several comments on yesterday's entries. Thank you! Please understand, though, that I won't be responding very much from Europe. I love to hear from you, always read you--and often respond. But patience, please, for the next three weeks! Cheers, PaL
Munich - May 19, 2007
From London to Munich via Lufthansa--another easy flight. I wanted to brush up on my German—or at least to find out whether it still existed—and borrowed a copy of Die Zeit from my somewhat unfriendly neighbor to read an article about Paul Wolfowitz and the World Bank mess. I read. I understood. Well, most of it. It has been forty-five years since I lived in Germany and at that time I spoke the language fluently. I thought I’d try out a few words viva voce with my neighbor, but he made it clear he didn’t want to talk. Ah well.
Munich Airport. New. Squeaky clean, as they say, from end to end. Compared with the rabbit warrens of Heathrow, a marvel of clarity in design. We retrieved our bags with ease and took a taxi into town—probably a needless extravagance, but we had been on the road--well, mostly in the air—for close to twenty hours by now and it seemed like the easy thing to do. Here's a picture from the taxi.
The words on the triumphal arch say: "To the Bavarian Armies." Well, that was another war, another day.
Our hotel is right in the center of town, across from the Hauptbahnhof—the main railroad station. It's a good, practical, comfortable place for our first nights away. Le Meridien. I'm not sure why it should have a French name, but there you are, that's globalization for you. This is 21st century Europe. We use Euros. (I note with a smile that my computer does not believe that "euro"is a word.) We trade names and brands and languages without respect for borders. We trade in the same money.
Anyway, we have a comfortable room, as I say. For Buddha Diaries friends, note that we found, in our bedside table drawer, alongside the familiar Good Book, a copy of "The Teachings of the Buddha." So we felt safe. We felt right at home.
At nine o’clock in the evening, we took a brief walk through the city’s busy streets, bright with neon and other artificial lights, busy with traffic and swarming with people. Many, many languages, many faces. Electronic games arcades and strip joints, fast food stalls and upscale restaurants, department stores and cigar shops, hotels… A mecca of our 21st century civilization.
We found a pleasant restaurant for dinner—high ceilings, elegant furniture design, drapery and lighting—and struggled a bit with the menu with the help of a nice young waitress. We shared a very tasty beet soup, and Ellie went for a simple Caesar salad while I indulged in a pasta dish with strips of very tender beef. Here's Ellie, waiting for her salad.
Total: about sixty euros. I have yet to work out an easy formula for approximate comparison of values. We paid $200 for E130 at the airport. Which means, I guess, that E1.3 is equal to $2. So what did our meal cost us in dollars? You tell me. My brain is currently too non-functional to work it out.
We went to sleep easily with the help of a little magic pill and woke this morning nicely at 7:45 AM, in time for a half-hour’s meditation. Wrote this entry. Ellie is just now stirring. More later.
Munich Airport. New. Squeaky clean, as they say, from end to end. Compared with the rabbit warrens of Heathrow, a marvel of clarity in design. We retrieved our bags with ease and took a taxi into town—probably a needless extravagance, but we had been on the road--well, mostly in the air—for close to twenty hours by now and it seemed like the easy thing to do. Here's a picture from the taxi.
The words on the triumphal arch say: "To the Bavarian Armies." Well, that was another war, another day.
Our hotel is right in the center of town, across from the Hauptbahnhof—the main railroad station. It's a good, practical, comfortable place for our first nights away. Le Meridien. I'm not sure why it should have a French name, but there you are, that's globalization for you. This is 21st century Europe. We use Euros. (I note with a smile that my computer does not believe that "euro"is a word.) We trade names and brands and languages without respect for borders. We trade in the same money.
Anyway, we have a comfortable room, as I say. For Buddha Diaries friends, note that we found, in our bedside table drawer, alongside the familiar Good Book, a copy of "The Teachings of the Buddha." So we felt safe. We felt right at home.
At nine o’clock in the evening, we took a brief walk through the city’s busy streets, bright with neon and other artificial lights, busy with traffic and swarming with people. Many, many languages, many faces. Electronic games arcades and strip joints, fast food stalls and upscale restaurants, department stores and cigar shops, hotels… A mecca of our 21st century civilization.
We found a pleasant restaurant for dinner—high ceilings, elegant furniture design, drapery and lighting—and struggled a bit with the menu with the help of a nice young waitress. We shared a very tasty beet soup, and Ellie went for a simple Caesar salad while I indulged in a pasta dish with strips of very tender beef. Here's Ellie, waiting for her salad.
Total: about sixty euros. I have yet to work out an easy formula for approximate comparison of values. We paid $200 for E130 at the airport. Which means, I guess, that E1.3 is equal to $2. So what did our meal cost us in dollars? You tell me. My brain is currently too non-functional to work it out.
We went to sleep easily with the help of a little magic pill and woke this morning nicely at 7:45 AM, in time for a half-hour’s meditation. Wrote this entry. Ellie is just now stirring. More later.
Munich, Day 2 - May 20, 2007
Breakfast in our hotel room this morning. We slept well, with a little help from our pharmaceutical friends, and woke in reasonable time, but felt inclined to laze around for a while. I managed to get online and post my blog, plus pictures, so I felt accomplished. Then we ventured out to view the town.
First thing was to master the tram system,
which proved remarkably easy. A short walk through the train station—a notably clean and well organized affair. Looking at the destinations of the sleek machines in orderly line-up at the platforms, Ellie began to dream of trips to Paris, Venice, Rome… Emerging at the far side, we found the tram stop that we'd been told would take us out to the fabulous, 17th century Schloss Nymphenburg and its surrounding park. Take a look:
We found a long elegant approach to the sumptuous palace, along waterways graced with dozens of swans and well-stocked with fish.
Armed with tickets to both the palace and the park, we decided on the latter first, and took a long walk through the formal gardens to where they gave way to natural forests,
lakes and meadows, dotted here and there with little “burgs”—a “pagoda” designed in Chinese style; a hunting lodge complete with chapel, one of the first, apparently, to be designed specifically as a “ruin”; a summery bathhouse with a huge, sunken indoor swimming pool dating from the eighteenth century; a lovely single-story lodge with richly baroque décor;
and a carriage house with huge, elaborately gilded carriages and sleds for the aristocratic family who once owned and lived in this extraordinary estate. It was when we reached the carriage house with its extravagant display of ostentatious transportation--not to mention the porcelain collection, upstairs--that I began to wonder: who did these people think they were? I like to think I would have been among the revolutionaries!
Sated with glorious excess, we returned, via tram again, to the city center, where we walked from the Karolinenplatz with its dark obelisk to the Koenigsplatz,
a formal, neoclassical civic center whose vast open plazas and temple-like buildings evidently appealed to Hitler’s sense of pomp: it was here that the Nazi movement first took root and power. We passed an archeological site
where the basement of the “Brown House,” the Nazi party headquarters, was revealed, along with posters reminding the contemporary citizens of Munich that they still have some catching up to do with Berlin in un-burying the too easily forgotten past. Ellie and I recalled our visit to the Terror Museum there, in Berlin, where they had dug out the old Gestapo headquarters from the rubble of World War II to act as a museum and a memorial to those who were imprisoned and tortured there.
Right on the corner of the Koenigsplatz, we came to the museum we had been looking for—the Lehnbachhaus, former residence of the artist Franz von Lehnbach, now the repository of a stunning collection of art from the Blaue Reiter group from the early twentieth century: Wassily Kandinsky, Franz Marc, Paul Klee, Jawlensky, and many others whose names are less well known. As always, I was humbled to find outstanding paintings by artists whose names I did not even know. The small museum—a comfortable size to visit in a couple of hours and come away enriched—was also astounding in the adventurousness of its installation design. (I liked particulary the neon work of a contemporary artist on the facade of the building:
the words in blue neon--if you enlarge the image by clicking on it--read "You can imagine the opposite.") The floor of the Jawlensky room, for example, was slathered in neon rainbow colors echoing the colors he favored in his work
which reached up the walls and playfully splashed over a mock painting, complete with mock descriptive label attached to the wall. Elsewhere, in other galleries, the walls were brilliant pink, blue, green, and even a camouflage pattern of black and white.
Besides the Blaue Reiter collection, we found an interesting contemporary wing, with works by Warhol, Joseph Beuys, Gerhard Richter and other luminaries, along with some interesting work by newer artists like Erwin Wurm, whose playful constructions using common articles of clothing are always surprising and delightful. We were the last ones out of the museum at six, and spent a few more minutes
in the delightful, still sunlit garden that surrounds it. Then a long walk down broad, tree-lined avenues to the Alte Stadt, the old city—now much reconstructed,
following the destruction of World War II—and spent a couple of hours wandering the streets.
We sat down for dinner in a noisy Munich beer hall filled with raucous football fans—celebrating some event of which we seemed to be the only ones uninformed. Good, simple fare: tasty Wiener sausages accompanied by a sweet-and-sour cabbage salad and a German potato salad; and a quick stop for gelato on the way back to our hotel.
First thing was to master the tram system,
which proved remarkably easy. A short walk through the train station—a notably clean and well organized affair. Looking at the destinations of the sleek machines in orderly line-up at the platforms, Ellie began to dream of trips to Paris, Venice, Rome… Emerging at the far side, we found the tram stop that we'd been told would take us out to the fabulous, 17th century Schloss Nymphenburg and its surrounding park. Take a look:
We found a long elegant approach to the sumptuous palace, along waterways graced with dozens of swans and well-stocked with fish.
Armed with tickets to both the palace and the park, we decided on the latter first, and took a long walk through the formal gardens to where they gave way to natural forests,
lakes and meadows, dotted here and there with little “burgs”—a “pagoda” designed in Chinese style; a hunting lodge complete with chapel, one of the first, apparently, to be designed specifically as a “ruin”; a summery bathhouse with a huge, sunken indoor swimming pool dating from the eighteenth century; a lovely single-story lodge with richly baroque décor;
and a carriage house with huge, elaborately gilded carriages and sleds for the aristocratic family who once owned and lived in this extraordinary estate. It was when we reached the carriage house with its extravagant display of ostentatious transportation--not to mention the porcelain collection, upstairs--that I began to wonder: who did these people think they were? I like to think I would have been among the revolutionaries!
Sated with glorious excess, we returned, via tram again, to the city center, where we walked from the Karolinenplatz with its dark obelisk to the Koenigsplatz,
a formal, neoclassical civic center whose vast open plazas and temple-like buildings evidently appealed to Hitler’s sense of pomp: it was here that the Nazi movement first took root and power. We passed an archeological site
where the basement of the “Brown House,” the Nazi party headquarters, was revealed, along with posters reminding the contemporary citizens of Munich that they still have some catching up to do with Berlin in un-burying the too easily forgotten past. Ellie and I recalled our visit to the Terror Museum there, in Berlin, where they had dug out the old Gestapo headquarters from the rubble of World War II to act as a museum and a memorial to those who were imprisoned and tortured there.
Right on the corner of the Koenigsplatz, we came to the museum we had been looking for—the Lehnbachhaus, former residence of the artist Franz von Lehnbach, now the repository of a stunning collection of art from the Blaue Reiter group from the early twentieth century: Wassily Kandinsky, Franz Marc, Paul Klee, Jawlensky, and many others whose names are less well known. As always, I was humbled to find outstanding paintings by artists whose names I did not even know. The small museum—a comfortable size to visit in a couple of hours and come away enriched—was also astounding in the adventurousness of its installation design. (I liked particulary the neon work of a contemporary artist on the facade of the building:
the words in blue neon--if you enlarge the image by clicking on it--read "You can imagine the opposite.") The floor of the Jawlensky room, for example, was slathered in neon rainbow colors echoing the colors he favored in his work
which reached up the walls and playfully splashed over a mock painting, complete with mock descriptive label attached to the wall. Elsewhere, in other galleries, the walls were brilliant pink, blue, green, and even a camouflage pattern of black and white.
Besides the Blaue Reiter collection, we found an interesting contemporary wing, with works by Warhol, Joseph Beuys, Gerhard Richter and other luminaries, along with some interesting work by newer artists like Erwin Wurm, whose playful constructions using common articles of clothing are always surprising and delightful. We were the last ones out of the museum at six, and spent a few more minutes
in the delightful, still sunlit garden that surrounds it. Then a long walk down broad, tree-lined avenues to the Alte Stadt, the old city—now much reconstructed,
following the destruction of World War II—and spent a couple of hours wandering the streets.
We sat down for dinner in a noisy Munich beer hall filled with raucous football fans—celebrating some event of which we seemed to be the only ones uninformed. Good, simple fare: tasty Wiener sausages accompanied by a sweet-and-sour cabbage salad and a German potato salad; and a quick stop for gelato on the way back to our hotel.
From Regensburg, Germany - May 22, 2007
(A note: I’ve discovered that online time on board is intermittent at best, and costs about $30 an hour! At first it seemed like a lost cause, since I’m too cheap to pay that kind of rate. Further inquiry revealed that the hour could be pro-rated, five minutes here, ten minutes there over the course of the cruise, so I might well spring for that. Posting pictures, though, does take me time, so you might not see too many, if at all, for the next few days. Posting in the right place takes even longer, so I'll have to make do. Please exercise your usual patience. More to come…)
First, back to Munich, early morning. Ellie woke late, after a long time finding it hard to get to sleep last night. I woke early. 5AM. It’s not hard for me to get to sleep, but very hard to sleep much past 5 or 5:30—even, it seems, with the time change. I got up, did my half-hour's meditation, and downloaded yesterday’s pictures to the laptop. Then started on the text of the blog entry for Saturday. Then went back to bed and tried to sleep some more. No luck. Then read a bit of “The Teachings of the Buddha.” Then gave that up and got up again and found the hotel’s connection to the Internet, got online, and posted the blog. This took quite a while because there were so many pictures I wanted to upload, and I’m not too skilled at the process yet. Then I waited for Ellie to wake up.
We had a pleasant buffet breakfast down in the hotel restaurant, and returned to our room to repack everything ready for our half-past-noon departure from the train station across the street. What a chore! Ever notice that the suitcases seem to get smaller every day when you’re traveling? How does that happen—especially if you’re not buying anything in particular. Ah well, we finally got everything stuffed back into the bags and had time to spare to watch a few minutes of a fascinating television report on Scientology from the BBC.
An easy walk across the street to catch our train, which left the station precisely, to the minute, on time. Scary. Wasn’t it Adolf Eichmann who made sure the trains ran on time? And unkind thought. But five minutes later, we were passing merrily through Dachau… Hmmm. And here I am now on board a comfortable train, riding through a landscape of exquisite rural green fields, woods, and hedgerows, and bringing the text of the blog up to date while I have the chance.
We completed our train journey without incident at Nuremberg station, and were about to search amongst our papers for the address for the place to meet our cruise boat when we were accosted by a pleasant young man who had noticed the red “Viking Cruise” tags on our baggage. We thought he might be a fellow traveler, but no, he turned out to be none other than the cruise manager, Frank, himself on business in town, who made things easy for us in finding the address and a taxi to take us there.
We were soon on board and duly registered, and over a buffet lunch met up with a couple from Arizona who recommended a visit to the Documentation Center of the Nazi Party Rally Grounds: it was here that Hitler staged his now infamous pre-war national rallies, to summon the sinews of all good Germans to support his odious cause. A taxi brought us there, and we were astounded by the sight of the immense stadium building
which would have dwarfed the Coliseum in ancient Rome if it had ever been completed. It wasn't. Proportionate to Hitler's demented ego, the massive ruin survived him, having never once been put to use.
The Documentation Center was, as promised, a detailed and painstaking documentation of the intended role of this architectural relic, and of the city of Nuremberg in promoting the Nazi agenda through its annual rallies. The permanent exhibition is aptly named “Fascination and Terror”, though it’s hard, these days, to understand the “fascination” of the shrill rants of that loathsome little man with the absurd moustache. To watch the story of the spell he cast on countless numbers of his fellow citizens in order to lead them into war and genocide is to be puzzled, all over again, by the perversity of human nature. Most pleasing was to see the numbers of German museum visitors and the seriousness with which they gave their attention to this dark episode in their past.
The center was well worth the visit, then. Perhaps the best view came at the end of the carefully planned museum tour, where the visitor is led out onto a cantilevered platform, reaching out over a corner of what was to have been the vast amphitheater, where the multitudes were to gather to salute the Fuehrer and venerate the Vaterland…
Such grandiosity! As Byron wrote, “Look on these works, ye mighty, and despair.” “Ozymandias.” Did I get the quote right? Pretty close I think.
Back to the boat for a quick shower—it’s unbelievably warm here for this time of year, and the shower was a necessity—and off to the general assembly of our fellow passengers where our own leaders gave forth about the details of our cruise, including our friend the cruise manager, Frank. Then a good, four-course dinner in the spacious dining room at the stern of the boat and, afterwards, a quick tour of the boat in the gathering dusk, and a brisk walk along the bank of the canal which will lead us, soon, into the Danube.
An early bed tonight, as soon as I have finished and saved this entry.
MONDAY
Another short night of sleep for me. It must be the time change. I woke at half past three and managed only to doze until 5:30, when I climbed up to the upper deck for my half-hour’s meditation. I guess one of the benefits of the practice is that I don’t lie there and fret too much when I can’t sleep. Instead of “tossing and turning,” I watch the breath. If I manage to do it right…
A good buffet breakfast in the dining room, just the two of us at a small table at the back. Very pleasant. Then back to the cabin for a shower and change ready for the 8:30 departure, on three buses, for a tour of Nuremberg.. The tour took us first to where we went yesterday, the Nazi rally area where we saw, this time, not only the coliseum-like structure with the newly-added Documentation Center, but also the vast Zeppelin Field where the great marches took place and where Hitler strutted his stuff before the adoring masses. You could almost hear the roar of ten thousand ghosts.
The tour led us on, actually driving into that vast, unfinished stadium we viewed yesterday from above, and then into the city of Nuremberg, where we learned a great deal about the history from our able tour guide. An important part of that history, of course, is its role as host to the trials of the WWII Nazi war criminals, and the prison where the most prominent among them were executed. It was here that Hermann Goering escaped the hangman’s noose by poisoning himself three hours before he was due to make his final appearance on the scaffold. We made a stop at that famous courthouse,
and afterwards drove past the site of the executions. A little ghoulish, perhaps, but a healthy reminder of the history. And a challenging thought for Buddhists: is it justifiable for us, as a society, to do away with such monsters as Hitler and Goering? Is it perhaps even necessary, to purge the world of their presence?
We drove on. Passing by the medieval gates and moats that once protected the city, we stopped in the shadow of the ancient wall and de-bused for a tour of the castle, with its great view down over the panorama of city roofs.
Our walking tour took us down to one of the landmarks of the city, the Golden Founatin,
now no longer a fountain but a delight of gilded fantasy. From there, we were free to wander through the market place and the old town for an hour before returning on the buses to our boat. The ship set sail, if that’s the right term for what is basically an elaborate canal barge, while we ate our lunch, and is now proceeding through a series of locks in the direction of Regensburg.
This afternoon we watched the dramatic process of raising the twenty thousand ton boat a matter of some eighty feet to reach the higher stretch of canal above.
Later, we hear, the locks will lead us in the opposite direction, downhill—the waterman’s way to cross a mountain. For me, now , a good snooze to catch up on last night, and to escape the heat. It has been unusually hot for this time of year all day, as indeed it was yesterday. Global warming, I guess.
Post-snooze: a great nap—an hour’s good sleep, and I woke feeling much refreshed. Went up to the top deck around five o’clock and was grateful to find the it has cooled considerably. Sitting at the ship’s bow, I caught a pleasant breeze off the water as we moved gently along between the banks of the canal,
and enjoyed the gorgeous view: green rolling hills and farmlands, groves of trees and the occasional neat little village, small groups of houses and farm buildings and churches topped by spires or those Bavarian onion domes. Couldn’t stop taking pictures of this wonderfully picturesque landscape.
I took a shower and changed in time for the official greeting ceremony in the lounge, with free (!) champagne. (They really get you on the incidentals here!) There was a brief welcoming speech in German from our Captain, translated by our friend Frank, the cruise manager who had by happy chance met us at the train station, followed by introductions to the other department heads, including our executive chef.
Then it was time for the “Captain’s Dinner”—a five-course affair which started with a cold hors d’oeuvre and led through consomme and a hot hors d’oeuvre to the entree (I chose the veal, Ellie had fish) and a good dessert. Altogether, an excellent meal.
We took a moonlight stroll on the lower deck and stayed around for a short while to watch the evening’s entertainment—a glass-blowing demonstration which proved to be a good deal more entertaining than we might have thought. The glass-blower was extraordinarily adept and easy with his craft, and his patter was consistently cheery and interesting. His father, from whom he evidently learned his skill, goes across to the US frequently to pass on his skills at the Dale Chihuly school in the state of Washington. Despite the interest, though, we did not manage to hold out to the end, but chose instead to retire to our cabin for a reasonably early bed at 10:30PM.
First, back to Munich, early morning. Ellie woke late, after a long time finding it hard to get to sleep last night. I woke early. 5AM. It’s not hard for me to get to sleep, but very hard to sleep much past 5 or 5:30—even, it seems, with the time change. I got up, did my half-hour's meditation, and downloaded yesterday’s pictures to the laptop. Then started on the text of the blog entry for Saturday. Then went back to bed and tried to sleep some more. No luck. Then read a bit of “The Teachings of the Buddha.” Then gave that up and got up again and found the hotel’s connection to the Internet, got online, and posted the blog. This took quite a while because there were so many pictures I wanted to upload, and I’m not too skilled at the process yet. Then I waited for Ellie to wake up.
We had a pleasant buffet breakfast down in the hotel restaurant, and returned to our room to repack everything ready for our half-past-noon departure from the train station across the street. What a chore! Ever notice that the suitcases seem to get smaller every day when you’re traveling? How does that happen—especially if you’re not buying anything in particular. Ah well, we finally got everything stuffed back into the bags and had time to spare to watch a few minutes of a fascinating television report on Scientology from the BBC.
An easy walk across the street to catch our train, which left the station precisely, to the minute, on time. Scary. Wasn’t it Adolf Eichmann who made sure the trains ran on time? And unkind thought. But five minutes later, we were passing merrily through Dachau… Hmmm. And here I am now on board a comfortable train, riding through a landscape of exquisite rural green fields, woods, and hedgerows, and bringing the text of the blog up to date while I have the chance.
We completed our train journey without incident at Nuremberg station, and were about to search amongst our papers for the address for the place to meet our cruise boat when we were accosted by a pleasant young man who had noticed the red “Viking Cruise” tags on our baggage. We thought he might be a fellow traveler, but no, he turned out to be none other than the cruise manager, Frank, himself on business in town, who made things easy for us in finding the address and a taxi to take us there.
We were soon on board and duly registered, and over a buffet lunch met up with a couple from Arizona who recommended a visit to the Documentation Center of the Nazi Party Rally Grounds: it was here that Hitler staged his now infamous pre-war national rallies, to summon the sinews of all good Germans to support his odious cause. A taxi brought us there, and we were astounded by the sight of the immense stadium building
which would have dwarfed the Coliseum in ancient Rome if it had ever been completed. It wasn't. Proportionate to Hitler's demented ego, the massive ruin survived him, having never once been put to use.
The Documentation Center was, as promised, a detailed and painstaking documentation of the intended role of this architectural relic, and of the city of Nuremberg in promoting the Nazi agenda through its annual rallies. The permanent exhibition is aptly named “Fascination and Terror”, though it’s hard, these days, to understand the “fascination” of the shrill rants of that loathsome little man with the absurd moustache. To watch the story of the spell he cast on countless numbers of his fellow citizens in order to lead them into war and genocide is to be puzzled, all over again, by the perversity of human nature. Most pleasing was to see the numbers of German museum visitors and the seriousness with which they gave their attention to this dark episode in their past.
The center was well worth the visit, then. Perhaps the best view came at the end of the carefully planned museum tour, where the visitor is led out onto a cantilevered platform, reaching out over a corner of what was to have been the vast amphitheater, where the multitudes were to gather to salute the Fuehrer and venerate the Vaterland…
Such grandiosity! As Byron wrote, “Look on these works, ye mighty, and despair.” “Ozymandias.” Did I get the quote right? Pretty close I think.
Back to the boat for a quick shower—it’s unbelievably warm here for this time of year, and the shower was a necessity—and off to the general assembly of our fellow passengers where our own leaders gave forth about the details of our cruise, including our friend the cruise manager, Frank. Then a good, four-course dinner in the spacious dining room at the stern of the boat and, afterwards, a quick tour of the boat in the gathering dusk, and a brisk walk along the bank of the canal which will lead us, soon, into the Danube.
An early bed tonight, as soon as I have finished and saved this entry.
MONDAY
Another short night of sleep for me. It must be the time change. I woke at half past three and managed only to doze until 5:30, when I climbed up to the upper deck for my half-hour’s meditation. I guess one of the benefits of the practice is that I don’t lie there and fret too much when I can’t sleep. Instead of “tossing and turning,” I watch the breath. If I manage to do it right…
A good buffet breakfast in the dining room, just the two of us at a small table at the back. Very pleasant. Then back to the cabin for a shower and change ready for the 8:30 departure, on three buses, for a tour of Nuremberg.. The tour took us first to where we went yesterday, the Nazi rally area where we saw, this time, not only the coliseum-like structure with the newly-added Documentation Center, but also the vast Zeppelin Field where the great marches took place and where Hitler strutted his stuff before the adoring masses. You could almost hear the roar of ten thousand ghosts.
The tour led us on, actually driving into that vast, unfinished stadium we viewed yesterday from above, and then into the city of Nuremberg, where we learned a great deal about the history from our able tour guide. An important part of that history, of course, is its role as host to the trials of the WWII Nazi war criminals, and the prison where the most prominent among them were executed. It was here that Hermann Goering escaped the hangman’s noose by poisoning himself three hours before he was due to make his final appearance on the scaffold. We made a stop at that famous courthouse,
and afterwards drove past the site of the executions. A little ghoulish, perhaps, but a healthy reminder of the history. And a challenging thought for Buddhists: is it justifiable for us, as a society, to do away with such monsters as Hitler and Goering? Is it perhaps even necessary, to purge the world of their presence?
We drove on. Passing by the medieval gates and moats that once protected the city, we stopped in the shadow of the ancient wall and de-bused for a tour of the castle, with its great view down over the panorama of city roofs.
Our walking tour took us down to one of the landmarks of the city, the Golden Founatin,
now no longer a fountain but a delight of gilded fantasy. From there, we were free to wander through the market place and the old town for an hour before returning on the buses to our boat. The ship set sail, if that’s the right term for what is basically an elaborate canal barge, while we ate our lunch, and is now proceeding through a series of locks in the direction of Regensburg.
This afternoon we watched the dramatic process of raising the twenty thousand ton boat a matter of some eighty feet to reach the higher stretch of canal above.
Later, we hear, the locks will lead us in the opposite direction, downhill—the waterman’s way to cross a mountain. For me, now , a good snooze to catch up on last night, and to escape the heat. It has been unusually hot for this time of year all day, as indeed it was yesterday. Global warming, I guess.
Post-snooze: a great nap—an hour’s good sleep, and I woke feeling much refreshed. Went up to the top deck around five o’clock and was grateful to find the it has cooled considerably. Sitting at the ship’s bow, I caught a pleasant breeze off the water as we moved gently along between the banks of the canal,
and enjoyed the gorgeous view: green rolling hills and farmlands, groves of trees and the occasional neat little village, small groups of houses and farm buildings and churches topped by spires or those Bavarian onion domes. Couldn’t stop taking pictures of this wonderfully picturesque landscape.
I took a shower and changed in time for the official greeting ceremony in the lounge, with free (!) champagne. (They really get you on the incidentals here!) There was a brief welcoming speech in German from our Captain, translated by our friend Frank, the cruise manager who had by happy chance met us at the train station, followed by introductions to the other department heads, including our executive chef.
Then it was time for the “Captain’s Dinner”—a five-course affair which started with a cold hors d’oeuvre and led through consomme and a hot hors d’oeuvre to the entree (I chose the veal, Ellie had fish) and a good dessert. Altogether, an excellent meal.
We took a moonlight stroll on the lower deck and stayed around for a short while to watch the evening’s entertainment—a glass-blowing demonstration which proved to be a good deal more entertaining than we might have thought. The glass-blower was extraordinarily adept and easy with his craft, and his patter was consistently cheery and interesting. His father, from whom he evidently learned his skill, goes across to the US frequently to pass on his skills at the Dale Chihuly school in the state of Washington. Despite the interest, though, we did not manage to hold out to the end, but chose instead to retire to our cabin for a reasonably early bed at 10:30PM.
From Passau - May 23, 2007
A Sadness
There is a sadness
greeting someone
I will never know.
He stands on the far
side of the Danube,
fishing, early morning
in dark shirt and padded
vest; I on the deck
of a tourist cruise
ship, passing. Raising
an arm in slow salute,
I wave, and he, too,
raises his, in silent
answer, man to man
across the stretch
of water. There
he is; here, I,
fellow travelers
in the flow of time,
just as, between us
the big river flows.
Oh, yes, a sadness,
in the closeness
and the distance
between men and men.
And a frustration, too. It's really hard to get online, and harder still to get the pictures posted. I plan to do what I can with the text, and add in the pictures when it gets easier. Here's the update:
TUESDAY
We woke at the same time this morning, for a change, and Ellie and I got up for a walk together. We had hoped to stroll along the canal bank, but today there was no access because we were moored at a lock; and soon we found that the spacious upper deck was denied us, too, for reasons unknown. So we settled instead for a half hour’s meditation on the lower deck, up front, and enjoyed the feeling of the rising sun gradually warming our faces. Not to mention the smell of bacon rising from the galley.
A buffet breakfast, again. They do a great job of it. The only problem is keeping the selection to manageable proportions for the waistline. Then a quick shower—we have discovered that the bathroom is perfectly commodious (to use a favorite word of Ellie’s)—and off to an 8:45 start to board buses for the first leg of the day’s journey. We reached Kehlheim in short order, and were led on a walking tour through the town
by a former town councilman whose English was, well, sufficient, but not proficient. A somewhat garrulous but well-meaning gentleman, he offered a little more in the way of statistical detail than we would have wanted, or could expect to remember.
Kehlheim’s history, in other words, proved instantly forgettable, but it was a pleasant little town to visit, quite picturesque, and it was good to take a walk. Our trek led us through to the other side of the town, and our first glimpse of the Danube: distinctly green, not blue, but otherwise quite lovely. We boarded an excursion boat—not ours—and cruised upriver through the spectacular Danube Gorge, admiring the great limestone cliffs on either side, watching herons fly, and enjoying the songs of countless other birds on either bank.
We made a stop, beyond to gorge, to visit the ancient Weitenburg monastery with its thousand year-old brewery. The church proved to be one of the finest examples of Baroque architecture I have ever seen:
the altar piece is a magnificent sculptural representation of St. George, patron saint of the monastery, astride a nearly life-sized rearing horse with, to his right, the maiden in distress and to his left the dragon he is about to slay with his great lance. An unusual scene to find behind the altar, and powerfully theatrical in its three-dimensionality. Of special appeal, to me, were the sculptural effects around the base of the cupola,
with extraordinary puffy clouds created out of stone supporting the figures of four archangels—not to mention numerous putti. The two artist brothers, architect and painter/sculptor—sorry, I’ve forgotten their names—whose first great project this was, included their good selves in the whole scheme of things, the one in three dimensions, grinning, leaning down over the balustrade, the other a painted portrait, next to him, in the “heaven” of the ceiling.
A good dark beer in the courtyard
of the monastery, thanks to the monks, and a good long walk along the river bank to where our buses were parked, the closest road access point to the monastery. A bus ride, then, up to a high promontory above Kehlheim, an a brief photo op stop to catch the view
and the great round “Liberation Tower”
atop the hill. Then on to Regensburg by bus, to meet up with the Viking Spirit again, now docked for the first time on the Danube.
Regensburg proved to be a delightful town,
with steep narrow cobble-stone streets, a thousand squares and courtyards,
medieval buildings, and the remains of a massive Roman wall. The Roman had a large encampment at a fortress here, and their heritage is still in evidence. I chose to leave the tour at a certain point in the center of town, seeking connection at an internet café—and finding only frustration. Met up with Ellie again to visit what had once been the Jewish quarter—a contemporary memorial to those lost, and a stairway down to what we heard was an underground city, now accessible only by advance request. We wandered around town a little further, before returning to the boat just in time to escape a welcome rainstorm.
Weakening in my resolve to economize, I ante’d up for an online connection on board, and managed to post yesterday’s entry—though I remained frustrated because I needed more time to organize the pictures and didn’t have time or leisure at my disposal. Ellie and I had thought about eating out, in town, but the rain helped change our minds, and we settled for dinner on board and an evening stroll through the city sreets,
post rain. We returned to the ship to get to bed in decent time—only to be woken an hour later by a blinding light from the cabin window. I suppose we were passing through another lock. A nuisance, because it was hard to get back to sleep. Oh, and during the night, Ellie managed to upset a glass of water over her duvet.
This morning, as I write this, we have just docked at Passau.
From Vienna - May 24, 2007
WEDNESDAY
After breakfast, given that our tour start was scheduled for later than usual, Ellie opted for a solo walk in the city of Passau, whilst I stayed aboard to bring the log up to date and post it to the blog. I noted with pleasure, along the way, that Cardozo had posted the usual Tuesday conversation back in Los Angeles, and regretted not having the time to read it or respond. I did note, too, that several responses had come in to earlier postings, from Munich, Nuremberg and elsewhere—and again regretted not having time or access to respond. Ah, well…
Our boatload of tourists separated into five groups and set off at ten o’clock, each with a local tour guide, as usual. Ours arrived somewhat flustered: her morning had not gone well thus far, and she spent a good deal of time bringing us up to date with her personal history—which did not bode well, in my book, for a useful and informative tour. Alas, my foreboding proved all too accurate as we walked through the narrow streets and alleys—the only word, again, is “picturesque”—of this small city at the juncture of three rivers: the Danube, the Inn, and the Itz. Here's the apothecary at Passau:
Our party began to lose interest, not surprisingly, and the tour disintegrated into an unruly mob. On a couple of occasions, as we crossed paths with other groups, Ellie and I debated defecting from our group to a different one, but we saw it through, and ended up with all five groups reassembling in the cathedral square,
the Domplatz, and crowding into the cathedral for a promised concert on what was billed as the largest pipe organ in the world.
We found seats near the altar end of the nave and waited patiently—actually, reviewing our pictures for the day—for the concert to begin. We were treated first to a seven minute lecture, all in German, by a professorial type who seemed oblivious to the fact that the vast part of his considerable audience could not understand a word of what he said. No translation, thankfully, was offered. That would have made it a fourteen minute lecture, and no more interesting than the snatches I gathered from the German in between semi noddings-off.
And then the concert. Ah. Forgive me, friends, I have little knowledge of music, and frankly even less of church organ music, but this seemed to me the most self-indulgent display of mediocre virtuosity that I had ever heard. The organist dashed with ham-fisted verve through a couple of classical works—including Bach’s famous “Toccata and Fugue”—and burst into his own “Improvisation.” I repeat, I know nothing of music and therefore have no right to judge, but I swear, for all the world, it sounded to me like Victor Borge doing his best parody of pompous grandiosity. But I’m being unkind, I know… I had a hard time suppressing the giggles before dozing off, mercifully, into rapt inattention—if that’s not too terrible an oxymoron.
Am I sounding a wee bit cranky today? Chalk it up to a number of days of travel, and less sleep than I’d like. Did I mention that I was woken by a searchlight penetrating my poor brain a little before midnight last night? Yes, I see I did. Forgive me for repeating myself--one of those dreaded signs of aging.
Anyway, having suffered through the “Orgelkonzert,” (I kid you not!) Ellie and I decided to pass on lunch on board and found a little restaurant in town, where we enjoyed a sampling of the local delicacy, Spargel—white asparagus, that is—and a fine chef’s salad, before foraying at Ellie’s insistence into the shops. Notably, a women’s clothing store, where she was able, after long indecision, to find the light blouse and top she has been missing, having packed for Arctic Germany and discovered... well, heat wave. We also made a stop at a glass jewelry shop, where Ellie found a lovely pair of earrings, a pendant and a ring, all at fairly reasonable prices. PaL took his revenge at the local Cuban cigar shop, and is looking forward to a quiet moment topsides.
Gelato on the way back to the boat, and a sudden, short rain shower. After which, some much needed down time with an old Dick Francis novel on the middle level of the boat, where there is shelter from the occasional gentle rain. Frank, our genial cruise manager, gave his usual evening preview of the day to come, and we had dinner together with our new friends Tom and Danette, from Indiana—managing to consume two large carafes of house red between us.
After dinner, a breath of air on deck, photo-ops of the spot where the three rivers meet,
and a visit to the bridge,
where our captain tolerated some rather boozy behavior from a small crowd of passengers, gathered to admire the electronic gadgetry that helps him steer the vessel through the night. I left for bed rather earlier than Ellie, and spent a while with the ever-entertaining Dick Francis.
THURSDAY
What a blessing is a good night’s sleep, for a cranky writer! I went to sleep at ten thirty or so and woke at a quarter to seven, with only a couple of quick pit stops during the night.
At dawn we were still cruising down the river, pulling in to the landing site at Melk as we finished breakfast,
and gathering on shore shortly afterwards for a brief introduction to the village and monastery from Frank:
(I thought you'd like to see his picture. Note, on the wall of the ferry house behind him, and in the next picture in relation to the heads, the high water marks of the major flood years of the Danube!)
From the river bank we walked into the village of Melk and on to the monastery. Another glorious morning, cool enough this early, and again I was awed by the sheer multitude of luscious green trees on either side of the alley that led to the village, and the cheerful songs of so many birds. It’s something we miss in Los Angeles, and something that really lifts the spirits.
The town of Melk proved busy and, inevitably, picturesque.
A market town, though clearly the majority of its business is geared to the tourists attracted by the “Stift”—the abbey that towers on the hill above it. We climbed the steep hill and assembled at the front gate for our turn to be escorted inside, just one of numerous groups visiting this centuries-old home of Benedictine monks.
Thirty of them, we heard from our tour guide, still live there, operating a school in one of the great buildings surrounding the many elegant courtyards. It’s a complex piece of architecture, quite majestic in scale, with long, white corridors reaching in every direction, vaulted ceilings, and many great halls. Highlights of the visit included the great marble hall,
the library with its countless shelves of venerable leather-bound tomes;
(and note, by the way, that the painted ceilings in both areas are flat!) and a spectacular circular stairway
leading down to perhaps the most ornate of baroque-style chapels I have ever seen.
Over-the-top glorious, rich in golden carvings, marble sculpture, paintings and frescoes. A sumptuous feast for the eye—and a reminder of those centuries of devotion to the glory of God.
From Melk, the boat soon brought us into a different realm of glory—the vine-covered slopes of the Wachau Gorge,
where we cruised from village to village through a breathtaking landscape dotted liberally with a historical wealth of castles, monasteries and churches.
All accompanied by an excellent commentary from our cruise manager Frank, who kept us informed as to the fascinating unfolding of dates and events that all of us will immediately forget. As I sit here writing these notes shortly after dawn the following morning, I have already forgotten the names of those memorable little towns.
Leaving the (picturesque!) Wachau valley, we cruised south, arriving in Vienna shortly before dinner. After docking, we were served an early meal—too early a dinner, after a lunch delayed by the spectacle of the valley!—we boarded our buses to drive into the city for a concert by the Residenzorchester at the old Stock Exchange. The drive took us along a good part of the Ring, rousing memories of my last visit to this wonderful city, some fifty years ago. I came here as a student for a summer course at the University of Vienna, with a small group of friends from Cambridge—and managed to have a good educational experience which had nothing to do with the course.
One memory: that old Austro-Hungarian Count I used to meet at a wine cellar I frequented in the evening, who would shake a finger in my face and tell me, “Sie sollen nicht Journalist werden”—"you must not become a journalist.” I often wonder what my life would have been like if I had not followed his advice and been a little less precious, at that time in my life, about my talent as a writer--had I gone into journalism instead of into academia. A useless speculation, of course, but one that reminds me poignantly of the distance in time between those youthful days and now.
The concert was a series of wonderful old chestnuts by Mozart and Strauss. The Mozart was, as always, elegant beyond words; and the Strauss was made tolerable by a little hamming on the part of the performers. Great fun. A “Gulaschsuppe” was awaiting us on our return to the boat, and we spent a while up on the deck with a group of good people from Kentucky. Small world department: two of the women had attended the University of Iowa when I was teaching there, back in the 1960s…
After breakfast, given that our tour start was scheduled for later than usual, Ellie opted for a solo walk in the city of Passau, whilst I stayed aboard to bring the log up to date and post it to the blog. I noted with pleasure, along the way, that Cardozo had posted the usual Tuesday conversation back in Los Angeles, and regretted not having the time to read it or respond. I did note, too, that several responses had come in to earlier postings, from Munich, Nuremberg and elsewhere—and again regretted not having time or access to respond. Ah, well…
Our boatload of tourists separated into five groups and set off at ten o’clock, each with a local tour guide, as usual. Ours arrived somewhat flustered: her morning had not gone well thus far, and she spent a good deal of time bringing us up to date with her personal history—which did not bode well, in my book, for a useful and informative tour. Alas, my foreboding proved all too accurate as we walked through the narrow streets and alleys—the only word, again, is “picturesque”—of this small city at the juncture of three rivers: the Danube, the Inn, and the Itz. Here's the apothecary at Passau:
Our party began to lose interest, not surprisingly, and the tour disintegrated into an unruly mob. On a couple of occasions, as we crossed paths with other groups, Ellie and I debated defecting from our group to a different one, but we saw it through, and ended up with all five groups reassembling in the cathedral square,
the Domplatz, and crowding into the cathedral for a promised concert on what was billed as the largest pipe organ in the world.
We found seats near the altar end of the nave and waited patiently—actually, reviewing our pictures for the day—for the concert to begin. We were treated first to a seven minute lecture, all in German, by a professorial type who seemed oblivious to the fact that the vast part of his considerable audience could not understand a word of what he said. No translation, thankfully, was offered. That would have made it a fourteen minute lecture, and no more interesting than the snatches I gathered from the German in between semi noddings-off.
And then the concert. Ah. Forgive me, friends, I have little knowledge of music, and frankly even less of church organ music, but this seemed to me the most self-indulgent display of mediocre virtuosity that I had ever heard. The organist dashed with ham-fisted verve through a couple of classical works—including Bach’s famous “Toccata and Fugue”—and burst into his own “Improvisation.” I repeat, I know nothing of music and therefore have no right to judge, but I swear, for all the world, it sounded to me like Victor Borge doing his best parody of pompous grandiosity. But I’m being unkind, I know… I had a hard time suppressing the giggles before dozing off, mercifully, into rapt inattention—if that’s not too terrible an oxymoron.
Am I sounding a wee bit cranky today? Chalk it up to a number of days of travel, and less sleep than I’d like. Did I mention that I was woken by a searchlight penetrating my poor brain a little before midnight last night? Yes, I see I did. Forgive me for repeating myself--one of those dreaded signs of aging.
Anyway, having suffered through the “Orgelkonzert,” (I kid you not!) Ellie and I decided to pass on lunch on board and found a little restaurant in town, where we enjoyed a sampling of the local delicacy, Spargel—white asparagus, that is—and a fine chef’s salad, before foraying at Ellie’s insistence into the shops. Notably, a women’s clothing store, where she was able, after long indecision, to find the light blouse and top she has been missing, having packed for Arctic Germany and discovered... well, heat wave. We also made a stop at a glass jewelry shop, where Ellie found a lovely pair of earrings, a pendant and a ring, all at fairly reasonable prices. PaL took his revenge at the local Cuban cigar shop, and is looking forward to a quiet moment topsides.
Gelato on the way back to the boat, and a sudden, short rain shower. After which, some much needed down time with an old Dick Francis novel on the middle level of the boat, where there is shelter from the occasional gentle rain. Frank, our genial cruise manager, gave his usual evening preview of the day to come, and we had dinner together with our new friends Tom and Danette, from Indiana—managing to consume two large carafes of house red between us.
After dinner, a breath of air on deck, photo-ops of the spot where the three rivers meet,
and a visit to the bridge,
where our captain tolerated some rather boozy behavior from a small crowd of passengers, gathered to admire the electronic gadgetry that helps him steer the vessel through the night. I left for bed rather earlier than Ellie, and spent a while with the ever-entertaining Dick Francis.
THURSDAY
What a blessing is a good night’s sleep, for a cranky writer! I went to sleep at ten thirty or so and woke at a quarter to seven, with only a couple of quick pit stops during the night.
At dawn we were still cruising down the river, pulling in to the landing site at Melk as we finished breakfast,
and gathering on shore shortly afterwards for a brief introduction to the village and monastery from Frank:
(I thought you'd like to see his picture. Note, on the wall of the ferry house behind him, and in the next picture in relation to the heads, the high water marks of the major flood years of the Danube!)
From the river bank we walked into the village of Melk and on to the monastery. Another glorious morning, cool enough this early, and again I was awed by the sheer multitude of luscious green trees on either side of the alley that led to the village, and the cheerful songs of so many birds. It’s something we miss in Los Angeles, and something that really lifts the spirits.
The town of Melk proved busy and, inevitably, picturesque.
A market town, though clearly the majority of its business is geared to the tourists attracted by the “Stift”—the abbey that towers on the hill above it. We climbed the steep hill and assembled at the front gate for our turn to be escorted inside, just one of numerous groups visiting this centuries-old home of Benedictine monks.
Thirty of them, we heard from our tour guide, still live there, operating a school in one of the great buildings surrounding the many elegant courtyards. It’s a complex piece of architecture, quite majestic in scale, with long, white corridors reaching in every direction, vaulted ceilings, and many great halls. Highlights of the visit included the great marble hall,
the library with its countless shelves of venerable leather-bound tomes;
(and note, by the way, that the painted ceilings in both areas are flat!) and a spectacular circular stairway
leading down to perhaps the most ornate of baroque-style chapels I have ever seen.
Over-the-top glorious, rich in golden carvings, marble sculpture, paintings and frescoes. A sumptuous feast for the eye—and a reminder of those centuries of devotion to the glory of God.
From Melk, the boat soon brought us into a different realm of glory—the vine-covered slopes of the Wachau Gorge,
where we cruised from village to village through a breathtaking landscape dotted liberally with a historical wealth of castles, monasteries and churches.
All accompanied by an excellent commentary from our cruise manager Frank, who kept us informed as to the fascinating unfolding of dates and events that all of us will immediately forget. As I sit here writing these notes shortly after dawn the following morning, I have already forgotten the names of those memorable little towns.
Leaving the (picturesque!) Wachau valley, we cruised south, arriving in Vienna shortly before dinner. After docking, we were served an early meal—too early a dinner, after a lunch delayed by the spectacle of the valley!—we boarded our buses to drive into the city for a concert by the Residenzorchester at the old Stock Exchange. The drive took us along a good part of the Ring, rousing memories of my last visit to this wonderful city, some fifty years ago. I came here as a student for a summer course at the University of Vienna, with a small group of friends from Cambridge—and managed to have a good educational experience which had nothing to do with the course.
One memory: that old Austro-Hungarian Count I used to meet at a wine cellar I frequented in the evening, who would shake a finger in my face and tell me, “Sie sollen nicht Journalist werden”—"you must not become a journalist.” I often wonder what my life would have been like if I had not followed his advice and been a little less precious, at that time in my life, about my talent as a writer--had I gone into journalism instead of into academia. A useless speculation, of course, but one that reminds me poignantly of the distance in time between those youthful days and now.
The concert was a series of wonderful old chestnuts by Mozart and Strauss. The Mozart was, as always, elegant beyond words; and the Strauss was made tolerable by a little hamming on the part of the performers. Great fun. A “Gulaschsuppe” was awaiting us on our return to the boat, and we spent a while up on the deck with a group of good people from Kentucky. Small world department: two of the women had attended the University of Iowa when I was teaching there, back in the 1960s…
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