Mind Wanderings: Moments in Salzburg, Austria

In the atrium of a large manor house at the top of the Mountsberg in Salzburg, Austria, two girls sit on a loveseat, dressed in what they think is winter clothing. The frame of the seat is woven from something like rattan and a red cushion that looks like it’s from the 1970s makes it a comfortable perch. There is a gray house cat curled up next to them and the world outside the glass windows is crisp; it’s on the verge of becoming something altogether new—spring is trying to push through winter’s grasp. 

I saw this photo on Facebook and a feeling of familiarity and longing radiated in my chest. Just a month ago—or was it two?—I attended a virtual reunion for everyone who had participated in the Salzburg study abroad program. Since then, it seems as though I think about that semester almost every day.

In the isolated and careful world of today, I am drawn back to times when the only thing stopping me from experiencing new things was my own mind: Am I brave enough?

Closing my eyes, I am once again walking along the frozen lake of the northwestern territory of Canada to the Yellowknife ice caves, exploring convenience stores in other countries, trying to be unhappy in Finland, or tasting the bubbling delight of fresh spring water in Iceland. 

But most of all, when I close my eyes, I am back in Austria. 

I think this is because it was such a pivotal moment in life. I turned twenty-one while I was there. I was surrounded by other people my age. I was developing my identity. 

Unfortunately, I was also still drinking like a madwoman back then, so many of my memories have been erased or have faded into blurry moments that only surface when I see a photo and think—oh, yes… I was there.

Still, there are a few that stand out and I hold onto them dearly. 

There’s Hansi in the kitchen, cooking cheerfully for the students and presenting us with sandwiches and soup as we ate in the canteen-style dining room of the house. Little wooden tables and small glasses of water. I remember always being thirsty for more water? In the spring, we moved the tables outside.

Lucky enough to have breakfast and lunch served to us (I still can’t believe this now), it was up to us to head down the mountain and along a frosty road to the little market. In my mind, it was green with glass doors that opened to produce on one side and a cashier on the other.

It was customary to go to the market one or more times a week—something we had to get used to. We were Americans who were used to large gallon-size milk containers and large portions that we kept in the freezer. We’d also been eating in the college cafeteria for the past semester and weren’t used to grocery shopping ourselves.

There was something else to get used to as well. Going to the grocery store in leggings or pajamas was unacceptable. Our German teacher told us “always dress your best for grocery shopping. You never know who you’ll run into at the market.”

I, of course, was careful to always buy the essentials: pasta, Nutella, coffee.

The house was located on the top of Mountsberg mountain and surrounded by forest and trails. When I think back on it now, it physically hurts to realize that I didn’t appreciate this as much as I should have. We would go for walks among the trees, passing strangers who had perfectly trained dogs, happily trotting along without a leash. Passing along, we’d sometimes nod or simply say grüß Gott.

In the small town, there was a cafe that was just down the hill from the Mountsberg. It was to one side of a plaza that was encircled by a road (on which I was almost hit by a car one day when I tried to run across rather than walk ten feet to the crosswalk). I remember it as a white building, but it could be purple for what my memory can be held accountable for.

People sat in the cafe for hours, sipping slowly on espresso and cappuccinos. We, too, would take a seat and self-consciously practice ordering in Austrian. Ich möchte ein cappuccino, bitte. Then we would reach into our purses and hand the waiter just over the amount that was charged. It was a tip in another form. 

There’s one evening that comes back to me now and it’s almost as though it was a dream. As American college students, we spent most evenings out in the Irish pub at the edge of the water. After many unremembered beers, we would head to the small caravan parked across the way. It had “Sausage Queen” painted on the side and served what we considered a nightcap: a radler, a cheese-infused sausage (käsekrainer), a bread roll, and hot mustard. 

But one evening toward the end of our stay in town, we decided to up our ante and walked through the cobblestone streets and awe-inspiring buildings—they were as old as time yet sold modern wares like chic European fashions and designs. We came to a bar that was dimly lit—orange light filled the room and it seemed like candlelight rather than pendant lights. How sophisticated we felt it was! We ordered what we thought were expensive beers, although after living in San Francisco, I wonder how much they really cost us. 

I think we only stayed for one drink, slightly uncomfortable with the elevated atmosphere, but it was something we had to do to feel like we had grown up a bit during our stay.

One of our first nights in the city, our teachers took us to a different type of bar: The Augustiner-Bräu. This austere taupe building had an almost haunted facade and drew us in with arching windows that looked like mouths. Inside, it was warm and inviting, like an encapsulating cavern of possibilities. And indeed it was. Managed by monks, we were given large brown steins and shown a fountain where we would be filling them with beer that the monks had brewed themselves. From there, we shuffled off to find food and discovered that the walls were lined with vendors that offered sausages, slaw, and other savory choices. Sitting together at a large table—at least I think that’s what I remember—we ate, drank, and made merry.

Though most of our time was spent drinking or eating (you better believe that my roommate Sarah and I went in search of Sachertorte), I also spent a lot of time jogging. My knees were younger then as were my hips and legs.

How lucky I was to have been able to move through each part of the city. I remember running through an open space, a break from the buildings, where a bridge stretched across a field. In the winter, it was a vast white landing atmosphere that burned my nose with its frost. In the spring, it was green and grassy and fresh.

In the spring, down by the Salzach river, grassy hills were filled with townspeople in their lederhosen and dirndls who came to soak in the sunshine. I remember the shock of seeing them in this traditional garb and their shock in seeing an American running in a neon running jacket… 

We also spent an evening at the opera in the House for Mozart. I’m embarrassed to say that I enjoyed a glass of wine prior to the show and remember punching my leg as the music and the tannins lulled me to sleep. 

There are so many other memories that trickle into my mind, but I want to end the post here for now. Maybe another day I’ll revisit more memories of Salzburg as well as the incredible places we went during our semester like Budapest (where we bathed in hot baths and slept on boats), Bosnia (where we learned about the war that had only just ended and snow-shoed through the snowy mountains), Ireland (where we visited the cliffs of Howth and missed our flight back to Salzburg), France (where my memories are less than fond…), Prague (where I ate a hot dog while my ass froze to the sidewalk), and Barcelona (where… well, maybe I won’t write about what happened there).