The Austria trip

A travelogue by J. E. Vidal

TABLE OF CONTENTS

I – Alpine drive

II – Salt town

III – Journey to the top of the world

IV – Time travel

V – The Iceman

VI – Alpine leisure

VII – Elevated return

VIII - Overtime

Paris looks awful from thirty thousand feet, a colorless infection wrapped around a manically windy river. The geometric design of Hausmann’s grand boulevards, the radials emanating from the Arc de Triomphe, Concorde, and Bastille were equally exciting and disappointing to see when I woke from a truncated night’s sleep. The green-brown Seine seemed desperate to shake off the blight. Only the Alps could maintain their splendor at all magnitudes, as they did several minutes later. The sharp, cold slabs of rocks were majestic, entwined with veins of fertile green and glacial blue.

There is little adventure in an international flight. It’s more than a teleportation tube, numbing you up with a buffet of food and drink plus an overwhelming selection of movies to watch on your personal screen. Sleep is inadequate but no amount can prepare you for the time change, thrust into a premature day where you hit the ground running and real adventure can begin.

Our transatlantic airplane glided into peaceful Zurich. The terrain was surprisingly flat when I was expecting to be surrounded by giant peaks. Coming from crowded JFK, it was a relief to emerge into a quiet airport where multi-lingual travelers knew exactly where to go and what to do. The underground tram had a flickering Zoetrope of Swiss sounds and sights projected on the tunnel walls. Flower-covered slopes, jingling cow bells and harmonic yodeling.

This was what we were most enthused about—the road trip. A little lingering at the Auto Europe rental desk and then we were given the first clue in a scavenger hunt. Thick keys led me and my wife, Katherine, to a white Volkswagen SUV, where we received our next task: escape the labyrinthian parking lot and find our way to Salzburg, Austria, five hundred kilometers away, in time for dinner. How anyone got around this world without GPS navigation is the great mystery of human civilization. We had six hours for a scenic road trip across Austria. I curated a custom playlist specifically for this journey, a mixture of evocative film scores, symphonic classics and uptempo electronica to serve as our soundtrack, primarily Germanic artists like Hans Zimmer, Johann Strauss, Ulrich Schnauss and Schiller.

For a family of giants, the alpine peaks were elusive until we skirted around the bright blue Bodensee and gradually approached an ominous set of craggily mountains. The Austrian border came fast after driving over the unassuming source of the Rhine River and through a simple gatehouse with innocuous police directing traffic. The only clue that we changed countries was the quality of the roads, with Austria’s being slightly less impeccable than their Swiss counterparts.

A petrol station in the compact border town of Lustenau, Oberscheider Carworld, had a hospitable shop for picking up an Austrian highway pass—a prepaid sticker that “permitted” our car to use the nation’s express roads, despite no visible indication this was even required. It was my first chance to practice the German I’d been learning over the past few months. I stepped up to the cashier with a bit of stage fright and stammered my request with enough clarity that he understood (I think). With the sticker on the windshield and some salty and sweet snacks in the car, we were free to make our swoop across the northern valleys of Austria, although Lustenau’s congested main thoroughfare added some delay. The VW engine mysteriously shut off at every stop, only to gently spring to life whenever I released the brake—an unfamiliar new method of fuel efficiency.

The ragged mountains invited us in through a long series of tunnels; some were short, others never-ending, especially the fourteen kilometer Arlberg Road Tunnel on the S16. The alpine scenery we so eagerly wanted to see was replaced by darkness and well-lit signage. This was the price we unexpectedly paid for speed. Nearing Innsbruck, we returned to uninterrupted vistas. This city would be our second Austrian destination. Pausing at a rest area, I was able to absorb the panoramic splendor that until this day was limited to my imagination. That the air smelt of manure only added to the bucolic charm and brought reality to a legend.

For my entire life I’ve been hearing about Austria. My mother spent a short portion of her childhood there, between the ages of eight and ten. The experience had such a significant impact on her life that it became fixed in my memory as well. Tales of post-war Europe, plus a few German relics in our possession: books and toys and a maniacal red devil—the Krampus—who was part of our Christmas decorations (we called him the “Grumpus”). A family trip was always discussed, if only hypothetically, but didn’t come to fruition until my nieces reached the age of my mother when she lived there. She wanted to revisit this fabled place through their eyes. Finally, in June of 2018, sixty-three years after she left Europe, we set off to bring life to these old memories, and generate new ones.

Since Katherine and I were making good time, we veered off the schnellstraße for a scenic detour through little mountain towns like Sankt Johann, where alpine architecture was well on display — sharp-roofed chalets, antique barns, and cozy hotels. Brawny, bell-necked cows populated the countryside and tractors worked the hilly fields. The roads led us across the little German tooth that bites into its wary neighbor, through Bad Reichenhall, and into the foothill splendor and urban sprawl of Salzburg.

The ease of country roads devolved into the stress of city driving, especially in a foreign one where my New Yorker driving habits might not jive with the orderly Austrians. At 6pm, we arrived at the Hotel Villa Auersperg and were greeted in the lobby by a cheery little girl, my adventurous six-year-old niece, Charlotte. The entire family was staying in the hotel’s auxiliary “villa”, the second of two similar buildings linked by a small parking lot. Everyone else arrived from Munich the day before and already had a chance to unwind and explore Salzburg. Katherine and I were given no such luxury, thrust immediately into our room to quickly freshen up then set off with our companions for the “Welcome Dinner.” 

A group of eight assembled for my mother’s reminiscence trip: her two adult children came with their spouses, plus two young nieces (10 and 6) and her son-in-law’s mother, who had never been to Europe. While there were benefits to traveling in groups, inevitably there would be occasional miscommunications in our native tongue, differences of opinion, conflicting paces, and an indecisive herd mentality. 

Evening church bells rang, right out of the opening sequence of the “Sound of Music”, reverberating within the quaint city streets as we set out in search of a place to eat. We settled at the curiously named Zum fidelen Affen (“The Jolly Monkey”), with outdoor seating on the pedestrian-only Priesterhausgaße, a narrow plaza beneath the prominent cliffs of Kapuzinerberg. My sister’s family was more than happy to return to the same place they ate the night before. The girls had specific dietary restrictions that this happy primate could accommodate, along with delicious regional fare for everyone else, including wiener schnitzel and goulash. Although it was the peak of summer, the air was unexpectedly chilly and we were grateful for the restaurant-provided blankets. No one properly packed for such a cold spell, yet the hot-blooded girls were undeterred in their shorts. To entertain themselves, they played nearby in small fountain that sent plastic balls surfing downhill. 

It was a pleasant start to the adventure, a hypothetical finally becoming a reality, and the relaxation of vacation. Salzburg was no longer an abstract image in my mind, a picture in a book or a scene from a movie, but a real place to experience and absorb.

An unbelievable breakfast buffet awaited us in the hotel’s sunny dining room—an enticing spread of fresh fruits, meats, müseli, breads, hard boiled eggs, and juices, plus espresso drinks to energize jet-lagged guests. It was one of those meals you never want to end, the coffee so good, the tables full of so many things to eat. The rolling arrival of our group allowed time to enjoy the endless meal while my sister and her husband picked up their rental car.

We hit the road maybe too late for the day’s big destination, a visit to the salt mines that gave Salzburg its name (literally “salt mountain”) with tickets for a timed entry. With Mozart and Haydn on the stereo, the drive gave me and Katherine a chance to see central Salzburg before embarking on a gorgeous country drive to Berchtesgaden, on the German side of the salt mountain. I nearly missed the turn for the mine, then had a hard time finding parking at the popular destination, especially amongst impenetrable tour buses and tourists meandering like zombies. 

My sister, who took her time at breakfast, now rushed us to enter at our allotted time. We put on thick, navy blue boiler suits to protect our clothes and stuffed bags and cameras in little lockers. Our group of eight boarded a little electric train, straddling the padded seats and pausing for a photo before descending into the caverns. The spiffy tour guide spoke only in German, but we were given mobile phones to press against our ears for a pre-recorded version in English. The salzbergwerk was fascinating, vast, and well maintained. The tunnels were carved into a giant slab of prehistoric sea salt that was buried in a series of geological events. Humans have been mining the place as far back as the 12th century, and despite the aid of modern machinery and a global appetite for salt, only a fraction of the massive salt bed has been harvested. x`

Another party joined us on the tour, a small group of crude tourists of unknown European origins (I believe they spoke German). One kept taking flash photos despite repeated warnings. As we overlooked the first salt chamber, the lights turned off and one of them coughed nervously and clutched my arm. She was a tall young woman who seemed to possess some nervous tick. Despite her odd behavior, I felt bad for her as her companions paid her little attention.

In the first big chamber, a light show explained how the water-filled crevices dried out, leaving saline behind. This preceded the biggest highlight of the tour: a large wooden slide designed to allow miners to quickly descend. We slid down like a bobsled team, four at a time, straddling the very polished “track” with a steep, 34-meter drop, perfectly engineered to slow our force at the end. The plunge included an official photo op. Further on, there was a longer slide followed by a boat ride across a silvery underground lake, complete with three-dimensional light show, plus a scale model of the entire place, showing the angular tendrils bored into the salt bed and a visual explanation of how water flushes out the salt as brine. Ninety minutes after we descended into darkness, the train brought us back to daylight. We ditched our jumpsuits and raided the gift shop for salty souvenirs. 

Our group split at the end of the tour. The Chicago crew planned to venture into Berchtesgaden for lunch, but Katherine and I wanted to see Salzburg—it was our only full day there. We also had ulterior motives: the urgent need to resolve some packing errors. So the other car was crowded with one too many people while my wife and I went comfortably on our way.

The last place any international traveler wants to see is a mall, but when time is short and needs are many, sacrifices must be made. The expansive Europark on the outskirts of Salzburg was an emporium of salvation. Katherine forgot to pack jeans, and there was a Levis store. My travel charger blew out on the first use, and there was an electronics store. We needed sunscreen, toothpaste and shampoo, and there was a grocery store. Even Lee forgot her iPhone charger, and there was an Apple store. It was interesting to observe mall culture in a foreign land—there is little difference. A bi-level promenade lined with hundreds of stores, meandering shoppers, trend-hungry teens, skylights, a sprinkle of fountains and vegetation, and pleasant wafts of fast food. If the Europark had any improvement to its average American counterpart, it was the sprawling underground parking lot with digital counters to help drivers find open spaces, even if the spaces were narrow and a challenge to get in and out of, plus a rail station for those who didn’t drive at all. 

Mission accomplished, we were free to explore Salzburg. Katherine and I walked into the center of the city, crossing the Salzach River into “old town”, exploring pristine streets, taking photos, buying souvenirs, and ultimately choosing lunch instead of a steep ascent to the castle that towered over the city, the thousand-year-old Hohensalzburg Fortress. It was surprisingly difficult to find a restaurant that served Austrian food, but we persevered and found a fantastic place for bratwurst and sauerkraut with delicious beer to wash it down. We sat outside in the breeze as horse-drawn carriages trotted by and finally, we relaxed.

Vienna may be famous as the glistening epicenter of Austria, but Salzburg felt like the heart of the oddly-shaped nation. Thanks to popular culture, its chief reputation is as the setting of the true-story musical (and movie) “The Sound of Music”, although its true musical claim is being the hometown of legendary composer Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. The city remained as timeless as his music—vibrant with life, colorful old buildings and romanticism.

Sightseeing is often better with a full belly and a beer buzz. Katherine and I declined the castle a second time and wandered old town instead, down to Herbert von Karajan Platz and back through the gawkers crowded outside Mozart’s birthplace, down corridors lined with decorative signage sticking out of their facades. The prominent hill on the north side of the river appealed to us more than the castle mount, so we searched narrow and quiet Steingasse in search of a stairwell, but had to double back and ultimately found a hidden entrance near Zum fidelen Affen. We easily ascended the Kapuzinerberg and overlooked the city, peaceful in the early evening, as a chorus of church bells began to ring.

Refreshed back at the hotel and savoring some mojitos in the bar, the group reassembled and exchanged accounts of our separate adventures. After Berchtesgaden, the Chicago crew explored Schloss Hellbrunn, a luxurious Baroque palace with sprawling gardens on the outskirts of Salzburg particularly known for its trick fountains. My mother had distinct memories of playing in them when she was a kid; watching her nieces get gleefully drenched by the “water games” was the first of many links between her past and present.

The hotel’s recommendation for dinner was crowded with locals in anticipation of Germany’s World Cup match against Sweden, with cigarettes fouling the air inside and out. We wandered back towards the center of town as the sky grew dark. Nothing looked appealing and no one could come to an agreement. Restaurants were shuttering in touristy old town. Those that were open were packed with crowds huddled near big screen TVs. Moods were souring, patience was wearing thin, but at the last moment, we found an outdoor beer garden with open tables. The ambience was nice and the no-frills menu was sufficient. Everyone ordered bratwurst with sauerkraut on the side. Our uniformity humored the waitress, who dazzled us clenching multiple beer steins in each hand. The World Cup was in earshot enough to hear gasps and cheers for every shot on goal. It turned out the Austrians were rooting against Germany, a curious insight into Austria’s relationship with its northern neighbor. 

The walk back was much more pleasant. Crowds trickled out of bars, jubilant despite the Germans’ triumph over the Swedes. We crossed the locket-covered Makartsteg footbridge, reminiscent of the similarly adorned Pont des Artes in Paris. My eldest niece, Stella, was especially intrigued by the sight of thousands of colorful locks attached to the rails by anonymous couples expressing their permanent commitment. It was easy to fall in love with Salzburg, but we would not be locking ourselves to it. The waters of the Salzach would continue onto the Danube, while new adventures awaited us in Innsbruck.

“How long would it take?” was the frequently-asked question. I checked the guidebook and calculated the distance several times. The detour seemed feasible although the goal was ambitious. Independently, Katherine, my mother and I expressed interest in seeing the allegedly magnificent Hohe Tauern National Park, magnifying each other’s desire to go there. Lee was curious but skeptical about the time we would have to spend in the car. Four hours? Six? And so the question was asked again at breakfast, just to be sure it was a wise thing to do.

Our brief time in Salzburg came to an end. While Katherine and I regretted not making it up to the castle, we were excited for the day ahead. The breakfast buffet was not as magical as the day before, but delicious nonetheless. Everyone overslept and we had to rush my mom in order to be on the road by 10:30am. We weren’t until 11. Lee decided to stick with her son’s family instead, in favor of a little more leisure time in Salzburg before a two-hour drive west. Although we only had to get to Innsbruck, alpine fever had us craving mountains.

Gorgeous scenery welcomed us as we drove south through Hallein (the other side of the salt mountain) then curved west to Bruck. Dramatic cloud cover mixed with bursts of summer sun. The turn-off for the Großglocknerstraße came quicker than expected. Unsure of what to expect inside the park, we attempted to stock up with picnic fixings. If Hohe Tauern was anything like an American national park, food options would be few and far between. Unfortunately, it was Sunday and everything was closed—literally every place of business minus a handful of eat-in restaurants. Off the highway and headed down a narrow alpine valley, we stopped at an open petrol station in the little village of Fusch to fill the tank and raid the tiny market. The options were few but precisely what we needed: cheese, fresh semmel (kaiser) rolls, chips, and drinks. It also had the most impeccably clean restroom I’ve ever seen at a gas station. The friendly husband-and-wife owners helped us assemble our madcap picnic, even lending a knife to precut the sandwich fixings. The language barrier prevented them from inquiring why we were being so melodramatic about food.

We continued on our way as a gang of motorcyclists swarmed the place (always more amicable than they look in their bad-ass leather). The sky grew overcast as massive mountains closed in on us. The large gatehouse signaled that the Grossglockner Road would now lift us into the sky. It was very reminiscent of Glacier National Park’s Going to the Sun Road, with hairpin turns and steep drop-offs at the edge of the road, and impossible to resist pulling over every few kilometers to inhale the view and snap photos. It helped that the road wasn’t congested and we could move at our desired pace. Clouds played peekaboo with the snow-covered peaks, the highest of which was the distant namesake Grossglockner, 3,800 meters above sea level. Unlike anything seen at an American park, cows freely roamed the slopes, gentle bells dangling from their necks. The land was not merely protected, but utilized. Unsure of where we would stop to eat, we began rationing our snacks.

A sort of castle awaited us at the top of some intense switchbacks, reaching the clouds and chilly air. Cuddly beaver-like marmots foraged the rocky, low-lying vegetation, blasé about the breathtaking views that surrounded their habitat. The question was if we should turn around or see what else lay ahead; we hadn’t even reached the road’s namesake glacier. Optimistic about time and addicted to the scenery, we carried forth, down a ridge and through a tunnel that looked as if it was going to eject us over the edge of a cliff. Instead, the road made a sharp descent into a green valley where a distant church steeple was miniaturized by its surroundings. The winding road elevated us again and soon there was snow and a dead end. We parked in a giant, new, nearly empty concrete garage and walked out to see the Grossglockner Glacier. It was massive and still a distance away, but also a visibly shrunken version of its former self. A blue lake below looked partially dried up, and its surface seemed close until we noticed little specks walking beside it—people a few hundred meters below. 

Despite the bright sun, the altitude was frigid. The visitor center’s big gift shop and second-story cafeteria kept us warm. An array of hot food rendered the remains of our makeshift picnic unnecessary. Katherine discovered a hearty regional dish known as gröstl: a sautéed platter of potatoes, onion, and ham. Black-and-white photo displays showed workers carving the roads decades ago, a prime example of Austrian ingenuity. Every visible attempt to civilize Hohe Tauern was impressive, from the perfectly-maintained roads to magnificently crafted stonework in the midst of remote and treacherous terrain. We gazed at the shriveled glacier then reversed course. My estimates had us arriving in Innsbruck far later than expected.

If we were lucky, we might arrive before dark.

The view was as mesmerizing from the opposite direction. Atop Edelweiss Spitze, not far from the “castle”, we took in the high altitude views one last time. Icy rain gently pelted our windbreakers. The need to keep moving became imperative. We descended the way we came in, retracing switchbacks and awesome views and making a final pit stop at a large restaurant near the entry gates before we said “tschüss” to this amazing fragment of the world. 

The sun bathed the valley in beautiful afternoon light as the clouds clung to the mountain peaks. Outside Mittersill, we agreed that it was now or never for Sunday dinner, so we stopped at a pleasant hillside gasthof. Delicious regional fare filled our plates, but we were pestered by persistent flies and regretted not sitting on the outside patio amongst the smokers. The host said it was unusual to have so many this time of year, but was otherwise powerless to do anything about them. Instead, he told us briefly of visiting New York City in the 80s when he was young and working on a cruise ship, nostalgic for his untethered days. He was fortunate to be living in one of the most beautiful and civilized places on earth.

Twilight consumed the sky as we resigned ourselves to arriving at our new destination in the dark. No matter how much extra speed I put on the accelerator, the ETA on the GPS was fixed. In our hearts, the day-trip was worth it.

It was pouring rain when we exited the highway for Telfes im Stubai, a little mountain town southwest of Innsbruck. Signs were impossible to read in the dark downpour and the GPS was useless in pinpointing our destination—all the houses were tightly clustered together and the roads were convoluted and narrow. At one point I drove halfway onto a train platform, unable to see what was what. My sister was no help on the phone, annoyed by our late arrival and unwilling to help. “We had the same problem,” she said and went back to her card game with the kids. Finally we found the house, but pleasant moods were fouled. 

A triumphant day ended awkwardly. No longer were we in the luxury of hotel living. The old farmhouse was brightly lit, its eclectic stairwells and corridors unfamiliar, the air a little stifling. We had no choice but to put the day out of its sudden disappointment and get some sleep.

No one slept well. It was a warm house with no window screens. My urban-dwelling mom was afraid rats would come through her ground floor window, and settled for stagnant air. 

I was the first up and walked to the corner grocery store to stock up on breakfast necessities. The Spar was no bigger than a New York bodega but had a little bit of everything—fresh produce, dairy, meats, and an array of staples to supply this quaint mountain village. There was no doubt I was a tourist, but I shopped as long as I could before it became obvious I spoke little German.

Until this point, Telfes was an imaginary place in my head, a pristine alpine resort constructed from photos and maps. Seeing it in the light, it was far more rustic than expected. The village was three worlds swirled into one: an agricultural community (our house was next to a small barn for milk cows), an upper middle class refuge (upscale modern houses), and a remote vacation destination (gasthofs and rental homes). In what seemed to be true of Austria at large, regardless of socio-economic standing, every structure was impeccably maintained and adorned with vibrant flowers. Telfes was on the north side of a valley running from Innsbruck in the east to the Stubai Glacier in the west, neither visible from our settlement. A red trolley ran hourly to and from the city, quietly humming along the tracks. Further out of town was an indoor pool, which appealed to my nieces. 

I returned to our house with coffee, bread, fruit, eggs and milk. Our new accommodations were quirky—a former farmhouse unevenly divided into apartments, joined by a central stairwell. We mistakenly thought we had the place to ourselves, but the owners were confined to the top floor. My sister’s family claimed the best apartment on the middle floor, with two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bath, and a balcony. Katherine and I were next to them in a no-frills single room. On the lower level, The grandmothers had their own chambers, separated by a large open living room and kitchen.

The herd didn’t get out the door until noon. By then the cool overcast morning had cleared with sunny summer heat.

Today was the big day, the heart of the entire trip, retracing my mother’s memory and finding the places where she lived in the 1950s. It was a project in the works for over a decade. Several years before, my mom and I sifted through my grandparents’ archives, scanning photos, slides and documents, which then sat digitally dormant for years. As the Austria trip became more eminent, I finally analyzed what we found, trying to piece together the past. What was the exact timeline? Where did my mother and her family live? What exactly was happening in Europe when they arrived? My mom’s memories were a critical factor, corroborated by my grandmother’s journals, clues in the photos, ships’ manifests and military records. By the time we arrived in Innsbruck, enough of the past had been researched to make the most of our visit.

To aid the mental time travel, I put on a playlist of oldies from the mid-1950s, not necessarily the music they would’ve heard in post-war Europe, but enough to evoke a specific moment in time, when the popularity of jazzy, brassy Big Band sounds quickly evolved into the energetic, bluesy gnarl of rock-and-roll.

The first stop was the “country” house where my mother’s family lived when they moved to Innsbruck. The little two-story structure was on the south side of the city, once a remote structure surrounded by farms. Sixty years later, the home was now part of a dense neighborhood, bordered by a major boulevard which separated it from a large sports complex. How quickly Innsbruck changed in the post-war economy, accelerated by the 1964 Winter Olympics (a massive ski jump could be spotted from all angles of the city). Mom described what it was like living here, piecing together memories on the fly, aided by old photos from when the house stood in an open field near foothills that were now obscured by a giant elevated freeway interchange. For all the distance of time, it helped for her to stand in the same place, to see the surviving structures, feel the mountains, breath the air. Even I felt my grandparents’ photos come alive, connecting with a physical space that had been trapped in two dimensions.

Little had changed about the square house, but it had since accumulated a car gate and thick perimeter walls, tall hedges and trees, and an awning to shelter part of the yard from the elements. We stood outside and took photos, but there was little else to do without engaging the residents, presumably away since it was a Monday. It would’ve been nice to take a glimpse inside; not even the yard was visible from outside the walls. Like any property, it’s nearly impossible to return to once it’s changed hands.

While my grandfather preferred living on the outskirts of any town, my grandmother despised it. She was a city girl, raised in Los Angeles, isolated in post-war Austria without a car and quickly lost her patience with the isolation. And so she convinced her husband to move the family into town, our next destination. 

Gänsbacherstraße was a lovely, tree-lined street with large four-story apartment buildings that were probably mansions at one time. It took several minutes to drive there, navigating city streets, dodging trolleys and turning under a viaduct, all the while imagining what a welcome relief it was for my grandmother. She was now close to shops and people, a foreigner who could feel somewhat at home. They occupied the ground level apartment with a beautiful enclosed terrace, with plenty of space and light between the neighboring buildings. This was the place my mother remembered the most, recalling the other people who lived in the building (including a basement-dwelling super with a barcode tattooed on his forearm). Everything they needed at the time was within walking distance, shops mainly, and because my mother and her brother so quickly picked up German, they often ran errands for their mother. A school bus took the kids to the army base school in Rum, one town over, a visit for another day.

My mom told stories as the adults listened patiently and the girls climbed on the fence. She could even recall where her American friends lived nearby, conjuring age-old memories of play dates and school days. I could see why the place left such an impact on her, a remarkable pocket of the world, as seemingly untouched by war then as it was now. The calm ambience was disturbed by a lawn crew grooming up and down the street, unintentionally forcing us to move on.

The heart of Innsbruck was no more than a ten minute drive away, accounting for traffic and the hunt for a reliable place to park. Maria-Theresien-Straße was the center of the city, Innsbruck’s equivalent of the Champ-Elysées, with the eye-catching façade of the Goldenes Dachl aligned with the distant ski jump, bridging several centuries of history. This central plaza was a feat for the eyes, a vivacious blend of old and new, with thick crowds going about their business and gigantic snow-capped mountains looming above. The region of Tyrol was a contentious pocket of Austria, fiercely independent despite influences of Switzerland to the west, Italy to the south, Germany to the north and Vienna to the east. For a while, Innsbruck was the epicenter of Austro-Hungarian affairs, particularly when Maria Theresa, the sole female ruler of the Habsburg Monarchy, assumed her royal residence in the city and her many children married into the reigning families of neighboring countries, the most famous of which was teen bride Marie Antoinette and her unfortunate fate in Paris.

On a side street, we settled for lunch at Dengg, a well-reviewed modern restaurant serving fusion cuisine. We sat outside as a cool breeze kept us comfortable on the hot summer day. Best of all, we had no other obligation but to relax and enjoy.

The group split for an hour to explore Innsbruck, merely enough time to walk around and window shop. Katherine and I found gifts for our kids, then grabbed gelato from a popular place. Once all eight of us reunited, we raided a nearby grocery store to stock up our house. It was the height of rush hour shopping, so the staff and customers weren’t exactly amused by our curious dallying. Stella was intrigued by the baby watermelons on sale and accidentally smashed one on the floor.

A wrong turn took our car on a detour through the neighboring town of Fulmpes. GPS, befuddled by ongoing road construction made the straightforward drive to Telfes far more convoluted, reassuring us that it was just as difficult to get around here during the day than it was on a rainy night.

We arrived at the house to find everyone else waiting outside. The front door wouldn’t unlock. Unable to reach the homeowners, my brother-in-law took to desperate measures and climbed up the balcony. He got into his apartment but was unable to open the glass door that separated it from the rest of the house. Meanwhile, my sister snuck in through the garage and discovered that if a key was left on the interior side of the lock, the door couldn’t be opened from the outside. This only added to our frustration with the rental. 

Katherine and I took a walk to calm our nerves. The serene scenery was lovely and gave us a chance to understand the lay of the land and make sense of our confused arrival the night before. My brother-in-law took his ladies to the water park. His mother went on a walk by herself. My mom stayed behind and wanted to sit on the balcony, only to discover that my sister had locked their door again. Fortunately, we weren’t gone long. 

The balcony, while rough around the edges, was perhaps the best feature of the entire house, a place to sit and savor the mountain valley view. A waxing full moon rose above the ridge-line as we drank wine and snacked on addictive thin breadsticks. The girls returned and excitedly spoke about the steep water slide. Once darkness and its chill set in, we moved inside to nosh on cheese, charcuterie, fruit and veggies. 

Finally, we felt free to relax in the house.

The Brenner Pass is perhaps one of the oldest routes linking central Europe with the Mediterranean Sea, part of a winding mountain valley that begins south of Innsbruck and continues until Verona in Northern Italy. Some say it was the route Hannibal took his elephant army in 218 BCE from Carthage (present day Spain) to raid the Roman peninsula. Following World War II, the pass was supply line for the Allied occupation and the escape route in case the Soviets invaded. 

It was my grandfather’s job to ensure that the emergency exit was ready. From 1953 to 1955, he was with the army regiment that maintained what was referred to as “the 69 miles,” a line through the Brenner Pass linking Austrian and Italian police forces. During that short time, he got to know it well and once brought his wife and children along for a surveying run. 

Miraculously, we were on the road by 9:20am—a perfect summer day to reenact that drive.

Still a thriving supply route, the Brenner Pass is now paved with an express highway bringing massive trucks to and from the major hubs of Europe. The old winding roads of my mother’s memory still existed, but they were at ground level while the smooth highway soared above, hoisted skyward by massive pylons. 

Like our crossing from Switzerland into Austria, the Italian border came without fanfare except for a language change on signage and a slightly grungier edge to everything. What was once a contested border was now a seamless benefit of the European Union. Beyond the road, the scenery was no less gorgeous—huge mountains, golden sun, evocative clouds. Closer to Bolzano there were gravity-defying terraced farms exactly as my grandmother described in her journal sixty years earlier, and even a distant glimpse of the remarkable Dolomite peaks.

No journey is satisfying without a destination. As the Italian counterpart to Innsbruck, we arrived in Bolzano eager to see Ötzi, a 5,000 year old man whose frozen body was discovered in 1991 and had an entire museum built around him. Glancing at his preserved brown corpse through an easy-to-miss window was not as fascinating as the archaeological forensics his death unveiled—cultural, dietary, and even a bit of crime-solving (he died from wounds following an attack). To this day, new discoveries are being made. We easily spent over an hour examining Copper Age tools and clothing, absorbing facts about the difficult early days of human history, and imposed a personality on the mysterious man who was murdered at the old age of 45. A lifelike recreation of him stood at the end of the exhibit, where you could look into Ötzi’s nearly lifelike eyes and wonder if he was a friendly mountain man or a fierce survivalist.

Bolzano was an interesting border town. The region of South Tyrol was Austrian territory until the Armistice of 1918, however the influence of both cultures prevailed. With the Mediterranean heat, the mountain city felt very Italian yet the German language was widely spoken. A tent protected us from the midday sun on the wide open Waltherplatz across from the Duomo di Bolzano, where we enjoyed an Italian feast of pasta, pizza, calamari, and of course wine. Charlotte proudly cleaned her entire plate with a tomato-red smile on her face. After a little shopping on our way back to the car, we were soon on our way back to Austria. 

Closer to Innsbruck, we took a ground-level detour along the Brenner Pass to get a better sense of what the roads might have been like in 1954, despite the highway elevated above us. We stocked up at a Spar, then returned to the Telfes house to relax and swim. My wife and I explored a different route on foot, past the colorful Heiliger Pankratius church, weaving north along farm roads, crossing paths with the tramline, and coming across the mysterious Greifvogelpark. A narrow trail through dense woods brought us to the dormant gates of a secluded bird park. It was closed but we were able to glimpse large wooden cages housing some sort of raptors. 

At home, we had a relaxing evening in the main room, noshing on cheese, charcuterie, bread, fresh fruit and wine, assembling jigsaw puzzles and chatting as the girls were immersed in their tablets. Speculation about the ice man dominated the conversation—it was impossible not to ponder his primitive existence in this beautiful pocket of the world and contrast it with my grandfather’s duties in the aftermath of a worldwide war, five millennia later.

We were tourists from a future time, observing the past, able to see the big swoops of history that brought us to this moment, unaware of what lies ahead.

Across the valley, in the town of Meiters, was an alpine slide. We tried to reach it the day before from the backside of the mountain, but GPS led us to a dead-end. Katherine and I later spotted its steep, serpentine path during our hike and were eager to get up close. The day was breezy and partly cloudy. An enclosed gondola lifted us to the top of the mountain for a gorgeous ridge-line view of the valley—Telfes below and Innsbruck in the distance. The slide wasn’t running yet—it was weather-dependent, although there was no sign of rain. Thankfully the park had plenty to offer.

A restaurant attracted the hiking crowd, who enjoyed steins of beer at eleven in the morning. Cow pies dotted the ground and a trail led us down to an artificial lake and a playground packed with school kids. A raft could be pulled across the pond using a rope. A group of school boys attempted to cross, only to topple into the shallow water halfway across. Some fell gleefully, others in tears.

I was determined to go down the alpine slide; my wife even more so. We lingered by the entrance, studying the operators. The sun was shining but dark clouds brewed in the eastern sky. Two crewmen went down to test the track. After thirty minutes of waiting, we got the green light. Katherine fearlessly claimed the first sled. It was like a modified go-cart, with skateboard wheels clinging to a single track that was elevated about a foot off the ground. In place of a steering wheel was a throttle. Pull forward to speed up, pull back to brake. With barely a minute to settle into our carts, Katherine zipped ahead, followed by me and Lee. My mom decided to play it safe and take the gondola down—and she had good reason. Instantly, the mountain dropped off and we plunged downward, cutting through the trees, accelerating with the G-forces of a mini roller coaster, as fast as forty-two kilometers an hour. With no one ahead, Katherine had the rail to herself, free to go as fast or slow as she pleased (she went fast). I tried to keep up, but some sharp turns warned me to be smarter with the brakes. A few exhilarating minutes passed (time got lost in the adrenaline rush) before the land leveled off and we made our final approach to the gondola station. Even as I decelerated, the end of the line came racing fast. And then it was done, a thrill from start to finish. Lee trailed behind, exercising caution but still keeping up speed. Other carts stacked up behind her. My sister and her family stayed atop the mountain, their window for the slide closing as rain clouds blew closer.

Without them, we set off on a scenic backroad towards Innsbruck to complete the rest of my mother’s visit. We found the apartment building where her family’s Austrian friends resided and hosted them once for Saint Nicholas Day (including a visit from the menacing Krampus). Heavy rain fell as we parked briefly outside, then continued on to the major destination (Rum) as oldies played on the stereo. The military base where my grandfather was stationed, as well as the children’s school, was a short drive east of Innsbruck. We followed the main streets they would’ve driven, awakening my mom’s memories of bus rides to and from, as well as the neighborhoods where certain classmates lived. 

In 1945, as Allied forces ultimately reclaimed the Austrian territory annexed by the Germans, the nation was quartered amongst the victors. The USSR claimed the eastern side, while the USA, UK and France split the western (Vienna was an equally divided city like Berlin). In 1952, the French left North Tyrol to the Americans, which included a storage depot and military base. My grandfather was fortunate not to be sent overseas during the war, but finally got to see the world in relative peacetime. He was assigned Provost Marshal of Camp Rum, essentially a chief of police in the occupied state. While the camp had a general purpose as resources came in through Italy and Austria worked to regain its independence, it was also a strategic front, an escape route should the Soviets in the east turn hostile. The presence of the soldiers’ wives and children were part of the ruse—a tight knit community who would evacuate together if necessary. Although, my grandmother famously said she would rather face the Russian Army than share a car with the mother she was assigned to and her unruly boys.

The town of Rum was a few kilometers east of Innsbruck, a suburban tendril of the sprawling city, small and unassuming. A supermarket sat on the edge of the fields where the military base once stood. After Austria regained its independence in 1955, the Americans packed up and went home; my grandfather found a new Stateside post but the fate of Camp Rum was unknown. Remnants had since disappeared. Of the few photos I could find from the 1950s, there were few clues of what the camp looked like—just a cluster of small buildings and warehouses, intentionally inconspicuous. The sky cleared in time for us to walk around briefly, despite there being little to see.

I watched my mom as she tried to piece it together in her mind. Yes, this was the place, but unlike her former homes in Innsbruck, it was difficult to remember where exactly everything was.

We could’ve lingered longer if not for the need to get back to Telfes. Dinner plans awaited us for our final night together as a group of eight. We changed quickly, then hopped on the little red tram that ran hourly into the city. It was nice to take in the scenery without adhering to GPS and the confusion of unfamiliar roads. The alpine environment changed steadily into urban density. It was pouring rain when we got off in downtown Innsbruck. We shopped for gifts and souvenirs (and more importantly, umbrellas), then settled at an outdoor cafe beneath the Goldenes Dachl. Unseen TVs played the World Cup as locals cheered Germany’s loss to South Korea. Rain pelted the ground and scattered the tourists, but eventually the sky cleared and rebalanced the people-to-water ratio.

A short walk away was Die Wilderin, a modern farm-to-table restaurant tucked inside a little arcade. It had the lively comfort of a modern French bistro, dark wood and white walls, creamy in the soft light, with an upper level artfully encircling the main floor. We settled upstairs at a long table, entertained by a friendly host. First cocktails, then an amazing meal. As with any great dining experience, it is always over too soon, deliberating satisfaction with one’s chosen entrées or wishing to have tried another. 

A taxi brought us back to Telfes at twilight, and we spent the evening relaxing with dessert and wine. From the balcony, we watched the full moon rise from behind the mountain ridge, listening to the serenity of the valley, the gentle roar of alpine air, reluctant to leave this beautiful pocket of the world. It was agreed, of all the places we had collectively visited, this was one highly worthy of a return visit.

The sky shared our sentiment, raining all morning as we packed our bags and loaded the car. My wife didn’t sleep well in our silent room, disturbed in the middle of the night by a screeching cat fight outside. We said farewell to the quirky Telfes house and to our traveling companions. Tomorrow, everyone was moving on to Italy in a hired car, first to Modena then Venice. 

With the VW filled with petrol, Katherine and I headed west towards Zürich, hoping to devour as much scenery as we could. That meant avoiding the endless Arlberg Road Tunnel. We veered off the highway just before, heading up the mountains and breezing through the nearly-vacant resort town of Lech. Large lodges clustered together to form what was known as a premier ski destination, but there were few people around in the off-season. Subsequent towns were the same way until we reached Warth, where busloads of serious hikers, predominantly retirees, milled about. It was a good place to stop and find a place for lunch. The cozy Dorfcafe drew us in, a quiet diner where an unflappable woman seemed to single-handedly run the place (the cook was unseen behind a counter portal). A large group of casual hikers finished their meal nearby, presumably at the end of their day’s activity. Clouds rolled outside the window, reminding us of the altitude. We were excited to find gröstl on the menu—a perfect hearty dish to energize a day-tripper.

Descent was inevitable but a thrill to see as we wove down steep ridges and meandered through Käsestrasse (cheese country) and the town of Egg (a coincidental name), until the sun emerged and we were back where we began, bidding a reluctant farewell to Austria as we crossed the Rhine at Lusterin. 

The crowded Swiss highway was bleak as big city life pulled us back—the concrete tendrils that flow towards airports are rarely a pleasant sight. We said auf widersehen to our VW companion and descended with our bags towards the subterranean train lines. The cars were crowded with long-distance travelers and no one bothered to check our tickets—we were onboard for only fifteen minutes, feeling like we wasted eleven francs. 

Zürich was a bustling old metropolis, especially at rush hour. The busy underground train station was more like a mall, with distinct lines on the floor to navigate by. Large suitcase in tow, Katherine and I surfaced and walked across the river to Hotel Wellenberg, a stylish but affordable place to spend the night, popular with tourists. Happy to have time to ourselves, we explored the historic Swiss city, marveling at its immaculate Old World architecture and the abundance of magnificent giant clocks. Its prevalence as a banking hub was clear as we walked the pristine streets, especially the way its inhabitants and visitors looked and dressed, people from all over the globe, undoubtedly members of the financial sector, especially small clusters of men in suits, many with slicked back Wall Street hair, discussing their only common interest: business. Of course there were families and tourists too, and an infinitude of shops to accommodate both. My wife and I wandered through altstadt, in and out of stores, ascended a hilltop overlook, then back to our hotel in search of a meal. Every cuisine on earth was available, but we just wanted regional fare. The place we chose was busy and the bratwurst was fine. The crusty old waiter kept us entertained. 

With another World Cup match about to begin, we found a bar with an outside TV and settled down to watch England battle underdog Belgium. I unintentionally ordered pear schnapps—somehow the name was similar to the beer I wanted—but rather than make a fuss, I accepted the mistake. It was interesting to sip, sweet and strong, but not satisfying like a beer. Rain started falling so everyone huddled inside.

Perhaps because this was “neutral” Switzerland, or simply a cosmopolitan city, there was little enthusiasm for either the match or the teams themselves, even from the lone British businessman who allowed us to share his table. His name was James and we talked after the game ended and the restaurant cleared out. He explained that it was just as well that his home country lost; they would have a much harder line-up in the final round. He also had some intriguing insights on the state of the world, particularly Brexit and the current American president, rational explanations I hadn’t heard before, how the stagnation of world order needed a big shake up if any progress was to be made. I thought Katherine would be annoyed that this was how we were spending our last night on vacation, but she was more intrigued than me. James rationally explained that the impending divorce of the UK from the EU, as well as the wildly unpredictable resident in the White House (while enormously daunting and destructive) could be positive forces to shake up the old order. I considered his perspective and, long after we parted, came to the conclusion that his justification was complete rubbish.

The rain had stopped, so my wife and and I strolled down to the sparkling lakeside, amidst likeminded nighttime revelers. Illuminated trolleys rolled this way and that and the whole city felt somewhat timeless and cinematic.

The early morning alarm is never pleasant when there’s a flight to catch, especially when that flight is abruptly canceled. Disoriented, I called the airline to find out why and to see if we could get on something other than a multi-stop return to New York. Flying indirect is the worst way to travel. Every stop magnifies the chances of delay, trapping you in the purgatory of transit. No cost-savings is worth the hassle—and I like flying, especially international. The quality of the planes, the food, multitude of entertainment, and the infinite flow of wine, make the hours confined to a silvery vessel pleasant and exciting. 

We were stuck in Zürich for another twenty-four hours. Thankfully the hotel could extend us a night without forcing us to relocate chambers. Their complementary breakfast buffet paled in comparison to that in Salzburg. We sat in a cheerless room amongst the tourists, poking at lukewarm eggs and listening to CNN blathering in the background. If vacation has any requirement, it’s to be completely removed from the constant bombardment of news, especially in this day and age of one distressing debacle after another. Twenty-four-seven news channels generate incessant anxiety. They ruin airport terminals and ruined this already lackluster hotel dining room. How they could not simply play relaxing background music, I will never understand. On our way out, we noticed an outdoor terrace and the serenity we preferred.

There was a desire to make the most of the extra day. We went gift shopping for the kids and meandered through a picturesque farmers’ market. The day was beautiful, so we searched for a place to eat outside. An attractive riverside cafe was full, but we eventually found a courtyard Italian restaurant. Unfortunately, we came to terms with the fact that Zürich is an expensive city. The Swiss Franc was nearly equal to the US Dollar, yet a split entree was equal in value to two back home. We had to remind ourselves we were on vacation and enjoy the food and wine, no matter the expense.

In search of something other than Old Town, we walked along the Limmet River to Zürich West where a viaduct had been converted to a foot and bike path above and trendy shops within its walls below. A snack bar in Josefwiese Park allowed us to enjoy afternoon beers, watching laidback parents tend to their well-behaved children, plus a maintenance crew patiently power-washing a fountain. The sky cleared and it became hot. We meandered through the trendy viaduct shops then caught a trolley back to the central train station. The quiet hotel terrace invited us to sit in the breezy shade, enjoying minibar beers, reading and dozing. A mix of the early start and the alcohol was a perfect excuse for a nap, so I slept while my wife went in search of a gift for her sister. 

As the dinner hour neared, we vetoed a recommended place some distance away in favor of finding something closer. Yet after twenty-four hours in Zürich, the options had become repetitive while anything that intrigued us was intimidatingly expensive. After much circling, we settled on a French bistro, Chez Marion. I walked in, guns blazing, eager to speak French. The young waiter was amused and Katherine enjoyed our broken banter. Only as the meal concluded did he reveal that French was not his strong suit. But it was fun nonetheless in this multi-lingual city. I ordered the elegantly simple croque madame without question, while my wife, feeling adventurous, went for a galette, concluding with a shared bowl of ice cream.

Daylight still warmed the city, allowing us to walk off our meal during another stroll to the lake. This was the joy of vacation: a little adventure, a lot of food, and a chance to clear one’s head of quotidian monotony. We sat on a bench and watched the diverse city population pass by, including an intriguing amount of exceptionally tall people.

Another early morning awaited us, so we ended the night relaxing in our little hotel room, sipping beers from a corner market, packing our new acquisitions and eager to head home in the morning.

Late night revelers spent their final bursts of steam as we walked the short distance from the hotel to the bahnhof. Rising again before dawn was no fun, although it was a rare treat to see a Zürich in its waking hours, nearly absent of cars and people.

An airport-bound train was waiting for us, but again we bought tickets that went unchecked. We arrived before the flight had a gate, so we checked our suitcase and ate breakfast outside security (predictably pricey cappuccinos and almond pastries). A calm and orderly passport control, a Swiss-themed underground tram, and a terminal as vast as the galleries of the Louvre. Our gate was at the far end and nearly empty. We relaxed as seats filled up, until a worker shooed us all away, hastily setting up another passport checkpoint and forcing us back through. Katherine was randomly chosen for extra scrutiny, a pointless inconvenience considering that she had my carry-on bag, not her own. On the flight, we were together but separated by an aisle. I sat next to a French-speaking teenage girl who restlessly chatted with her parents in the row ahead. Katherine burned through four movies, while I only made it through one, preferring instead to struggle through a German edition of the Grimm Brothers’ tales that I picked up the day before.  

Returning to the States is always dismal when coming from abroad. The dread of arriving at crowded JFK, long lines through customs, incessant loudspeaker announcements, officers barking orders at disoriented travelers. Miraculously, it wasn’t as obnoxious as it had been in the past. Computer kiosks did the bulk of the work, while stern-faced humans made the final passport inspections and paid zero attention to the customs form I meticulously filled out on the plane. At baggage claim, our suitcase was the last one to roll down the conveyor belt. 

To offset our expensive time in Zürich, we decided to take airport shuttle into the city. Instead of the big coach bus that initiated our journey, this time we were seated on a little party bus, the kind usually reserved for large bachelorette parties. It was small and crowded. The undaunted driver skillfully loaded a conundrum of heavy bags (even his colleague was impressed) and calmly dealt with a confused group of Korean tourists. Despite New York City traffic, we arrived at Manhattan in forty-five minutes, giving us time to grab lunch before a train to the suburbs and a short taxi ride to our house. Overall, it took us an exhausting four hours to get home since we landed, nearly the time it took to cross the Atlantic. A taxi would have cut that time in half, but at over twice the cost.

And just like that, it was done. No longer was Austria embedded in my imagination as a place of lore, a mysterious fragment of my mother’s life before me. It was now a real place, fixed in my memories, a captured sense of place that would forever add dimensionality to my thoughts of Salzburg with its soaring fortress, the immense scale of the Hohe Tauern, the picturesque sprawl of Innsbruck, and the dramatic ancient thoroughfare of the Brenner Pass. This was more than a geographic journey, but a voyage through time, perhaps to be visited again in the unforeseeable future. 

Auf wiedersehen—until we see each other again.

In the meantime, the question remained: where to next?

For more photos from this adventure, take a trip to my Flickr site.