On my third day in Salzburg, determined to make use of the sneakers and leggings I’d hauled with me, I went for a jog along the Salzach River, aiming for the Capuchin monastery (Kapuzinerkloster) and what looked to be a good view of the city below. Turn left just before the last bridge, I thought, setting off with a mental map and a screenshot. ..Not the clearest plan. Pausing to sort out where I’d gone wrong, I took a quick look around - and immediately recognized the back of an old man who’d just lumbered past me. A similar thought must have occurred to him as he stopped, turned around, and said “Kate!”
Just my second morning in Salzburg, and I’d run into someone I knew. Which continues to blow my mind, so much so that I felt the need to write it down. The retiree-turned-painter, Thomas, greeted me with the European double kiss and set about slowly walking me back to the turn I’d missed, a winding set of stairs heading up to the monastery and, nearby, Stefan Zweig’s former home in Salzburg. “See you in Bergstraße tonight?”
Two nights before, with all the museums closed and the maze of Christmas markets explored, I’d wandered onto the quiet side street, Bergstraße, in search of dinner and a warm place to reboot. A place advertising itself as a “music pub” sounded like me but looked closed - so across the street to a Belgian beer bar, Alchemist Belge, it was. A grand total of 2 bartenders and 3 customers turned when I opened the door. “Er… are you open?” They were, and after an awkward five minutes or so, quietly sorting through my photos from the day and texting a friend about the weird community I’d apparently just stumbled into, I was beckoned in to conversation.
Markus, “working” as he sat perched on the bar with a jaunty cap and cardigan, designated himself translator as needed, and proved to be a kindred spirit as we talked travel, politics, beer, and 80s music. Because I would find a kindred spirit in a quirky and proudly balding Austrian watchmaker/bartender. Bar regular Pieter interjected from the sidelines, drunkenly passing out knickknacks he’d purchased at the market, until a few hours later we adjourned for a currywurst stand down the street.
Wandering through the next night, when it was again dark, cold, and beyond museum-ing hour, I stopped to see the watch shop I’d heard about the day before - and was inevitably pulled across the street to another local haunt that somehow does not exist on Google maps. There I found Thomas, a retired journalist from Vienna, two former members of parliament, and the neighborhood community that encapsulates them all. Markus proudly introduced every newcomer with a smile and “See, one big family.”
Long, unnecessary story, I know, apologies. Belgian beer bars and local haunts are a universal language, it seems. But stumbling into that community only added to the charm that had me gawking my way through Salzburg, floored by the landscape and the history and the absurd number of Mozartkugel it appears to be built upon. Passing chocolates around the table to go with our quads, or sitting in a quiet backroom at 1am while Markus described his father’s experience fighting in World War II - and how he felt going into it, remembering what the Austro-Hungarian Empire had been - was an unforgettable glimpse into that community, and how intrinsically.. human.. people can be. Of course, it wasn't all beautiful and charming. Just outside of the city center, the influx of Middle Eastern refugees is clear, and not everyone I met had the same view on that.
But, as I said, human. In less than three full days, I’d been given an amazing view into a country and city I’d never been to before - and several very tasty beers at a third of the cost they are here in DC. Which also blows my mind. I kept a blog many moons ago, mainly for the purpose of assuring Dickinson that I was using its grant money well during my summers in Ghana and Denmark, and haven’t written much personally ever since (though friends would argue my lengthy texts are books in themselves. Sorry friends.) Every once in a while, though, I get the urge. If not to share it, or express my appreciation to those experiences or people that spurred it, then not to forget it.
