Gemütlich

The land around Salzburg has a satisfying quality to it. Unlike so much of Austria, the valley here is wide enough to feel pastoral, and the small towns that climb up the sides of the mountains nestle into the folds rather than clinging desperately to steep slopes. The mountains themselves have character; they spring from the flat ground as though molded from clay and firmly placed on an unsuspecting earth. With no foothills to help them recede into misty diffidence they are immediate, intimate – and surprisingly rugged, crested with teeth, or sharp bladed tops. The villages that dot the valley floor are cozy, as is the valley itself – the mountains protect but don’t intimidate.

Last December they were coated with a whipped frosting of snow, softening all but the most aggressive slopes; this weekend they skulk gray and shale coated, waiting for the kiss of winter beauty that will turn the entire Salzkammergut into a fairy wonderland. Regardless, the cold dry air and lackluster sun, seeming like weak afternoon light by 11am, tell the truth of the season even without the snow. So too do the Christkindl markets dotting the small towns and taking over the Domplatz in Salzurg proper. This is the first weekend of Advent, and people are drinking gluhwein and getting into the spirit.

We too, are drinking gluhwein and punsch, warming our cold hands around steaming mugs and browsing the small wooden huts filled with ornaments and crafts, gingerbread and sausages. The Salzburg market is large and glittery; miles of white lights form a canopy overhead and a life-size Nativity scene sits in a shelter covered with fresh fir boughs. People are everywhere, drinking and eating and shopping – perhaps too many people for us. We’re happier in the little towns where the markets are clearly a local event. Families with kids meet friends and mingle, chatting with the volunteers at the charity booth or their neighbors selling ornaments. These markets are nestled in the center of the towns, snug little collections of huts and people.

One, in the speck on the map of St. Leonhard, sits below the town church, dwarfed by the tower capped with an onion dome. In the dark stillness of a country town, it glows with white lights strung from tree to tree. A concert begins in the church and the sound washes over the market, clear as a bell in the frozen air. The Hallein market, which we think of as “ours” after visiting this town for the past seven years, is held indoors in the Alte Saline, the old storage building for the salt that made this region. People have been mining the salt here since the Celts, and this white gold made the Salzburg bishops richer and more powerful than mere men of the church. Now common, the salt entertains tourists in the salt mines and acts as snow in the winter scene set out at the Hallein market; salty snowmen cavort on a dry saline slope dotted with real firs whose trunks must be shriveling by the minute.

Effortlessly, the Christmas markets deliver the kind of holiday spirit that embodies the myth of “what Christmas is supposed to be.” Crass commercialism isn’t in evidence. Families come together, kids playing with friends, parents chatting. Couples come, strolling the booths and talking. Many markets don’t open until the sun slips behind the mountains and they can turn on their lights – gluwein is best appreciated when the cold slips under the edges of coat sleeves. Everything feels unhurried – this is a time to enjoy, not to accomplish goals. As Mike says, they really have this Christmas thing down.  Perhaps because so many of our Christmas traditions are firmly rooted in Germanic ones, this seems to me the kind of Christmas I’ve always dreamt of – as familiar as a pleasant reverie.

I’m back to that concept of Ancient Memory again – this area of Austria and its just slightly northern sibling of Bavaria evoke the same returning to a dream feeling for me. I don’t have to be here long before I am supremely contented, like I’ve slipped back into a warm and downy bed after being awoken prematurely with the delicious knowledge that I don’t have to get up for hours. I don’t require activities when we visit Schloss Haunsperg; after six visits we still haven’t seen the Residenz or Mirabell Gardens. Completely at ease, I find myself sliding into an abstraction where everything is pleasant. If indeed we’ve all lived before, I lived well and happily here.

With no agenda other than gluwein consumption, we’ve just wandered around the area these past few days. Every village, every church, every field, every view has been ideal; postcard photographers should have no lack of inspiration here. Turning one tight corner we dropped into a village so faultless that I kept waiting for it to disappear. Every building fit the Alpine mould of solid square topped with a more solid roof, built for heavy loads of snow. A wide balcony circled each floor, railings carved and painted brightly, eaves and doors and shutters matching. I knew that in the summer, geraniums would spill in profusion from every window box; now, smoke curled in elegant patterns from each chimney. The land around the village was wetly green, like so much rumpled velvet. This could have been a land of miniatures blown up to life-size.

This is, by no means, the most exotic place we’ve visited, and I’m sure that it ranks low on most people’s lists of “must-dos.” At one point, this bothered me; I like to share whatever (or wherever) I love, and I want the people I care about to experience the same joy I do from it. This visit, I find that I no longer care. Some facsimile of wisdom tells me that the happiness that I derive from being here is simply enough. In the past three months we’ve seen amazing things and visited wonderful places, and I wouldn’t trade any of that – but returning to Hallein, to this peaceful corner of the world where everything feels in its correct place, I’m aware of a sense of fulfillment. A friend pointed out recently that the trouble with airplane travel is that our bodies arrive long before our souls can catch up. If that’s the case (and I suspect that it may well be) I’ve been playing emotional hopscotch for months. After a few days in Austria, I’m back together once more.

Comments

[linda]

Beautiful and peaceful

[bob]

klara kauffman you haff come finally home