Week 2: People (part 2)
20 - 27 July: Austria
Taking a dip in the cool chlorinated waters of the Mond See Campsite swimming pool, I watched a little Dutch boy having what could be described as a swim. The water was more than 155cm deep, so easily reached over his 7 year old head. He bobbed and gulped, spluttered, splashed, paddled, choked, disappeared (somewhat alarmingly, to my mind), then reappeared only to bob, gulp, splutter and so forth all the way until he reached the pool´s edge and slithered out like some seal. He then proceeded to take a poolside shower whereupon he flapped his hands from his bent arms, chick-like, and gasped with thrills under the stream of water. When the water petered out, he pressed the shower button again and flapped and cooed once more under the light spray. He did this several times. Was he taking a completely cold shower? Was he generally cold from coming out of the water? Thirty minutes later, I followed suite, (the bobbing, the gulping, spluttering and splashing etc) and then I too hopped under the shower. I discovered that it wasn’t that the water was cold which made the little boy shudder, it was the sharp, shard-like water jet – like piercings of fine glass, or sand, it took my breath away. It was unavoidable. Once more, I had to mimic my predecessor. I flapped my arms in thrills and delights … pleasure that is borne from slight discomfort.
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is Salzburg´s most famous son, the one they´re most proud of (if those chocolate balls and Mozart-mania are anything to go by). Edwin and I watched the 1984 film (he for the first time, me for the first time in a long time) in the camper last night and we reflected on the life and death of this genius. `Was he really like that?´asked Edwin in wonder. `Was he really murdered?´he asked further. I don´t know – I feel bad for Salieri – this is modern-day slander, even if it is partly based on fact. However I do recall learning the word ‘mediocrity’ from that film and fearing the realisation (that I would discover some 15 years later) that I indeed might be such a one, particularly, when it comes to music. But now in my old age and getting of wisdom, I admire musical genius rather than envy it let alone try to emulate it. And what music I do make, I make with love and enjoyment, and with no pressure to please or impress others beyond myself. 
People wander around Salzburg in traditional Austrian dress – that is, women wear the white linen scoop-necked short sleeved shirts under a floral tunic, with a solid coloured, possibly patterned or jacquarded, fabric apron worn over the skirt. The men grey wear mandarin collared jackets (the collars often in a contrasting drake green) with brass buttons and sometimes they sport lederhosen. (Unfortunately in this pic you see it only from the rear, Edwin too shy to ask permission from his subjects to take a holiday snap). Now the Festspiel is on, the Salzburg festival, where fabulous musical concerts (free and ticketed) are on everywhere in the city. For example Placido Domingo will sing later in the week when we´ll be long gone, but the city has a decidedly excited buzz about it. I thought at first it was because of the festival that people were wearing these outfits, but it seems quite common to get dressed up on Sunday and have a day out in your traditional best. Go the Sunday best, I say. We have lost that tradition in Australia and certainly in Holland.
We called Susan and Lance this week to wish them respective happy birthdays! It was nice to hear familiar voices and in Australian accents after (for me) so constantly battling with German in an Austrian accent this week or more! Susan was off to have drinks at the Little Creatures Dining Hall (was that what it was called, I forget!) and Lance was about to bake a cake with Mel and the kids (according to Mary it was to be either strawberry or chock-o-lit). Another year older, and another year wiser for sure. Many happy returns! x
In the gardens of Mirabelle palace (oh yes, that´s where you can see the pegasus fountain where the von Trapp children and Maria march around while singing Do-Re-Mi) we happened upon the recording of a cultural program for Austrian TV. The interview was with an American, (thus in English, so we stuck around to watch), and he went on and on about the emotional impact of the opera he is currently in. (Which, I don´t know, but it doesn´t really matter). What struck me was that he only partly listened to the question of the presenter, which was rather short, and then his answers were just soooooooooo long! I thought, this man has not been media trained. He just loved to hear the sound of his own voice (granted, he probably was a beautiful tenor, but all the same). He may not have even answered the question, and I daresay the editors would have a big job filtering out his babble. That´s one of the nice things about the Germanic languages. Direct and to the point. English affords the interlocutor at times too much licence for floweriness and therefore convolution. See what I mean?
Taking a dip in the cool chlorinated waters of the Mond See Campsite swimming pool, I watched a little Dutch boy having what could be described as a swim. The water was more than 155cm deep, so easily reached over his 7 year old head. He bobbed and gulped, spluttered, splashed, paddled, choked, disappeared (somewhat alarmingly, to my mind), then reappeared only to bob, gulp, splutter and so forth all the way until he reached the pool´s edge and slithered out like some seal. He then proceeded to take a poolside shower whereupon he flapped his hands from his bent arms, chick-like, and gasped with thrills under the stream of water. When the water petered out, he pressed the shower button again and flapped and cooed once more under the light spray. He did this several times. Was he taking a completely cold shower? Was he generally cold from coming out of the water? Thirty minutes later, I followed suite, (the bobbing, the gulping, spluttering and splashing etc) and then I too hopped under the shower. I discovered that it wasn’t that the water was cold which made the little boy shudder, it was the sharp, shard-like water jet – like piercings of fine glass, or sand, it took my breath away. It was unavoidable. Once more, I had to mimic my predecessor. I flapped my arms in thrills and delights … pleasure that is borne from slight discomfort.
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is Salzburg´s most famous son, the one they´re most proud of (if those chocolate balls and Mozart-mania are anything to go by). Edwin and I watched the 1984 film (he for the first time, me for the first time in a long time) in the camper last night and we reflected on the life and death of this genius. `Was he really like that?´asked Edwin in wonder. `Was he really murdered?´he asked further. I don´t know – I feel bad for Salieri – this is modern-day slander, even if it is partly based on fact. However I do recall learning the word ‘mediocrity’ from that film and fearing the realisation (that I would discover some 15 years later) that I indeed might be such a one, particularly, when it comes to music. But now in my old age and getting of wisdom, I admire musical genius rather than envy it let alone try to emulate it. And what music I do make, I make with love and enjoyment, and with no pressure to please or impress others beyond myself. People wander around Salzburg in traditional Austrian dress – that is, women wear the white linen scoop-necked short sleeved shirts under a floral tunic, with a solid coloured, possibly patterned or jacquarded, fabric apron worn over the skirt. The men grey wear mandarin collared jackets (the collars often in a contrasting drake green) with brass buttons and sometimes they sport lederhosen. (Unfortunately in this pic you see it only from the rear, Edwin too shy to ask permission from his subjects to take a holiday snap). Now the Festspiel is on, the Salzburg festival, where fabulous musical concerts (free and ticketed) are on everywhere in the city. For example Placido Domingo will sing later in the week when we´ll be long gone, but the city has a decidedly excited buzz about it. I thought at first it was because of the festival that people were wearing these outfits, but it seems quite common to get dressed up on Sunday and have a day out in your traditional best. Go the Sunday best, I say. We have lost that tradition in Australia and certainly in Holland.
We called Susan and Lance this week to wish them respective happy birthdays! It was nice to hear familiar voices and in Australian accents after (for me) so constantly battling with German in an Austrian accent this week or more! Susan was off to have drinks at the Little Creatures Dining Hall (was that what it was called, I forget!) and Lance was about to bake a cake with Mel and the kids (according to Mary it was to be either strawberry or chock-o-lit). Another year older, and another year wiser for sure. Many happy returns! x
In the gardens of Mirabelle palace (oh yes, that´s where you can see the pegasus fountain where the von Trapp children and Maria march around while singing Do-Re-Mi) we happened upon the recording of a cultural program for Austrian TV. The interview was with an American, (thus in English, so we stuck around to watch), and he went on and on about the emotional impact of the opera he is currently in. (Which, I don´t know, but it doesn´t really matter). What struck me was that he only partly listened to the question of the presenter, which was rather short, and then his answers were just soooooooooo long! I thought, this man has not been media trained. He just loved to hear the sound of his own voice (granted, he probably was a beautiful tenor, but all the same). He may not have even answered the question, and I daresay the editors would have a big job filtering out his babble. That´s one of the nice things about the Germanic languages. Direct and to the point. English affords the interlocutor at times too much licence for floweriness and therefore convolution. See what I mean?
posted by Chasing Paradise at 8:30 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home