Zombie World

One of the pleasures of our weekend jaunts into the different regions of Austria has been sampling the local, traditional cuisine, which usually offers a departure from the variations on pork and potato in Vienna. On Saturday we took a drive through north-central Austria, Niederoesterreich, a portion of it along the border with the Czech Republic and an area that was part of Czechoslovakia until 1919. Much of the countryside is a gently rolling checkerboard of bright green grain crops and brilliant yellow rapeseed flowers. Small Baroque-era villages rise from the fields every few miles, their squat onion-dome churches dominating the skyline. These little towns were so quiet and deserted that driving into them made us feel initially as if we were going uninvited into the homes of strangers who were out of town; when we stopped to stroll--and saw no one--the atmosphere seemed almost creepy.

As the lunch hour drew near, we were having little luck spotting restaurants in any of the towns, though we did see a man cross the road in front of us carrying a dead chicken. Finally, in Riegersberg, we saw a sign to a castle, built in the 1730s, that advertised a cafe inside the compound. We had the small parking lot to ourselves; there were no other visitors in sight. Unlike the geometric, green and yellow fields of the countryside, the green of the castle grounds was weedy and clumpy, and the yellow was provided by dandelions that were scattered over it like so many pimples; the structure looked to be in poor repair, with the mortar between stones beginning to crumble and paint peeling on the doorways. After walking through a small courtyard, we saw another sign to the cafe and entered a dark anteroom through a huge, creaking door with a large, square lockplate and rusty handle. Still there was no sign of life. I tried a door labeled "Cafe" and found it locked. As we started to stroll back to the car, we heard the door creak open and turned around to see a young woman rubbing her eyes with her fists as if she had just awakened. I thought she might have been asleep in her coffin and had not planned to arise until sundown. We turned back and greeted her, and she led us through two more rooms onto a sunny lawn, where we sat at a table under a tree next to a black lagoon. Our lunch wraith--probably fearing the sunlight--disappeared back into the castle, leaving us to the shade tree and humming bees, buzzing insects, and birds singing in the local dialect; we remarked that it was like sitting in a cemetery without tombstones. Several minutes later she returned and handed us each a menu; it quickly became apparent that she spoke no German and no English, and, although we never determined whether she knew any language at all, we suspected that she might be fluent in Czech, and that the entire village was Czech--despite our certainty at being on the Austrian side of the border. To simplify communication, Linda and I, using a single menu, pointed one by one at menu selections. At each the waitress shook her head No, and then she pointed to one selection and said "Toast," thus exhausting her English vocabulary. Okay, two orders of toast. We turned to the drinks list with much the same effect: our only choice was coffee or water. While we waited for our order (which turned out to be a cold, though toasted, cheese sandwich with a thin slice of cold ham), I pondered how to communicate that I wished to use the restroom, which was not in sight. I rejected the idea of using hand gestures and other body language since I didn't want to frighten the waitress or get arrested; fortunately, she got the drift of my words, and she pointed toward a door and said "Links" (left), thus exhausting her German vocabulary. Then she handed me a 4-inch-long key to unlock the restroom door--which turned out to be another huge, authentic 18th-century entryway. (The facility, nonetheless, was clean and modern, though I was frightened to notice that there was no mirror.) We consumed our coffee, water, and Niederoesterreich cuisine. The charge came to 12 euros, and the waitress had to write the number down because, we gathered, she did not know how to say it in German. We exited, boldly striding out, not slowly walking backwards as good sense would have dictated.

Although I don't think we got to sample the best of Niederoesterreich cuisine, we were, I suppose, lucky to find something to eat. In German class on Monday, we mentioned to our teacher our surprise at the absence of humanity in the villages. She told us that it is typical of the Czechs in that area to retire to their homes on Saturday afternoons and simply stay indoors the whole time, even on a sunny, lovely Saturday in May. I suspect, however, that whatever they are doing indoors involves a dead chicken.

Filler

Maypoles. Each little village that we drove through had its own maypole, a wooden shaft like a telephone pole but twice as high, with what looked like a Christmas tree tied on at the top. According to our German instructor, the pole is erected and decorated with ribbons on May 1 while young men and women of the village dance around it to an oompah band. The poles must be guarded all night because it is customary for the young men from a nearby village to try to sneak in and cut it down. If they succeed, "the men of the village lose their power."

Fuel. Gasoline prices are about $9/gallon, though we are fortunate to get an Embassy discount that takes off the taxes, which amount to about half the gallon price. No such break for an oil change, however. At the Toyota dealership this week:

Oil (3.7 liters): $148.02
Oil filter gasket: $1.65
Oil filter: $13.15
Labor: $37.80
Disposal of old oil: $4.50
"Gratis Car Wash": 0.00
Tax: $41.01

Total: $246.13

Krakow World

At the end of April, with our visiting friend Cheryl from Rome, we headed up the road to Krakow, Poland, via Brno and the Czech Republic. Much of our impression of Poland was of incongruity: the roads, the physical city itself, the hotel room, the markets. And it was not all a matter of modernity vs age, or prosperity vs poverty.

Make a U-Turn

The weather was sunny and pleasant, perfect for a car trip, which should have been as simple as changing a light bulb. We started out smoothly enough. For the most part, the highways between Vienna and Krakow are spacious and modern, akin to US interstates, with traffic--especially in the Czech Republic--about as heavy as I-95 in the Washington suburbs. As we followed the car's navigation system, however, we found ourselves on stretches of two-lane roads soon after entering Poland. Wending through small towns with their lights and busy traffic circles became a slow process. Our long detour started at Rybnik, a town whose name I will always remember, as I believe it to translate as "small frog." It was just a few miles before we would have reached a new four-lane highway, with a straight shot into Krakow. The navigation system was most insistent on our turning left, but our designated route was closed for construction. We struck off to the right. The navigation system sounded like it was about to wet its pants. Unable to come up with anything other than "Make a U-turn," it continued to repeat that utterance every 30 seconds for the next many miles in what came to sound like a tone of exasperation. Finally, with the aid of a road atlas, we found another main road, and the navigation system went into a long pout of icy silence. After a few more traffic jams involving looking about an hour at the anus of a cement mixer stopped in front of us, we made it into Krakow--green, modern, prosperous neighborhoods and businesses--and found our hotel and a parking lot, the latter being a significant achievement. (In general in the former Soviet Bloc, we have read, it is important to park only in lots that have locked gates and 24-hour attendants because of the prevalence of break-ins and car theft.) To reach the lot, we turned off the modern, well maintained streets onto a dusty, narrow street, cluttered with blowing newspapers and food wrappers; parked cars jutted onto the sidewalks and onto the pavement. The parking lot was small, with a high, creaky wooden gate; covered with gravel, the lot undulated like a river bed; lining the lot were crumbling brick apartment buildings with windows covered by weather-stained canvas. A bandy-legged man, of the same age and condition as the apartment buildings, operated as the navigation system for the parking lot. He seemed very much to enjoy hopping about the dips and rises of the lot, gesturing rudely and shouting at drivers who pulled in past him without waiting to be told where to park. I am certain that he was shouting "Make a U-turn!" at us in Polish as we pulled into a space.

Welcome to Tokyo

Weary from hours in the car, we walked several blocks back to the hotel, which was in the Old City, a matrix of one-way streets and pedestrian zones. Our room was another study in incongruity, as if decorated by a poor, uneducated person who had recently come into money. We found rich wood with lovely parquet floors in our two-room suite. In the parlor, however, the only picture on the otherwise stark, bare walls was a large oil portrait of an Japanese couple, the man in a suit and the woman in a kimono, and next to them sat a dog that looked like a golden retriever, only it was white. All three figures, most notably their faces, had minimal definition and no fine detail, very like a work I might have executed myself in 9th grade art class. The room contained a huge old wooden desk, a leather sofa, and two leather easy chairs, all suitable in the event we needed to call a board meeting. The bedroom was charming enough, though there was only a quilt for a cover. The lightbulbs all worked.

Simplicity and Excess

"More is Better" seems to be a dictum much admired in Krakow. The buildings in the castle compound were an eclectic mix of architectural styles, and in the Waclaw Castle itself all styles seemed to be jammed together. It was mesmerizing, confounding, frustrating. I could not help but stare up at it until my neck ached, trying to find the design, a pattern, some unifying quality. The castle grounds were in bloom--pink blossoms of Chinese magnolia and cherry trees were out in full, and the green lawns were decorated with geometrically shaped beds of tulips. Beyond the castle, the broad, slate-blue Vistula River wound slowly by with the sun dancing on its gently undulating surface.

Although many of the smaller churches are bare-bones Baroque, St Mary's had enough decoration for all of them. There, the excesses of Gothic and Baroque together were transfixing. It was as if a child had directed an unlimited number of highly skilled sculptors, artists, stone masons, and painters. From chancel to narthex, every square centimeter was decorated, and much of the church was brightly colored as well, from the crimson ceiling to the gilded statuary.

The heart of the old city was pleasant and inviting. A constant source of entertainment while we walked was finding amazing consonant clusters on signs--another source of excess. (The longest I could find was five consonants together without a vowel, though some 11-letter words had but one vowel in the middle, plus, perhaps, a 'y' in the mix.) Nearly every corner had a pretzel stand and every block a shop selling amber blobs identified as figurines. There was no distraction from beggars: not once during our stay did we see a gypsy or a panhandler--very unlike most European cities I have been in--though there were ample warnings concerning pickpockets. The market square was prosperous, its perimeter lined with restaurants, in front of which stood horse-drawn carriages for tourists; in the interior of the square were stands selling produce, sausages, honey, candles, toys, and pottery, and just beyond was an Easter market purveying decorated eggs, stuffed animals, and other fertility-themed goods.

As with the main streets and the street of our parking lot, some of the downtown neighborhoods also stood in contrast. An afternoon stroll to the Jewish quarter led us away from the market area through narrow streets with potholes and crumbling sidewalks, past dark red brick buildings with broken-out windows covered by dirty green tarps. At the old market was an array of tables selling days'-old produce and costume jewelry that may have adorned a charwoman at a wedding decades ago; one vendor offered a selection of ancient, battered suitcases, and an adjacent store sold used, beat-up washing machines.

The food was good; the Poles were friendly, and they usually accommodated us by speaking English. We walked enough to be foot-sore at the end of each day, and we spent both nights--sleeplessly--alternately under the quilt until we achieved roasting temperature, after which we would roll partially out from under it to freeze for a while and then roll back under. Inside at night the hotel was wonderfully quiet; outside, loud, drunken shouting and singing rose from the street below our window until around 1 a.m.

Back to Wiener World

The trip home took us on slow and winding roads through the mountains and villages of southern Poland. At the border with Slovakia, however, we found ourselves on a wonderful, recently built, four-lane highway, and we cruised along in a valley with the Slovakian Alps beside us, on to Bratislava before turning west for Wiener World and home. Of all the sights of Krakow, confounding, beautiful, complex, colorful, joyous, the one that has stuck with me is the portrait of the Japanese couple and the dog, no doubt because it remains a mystery as well as an incongruity. Perhaps they were would-be royal guests memorialized because they never quite made it to the hotel. I imagine all three of them in a Toyota, obedient to its navigation system, endlessly making U-turns at Rybnik.

Filler

Spring Idyll. Recent walks have taken us through neighboring villages, up to the top of Kahlenberg mountain, and along the banks of the Danube. The loveliest and longest of these was our walk from Grinzing to Kahlenberg. On Easter Monday we followed a narrow path labeled "State Wander Way #1," past vineyards, through woods, along a fast-moving stream, and past banks and banks of lilacs, whose scent filled the air. Amid all the natural renewal, hidden away just off the trail and deep in the woods, near the mountain top, we came upon a tiny and long-neglected cemetery more than 200 years old. A Belgian prince from the court of Empress Maria Theresa was buried there, along with a woman once considered the most beautiful in Vienna, who had died at age 20. The beautiful spring in the Vienna woods took on a new context, one with depth and peace and ephemerality and timelessness. At the top of the mountain we rested at an outdoor cafe, recuperated with beer, and enjoyed the view of Vienna and the Danube Valley below.

Customer Service. Wishing to arrange an oil change for our car, I called the nearest Toyota dealership. My call was answered by a blur of recorded German (I discerned only the word "Toyota") followed a brief snatch of a Third Reich marching song and then the voice of a irritated, officious woman who demanded to know my business. I asked whether she spoke English, and she replied "Wirklich!" ("Certainly!") and then transferred my call to a woman who spoke only German. I made it understood that I wanted to bring in our car for an oil change. I was transferred to someone who spoke English. I repeated my reason for calling and was met with a barked demand for the car's license plate number. I told her I would call back. I got on my shoes and grabbed my keys and descended three floors to our apartment garage, where I jotted down the number. I returned to the phone. I called the dealership and went through the same steps--martial music, crabby clerks, transfers--and provided the license plate number. Never once asking for my name or the kind of car, the woman then said, "What is the vehicle's identification number?" I told her I must go back to the garage again and get the paperwork from the car. She replied, "Never mind. You must bring it when you come in." The next available time for an oil change, I was told, is 9 days away. "Be here at 9 a.m. and wait for it." I accepted the appointment and conditions in the grateful tones of a man with a boot on his neck.