Sentences and Paragraphs -- Salzburg, Austria

Our bus from Cesky Krumlov to Salzburg was over half an hour late. 

This is neither Ireland nor Mexico. This bus should not be half an hour late...

There was no one at the information desk to ask about whether or not we were at the right station, there was no reassuring sign for Salzburg posted anywhere, and there was no one else waiting for the same bus. Boy sprinted across the street to ask the people at the opposite station where they were headed, and they were kind enough to Google search bus routes from Cesky Krumlov to Salzburg for us. 

"It says there's a bus from the central station at 11:15, but nothing from here." 

"But our tickets say Cesky Krumlov, Spicak station," I moaned when Boy told me the news. "If we were supposed to leave from the central station, you'd think they would have told us."

Damn. Was this some sort of internet scam and I've managed to book tickets with a nonexistent company? Leo Express... Leo Express... sounds fishy enough. Or have we somehow missed our bus because we didn't realize we were supposed to take another bus to the main bus station? Or - 

My manic brain rapidly fired through all the catastrophic scenarios of how we'd managed to miss our bus/give away all our credit card information. But just as Boy and I were getting ready to walk back in defeat to the central station to see if there were any other buses we could book, our Leo Express pulled up. 

Forty minutes late. 

Luckily, we had all the time in the world to get to where we needed to be. Our host in Salzburg, a Russian banker named Dimitri, wouldn't be able to meet us until seven in the evening, so we'd have the entire afternoon to babysit our backpacks.

The journey from the Czech Republic to Austria was gorgeous. Lush green hills, jagged mountains, golden fields, quaint villages. We arrived in Salzburg (P+R Sud) Station after three pm, and began the long, laborious walk towards Salzburg city center. 

"How dare they even count this station as Salzburg..." Boy complained under the weight of his backpack. 

"I know," I huffed. "It's over five kilometers away." 

The walk would have been pleasant if it hadn't been for our bags, as we followed a path that followed the oddly colored Salzach river all the way to the old town. Half our journey was blanketed by shade trees and there was no shortage of empty benches on which we could rest and rub our sore shoulders. 

All this to save four euros. To save four euros and on principle. It's ridiculous that they would charge us 13 euros apiece to get to Salzburg (P+R Sud) and then an extra couple euros to, you know, actually get where we wanted to go in the first place. So we're walking as hobos with principles to uphold. 

We found Mirabellgarten and Boy read to me from his wine book until I fell asleep. Then I went off to find some relatively cheap food (Austria is much more expensive than the Czech Republic... no beer for twenty cents here...), and we snacked on apples and cheese until it was time to meet our host. 

Built for Prince-Archbishop Wolf Dietrich Raitenau. The poor fellow had a horrible case of gout and had recently suffered from a stroke, so wanted a place to escape the bustle of the city with his lady love, Salome Alt. It's original name was Altenau, a cute mix of the names Raitenau and Alt. However, after the Prince-Archbishop was deposed and arrested, the name was changed to Mirabell. Which is another cute mix of two Italian words -- "mirabile" (admirable) and "bella" (beautiful).

Dimitri opened the door to his flat in center city and introduced us to his wonder of a kitchen, the bedroom where the Argentinean couple would be staying, and the living room where Boy and I would be sleeping on the floor. 

Andy and Virgi, the two perpetually smiling Argentinians, arrived just minutes after us. Apparently, we'd both been babysitting our backpacks in Mirabellgarten. They'd been on the road since March, traveling around Europe with the help of Couchsurfing and Workaway, and when you've been carrying your home on your back for that long, you become quite accomplished at finding the very best places to babysit it. 

The four of us sat at the dinner table and chatted while Dimitri puttered about the kitchen, expertly arranging fruits and vegetables and drizzling dressings. Before we knew it, we found ourselves presented with a three course dinner -- a gorgeous salad, beetroot risotto and cake. Two bottles of Austrian Gruner Veltliner and three different kinds of Scotch whiskey accompanied the meal. 

Good god, I love it when Couchsurfing leads me into the kitchens of fantastic chefs. Like Felix in Vienna and Sandi in Ljubljana. I hope that one day I can be a host like that. There's something out-of-this-world heavenly about staying in the home of a complete stranger and being treated to a three course meal. 

After dinner, Dimitri took us on a night tour of Salzburg. The three shots of whiskey and two glasses of wine make details of this excursion a mite difficult to recall, but the spectacular city lights and the castle illuminated atop its perch are images that won't fade soon. 

The next day Dimitri made the four of us omelettes and then drove us through narrow mountain roads all the way to Gossau Lake.

Dimitri worked on Monday, so Virgi, Andy, Boy and I wandered Salzburg and entertained ourselves.

We found the grave of Mozart's family. Mozart himself was buried in Vienna in St. Marx Cemetery in an unmarked mass grave.

The spirit of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is probably relieved that his body didn't end up in Salzburg. Because regardless of how much Salzburg celebrates Mozart now, they didn't care much for him while he was actually, you know, alive and making music. Mozart wrote letters to friends and family, wherein he complained about the city, saying things like, "How I hate Salzburg. There is nothing going on, musically; there is no theatre, no opera!" and "I hope it's not necessary to tell you that I care little about Salzburg and nothing at all about the archbishop, and that I shit on both of them."

We went to Cafe-Konditorie Fürst and tried the original Mozartkugel, a chocolate ball filled with marzipan and pistachio that is tasty enough, but certainly not worth a euro twenty.

Dimitri had told Boy and I about a Michelin star restaurant that offered a set three-course lunch menu for twenty-one euros. So we split the three courses, shared a glass of wine, and are now able to say that we ate at a Michelin star restaurant in Salzburg for less than 30 dollars.

"What should we do for Dimitri?" Boy and I asked Virgi and Andy. "We usually cook for hosts, but it feels a little strange to cook for Dimitri. Because he's always cooking and he's so much better than us. Maybe if we each buy a bottle of wine?"

So we went to a Spar and picked out some red wine, then headed back to our host's apartment. Where he was listening to music and busily cooking apricot, pine nut jam.

"I'm going out to dinner with some friends," Dimitri told us, taking off his apron. "You're welcome to join me."

Ugh... we've already spent so much money eating out today... maybe that's not the best option for us... 

"We think we'll probably just run to the store and pick up some groceries to make a dinner," Boy and I looked at Virgi and Andy, who seemed to be on the same budget boat. "But we'll save plenty of wine for when you come back."

"But this is Austria," Dimitri said, "all the shops close at seven or seven thirty."

"What time is it now?"

"Seven forty."

Damn. 

"The Golden Spar is open until eight," Andy chimed in. "We saw the hours when we bought sandwiches for lunch."

"If we run, I bet we can make it."

So Virgi, Andy, Boy and I rushed through the streets, across the bridge, clocktowers chiming and reminding us how little time we had, along the river and to the Golden Spar.

It was one of the first times I've really run since my surgery. And it felt great. Invigorating. Exciting. And hilarious. 

We arrived with eight minutes to spare, bought our ingredients and exited as the employees were closing the doors.

Our last night was spent cooking together, drinking wine and sharing couchsurfing stories. I was again struck by what a community couchsurfing has the potential to be. The five of us, coming together from totally different parts of the world, inhabiting the same space and chatting about life, the universe and everything like old friends.

Old friends that I may never see again. That's always the sting, isn't it? There's something so liberating and so fucking depressing about this kind of ephemeral community. If life is a book, most people have friends that animate a few chapters. Family might even pop up regularly throughout the whole story. 

Friends in my book are sentences. 

Beautiful, poignant, unique, influential sentences. 

The occasional paragraph. 

Perhaps a page, here and there. 

Sometimes I return to an old friend after a year and a half apart, and another paragraph is written. 

Oftentimes, I don't. 

I try to keep my spirits up and my heart open by telling myself things like, "If we're supposed to meet again, we will." 

But so often, we don't meet again. And all we have of that person is the one beautiful, poignant, unique, influential sentence. 

And so often, if we do meet again, it's been long enough that our stories have gone in opposite directions and the person is an absolute stranger. And if I try to carry on where that sentence left off, it's unfair, disappointing and unrealistic. 

People aren't run on sentences.

It's depressing to feel so few through lines with friends in my book. And it's humbling to realize that I'm only a smattering of words in the lives of others. 

My littlest sister got married early this month. She posted news of her engagement on facebook mid-July and tied the knot August 12th. Even if I'd been desperate to attend, I couldn't have flown back on that kind of notice. 

She didn't care enough to wait for me to be a part of that story. Her wedding chapter is written without me in it. And she seems fine with that. 

And I guess... I guess I'm fine with that, too. The timing of her wedding was shocking for other reasons, but not for my absence. That was probably just... expected. Her story has diverged so far from mine that maybe it would be bad writing to force it back together. I think we're probably both aware of this. I haven't been a major character in her book since I moved out of our family's house in 2007. Back when she was nine and I was eighteen.

I wonder if I'll see Virgi and Andy again. Probably not. And if I see them again, they'll probably be in an entirely different chapter of their life with different priorities and a different worldview. 

So listen to this sentence now. Pay attention with all your senses. Write down this moment as a memory, but not as a definition of who these people are. Remember how easily Andy laughs and how caring Virigi is, always offering us candy and cups of coffee. Remember how Dimitri rocks out to music like none of us are here and how Boy transcends the physical world when he drinks a good Pinot Noir.