How many lives can one live in a day? Yesterday started at 6
am with a ride through the snow-dusted streets of Salzburg to the airport. Such
elegance in every nook-and-cranny in this city soaked through with history,
culture and aesthetics. But lest I be accused of too much romanticism and put
too much weight on beauty’s shoulders when it comes to human affairs, I
sometimes need to remind myself of the brutality and sheer evil that also
walked these streets a mere 75 years ago. I stay with my notions that beauty,
art and elegance matter in the kind of culture I admire, but underneath it all
is a savagery that can emerge at the drop of a political leader. A truth I’d
rather not face, but must.
A short plane ride to Vienna, landing briefly in the world
where Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, Schubert, Mahler and more created such remarkable music that continues to
pull the strings of our heart. Also the home of
Freud and the waltz and the sachertorte dessert. And the place where I heard my
name called out at the gate and found out I had been upgraded to first class
for the 9-hour plane trip ahead!! Score!!
And so with a chef in a chef’s hat serving lunch, a wide
reclining seat and a coffee with ice cream and whipped cream, I settled back to
enter three worlds on my larger screen personal console. Two classic films that
held up bigtime: From Here to Eternity (Montgomery Clift, Frank Sinatra,
Donna Reed, Burt Lancaster, Ernest Borgnine) and The Apartment (Jack
Lemmon, Shirley McClaine, Fred MacMurray)— two human-sized dramas with
human-sized conflicts and resolutions. Then Cloud Atlas, a sprawling
mythic drama ping-ponging between the distant past, recent past, present and
future and achieving absolutely nothing (except the part with the Seniors
escaping from the home). I had brought this book with me hoping to be swept up
and threw it down in disappointment. So I hoped the movie would get me back to
it and now I can safely say, “Anyone want my copy?” Ugh.
Since the flight covered the waking hours of the day, the
reclining bed was not of much use. Though not complaining here! Landed in
Toronto with six hours until my next flight and ended up getting whisked away
from the airport by a friend and having a bonus catch-up dinner nearby. Good
use of the time. Back to the airport with time to spare, but they were
experimenting with a new connection policy that wasn’t working and I became
part of the growing angry and anxious mob waiting at customs and wondering if
they’d make their flight. At this point, it was 2 a.m. Salzburg-time and the sleep-need
starting to kick in. So I took out my Ukelele and starting strumming it
standing on line, softly singing the U.S. Customs Blues:
They’re makin’ us wait here and ain’t no one tellin’ us
news
They’re makin’ us wait here and ain’t no one tellin’ us
news
So I’m standin’ in line singin’ the U.S. Custom blues.
I’m been travelin’ 18 hours, so you know I been payin’ my
dues
I’m been travelin’ 18 hours, so you know I been payin’ my
dues
Next we got to line up at Security and take off our belts
and our shoes.
Etc. Finally got on the plane with two empty
seats—score!—and ready to lie down. Then at the last minute, in comes the
big-shouldered man and his son to sit next to me. But I slept anyway and awoke in
Orlando, Florida, astonished to think that the person driving through Salzburg in the early morning and the one
peeling off his jacket in the late evening and getting into the cab driven by the Jamaican cab
driver to the airport hotel experienced both on the same calendar day.
Next morning, out on the strip mall in humid warm weather,
breakfast at The Waffle House, sitting at the counter in a place thrown
together with spit and duct tape next to some folks from the Harley Motorcycle
gang and watching 12 blue-shirted plastic-gloved overweight workers slinging
hash and shouting out orders. "It ain't Europe here. Welcome home, son."
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