Good Music, Good Food, Good Stories

Our hotel last night was a country manor of sorts, run by a most wonderful family. The grandmother runs the hotel, the grandfather is the cook, the son a wine sommelier, the daughter-in-law a sculptor, the 14-year-old son a piano virtuoso of sorts. I heard the piano from my room and followed my ears to see him playing Liszt, a mad arpeggiated piece that required reaching over with the left hand and hitting the exact note in the upper octaves. He got it every time, like Steph Curry shooting 3-pointers. I then played The Maple Leaf Rag for him and then we both sat down together to play some four-handed boogie-woogie. Ah, the instant connection of music. I had hoped he could stay longer, but he had to be somewhere, so my idea of a joint concert that night was not to be. Oh well. 

 

When the rains let up, we set off to explore the town, which consisted of some 10 houses and several cows. So much for that. Dinner was a fixed menu served by the wine connoisseur — an exquisite broccoli soup, lovely salad, polenta, spinach pie and pork for my friends, ravioli for me and a sinful dessert with ice cream, whipped cream, shortcake and more. You can feel the love, care and artistry put into each dish. Background music was first Dave Brubeck and then Keith Jarrett’s solo concerts. Oh, and the wine was many steps above Trader Joe’s Two-buck Chuck. 

 

Every time our host came to clear or serve, we had another question for him and he was generous and articulate with his answers. My question led him to lament that the young people and the schools were steering away from the arts with the culture’s permission, the same lament I heard from my Orff colleagues in Austria. Sports and social media are riding roughshod over the more refined tastes, threatening high literature and generally aiming things in the wrong direction. I’ve heard stories about the demise of the arts in both education and culture my whole life and it has mostly been true. But I’m sure objectively speaking, there are peaks and valleys and we tend to forget. I’m ready for ascending to the peaks again. 

 

This morning we set off yet again on our trusty bicycles and began in sunshine heading for the village of Stanjel. What a find! A small town on a hill with the narrow streets, curving roads, stone houses typical of Medieval European city planning, with expansive views on all sides. We all were enchanted with it and loved getting off the GPS grid and just peeking down a street and exploring. As we approached the mandatory castle, the thunder roared and the skies opened up the moment we reached a sheltered café. The timing was affirming yet again that we have guardian weather angels looking over us. 

We sat under the wide umbrellas, sipping hot chocolates and machiattos until the intensity of the storm started dripping through the canvas and so we moved indoors to wait it out. At a nearby table were two young mothers with their babies under a year old and I could imagine them 20-years later all sitting together at the same table. The grand mystery of time and aging and the threads of connection we keep throughout it all.

 

The five of us are getting along famously, no big fights or confrontations or repressed angers. But here I’ll confess (shh! Let’s keep it between us for now) a slight annoyance that whenever there’s a space to just sit, the phones dominate all. “Can you air drop that photo you took one minute ago to me?” “Now how do you add to the group photo folder?” “I wonder…" (and then right to Wikipedia). It was beginning again in this lovely café with its gorgeous view and the comforting sound of rain not falling on us and the power of the thunder. So I offered to tell a story while we waited, the way I would with my grandchildren.

 

So we left clock time and entered “once upon a time” as I told a folk tale called Fire on the Mountain. Three listened with rapt attention and one fell asleep (his childhood bedtime story associations kicking in) and by the time I reached the end, the rain had mostly stopped. 

 

On we went for what was one of our longer days, stopping for a snack lunch on a bench in a town and then getting caught in a bit of rain and moving on down the road. The next stop was the site of the Lippanzer Stallions, but there was no show today, just a chance to see them in their stables—for 18 Euros! We declined and set off, only to run into a herd grazing over the fence, with colts frisking about and frogs in a pond giving a taping-worthy (I did) concert. Much more satisfying.

 

Now we have arrived in Divaca at 3:30 pm, feeling the 35 miles in our legs and that sense of having earned our dinner. Truth be told, I could use a few more longer days like this, that satisfaction of having pushed just a bit beyond your comfort level. No big plans for tonight. Maybe I’ll tell another bedtime story.