The Danube

After days on the shore of the Danube in the Wachau region, we met back up with her today in Vienna. She'd traveled here just like us, and will continue on to Slovakia and Hungary just like we will.

A little motor skiff ferried passengers across to this town, answering the ring of a bell. Cruise ships moved across often, bicyclists could be seen moving along the shoreline as heavy busses pushed over the road above them. The castle ruin, looking down on it all, seemed especially still.

Patrick Leigh Fermor stuck to the Danube's side as much as he could on his walk from Holland to Constantinople. He writes about it a little obsessively, really - and being similarly mobile, I can see why. Rivers make the perfect travel companion. They're just moving along on their way. In a mapped out direction, they give a sense of purpose as opposed to the ocean's sense of eternity. Of transience, as opposed to the containment of a lake.
It being Austria, we were able to get so many vantage points like this one. High up over it all the Danube felt and looked so dominant. The river, unlike the expression, didn't seem 'to run through it.' It all felt huddled up close, clinging on to stay still, clinging on to keep moving.
Sometimes, in our tent at night, the sound of a passing cruise ship would sound almost like it was coming from above us - which conjured up all sorts of pre-dreams of being on the bottom or the ocean and feeling a submarine pass above us. Or a Close Encounter of some third kind.

Gypsy Kitchens: (Not Really) Wienerschnitzel

Before we get to pictures of fried stuff, two things should be mentioned. First, we're not proud about cooking schnitzel. It's a gross, greasy experience that leaves both cook and diner soaked in oil. If your stomach is easily turned by pictures of unhealthy food, don't continue reading the post.

A second clarification, this can't really be called "wienerschnitzel." In Austria, only veal may be used if a dish is to be called by that venerable name. By law, a pork schnitzel - what we made - must be called a "wiener schnitzel vom schwien," so that nobody gets confused.
Schnitzel can't really be called Austrian, even if they would like to claim it as their own. Similar foods can be found everywhere - breading and frying meat is a universal urge, it seems. Its essence is mitteleuropean, though, and months in Belarus, Ukraine, Poland and Germany have made us less than enthusiastic about its ubiquity.

In this country, avoiding this national dish can be difficult. Rebecca and I were successful except for two occasions, when necessity and bad luck forced capitulation. Above is my first Austrian schnitzel, served to me in a campground restaurant by a proud waitress. There were seven different variations on the menu, and almost nothing else. This preparation involved pumpkin seeds, which were mixed in with the breading.
This is Rebecca's "fish schnitzel," or, as it was described on the menu, "gebackene forelle." Mistakenly translating this into "baked trout," she ordered it. Later, it was revealed that, in Austria, "gebacken" means "breaded."

After this dinner we made a pact. No more schnitzel until we get to Vienna - "Wien" in German - and can cook it for ourselves. Tonight, we actually heated up the pan and did it.
The supermarket was out of veal, so I decided to go with pork instead - which is actually much more popular here, and easier to find. The packaged meat was already made into thin cuts, so I didn't have to pound it. Also, we decided to do some mushrooms at the same time, and Rebecca got a filet of trout from a man at the farmer's market. We used packaged breadcrumbs because we don't travel with a food processor.
The process is quite easy. First, if the veal or pork isn't pre-flattened, pound it until it's about a quarter inch thick. Heat a lot of oil in a large pan until very hot. Flour both sides of the cutlet (or fish, or mushrooms) until the meat is completely dry. This is a good time to add salt, too. Next, dip the meat into beaten egg, then cover in bread crumbs. Immediately put into the pan, cooking for about three minutes on each side. If you are cooking fish, reduce the cooking time to about a minute per side. The mushrooms can just be cooked until they are nicely brown.
Some notes:

- Use enough oil that the meat is really almost floating, maybe an eight of an inch in the bottom of the pan. We used a mix of olive oil and pumpkin seed oil, which is popular here. Any type of oil or grease can be used as long as it has a fairly high smoke point and you like the flavor.

- Rebecca only breaded the bottom of her fish, but still turned it over (for about twenty seconds) to cook the top. The picture above is of her trout, freshly out of the pan.

- Be gentle with the breading. Don't mash it into the meat - that will cause it to stick on and lose the puffy airiness which is (supposedly) desirable. Also, don't give the breadcrumbs time to soak in the egg.

- I won't give exact proportions for the recipe, as they will depend heavily on how many people you're feeding. Use at least two beaten eggs and a half cup each of the flour and breadcrumbs. Any less and it might be difficult to cover the meat.

- We ate it with a slice of lemon, squeezed over the top. It helps the flavor and brightens it up a little.

Here's my schnitzel. It wasn't bad, except that all schnitzel is mostly bad. The pumpkin oil, which we had hoped would give it some nuttiness (and had feared would turn it green) ended up tasting fairly neutral after it was heated up. A surprise: the mushrooms were the best part of the meal.

Austrian Sangria a.k.a. Our Apricocktail

While walking along the river toward Spitz, we smelled something sweet all around us and realized that apricot trees lined the walkway. Finally, it dawned on us that the "marillen" we'd seen advertised in every form imaginable were apricots. Marillen strudel, Frische Marillen, Marillen Saft. The Wachau region is as proud of their apricots as they are their grapes. I would argue, more so.
A father-son pair from Krakow who camped next to us two nights ago described a farmstand "selling apricot everything" and shared their bounty with us: chocolate covered bits of apricot pit and jam. Our own grocery store-bought sampling of the local fruit swayed in a more adult direction. Bailoni apricot schnapps is produced in Krems an der Dauner, the largest town around here. We bought some fresh apricots at the Spar and set out to create a Wachauner cocktail.
Naturally, the perfect mixer for the schnapps was local wine. Grüner Vetliner and Bailoni were poured into a Klean Kanteen and our two little orange globes were cut up and dropped in to marinate. A few hours later, we poured the mixture over some frozen blueberries, which acted as our ice in a country (continent, really) in which it's impossible to buy any cubes. We purchased some tonic to top it off, but never wound up using it. The sangria was just sweet enough without it. As our new friends Andrej and Patrick tucked into their tent, Merlin and I sat on the sand and toasted the Danube.

Castle Hunting: Danube Ruins

When, as a child, I used to think of castles in Europe, they were generally complete structures inhabited by knights and villains, fully functional. It’s the dream of the American castle-fanatic, and it’s quickly dispelled when presented with a real, stone fortress – peopled by other tourists and housing a quaint self-service restaurant and postcard shop. For some reason, ruined castles feel more historic than their better-preserved neighbors. Decrepit, tumbling walls and roofless rooms conjure up medieval echoes better, I think, than repaired and refurbished rooms do. It doesn’t feel like a recreation, it’s the real thing. In the past few days we’ve hiked to two ruins in the Wachau region of Austria, both with great views of the Danube. One was satisfyingly crumbly (and deserted), while the other was being fixed up and had an ambitious, tour-highlight feel (and a lot of people).
The Burgruine Aggstein is slowly trying to lose the “ruine” suffix. The brochure insists that this isn’t merely a “fabulous castle experience for all the senses,” but also a “party spot, wedding chamber, exhibition hall and cultural climax.” Castles are big attractions, of course, and they can make a town or an owner some money. If they’re left alone to disintegrate, people won’t come as readily. It’s possible to drive right up to the gate, which was a little disappointing to us after a difficult, steep walk up from the river.
Built in the twelfth century, Aggstein was once a nearly impenetrable stronghold. In fact, the castle has been captured several times, but never by direct force – many sieges were successful, largely because of limited water within the walls. But the walls were nearly perfect. The site is amazing, incorporating two jagged pillars of stone on this jutting spur of mountaintop. The rock helps protect the flank of the walls, while also providing a nice spot for two tower-like structures. The rear of the building is so secure that a balcony was cut into the edge of the residential quarters, more for taking in the view than defending the keep.

More than fifty-five thousand visitors filter through here every year, and much of the generated income goes towards construction. A brand new dining hall – adorned with suits of armor and smelling of new wood – took up a good deal of the space in the old armory, conceivably to house all those weddings and “cultural climaxes.” A chapel, with nice new pews, stood empty, though a tape recorder played clerical chanting noises. The concession shop was busy and most visitors seemed to spend more time at one of the picnic tables than walking through the ruin.

A more satisfying ruin - Hinterhaus, above the town of Spitz - really was ruined. There were grape vines planted right up to the lowest tumbles of rock and we didn't see a single person while looking around. Although there are some guardrails and steps installed, it's pretty much been left untouched. It's fun to clamber up to the top of the surviving tower and to go spelunking in the "keller." There are no off-limits places here, and no information boards marring the photos.
Only about fifteen miles downriver from Aggstein, Hinterhaus was built around the same time and expanded several times. There is little information about it available, but it seems to have been well-defended enough to have survived into irrelevance, when a number of similar structures likewise began to fall from neglect.
The path up from below was described in our walking guide as being angled in such a way that the attacker's right side would be vulnerable during attack - the right side of the body was left unprotected by a soldier's shield, usually held in the left hand. The castle's small size seems to have been an advantage. Strong towers and few exposed walls made it easy for a small force to maintain control of the defenses. This, however, is more purely a military structure than Aggstein, which was occupied by some of the more important people in the area and thus needed larger residential quarters.
It was a lot of fun to look around without knowing what we were looking at or having a prescribed path to follow. The view over the Danube and the vineyards was beautiful, and - in a strange way - the crumbling ramparts made it easier to imagine that the countryside around was full of roving bandits and armies on the march.

Grüner Pastures

The Wachau region in Lower Austria is wine country. By "Lower Austria," I mean elevation not Southern. It is a stretch of the Danube valley, one side looking over at the other. Forests turn into vineyards, which stretch on until a cluster of red roofs, pastels and stone pops up and then disappears into more green. These are the towns, all of which have a tall impressive steeple of some sort peeking out from its center like a raised hand announcing its attendance.
We stayed in the picturesque town of Spitz for a night when setting up our tent would have been a cold, wet affair. It was all cobbled and narrow, with an imposing castle ruin and a small stream. A lot of the town seemed to be built right into old stone walls or sides of cliffs. A house near the stream had a back corner that seemed to melt right into a bulbous rock which had been covered in white plaster to match the facade. The resulting look reminded me of a Macy's Day Parade balloon all rounded out and puffy.
Spitz seemed smaller than it actually was, something we realized only when looking down at it from its Medieval gate. From the landmark, a number of walking trails began, taking us deep into the forest. Whenever there was a slice of a view available out and down, we would see terraces and vines. A lot of people see this part of the world on a wine tour. Driving, biking, bussing, cruising along the river, they stop at one heuringen another. The family-run wine taverns are each open for only two or three weeks per year. I assume that's a diplomatic way of making sure they all share the tourist wealth. The info office had a list of openings, but we were more intent on walking sans tipsiness.
Our hotel wasn't really a heuringen, but it did serve its own house wine. As you can see, the label had a particularly homemade feel and the young woman who served us looked suspiciously like an older version of the little girl in the photograph. Neither of us could muster up the courage to ask if she was, indeed, Famous Label Girl. It would have been an awkward question, made worse by our Germglish (English infested with badly pronounced Deutsch every now and then - an injustice to both languages involved). For the record, Austrian Riesling is typically less sweet than German. That's a piece of information I brought with me into Europe and has served me well. Cheers!

Stift Melk

Time spent traveling has to be regulated somehow, so that the senses aren’t fried and individual impressions can be made. Sometimes, seeing too much can feel like overexposing a picture - a building that might seem extraordinary in a vacuum becomes a blur of windows and carvings, a town that should feel quaint turns stifling, landmarks become part of the wash of scenery. Dosage is important. What can be taken in safely in one week cannot be doubled and crammed into two. Our energy wanes at times, and an extraordinary place can be too strenuous a challenge for us, even as we go through the motions of “seeing it.”
Stift Melk, (stift means abbey) which demands attention on this stretch of the Danube, is spectacle brought to a syrupy, overwrought end. It’s huge, yellow and filled with wonders, but seemingly devoid of monks or meaning. After a frustrating experience at a Subaru service center, a quick tour through the grand rooms and gardens seemed like a visit to monastic Disneyland. We tried to think of the perfect way to describe why it was displeasing to us – Rebecca said it felt like a bad jewelry store or some Las Vegas casino called “Austrian Monastery.” I thought it looked like a hypothetical Versace’s Miami abbey. We agreed that it was gauche and strange and had fun laughing about the whole thing.
Having recently spent too much time in grand religious spaces, we fled the cathedral pretty quickly. It is a dizzying space, and it fits in well with the rest of the buildings – the route one takes through the complex swells in grandeur until this point, where pink and gold erupt into a soaring fantasy. If it were possible to come across this room without being prepared for it, the effect would likely be overwhelming.
The place was built in the 800's AD, but was important to the Romans before and was destroyed much later by fire. The structure that replaced the original was erected in the early eighteenth century. Mozart and Napoleon and a whole host of other luminaries have slept here, which is a point of pride. I felt less of their presence, though, than that of the tourists and gift shops. It’s hard to imagine this place ever feeling particularly religious or important for any reason other than its splendor.
Our favorite place in the abbey was this little staircase, perhaps because it was moderate and functional. In the strange, almost phantasmagorical language of this architecture, a little space can seem the pleasantest. We ate apfelstrudel in the garden, at tables arranged around a pink folly, then left, seeking out the simplicity of our picnic table and tent.

The Rain in Admont

Sometimes, rain and road-weariness conspire to keep us in a place that might, otherwise, have only taken up an afternoon or a morning. Strange places get found and embraced or remain inscrutable, seen only from behind bleary windows. Admont was one of those places where we’ve marooned ourselves. On a day that brought downpours interspersed with periods of clarity, a dry bed in town and a hot meal seemed too appealing to turn our backs on. So, instead of fleeing this little village after we took in the monastery, we checked into a gasthof on the main street and stayed the night. Dinner was a bleak affair, but the clouds in the late evening were rewarding.

Admont is known for its monastery, which is famous for its library. It’s a fantastic sight, and was surprisingly quiet on a Saturday afternoon. Photographs are forbidden, but you can get the gist of the room and the collection from their website. The monks have collected over two hundred thousand volumes, some seventy thousand of which are displayed. There is also a somewhat disquieting assemblage of taxidermy and one of the largest collections of winged insects in the world. The insects, of course, are pinned in cases, not flying around. Monastic vintages of Admont wine tempt visitors in the giftshop and on-site bar. There are pretty gardens, both of the floral and apothecary types, and some nice lawns.
The monastery is great, and probably deserved more energy on our part. In the drizzle, though, the town and collection came to be overwhelming and our mood was more dazed than interested. Having grown accustomed to the rain, a flash of blue sky seemed blinding and made us want to sit down. In a café, we worked and ate “apfelstrudel,” with rhubarb, which was the town’s culinary highlight. The mountains were almost surprising when we noticed them. Sometimes, they can feel more distant than they really are – a different world beyond the confines of the livable valleys we travel in.
Dinner was overfried and watery, served in a dark room where we sat segregated from the congenial villagers because we chose “non-smoking.” After, though, our moods were surprisingly buoyant. The sky was a pretty latticework of clouds and stars, lit up by a moon that’s almost full. We walked around the dark streets and were greeted by other Saturday strollers as we went. A handful of older couples were out enjoying the suddenly pleasant air, and every person who passed said hello in the peculiar, formal, Austrian way.
In the morning, it was raining again and the breakfast room was empty. In a strange way, the night before felt like a providential reprieve. Travel like this can seem interminable when the weather isn’t cooperative. Admont felt like a surrender to the elements, though it also seemed to be a moment of reward.

Rock Me, Amadeus

Salzburg is filled with performers. It's the city of Mozart and The Sound of Music, the latter eclipsing the former on a few postcards aimed at a very specifically browed crowd. We were only there for a few hours, but we found a different act in every corner of the large central square. Unfortunately, the figure on the top of the giant gold ball is a statue and not a man pretending to be a statue. There's at least one of those in every city in the world, I'm convinced, and this one would have been really impressive.
This quartet played Ed Sullivan era Beatles type music fairly well. We're pretty sure they were American. While we've definitely been surrounded by our share of tourists, the number of American accents here startled us. The campsite crowd has been mostly Dutch, Deutsch and British. Anyway, these guys were pretty good. Across the way a crosslegged, scruffy faced man about the same age played a didgeridoo. He seemed like more of a Sgt. Pepper and the Lonely Hearts club sort of guy.
Anywhere we didn't hear music, we saw instruments. I always have extra respect for cello and upright bass players. Trudging those things around takes true dedication. I bet they all get together and make fun of ukulele players. We saw one man setting up a box of cds with a bodiless violin in a case on the floor. It had a hollowed out frame an arm and strings. We can't be sure if it was just for show or not.
Not every Salzburger was a performer. These women either love or hate The Sound of Music - could go either way, really. Every hostel we looked into played the movie musical each night at 8pm. One blasted the soundtrack in the morning so that people would rise and shine. More than one dinner theatre performed the show over a meal of schnitzel with noodles and crisp apple strudel. Wolfgang Amadeus was still the city's prince, though. I think it's pretty safe to say his musical impact was a little greater.
It was in Salzburg that we finally figured out that Austrians really and truly wear dirndls and lederhosen. We'd seen them in shops, town after town and thought that maybe they just supplied the entire world's beer garden waitresses with uniforms. Not so. I, for one, love it. But more on that in "Things Austrian People Like."

Liechtensteinklamm

The liechtensteinklamm, in St. Johann im Pongau, is a nine-hundred-foot deep cleft in the Austrian Alps. Intensely blue water cuts through the layers of limestone and slate, hollowing out a twisting, undulating path. There's a walkway, and a lot of tourists, and the whole thing is very much worth an hour of your time.
The tunnels and bridges were constructed in 1875 by the Alpine Association, with the help of Johann II, prince of Liechtenstein. The prince had a hunting cottage nearby and supposedly became quite excited about the project. A gift of six hundred guilders made the walkways possible, and got the chasm named after Johann.
It takes, maybe, twenty minutes to walk the length of the boardwalk - it's very easy and secure, with gentle uphill grades and handy railings. In reality, nobody does the walk that quickly. It's a stroll, really, with lots of places to stop and look up at the distant sliver of sky, down at the rushing water and around you at the hollows and layers of rock. The air is cool and misty, which was refreshing on a hot, May day.
As the path heads upstream, the water noises get louder and deeper. The current quickens and the passageway narrows. Finally, the walls fall away and the gorge opens up into a round, green bowl. A waterfall spills from somewhere above, joining the stream with a crash. There are some picnic tables here, and a nice platform to sit on.

Austrian Garden Party

It seems like forever since we've been in a city and had a true night out on the town. Being in the mountains will do that to you. As will camping - and we've had a truly wonderful combination of both. Even still, it felt good to put on some impractical shoes and go out to a true Austrian beer garden: Augustiner Bräustübl in Salzburg.
The garden is attached to a brewery run by monks and the large building tucked away up a steep, cobbled side street ("steep" being relative in aforementioned impractical shoes) definitely had a monastic feel. The high ceilings, wide marble staircases and echo-inducing cloth-free decor reminded me of going into my Catholic high school after hours for rehearsals. Squeaking sneakers and a basketball dribbling in the distance wouldn't have seemed out of place. As we made our way through the long hallways, we noticed food stalls lining the way.
I've never been to a beer garden like this, so Merlin helped me navigate the routine. Pay for the size beer you'd like (1/2 liter, full, 1 and 1/2 or two) and grab the corresponding stein from the wall. Then, while you wait online to hand your cup over to get it filled, take advantage of the ice cold fountain. At first, we thought it was there for cup-rinsing, but after a few goes, we noticed the real professionals keeping their mug filled with the icy water for as long as possible. It definitely made for a colder beer.
Outside, the food stalls got even more serious. A couple next to us unwrapped a whole chicken from a greasy piece of grey paper and then a whole trout. Since we'd already eaten, we opted to go back inside to the long hallway and pick up a brēzel. Right across the from bakery counter was an older woman selling hard-boiled eggs and working a turnip on a rotating shaver, making plate after plate of thin, white spirals. Our plate of it was topped with some salt and made a wonderful snack. How can you not buy something from an egg and turnip stand?
Back to that whole trout. Neither of us have ever seen anything like this before. We couldn't tell if heat was coming from the grate at the end of the skewers or if the fishies had been cooked first and then set out for the taking. Either way, it gave a whole new meaning to the term 'fish kebab.'
The night was still and pleasant. A few children ran around in the playground set up in the corner. We drank and people-watched under the chestnut trees, hearing a few songs and a few shouts ring out now and then from a mostly well-behaved crowd. Sixteen year old girls walked to a table carrying mugs that looked bigger than their heads. A table of men took photos of their ancient mother downing a 1/2 liter in one, long gulp.