Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
'I speak English,' said the middle-aged Austrian gentleman who sat opposite me in the coach, following my initial fumbling attempts to query him for directions from Zell am Zee to Saalbach. 'I'm going only as far as Zell am Zee myself.'
When the train pulled slowly into the station and stopped I followed him down the steps onto the platform. We stood nearby as the drab green coaches gathered speed again and rolled off toward Vienna and the East.
'Let me help you, please,' the stranger offered, reaching for the heavy rucksack lying in the snow by the tracks.
'Not that one, please,' I said. 'It's much too heavy. Perhaps you would take these.' I handed over the heavy ski boots with the laces knotted together. 'Is it far to the bus station?'
'No, not far; we can walk there very easily.' We walked through the station and out onto the bright, crisp snow of the roadway and started up a gentle incline beyond. I had accepted the Austrian 'farmer's' definition of a short walk and was soon labouring slightly from the weight of the heavy rucksack on one shoulder and my skis and poles on the other. It was farther than I had expected and before we reached the centre of the little village my shoulder was aching and my arm numb from the steady pressure of the strap biting into it. We chatted as we walked along and I learned that my companion was an electrical engineer engaged in the design and construction of the hydroelectric plants so common along the rivers in the area.
'Have you eaten?' I asked as we passed a small restaurant fronting on the square. 'May I ask you to be my guest?'
'Thank you, I would be very pleased.'
After we had eaten I paid the small amount of the bill over the good-natured protests of my companion, then we walked out and stood again in the blinding glare of the main square.
'That is the bus station, just there by the Post,' the engineer said, raising his arm to point across the square, 'but I think there is not a bus until one hour yet. Perhaps you would like to see about the village, if so, I would be very pleased to be your guide.'
'You must have work of your own to do,' I replied, pleased with the man's sincerity and kindness.
'Nothing of importance; let us walk down to the lake. It is very pretty in the winter, I think you will enjoy it.' We crossed the square and I checked my luggage at the bus depot then we set off once again down the narrow, winding streets at right angles to the direction from which we had entered the square.
'This church is very old, dating back many hundreds of years,' said Kurt (for that was his name) as we passed a high narrow building constructed from great, rough-hewn blocks of gray stone and topped by an onion-shaped minaret. The structure, like the people who worshipped in it, I thought, was simple and somewhat crudely finished, yet serene and solid, and with a certain uncomplicated beauty inherent in its lack of complexity. The ancient grey timbers in the roof seemed as old as the rocks that supported them, as they jutted like work-worn fingers from the eaves high above.
I stood and examined some of the markers on the graves in the small yard near the entrance to the church. Most of them had a photograph of the deceased in a small capsule of plastic attached to the headstone, complete with details of the dear departed's demise. Even this last shallow vestige of the deceased's was in some cases beginning to show the damaging effects of the weather as moisture had penetrated the shields and stained and disfigured the faces of the photographs within. Sufficently depressing without the deteriorating photographs, I thought.
The road turned sharply and crossed a small wooden footbridge as we approached the lake and I heard the splash and chuckle of the clear mountain waters as they rushed below the bridge. The lake was solidly frozen over most of its surface, and footpaths stretched like lengths of gray wool in all directions from the edge of the town and across the snowy mantle to the distant shore. However, just where the the waters from the stream made their entrance to the lake the surface remained open in an oval smear that stretched out into the lake for a distance of thirty or forty feet. We made our way slowly back to the town square where we made our goodbyes, then I walked over to the bus station where I bought my ticket and sat down to wait for the bus.
There was only one other passenger besides me on board when the bus took off for Saalbach. He was a handsome young Italian who carried his own skis and poles. He was wearing his ski boots and looked every bit the accomplished professional. I expected not to see him again, and I was right--I never did. The bus pulled up directly in front of the Gasthaus and I soon had my gear lugged into the reception area.
'We were given the impression that there would be two of you,' the lady at the reception desk said.
'I'm sorry about that,' I said. 'I would have notified you but I only found out I'd be on my own a few minutes before the train departed from Innsbruck.'
'Not to worry,' she said graciously, 'that actually solves a problem for us. We've had some more guests arrive since your friends last communicated with you so we'll put you in a single room instead of the dormitory, if that's alright. The same day rate, of course!'
'Sounds good to me,' I said. 'I'm not afraid of the dark!'
'Fine! That's settled then. We'll have your gear taken up to your room for you. Here's your room key, I think all your friends are in the Sport Bar, it's just through that door.'
I pushed through a carved wooden door into a warm, smoky room filled with music and laughter and good-looking young people, a number of whom yelled at me as I entered. I recognized Dick immediately; Hedy, Lois and Fred, Bob and June, Greg, all sitting at a large table on the far side of the room. There were a few couples in 'after-ski' boots dancing languorously near the centre of the room.
It was a toss-up between Bob and Fred as to which was the more 'macho' of the two. Fred treated Lois like dirt in our presence so I have always assumed that his manner didn't improve a hell of a lot when they were alone. Bob was more civil to June while with the group, but I learned that she had complained to some of the girls in private that she had been belted around a bit from time to time by her boyfriend.
Hedy had five or six young children back at home and had privileges at the French PX so I assumed she was either married to the Frenchman who was fighting in Indochina or had convinced the local authorities that she was. She was a native Austrian who had been born and raised in the Berghof at Kematen a few miles west down along the river from Innsbruck. She was petite and cheerful and had fitted in with the American group without missing a beat. I think she figured that her Austrian contemporaries were too dull for her taste. Bob did nothing to dissuade us from thinking he was getting into Hedy's knickers from time to time but we never really believed it.
I heard a few good jokes around that table, some of which I am still getting good mileage from to this day. Gluhwein seemed to be popular, hot rum and butter was optional, but beer was still the beverage of choice.
'I'm not staying here at the Gasthaus,' Dick said. 'They were overloaded so I'm staying in a Pension just down the road a piece. I still get my meals here, though.'
'Which reminds me,' I said, 'I haven't had anything to eat yet.'
'No big deal; you can order a sandwich here in the bar, fries too, if you want.'
'That sounds okay.' I ordered a bratwurst and fries and another beer. Dick picked away at the fries when they came, saying he was just 'sampling'. It was the first time I had met his tapeworm. By the time I had finished my bratwurst he had cleaned up more than half of my fries.
'Come on down with me and I'll show you my pad,' he said as the party was breaking up. We walked down the main street a couple of hundred yards to his Pension and climbed a couple of flights of stairs to his room. I decided it didn't warrant a special trip. It was small and untidy, although the bed had been made up.
'Sorry about the mess; I've told the old bird she could make the bed but not to disturb anything else.' Not a good decision, I thought.
'So have you been able to contact any 'poon'?' I asked. I was thumbing through a pile of photos he had taken in and around Innsbruck. There was one head shot of a spectacularly beautiful Hungarian girl.
'Any what?'
'Poon', you know, 'Poontang'! Have you got a line on any 'groin'?'
'You must be joking! Hedy is the only unattached female in the group and she seems more interested in Bob than in anybody else.'
'Maybe you should circulate around a bit more. How about that mob of Dutchmen? At least half of them are young nubile maidens, not bad looking, either, I'd say.'
'A waste of time; They all stick together jabbering in Dutch to each other.'
'I'll bet you a dime to a dollar that most of them speak English. With a little effort you could probably learn to speak English too!'
'Hah, hah! Very funny!'
'It's just a matter of figuring out a way to cut the filly you like out of the herd. After that I'm sure you'd find her more than willing. You've even got a room of your own with your own key. It's a perfect set-up!'
'You may have a point there; I'll think about it.' he said reluctantly. But I suspected he would stick to the American group like shit to an old army blanket, just as they all did in Innsbruck.
As it turned out, I was partly right. In the dining room I was put at a table with five of the Netherlanders. When they spoke to me they used perfect English, only slightly accented, The problem was that when they engaged in conversation with each other it was 'Pure Dutch'. I figured out that 'dingus' meant 'thing' in English but soon realized that understanding one word of a language did not make for fluency. As a result I spent most of my mealtimes surrounded by affable chatter that meant absolutely nothing to me. Perhaps it was a gratuitous glimpse into a senile old age in the future. In fairness, I must say that they had no trouble with phrases like 'Pass the butter, please.'
If ever I had wanted fluency in another language it was during that week. There was one absolutely delightful girl from Haarlem who reminded me, oddly enough, of my recent dream girl, Janet, who had disappeared unannounced from Igls. Getting her on her own was virtually impossible; she would leave the dining room in concert with several of her compatriots, all talking animatedly in their unintelligible 'disease of the throat' language and disappear upstairs, presumably to their rooms. They were never seen in the Sport Bar where I could have at least attempted a solitary dance, and I never had the good fortune to share the T-bar with her on the way up to the ski slopes. I pined in vain. Fortunately I didn't pine away, I just pined!
After a week of pining I was informed by the American group that they felt they had 'done' Saalbach and were heading off to Kitzbuhel. I would have joined them like a shot except for one minor problem--I had no money!
When I departed from Innsbruck I left instructions for my mail to be forwarded to Saalbach. I had left my friend Dave in charge of my small company at home and he had faithfully remitted funds to me sufficient to cover my expenses, miniscule though they were. But the money I had been expecting around the time I left Innsbruck had still not arrived. After the Americans took off I remained at the Gasthaus living on 'fresh air'. At the same time the Dutch group moved out making my pining even more vain.
They were replaced by a group of roughly twenty Belgians and I was told that I could stay on from day to day until my room was needed.
I finally broke down and phoned the American Express office in Innsbruck. 'Did you get any mail for me today?' I enquired.
'Sorry, nothing today,' said the clerk.
'Is there anything at all in my box addressed to me? Anything at all?'
'Just a moment, sir, I'll take another look.' Minutes passed. 'No sir, no mail, just a couple of slips from the Kreditanstalt.' Jesus Christ! I thought, these guys really are assholes! The Kreditanstalt was the local bank!
'Why didn't you forward them to me?' I said, barely able to avoid shouting obscenities at the fool.
'You just asked us to forward your mail. This wasn't mail.' he replied mindlessly. The Lord preserve us! I thought.
'Would you be kind enough to forward the paper to the Carl Spangler Bank Wechselstelle in Saalbach, please?' I said quietly.
'Of course, sir, no problem!'
'Thank you very much.' I hung up the phone shaking my head and grinding my teeth in disgust.
I picked up in excess of five thousand schillings at the bank the following afternon, paid off my Gasthaus debt and started out to become acquainted with the Belgians. The dining room routine was virtually unchanged; the Belgians, for the most part, spoke excellent English when addressing me but reverted to what I assume was Flemish when conversing amongst themselves.
I became friendly with a young engaged couple from Brussels, Cees (pronounced 'Case') and Maria, who said they would be getting married sometime during the coming summer. When I saw them on the slopes one afternoon Cees remarked that he had been admiring my technique and would be very grateful if I would stay with him for a while and attept to give him a lesson or two. Having me give anyone a skiing lesson was laughable in the extreme but since he was a rank beginner I figured I couldn't do him any harm.
Saalbach was technically a village and not a hamlet, since it had a church, which I admit I never entered during my stay. Immediately next to the church was a tall stone building built by the Romans and used as a garrison for the troops guarding the copper route. The main ski runs were on the Maiskopferberg and, unlike the ski hills we were accustomed to at home, ran through fenced meadows on the mountainside. It was not unusual to stop several times to climb over or crawl under a fence line during a descent. There was only one ski lift, a T-bar, which pulled two skiers along tracks in the snow for as long as they wanted to stay in place. I reckoned that the distance to the ski lodge at the top of the mountain was well over a mile. The alternative to the free-style cross-pasture style of skiing was to follow the track that had been used by hundreds of earlier skiers. referred to as a 'Piste', and popular with the majority of Austrian downhillers.
Slope grooming machines were unheard of and probably not even available in those days, particularly in such small, remote locations. After countless skiers had followed the piste the rut in the snow where they had turned would become as deep as a WWI trench and difficult for most skiers to negotiate. Then some enterprising soul would swing wide to start a new, shallower rut. It would become popular for a while until it was worn so deep that a new rut would be started. As a result, the novice would be confronted by a series of up to four deep ruts at each turn in the track. If travelling too fast or unable to negotiate the turns he might manage to stay upright over the first one or two but inevitably, after flying higher and higher at each lip, would crash ignominiously and painfully into one or the other of the remaining steep-sided ruts. One day Fritz the banker, whom I had met when I collected my schillings, invited me to join him on a run down the mountain.
'I have only half an hour for lunch, so I don't stop on the way down. Will you be able to stay with me?' he said when we reached the top of the lift.
'I'll give it a shot!' I said.
'Just keep your eyes fixed on the back of my skis and don't stop. You shouldn't have a problem.'
'Famous last words!' I said grimly.
He shoved off without another word and I followed closely behind. We were soon flashing along at what seemed to me to be close to 'warp speed'. All I could see clearly were the tails of Fritz's skis; everything in my peripheral vision had become a blur, perhaps I would begin to experience a red Doppler shift at any moment. But I stuck with him and what I guessed was six or eight minutes later we pulled up in front of the bank.
'How did you like it?' Fritz asked, smiling.
'Are we there yet, Daddy?' I said.
'I'll take that as a 'yes'!' he laughed. 'We'll do it again soon.' Then he removed his skis and walked back into the bank with them over his shoulder.
Actually, I had no intention of making such a mad dash down the mountain ever again. I had long since concluded that all Austrian skiers suffered from a sort of 'Schifahren Wahnsinn' or 'skiing madness' quite alien to foreigners. The flight down the slopes I had taken in less than ten minutes would have normally taken me about forty minutes. It was my custom to make a turn or two then stop for a while to admire the scenery, study the tight bums of young lady skiers, gather my courage for the next series of ridiculous ruts, then proceed. Once when standing motionless in this mode a young girl I guessed to be eight or nine years old shot across the backs of my skis at high speed, her straw-coloured pigtails standing straight out behind her from the force of her self-induced wind. It was not unlike having a supersonic jet pass over at low altitude.
One foggy day I encountered a couple of English tourists making their way tortuously down the slopes. They were outfitted in ski costumes that must have dated back to the twenties. They had bamboo ski poles, peaked caps with ear flaps and chin strings, and incredibly enough, one actually was wearing woollen angora mittens with what we used to refer to as 'idiot strings', twisted woollen cords that ran from one mitten up a sleeve, across the neck and down the other sleeve to the other mitten.
'I say, finny withaw, this fog and all!'
'Yayuss, finny withaw! Where are you now? I'm down heah!'
'I'm up heah! People just keep shooting by me'Zip'!'
'Oh, I say!'
I decided to leave before I got caught laughing out loud.
One day I follwed Dick far off to the west of the ski lift and the main runs.
'Where the hell are we going?' I asked, finally.
'Seek and ye shall find!' he said cryptically.
'Very biblical,' I said, 'but where the hell are we going?'
'I'm going to show you something I guarantee you never saw before in your sheltered life.'
'I can hardly wait,' I said. We had come up above a small Tyrolean-style lodge nestled into the mountainside. We were on a wickedly steep hillside covered with deep powder snow.
'Whatta you wanna do?' Dick said. 'You can go around to the front if you like; it's more gradual.'
'What are you gonna do?' I asked cautiously.
'Straight down!' he cried, and so doing he leapt forward and shot down the slope in a great curving run that brought him to the path at the bottom in moments. He turned and looked back, waiting my decision. The longer I wait the worse it'll get, I thought. 'Oh, hell, nothing ventured, nothing gained,' I muttered, and pushed off. I felt like I was on a high speed elevator, no, I was in free fall! Stay forward, stupid! I said to myself. It was all over in a matter of seconds and I was standing next to Dick.
'I can't believe I saw that!' Dick said.
'I can't believe I did that!' I said, breathless and exhilarated. We skiied the few yards over to the front of the lodge, removed the boards and went in. I thought at first that they had a recording playing; there was the melodious sound of harp music interspersed with alpine yodelling. Then I saw, to my amazement, an elderly gentleman seated in the far corner generating the beautiful sounds. He had a large grey mustache and was dressed in typical Tyrolean clothing, lederhosen, green knee-length stockings and colourful embroidered galluses. We found a table near the centre of the room and ordered beer and schnapps.
'I never thought I'd attend a musical concert I wouldn't want to leave,' I said to Dick. 'This guy is really quite fantastic.'
'I thought you'd enjoy it.'
'I realize you probably can't get arrested for impaired skiing,' I said at last, 'but we might be wise to hit the trail while we can still stand.' We had been listening to the harpist/yodeller for close to an hour, consumed three shots of schnapps and bought a round for the musician in the process. _
— The End —