Leaving Vienna

Today I say good-bye to Vienna and take the train to Munich, then on to the retreat location, two hours north west of Munich. I took a long time at breakfast this morning, as I woke early in restless anticipation. From the fifth floor of this hotel where the dining room is located, I can see the hills surrounding Vienna. There are old buildings here. It is amazing how old. Of course you know that; maybe you will snicker. Maybe you should. This town started 2000 years ago. The Romans were here. I think in Europe, the Romans were a bit like George Washington on the east coast, they slept everywhere. Only they did more than sleep. They built, they ran things, they printed their ways so deeply that ensuing powers followed in the paths they created. Of course you know this as well. Even I knew this. Yet it is different to feel it. To sit and look around and imagine all that has come because this outpost was created, then built upon, then rebuilt, then again built. My friend, Edith spoke of the Russians ransacking Vienna after the war and I look up the narrow streets and imagine what it would be like to be waiting in my home, my prized possessions hidden away, hoping against hope that my home would be spared, my family safe. I look up the narrow streets and wonder what it would be like to be a Russian, years lost in the misery of war, near starvation, bitter cold, family left long behind in stark poverty, to come down these streets and see rock solid, four story homes, one after another, beautiful homes, beautiful furnishings, plumbing that didn't exist back home, luxuries unimagined to rampage and revel in this unexpected wealth free for the taking, the fruits of war.

I read the history of Vienna, of the Kings and Princes who were good managers, under whom the city thrived, music and creative geniuses found a place to convene, create. At one time, 6% of the population was a musician. Even now, as I travel the train, I see people with music cases, guitars, cellos, bases, violins carried about. I go to the music hall and find myself chatting with a young Canadian who is studying opera in Milano up visiting for the weekend. He is a tenor, hopes to work ultimately in Vancover and travel back and forth between there and Europe to sing. I go to the music museum and after three hours of meandering through time with Mozart, Beethoven, Hayden and others, conducting an orchestra, I sit in the atrium only to discover an elderly gentleman playing the grand piano there. He tells a fellow listener that he plays pieces he has composed himself and wonders how his music seems to others. The notes, they fall over me, surround me and I float in their spaces, in their beauty.