An Afternoon in Austria

Neither of us really wanted to leave Ljubljana.

The late-autumn air was bitting and sat heavy. A dense fog permeated the narrow streets and copper spires. We’d gotten quite comfortable in our two-bedroom apartment in the old town. That week, we spent most of our time inside, drifting from writing to European Netflix, occasionally to a coffee shop or going for a brisk walk if we got too restless. The lack of expectations left room to just enjoy each day for what it was. The walk to the train station was quiet. People, bundled smartly, moved quickly through the cold.

Slovenia isn’t exactly known for its trains. The station looked a little rundown compared to the rest of the city center, and I got the sense that it wasn’t the preferred way to get around. We arrived at the platform early to find out that our train would be ten minutes late. Ten turned into thirty before we heard the rumble of a diesel engine in the distance. We hoisted our bags up the steep steps, and a conductor directed us insistently in Slovenian. The cars had the air of a junior high from the fifties and were divided into compartments. This was the first time I had been on a train with compartments, and it was begging to feel kind of like the delinquent Hogwarts Express. There was one other person in our compartment: a guy that looked to be in his late thirties sporting a messy man bun and a thick wool sweater. As we sat down, he shuffled his belongings politely and kept reading—a 55L backpack situated on the rack overhead.

Awhile later, another conductor came by, this time in minimal English, to check our vaccination passports and tickets. We used our French passes since they were EU compliant and raised less questions than our Office Depot inspired CDC cards. Before we settled back into silence, the guy with the man bun asked where we were from. He seemed surprised that we were from the United States, and the more we elaborated on our story, the more impressed he became. He noted that not many Americans stray far from the beaten path which seemed to be a shame because that’s where some of the richest experiences can be found. We learned that he was French—from Paris—but living in Finland to eliminate distractions and hone in his creativity. We spent the rest of the train ride sharing stories and perspectives on life, things we’ve learned or observed about each others cultures, and random, weird things about traveling. I managed to throw in a little French (even though five weeks in Croatia hadn’t helped my accent), and he seemed equally surprised and impressed. I felt a little more confident after gaining the respect of a Parisien.

Because our train was half an hour late, we missed our connection and had to wait two hours in Villach for the next train bound to Salzburg—which worked out because there was coffee. As we walked back out to the platform for our next train, I noticed just how much graffiti was on our previous train—a sharp contrast to the brilliant red (punctual) Austrian trains. We settled into our row and began the climb toward the Alps. While the ride to Salzburg was scenic, the company was less-than-desirable. A couple stops into the journey, a frail man in his late thirties with a green mohawk and patchy denim/leather jacket boarded and sat down across the aisle before proceeding to beg each person in each row for money. After each stop, he’d make another lap to find all of the new, unsuspecting passengers. The discomfort in the car was palpable and would occasionally erupt into some older guy looking up from his paper to tell him off in German. We all kept a watchful eye. He kept pacing and rummaging through his stuff. I felt bad for him because he was obviously in distress, but I wasn’t sure I could do anything to improve his situation. Several stops later, the police were waiting at the platform and asked him to disembark. The rest of the ride was uneventful. Relieved to be able to look out the window in peace, I gazed up at the snowy peaks and listened to some of the classic selections of James Bond.

It didn’t matter much that we were late because Salzburg was under a blanket fog layer as well. After dropping off our luggage, Tori and I went for a walk through the gardens in the waning daylight. Through the mist, you could make out columns and facades in the Austro-Hungarian style. Hedgerows disappeared into the distance, and I began to wonder if Cedric Diggory might be around the next bend. Faint lights disappeared in and out of view on our way to the main attraction: Starbucks—the first one in over two months. We both ordered embarrassingly large coffees and sipped on them in the corner. By that time early evening had settled in, and the cobbled streets buzzed with scarf-laden Austrians chicly dressed in topcoats and parkas. Across the plaza, crews hung lights and garland, and a warm glow settled in along the historic facades. Instead of fighting the cold further, we decided to pick up takeout and watch the Sound of Music—retracing our afternoon walk through the gardens on screen.

The next morning, I woke up early to review the updated entry guidance for Germany before braving the cold with my camera. Germany was now requiring pre-clearance for vaccinated travelers before entry. Without it, we would face a ten-day quarantine at the border. I had submitted our paperwork before leaving Ljubljana, and through several ministerial websites in German and English, felt as confident as I could about the process. The status of Austria, Slovenia, and Croatia hadn’t changed (the countries we had touched in the prior 14 days), so we should be fine to proceed. Instead of dwelling on it too much, I grabbed my jacket and scarf and disappeared into the streets.

The fog hung closely over the city, and I could barely make out the castle in the clouds from one of the river bridges. Even though the cold was brisk, I really liked the air of Austria: the stately architecture, the high-class, the sophisticated wardrobes, the alpine air. I wished we had more time to explore, and the lady at the front-desk seemed to share the same sentiment. Perhaps another time when it’s warmer and we have more money. We zipped up our bags and made the increasingly familiar walk to the train station. Only five hours to Leipzig. Maybe.