Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 years of marriage. This is number 30 of a series about our lives and travels. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts you'll find below that are a previous series about later travels.
Sherrill, Vienna Opera House We learned a lot that first time in Communist Europe, lessons that we carried with us. The people didn't have much and were desperate and often afraid, but were helpful and kind. We remembered the stranger who came over to rescue us at the Prague train station and others we met along the way. We also couldn't forget the violence we witnessed from our hotel window. Even knowing that they probably were being spied on, people we met were gracious and tried to be honest with us. Now, we were emerging from that gray world with its paranoid fears, but it gave us a perspective that we didn't have before.
Vienna: the name was filled with history, romance, beauty, glamour. So much to see, do, and experience. A full day in the Kunsthistorisches art history museum, I told Sherrill—several days, maybe. And the Belvedere museum—all those Klimt, Shiele, and Kokoschka paintings! And the Schonbrunn Palace and....
Vienna: the name was filled with history, romance, beauty, glamour. So much to see, do, and experience. A full day in the Kunsthistorisches art history museum, I told Sherrill—several days, maybe. And the Belvedere museum—all those Klimt, Shiele, and Kokoschka paintings! And the Schonbrunn Palace and....
"How many weeks are we staying here?" Sherrill interrupted me. "Or is it months?
We started with the museums, but also were drawn into the city beyond, from time to time stopping at Vienna's famous cafes and coffee houses. Good coffee and pastry (mit schlag) can do a lot to revive sore feet. We checked out the massive Opera House, restored since the War, and explored St. Stephen's Cathedral—where we saw St. Valentine's sarcophagus and several reliquaries with the remains of saints collected over the centuries. One day, we lunched in the basement restaurant of the neo-gothic Rathaus—city hall—and chatted with locals at the next table who told us not to miss the Vienna Woods.
We started with the museums, but also were drawn into the city beyond, from time to time stopping at Vienna's famous cafes and coffee houses. Good coffee and pastry (mit schlag) can do a lot to revive sore feet. We checked out the massive Opera House, restored since the War, and explored St. Stephen's Cathedral—where we saw St. Valentine's sarcophagus and several reliquaries with the remains of saints collected over the centuries. One day, we lunched in the basement restaurant of the neo-gothic Rathaus—city hall—and chatted with locals at the next table who told us not to miss the Vienna Woods.
 Sherrill, Belvedere Palace Garden |  Sherrill, Freud's Apartment Building |
Bruce, Giant Ferris Wheel, Vienna "We Austrians love nature," the suntanned middle-aged woman told us and her companion agreed.
We took their advice and bussed out to see the forest that inspired Strauss and sheltered the Mayerling tragedy. It's all too easy to feel lost and vulnerable in a strange place, no matter how much you've studied in advance, when you don't know the language or customs. You don't want to be rude or thoughtless or just another thick-headed tourist. However, people like this couple made us feel less like strangers and more like friends.
Sherrill couldn't miss Freud's home and I wanted to ride the enormous nineteenth-century Ferris wheel in which Orson Welles revealed his evil side in The Third Man, so of course we did both.
Number 19 Berggasse looked the same as the other nineteenth century buildings in the neighborhood, but in one of its apartments Sigmund Freud had lived, received patients, and written his books. Back then, the apartment still was remarkably like when he was there, bookcases jammed full; cabinets, desks, and tables crowded with his collections; paintings, photographs, and drawings covering the walls; and a tall tile-covered stove in one corner. We worked our way slowly through the old-fashioned rooms, studying the photographs, the bookcases, even the couch where his patients once reclined. We could imagine the doctor's ideas evolving in these rooms as he talked with the men and women who came to him for help.
Eventually, we made our way to the Prater and the Ferris wheel.
"In Italy, for thirty years under the Borgias," I recited, as the giant wheel slowly turned, the park sliding past far below us, "they had warfare, terror, murder and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance." Sherrill gave me a patient, long-suffering look, but didn't interrupt. "In Switzerland, they had brotherly love, they had five hundred years of democracy and peace -- and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock."
Sherrill patted me on the cheek. "That's okay, dear. Orson Welles, you're not."
We took their advice and bussed out to see the forest that inspired Strauss and sheltered the Mayerling tragedy. It's all too easy to feel lost and vulnerable in a strange place, no matter how much you've studied in advance, when you don't know the language or customs. You don't want to be rude or thoughtless or just another thick-headed tourist. However, people like this couple made us feel less like strangers and more like friends.
Sherrill couldn't miss Freud's home and I wanted to ride the enormous nineteenth-century Ferris wheel in which Orson Welles revealed his evil side in The Third Man, so of course we did both.
Number 19 Berggasse looked the same as the other nineteenth century buildings in the neighborhood, but in one of its apartments Sigmund Freud had lived, received patients, and written his books. Back then, the apartment still was remarkably like when he was there, bookcases jammed full; cabinets, desks, and tables crowded with his collections; paintings, photographs, and drawings covering the walls; and a tall tile-covered stove in one corner. We worked our way slowly through the old-fashioned rooms, studying the photographs, the bookcases, even the couch where his patients once reclined. We could imagine the doctor's ideas evolving in these rooms as he talked with the men and women who came to him for help.
Eventually, we made our way to the Prater and the Ferris wheel.
"In Italy, for thirty years under the Borgias," I recited, as the giant wheel slowly turned, the park sliding past far below us, "they had warfare, terror, murder and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance." Sherrill gave me a patient, long-suffering look, but didn't interrupt. "In Switzerland, they had brotherly love, they had five hundred years of democracy and peace -- and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock."
Sherrill patted me on the cheek. "That's okay, dear. Orson Welles, you're not."
Sherrill, Vienna architecture She once wanted to be an architect and always retained her love of design and decorating. We hiked along part of the Ringstrasse, the broad boulevard that replaced the old city walls that once encircled the city, lined with parks and handsome buildings, and where Freud took almost daily walks. We strolled through the city, gazing at the Baroque buildings and their Art Nouveau neighbors with their lavish, organic embellishments and extravagant sculptures over, under, and around windows, doorways, and eaves. The elegantly severe buildings from the Secessionist period, however, were more to Sherrill's taste.
"Too bad you need to be good at math," she sighed, "to be an architect."
Sherrill took me to the Schonbrunn Palace gardens and the 1881 Palm House, the largest greenhouse in Europe. We hiked up and down winding flower-adorned metal staircases and through the huge glass rooms holding more than four thousand plant species, including a 350 year-old olive tree. Occasionally, she made a note about a plant that intrigued her.
"I don't think that would fit in our house--or garden," I murmured once.
"Don't worry about it. It'll be okay."
"Too bad you need to be good at math," she sighed, "to be an architect."
Sherrill took me to the Schonbrunn Palace gardens and the 1881 Palm House, the largest greenhouse in Europe. We hiked up and down winding flower-adorned metal staircases and through the huge glass rooms holding more than four thousand plant species, including a 350 year-old olive tree. Occasionally, she made a note about a plant that intrigued her.
"I don't think that would fit in our house--or garden," I murmured once.
"Don't worry about it. It'll be okay."
Salzburg, looking up to the fort When she was planning the trip, she'd told me that since we'd be so close to Salzburg we might as well go there, too. As she predicted, a train got us there in almost no time and the scenery along the way wasn't bad, either.
The old city, itself, was a delight to stroll in, despite the crowds, but our main objective like almost everybody else was to visit the buildings where Mozart was born and lived. As is often the case, we were surprised by how small the rooms were. The composer—along with the wildly popular musical and movie The Sound of Music—had transformed the town of his birth into a money machine. Mozart chocolate balls, Mozart rubber ducks, Mozart ice cream, and then the Trapp family: the opportunities to spend seemed endless.
The old city, itself, was a delight to stroll in, despite the crowds, but our main objective like almost everybody else was to visit the buildings where Mozart was born and lived. As is often the case, we were surprised by how small the rooms were. The composer—along with the wildly popular musical and movie The Sound of Music—had transformed the town of his birth into a money machine. Mozart chocolate balls, Mozart rubber ducks, Mozart ice cream, and then the Trapp family: the opportunities to spend seemed endless.
"Since Salzburg is so close to Germany...," Sherrill also had pointed out before we left home.
"We might as well...?"
"Go on to Munich," she'd finished. So we did.
We didn't ignore the splendid art museums in Munich, but the big event while we were there turned out to be the annual Oktoberfest. Essentially a city within a city, devoted to beer, food, and insane entertainments, with block after block of large tents jammed with people, sizzling meat, and varieties of beer. Hefty barmaids pushed and shoved their way through the crowds in the tents, astonishing numbers of foaming beer mugs held against their chests by the strength of their arms. At one point, the surging crowd in one of the tents pulled Sherrill and me apart, taking us further and further away from each other until we couldn't see each other. Finally, struggling back, I found her clinging to one of the sturdy posts holding up the tent.
"And I don't even like beer!" she groaned.
"We might as well...?"
"Go on to Munich," she'd finished. So we did.
We didn't ignore the splendid art museums in Munich, but the big event while we were there turned out to be the annual Oktoberfest. Essentially a city within a city, devoted to beer, food, and insane entertainments, with block after block of large tents jammed with people, sizzling meat, and varieties of beer. Hefty barmaids pushed and shoved their way through the crowds in the tents, astonishing numbers of foaming beer mugs held against their chests by the strength of their arms. At one point, the surging crowd in one of the tents pulled Sherrill and me apart, taking us further and further away from each other until we couldn't see each other. Finally, struggling back, I found her clinging to one of the sturdy posts holding up the tent.
"And I don't even like beer!" she groaned.
Hitler's Eagle's Nest retreat After this mad time at the Oktoberfest, we continued the madness the next day with a tour of Mad King Ludwig's castles, which Sherrill had wanted to visit for years. Neuschwanstein was a fairytale castle, alright, though parts of it flirted with the stuff of nightmares. Linderhof Palace was less insane, but just as extravagant in its own way. Then we rode a bus—on another of those roads that Sherrill would have hated driving up—to Hitler's Eagle's Nest retreat atop a rocky peak gazing over much of Bavaria. We could picture Adolf and Eva Braun up there, host and hostess to the privileged few. Our next trip, we'd be going back behind the Iron Curtain, deeper than ever before, also a world of absolute dictators.
To be continued....
To be continued....
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