Pink Sky at Night (Chapter 3 - Salzburg, Austria)

Nita liked Austria a great deal and Salzburg in particular. The City of Music was gay and the shops full of things to delight a woman's heart. And the policemen, she thought, were as polite and courteous as our own. To me there seemed to be a rather dated gaiety about this historic city, an air of 'let the rest of the world go by, we only cater for the aesthetic and the genteel'. I liked it, too, in an indulgent sort of way, but after rumbustious Germany I felt it was the Herrenvolk watered down-bed tea versus a good roast joint. Also it rained a lot. For three days the streets glistened and the water ran in torrents along the gutters. Camping was out of the question, so we stayed, at about ten shillings a night, at a little en pension hotel which we were assured would command treble that amount during the Festival.

For people who like quaint architecture there are some interesting little corners to be found in Salzburg; and, if one can negotiate the welter of one-way streets, some lovely squares in which to idle and watch a large slice of Austrian life passing by. Nita chided me for being indifferent and unappreciative, but I was scooterless and anyway I am not too fond of walking, unless it be with a gun. Our Prima was lodged inside the hotel lobby, and as it was the devil's own job to get in and out, the machine languished for three days and nights of pouring rain, jammed between the umbrella stand and a potted plant.

On the fourth morning, with a pale sun contesting heavy clouds, we decided to move off, paid the hotel bill, managed to extricate the scooter from the lobby-nearly decapitating the precious potted plant in the process-and made our way to the shopping centre for a few food stores.

Browsing hungrily around a 'help-yourself' delicatessen, we heard a voice behind us saying in English: 'No, dear, take this one, it's two schillings cheaper.'

We turned to see a smartly dressed middle-aged woman gently admonishing her spendthrift companion, a sprightly old lady with sparkling eyes and a large cherry-dotted hat. They smiled, we introduced ourselves, and it wasn't long before we were all drinking large beers (at the old lady's suggestion) in one of the nearby cafes, and listening to the story of two intrepid adventuresses.

They were Australians, mother and daughter. In between globe-trots they ran a hat shop in Melbourne, but it appeared to be only a front for a far more exciting existence. The daughter, with a sharp, unconscious sense of humour, told us how they came to be wandering around Salzburg.

'We left the salon - not "shop", dear, salon, it's so much more exclusive-for a six months' visit to Paris. We wanted to absorb some of the very latest ideas for our, er, salon, you understand. Of course, all this impressed our clients enormously-I mean being able to toddle off to the fashion hub of the world, simply shutting the doors in their faces. But it will pay dividends when we get back home. Since the last trip we've been in a very strong position, actually refusing the odd customer here and there. "Can't suit your face at all, madam. So sorry." That sort of thing. Surprising how soon the news gets around to good effect. I know my women, dear.'

Her mother grinned and nodded delightedly like a wicked old conspirator.

'Then, of course, mother, who makes all our creations, had a French grandfather and we cling frantically to that.' She pushed back a recalcitrant curl beneath a cheeky little red-and-white beret affair, sniffed comfortably and downed the contents of her glass in one good Australian swig.

'Well, we left home fifteen months ago and we haven't set foot in France yet.'

'Where have you been in the meantime?' I asked, signalling the waitress to bring more beers.


'Turkey, dear; and Greece. This is our second trip in five years and the wander-bug has really bitten us badly. We adored Turkey, didn't we, mother?'

'Rather,' said the old lady, 'and Greece too. I'm only sorry I waited until my seventieth birthday before we started travelling.'

The daughter told us that both she and her mother were widows and that they had tired, temporarily, of fitting hats on socialite Melbourne heads, and on the first trip had gone to France to seek new inspiration for headgear. 'But not this time.' Setting off with one suitcase apiece (and one hat-box) they had delved into some of the less tourist-ridden corners of Europe. The old lady, who was then seventy-five, told how they had bumped and bounced their way in dusty, decrepit old buses along the shores of the Black Sea, wandered around Turkish graveyards admiring (naturally) the behatted tombstones, and keeping their expenses down to a minimum by using their little meth. stove in hotel bed­rooms.

'You have to be careful-they don't like to smell meth. fumes wafting under the door when they have an empty restaurant downstairs, you know: we always cook with the windows wide open.' 'So do we,' said Nita. 'Ah, yes; well, one has to be resource­ful. And my daughter carries the food in her hat-box and I'm in charge of the knives, forks, plates and things. It works very well really .'

Her daughter took her up on the theme of managing.

'Last time we were away a year and we spent nearly two thou­sand pounds-Australian of course-but this time, travelling with just the one case each and watching our food bill, we've spent only six hundred pounds in fifteen months. With luck we'll com­plete the round trip on about a thousand pounds between us, which is, I think, most reasonable.'

I agreed with her that it was a masterpiece of financial manage­ment. I hadn't the courage to mention that we had left England with exactly two hundred pounds in travellers' cheques-sterling of course-but then we did not use hotels, except on isolated occasions, and our transport was infinitely cheaper than theirs. Still, sitting there in the middle of Salzburg, I had serious doubts about that two hundred pounds (which was then one hundred and eighty) taking us all the way to Australia. All four of us, how­ever, were unanimous in agreeing that it was a lot more fun trying to squeeze a pint from a half-pint pot, and far more stimulating than sitting back in comfort to pay instead of plan.

I asked them if they had ever been to the north of their own country. The daughter dismissed that. 'Oh, no. There's nothing north of the Blue Mountains to interest us. It's harsh, hot and barren; nothing but scrub and aborigines. We prefer to do our roaming in Europe. Besides, have you ever been to John Q'Groats?' I had, but I knew what she meant. Nita told them that our objective was in fact the Northern Territory, and the aborigines in particular.

'Not on that little machine outside?' , Yes.'

'Good Lord, how exciting.'

They looked with renewed respect at Nita who, I think, was then silently forgiven for being bare-headed.

'But is that all the luggage you're carrying?'

Assured that it was, we all had to troop outside, where we pointed to the word' Australia' to convince them that we weren't joking: that we weren't just on a Continental tour.

'Well,' said our new friends, 'this calls for a little celebration.' So back we went for another sample of the Austrian version of the Australian national drink.

'You must call on us when you reach Melbourne, you know. It will be a marvellous achievement.' Nita suggested they had better save their congratulations until it was a fait accompli. 'Ah, yes,' they replied. 'But you deserve a big pat on the back for making the attempt.'
We basked in modest silence until the waitress had refilled the glasses. Then talked some more, drank some more, and the out­come was that at four o'clock that afternoon, three of the party were hoarse with talking, a little light-headed from the beer, and with smarting eyes from peering through tobacco smoke. The fourth member-the eldest-was as sprightly as ever, clear­eyed, completely unaffected by the potent lager beer and with cherry-speckled hat unmoved from its original position, reluctant to call it a day. Our stamina was sadly unequal to hers. We waved shaky goodbyes and rode back to the hotel, to book in once more with a resigned clerk for another night in Salzburg.