This field, with the view of the Festung. So many adventures of mine started here.
The times when I was living in the same house with Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus Paracelsus von Hohenheim. Or with his ghost. Oh well. At least with his memory.
Cemetery art. If I die (and I undoubtedly will) I want to be buried à la Salisburgensis.
The mountains. I’ve never been that lowland-girl. I need my clouds and peaks and high places to feel good.
Leopold Mozart. I really am the last to question the rare genius of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart but in my opinion the one who did the big job, was his father, Leopold. Music training in the 17-18th century is one of my pet peeve themes (I actually wrote one of my Bachelor theses about teaching children instruments using entirely historical sources already from beginner’s level), and I can’t stress enough the importance of a good teacher. Developing a close relationship with your teacher ist actually unavoidable while learning an instrument and your teacher makes you or breaks you. A good teacher makes you. You get my point. So I love Leopold Mozart way more than I love his son. His son was simply a genius. But Papa Mozart was the man who gave him the opportunity to be one. And that’s the real job, I tell you.
The house blessings and stories painted below the roofline of those pastel-coloured houses.
The dialect which I’m just starting to finally understand.
The Candela shop. Christmas all year round.
This weird little garden by the bike road under the Staatsbrücke, made and cared for by Mister Wolfgang. I have no idea though, who he actually is, but hey, Mr. Wolfgang, thank you!
Kitschy Mozart-souvenirs. I’ve grown to love them during the last one and a half years. (I know. It’s embarrassing. But I don’t care. I feel no shame.)
Sphaera. He looks like the kind of man a girl could trust and marry.
The guild signs.
People wearing dirndl. Like, all the time. They wear it to church, to the coffee-house, to meet friends, to the Festspiele, just because it’s Sunday (Monday, Tuesday, etc). Dirndl is real, at least here in Salzburg. My Inner Princess, who is usually pretty much suppressed by the jeans-wearing Everyday Me, totally loves it.
The easy access to grass-fed, organic meat and row dairy.
The open-air free opera movies or, the Festspiele Of The Poor, which I visited on numerous occasions. I’ve never set foot in the Festspielhaus, though. Those 700 euros tickets are somewhat out of my budget. Ha, ha.
Carillon music. I will really miss hearing those out-of-tune Mozart arias and German folk tunes three times a day.
The roses of Mirabell…
…and Pegasus, of course.