Salzburg New Year 2002/2003

Steingasse 15

by Mike Gendreyzig, 2003

A fictitious story based on my experiences on the New Year's trip to Salzburg together with thirteen friends from university and work. Illustrated by a handful of the 146 pictures and animations taken during the six days in and around Mozart's home town.

Hohensalzburg Fortress
on Mönchsberg Hill

It was late at night. The crescent was shining sallow above the Hohensalzburg fortress. Once archbishop Gebhard resided here to rule high over the heads of his subjects and vassals, controlling trade and commerce bellow in the valley and even far beyond the high mountains, only visible by their black silhouettes rising against the moonlight illuminated clouds. Cold and motionless the squared towers reared up above the compact stony fortress buildings which reflected silver by the moonbeams. Like in a snail shell the ramparts wriggled around the stronghold. The paths to its outer massively gates were steep and tortuous. Enemies of the fore time only barely vanquished these protection rings, but they never could set any foot inside the inner court yards of the reigning lords residence. The fortresses defense system was ingenious and impregnable. Almost thousand years past by, but the mighty, some meter thick walls of the fortress still emanated the power of the ancient regents.

At the South-East end of the city, three men walked over a bridge spanning above a river, gently sloping between the dark wooded domes of the monks and capuchins hills. On a stony pillar thick black letters marked the historical event of the construction: Karolinenbrücke, 1936. No one of the chaps were old enough to be emotionally moved by those old days.

Salzach River meandering
through nightly Salzburg

Their eyes wandered on to the other end of the bridge, nevertheless their mind still abode in the past, only kept indelible alive by the history books. The roar of sewage of a thick duct echoed to their ears, only once drowned by the fizz of the wheels of a bypassing car, floating through the rain slops. It was an unfriendly night. The wind was whistling heavily and chilly on the exposed bridge. The three had to fight against the iciness from the rough north and pulled down deeper their hoods. They shooed further down the bridge, only brief snatches of their conversation blew along, even these wretched fellows couldn't clearly understand each other. "Where are we going?", shouted the shortest of the three. The other, who wore a scarf with pattern of Scottish tartans, replied: "To Steingasse 15." ...