Salty Mountain Specter

Oh, to have nerves of steel. My sleep patterns over the last two nights was fitful and light, much too light.

I am in Salzburg, singing for a conductor from the Mozarteum. I worked with him for and hour and a half yesterday and will do the same today. His wife, the Voice Teacher, recommended that I stay just around the corner from the Mozarteum in a monastery of sorts. Actually, it is a home for priests, not monks.

I had a little trouble finding the place yesterday as the address that I had was above two enormous doors on the side of a church (I know, you’re thinking, well, you know you’re going to stay in a Monastery, why not try the church, right…) Well, these were the kind of enormous doors that must have allowed for a carriage to come through at some point. And, one learns after being in Europe for so long, that the enormous doors of a church usually remain locked and one enters from a smaller door at the side. Even walking up to the door and trying the handle on this non-deserted street made me feel like a fool. But, alas, the handle, the ancient handle with its skeleton key mechanism, seemingly having survived the entire nineteenth century and maybe more, gave way and I entered a courtyard where a lady ironed bed sheets in a little side room that must have housed a footman or some such person before, but is now labeled “Rezeption”. Passing through that door was like my won Lookingglass. On one side, life seemed to live on, while on this one, the clocks must function differently, because I have stepped back, way back, and in just one instant.

I need to have a thesaurus at my side, because the images of this place (why didn’t I bring my camera) are just immense. I don’t know for what Archbishop it was built, using the money from some Baron or King, but it is BIG, ok? The woman at the reception points me to my room, and I’m off, on the search for it. Well, the lack of signage and immensity of it all means that it takes me some 10 minutes to find my room. The place is in the middle of Salzburg but by the time I work my way into the belly of the monster, I can practically hear my own breath. It is quiet. Überquiet. It is as though, in spite of being immaculate and filled, absolutely filled with plants on giant stands everywhere, the place has grown unaccustomed to the living. I thought, actually, until this morning at breakfast, that I was the only one in this cavernous place. Hence the “oh to have nerves of steel”, perhaps deserving the under title, “oh, to not to have the flightiness of a thirteen year old girl.” By the time I curled up into my little bed in my oversized “cell”—a cell with thirteen-foot ceilings, minimum, my teeth were practically chattering for fear that a ghost would come get me. Geez. Here I was, already a light sleeper unable to doze off for fear that a monastery could be haunted and I was all aloooooone here, waiting for the Ghost of Christmas Past to melt through the door at any moment and scare the Be-Jesus our of me. (I might have to say a Hail Mary for using the J-word there.) How can my nerves be so unreasonable? It is at times like these that I realize how ill-suited my weak constitution is for this whole business I’m getting myself into. It is almost funny now to be talking about it. But last night, it was me against the Netherworld and I ain’t kidding.

It is a neat experience, though, to be staying here. It is very nice, actually, almost luxurious, really. And all for the asking price of 27€ a night. This seems to be a secret hideaway, though, available only by word of mouth. I mean yes, anyone can call and book a room (I’m still not sure if they allow women), but knowing that the place even exists…that’s the thing. I am lucky to have found it, I guess. And, truth be told, I think that it is even good to sometimes be scared. It brings us back to what we were as kids, afraid of monsters under the bed, and bumps in the night, or, if you’re a bit older, of murdered priests with rosaries they use to murder their unsuspecting victims as they come back from the dead, singing devilish Eucharist plainsongs that, when played backwards, say things like “I am the devil” or “The blood of the lamb won’t save you now.” Insert scream here.