Marcia Gloster - 31 Days: A Memoir of Seduction

15 July 1963

Sweat was pouring down my back as I dragged my suitcase to the train, attempting without success to dodge the sticky steam rising from the tracks. It only added to the unbearable humidity and heat, making the air foul, fetid, and thick. A garrulous porter helped us to our second-class compartment, roughly shoving our suitcases under the seats and turning to me for the thousand lira in my outstretched hand.

Collapsing gratefully on the musty, thinly cushioned seat, I breathed a sigh of relief, realizing at the same time that the heat was actually worse inside the compartment than out on the platform. A small fan in one corner barely stirred the overheated air. Kate looked exhausted and rolling up her sweater, lay down across the lumpy seats. The last weeks traveling through Europe had been a revelation of art, architecture, and ancient ruins, despite the relentless heat that had been a constant, oppressive presence. Venice had been our final stop, and though I hated to leave that watery wonderland, I was hoping Austria would at least be cooler, not to mention sweeter smelling.

The conductors shouted, slamming the doors. The train jolted and hissed, moving sluggishly out of the station and heading across the flat, soggy plain toward the Alps and Austria.

I turned to look at Kate. She was already dozing. I closed my eyes, but between the shouts of the conductors, repeated passport inspections, frequent stops, and incessant clattering of the train, sleep was as distant and unreachable as a dream.

We arrived in Salzburg at dawn, exhausted but grateful to be on solid ground. I stepped down to the platform into a strange, almost unworldly, pale cerulean blue light. It was as though I was standing at the bottom of a clear, azure pool. It was lovely and I was glad to see it, especially since I had no intention of being awake at dawn again anytime soon.

As we gathered our bags, I realized the air was cool and drya refreshing change from the sodden heat of Venice. Beyond the station, I saw neat, white houses trimmed with planters overflowing with brilliantly colored flowers and in the distance, the sun beginning to highlight deeply forested alpine peaks.

We found a taxi outside the station, and I handed the sleepy-looking driver a slip of paper with the address of the flat. Mumbling to himself, he practically threw our bags in the trunk.

We were both hoping that wed be living in one of those charming white houses trimmed with flowers or, if not, in some fabulous, over-the-top, baroque building from a century or two past.

It was only three minutes before the taxi slowed and Kate, glancing out the window, frowned. I think were here. It may not be so fabulous.

The taxi driver dropped us and our luggage unceremoniously in front of a stark, modern apartment building on Gabelsbergerstrasse. We paid him, adding a generous tip, but he left in a huff.

What was his problem? Kate asked, watching the taxi speed away. Did he think we knew it was so close to the station?

I looked up at the dull, ochre-colored building. It stood alone on a concrete slab that barely supported a few dusty bushes. There were no balconies, no overflowing flower boxes. I counted ten floors of unadorned concrete construction. The ground floor was occupied by a small, modern-looking supermarket and across from it on the corner was a large gas station. So much for charming, I muttered to Kate. She looked back at me with a grimace.

Inside the entrance we found a small elevator barely large enough to squeeze ourselves and our bags inside. The flat was on the fourth floor and the lift was creaky and slow. Even worse, it had a motion sensor, and we quickly discovered that if we didnt move, the light would go off before we reached our floor. I quickly decided it would be faster and far less scary to take the stairs.

Our hosts were the Lipps, a couple in their early thirties. Herr Lipp was tall with a ruddy complexion, dark blond hair, and pale blue eyes. He answered the door wearing a frayed gray bathrobe. Frau Lipp, also robe-clad but in bubblegum pink, was standing behind him looking as though she wanted to hide. Short and plump, she was taking curlers out of her cropped, mousy-brown hair.

Herr Lipp greeted us with a smile, welcoming us to their home. Although his English was heavily accented, I had little difficulty understanding him. He told us his wife spoke no English at all.

I said I was hoping wed learn some German, but I was sure we would manage to communicate.

You get settled, he said. We will make coffee and breakfast for you.

He showed us our room. It looked freshly painted in a rather bland light gray but was surprisingly spacious and filled with early morning light. There were two twin beds with large white square pillows and soft, plush comforters that appeared to be filled with feathers. The polished wood floor was bare except for a small woven rug between the beds. A dark sepia-colored wooden armoire stood against the far wall and next to it a matching chest with drawers. Hanging above the chest was a large color print of Salzburg with the Hohensalzburg fortress at the center. Between the beds, a small white wooden table sat below a large window that looked over the street. Against the wall opposite the beds, there was an oval wooden table with two chairs. A slender blue vase with white lilies had been placed in the middle, a welcoming touch.