MARIENBAD TO TRAFOI
Even a congenial environment like that of Marienbad began to lack
interest when we looked at our motor itinerary and saw awaiting us such
rich experiences as climbing above the clouds over the snowbound
Stelvio, or the sight of Carcassonne, tower-girt and formidable behind
feudal walls. The call of the white road was irresistible when it led
through the purple valleys of the Pyrenees to beautiful Biarritz on the
Atlantic and to San Sebastian in Spain, where the Spanish king and queen
hold summer court. The perfect day of blue skies added its persuasive
voice.
We were again on the road. The villas of Marienbad withdrew behind the
mountains, and we settled down to the complete enjoyment of the ride
through Bohemia and southern Germany to Munich. On either side were
quaint scenes of Bohemian life. Every little farm hamlet had its pond of
geese, with a goose girl tending her flocks. One of them threw us a
flower. Her action meant more to us than she thought; it was a happy
omen for the rest of the trip. Peasant women were toiling barefooted in
the fields, or trudging along the road, bending under heavy burdens of
wood. This human element in the scene was impressive. Here, as
everywhere, the great drama of human life was being played. But the role
of the actors was such a humble and pathetic one, so much of the land
was given over to unfruitful fields, half cleared of stumps! There were
no such pictures of content and prosperity as one finds everywhere in
Germany and Holland. The houses were scarcely more than huts.
We halted in some of the towns to take a first lesson in the Czeck or
Bohemian dialect. The store signs were mysterious, with their
hieroglyphics. One shop contained sewing machines, and the word
"Singowiski" above the door hinted that this might be the Bohemian
translation of Singer sewing machines. Road signs were not always
visible, and less often intelligible. Then we were obliged to ask the
way. If the source of our information was a town official he usually
spoke in German, otherwise in Bohemian, an answer which did not relieve
us of our uncertainty.
The German frontier was reached about noon. Our _Triptyque_ received the
customary official stamping at the _Zoll-amt_. To our great relief, no
questions were asked about _Pichner Torte_, a very delicious kind of
cake made only in Austria, and so good that tourists always lay in ample
supplies. Such articles as a rule are heavily taxed at the Austrian
frontier.
Just at this moment Looloo, our French bull terrier, became sick. The
shock of coming so suddenly into German territory was probably too much
for her sensitive French temperament, but she soon revived after eating
a piece of French dog biscuit. We lunched at a _Gasthaus_ in the small
town of Furth im Walde. The first word on the wall which caught our
attention was "_Ausstellung_." That was enough to make us feel that we
were once more in the Fatherland. The Germans seem to be always holding
or advertising exhibitions and fairs. "_Ausstellung_" and "_Practisch_"
need have no immediate fear of losing their place in the vocabulary of
the average German. There was no doubt of our being in Germany. We
would have known it from the trim, clean farms. Order and thrift were in
evidence, every stick of every wood pile in place--all such a contrast
to Bohemian untidiness.
Once more in the land of the Kaiser, and motoring through picturesque
Bavaria, slow changing and old-fashioned, the mediæval part of modern
Germany, a region of small towns and peasant farms. We were often
delayed to pay the _Zoll_ of a few _pfennigs_. The impost was not
onerous, but it was inconvenient to stop so often. Frequently a little
girl or small boy would come out to collect our _pfennigs_, and would
hold up flowers for us to purchase. On one occasion we saw an aged
collector of tolls apparently overburdened by official cares, his head
sunk in slumber, and a large beer stein on a table near him. The picture
was so characteristic of the slow-moving life around us!
Our motor flight through this fascinating region of Germany afforded
opportunity to observe how the different towns had striven for a style
of architecture original and unique. The houses had much warmth of
color, much more than one would see in northern Germany. But then
Bavaria is of course closer to Italy, and to the vivid landscapes, the
bright sunny skies of the southland, and this difference in climate is
naturally reflected in the life of the people. It is not surprising that
the great artists of Germany should have come from the south.
We remember vividly the town of Straubing, where we stopped to buy
gasoline. In the middle of the street an old-fashioned clock tower rose
above the red-tiled roofs and gabled houses. Many of the homes had
attractive window gardens; red and blue were the prevailing colors. No
one was in a hurry; life moved with a leisurely swing. Baedeker barely
mentions Straubing, but we doubt if Nurnberg or Munich could show a
street more typically south German or better worth the artist's brush.
At this point should be mentioned the happy discovery of the lunch box
which thoughtful friends had stowed away with the baggage. There had
been so much to attract our attention that we had overlooked it. Our
motor appetites were equal to the occasion; fruit, cakes, and cold
chicken sandwiches received no mercy. It is unnecessary to add that
scenery and sandwiches went well together, especially such scenery and
such sandwiches.
The landscapes were not more varied than the weather. At times the road
was wet where a shower had just preceded us. All day the sunshine had
brightened and faded. Now we noticed a battalion of dark clouds massing
heavily above us; little by little the blue sky surrendered to the storm
king; the artillery of heaven thundered into action. It was worth a
wetting to see the storm sweep toward us and then fade into the gorgeous
sunset which closed the day. The church spires of Munich were luminous
in the golden light. Swiftly we sped down the long, straight road into
the city. When we stopped before the comfortable Regina Palast Hotel our
speedometer registered one hundred and eighty-five miles, the longest
run of the trip. The country ahead of us was to prove too interesting
for any attempt at long-distance records.
The evening gave a pleasant glimpse of Bavarian life, of its good cheer
and warm spirit of hospitality, so in contrast with the colder social
customs of the north. The Berliner is reserved, exclusive. When he
enters a café he would like, if possible, a table where he can sit
alone. But Bavarian sociability is all-pervasive. The café where we
passed an hour or so was filled with it. Tyrolean warblers in native
costume occupied the stage fashioned to portray a bit of south German
landscape. Song books were handed us. Every one joined in singing the
rollicking folk songs. Of course the evening would have been incomplete
without a visit to the famous _Brauerei_ and a cooling sample of
_Münchner Brau_.
After a couple of days in Munich we departed for Landeck, in the
Austrian Tyrol, a ride of one hundred and eighty-two kilometers. For
some distance our course was the same as the route to Ober-Ammergau.
Lunch at a wayside inn included _Gänsebraten_, which can only be
described as "_ausgezeichnet_." Bright Tyrolese landscapes flew by. It
was glorious running, the air buoyant with the breath of the mountains,
which rose in a jagged, majestic profile above little villages where the
houses were painted with queer scenes of peasant life.
At Garmisch we were in the heart of the Bavarian Tyrol. It was a good
place to stop for a few minutes to watch the people, the women almost
theatrical in the gay colors of their dress, the men equally gorgeous
with their red neckties, green hats and vests, to say nothing of green
leggings which left knee and ankle bare. Every one wore the feather.
Garmisch is not far from the Austrian frontier, so we purchased five
liters of gasoline, this necessary article being much more expensive in
Austria than elsewhere in Europe. Indeed, on reaching the _Zoll-amt_ at
Griesen we found that gasoline had jumped from forty-five or fifty
_pfennigs_ to a _kronen_ a liter, an increase of about eight cents. The
Austrian officials made us pay a duty of ninety _heller_ on the five
liters of gasoline which we carried as reserve. They also enriched the
treasury of their government by a duty of 3.60 _kronen_ on our twelve
liters of oil, and thoughtfully suggested that we purchase five
additional liters of gasoline at the Austrian rates. In view of our
purchase in Garmisch, this invitation was declined. Had we carried a
spare wheel and covers, they would have requested us to remove them and
would have weighed them in an outhouse opposite the _Zoll-amt_. It is
customary to charge duty on tires if the equipment be above a certain
weight. If one carries the average equipment, there is usually no
trouble.
Just across the frontier a sign post, bearing the word "_Rechtsfahren_,"
reminded us of the change in the rule of the road. The scenery grew
wilder. Nowhere in Europe can be found a more perfect country for the
motorist than the Austrian Tyrol, with its splendid roads and
incomparable scenery. Steadily the road circled and climbed. It was the
sunset hour. Shadows were creeping out of deep valleys; a snowy mountain
was turning to a lovely rose color in the crucible of the afterglow. Far
down among the shadows we spied a little lake, still and black under the
overhanging mountains.
The Post-Hotel in Landeck was surprisingly good. It is located right on
the river Inn, which rushes noisily through the middle of the town.
After an excellent _Abendessen_ we retired early, and were not long in
yielding to the drowsy roar of the waters.
Breakfast was followed by an animated scene in front of our hotel. Amid
a medley of motor horns, other cars were also departing. As we ascended
beyond Landeck, the road swung with easy grades above the magnificent
gorge of the Hoch Finstermünz pass, where we stopped for a picture. The
ride from this point over the Reschen-scheideck pass was simply
indescribable. In that exhilarating air, one seemed to be flying instead
of motoring. We plunged through rocky tunnels, or hesitated as the road
appeared to leap off into the abyss or the towering rock masses seemed
to sweep forward as if to bar further progress. Then would come a sharp
turn, opening up a new sweep of highway. The road was as good as we
found anywhere on the trip, and wide enough for the motor cars that
occasionally passed us. But accidents could easily have happened at the
curves. Sure brakes and a tireless motor horn are invaluable at these
critical moments.
It was a pleasant surprise at Reschen to see a cozy villa flying the
American flag, and to discover acquaintances in this secluded corner of
the Old World. We had forgotten that buckwheat cakes could be so good.
Our departure was accompanied with warnings about the difficulties of
the Stelvio, which we were to climb the next day.
After being shown the picture of this most formidable of mountain roads,
with its serpentine windings, rising mile upon mile, and finally
disappearing above the clouds, we wondered if the car could possibly
ascend such a barrier, and if it would not be better to reach Italy by
some less dangerous route. One motorist had attempted the feat a few
weeks before, and after climbing eight thousand feet was forced to turn
back on account of deep snowdrifts. Mention was also made of a
particularly dangerous curve where there had once been a fatal accident.
These reports were not encouraging, but nevertheless we wanted to make
the attempt. Every one who motors in the Austrian Tyrol has but one
dream, one ambition--to submit his skill and car to the supreme test of
scaling the Stelvio.
From Reschen the car ran along a pretty lake, then shot down a long
grade to Mals and from there wound along to Neu Spondinig, where we
stopped for a few minutes for tea and to exchange motor experiences
with other travelers, on their way to Landeck over the same route by
which we had come.
[Illustration: _Cutting across the glacier_ _Page 38_]
Leaving Neu Spondinig, we turned sharply to the right and into the gloom
of a deep gorge, crossing the bridges of the impetuous Trafoier Bach and
climbing for several kilometers to Trafoi, where a most marvelous view
burst upon us. Until this moment the high walls of the gorge had shut us
in, but now the road suddenly opened into a view so magnificent as to
seem almost unreal. We were directly under the shadow of the Ortler,
with its twelve thousand feet of rock and ice. The glittering whiteness
of the Madatsch glacier formed with its ice floods a veritable _mer de
glace_. The scene was so wild, the impression so overwhelming, that for
some minutes we forgot to order rooms for the night at the fine Trafoi
hotel.