Angela's Horn Studio

The next four days were going to be a mad dash to the finish.  We had one afternoon to explore Cologne.  If there is one place one must go when visiting Cologne, it is the cathedral whose gothic spires dominate the city.

When Corzoo raised his valve in a professor-ly way on our way to the cathedral, I knew we were going to get a history lesson, and likely a very good one.

“Did you know,” Corzoo said eagerly “that the proper name of this cathedral is Hohe Domkirsche St. Peter und St. Maria?”

“No, I didn’t,” I replied.  “What else do you have stored in that noggin of yours that you can share with us about this place?”

“They started building the cathedral in the year 1248 – that’s 763 years ago!  But they didn’t finish it until the 1800’s.  Work just didn’t happen for about 400 years.  Then in the 19^th century, there was a resurgence of interest in the Middle Ages and people wanted to finish it according to the original designs.  So they formed an organization that raised money, and got it finished.”

“Here’s to those with vision and willpower!”  I exclaimed.  “And what is this I hear about a box of sacred remains in there?”

“That would be the reliquary.” Corzoo said.  “I imagine that I should help you brush up on the definition, right?”

“That would be most helpful, Corzoo,” I said.

“A reliquary is a container of some sort – in this case, a little shrine – that holds relics.  And a relic can be the remains of a saint, or part of the remains of the saint – or a lock of hair, or something that a saint wore or used.  This reliquary is said to hold the remains of the Magi – the three wise men that visited Jesus after his birth.”

“And did you know,” it was my turn to show off my knowledge “which day Western Christianity celebrates the visit of the Magi – the Three Kings, as they are often called?”

Dave and Corzoo shook their heads.

“That would be January 6^th!”  And I told them how I myself was expecting a momentous arrival on that day of next year.  What a lovely coincidence.

We walked through the front doors of the cathedral – the largest cathedral façade in the world – we proceeded through slowly, trying to absorb as much as possible.  It was magnificent and overwhelming to say the least.  As we walked away from the cathedral, the sound of the bells summed up the visual impression the place had on us.   The long, slow peals were profound, ancient, and fundamental in their sound.  A sound meant to awaken a sleeping spirit!

Since I always like to counter potentially overwhelming things with simpler things while traveling, we took a look at one of the Romanesque churches of Cologne – we chose St. Andreas.

Then we went to the Museum Ludwig, which has one of the best collections of modern art in Europe.  We loved the German Expressionist collection and particularly enjoyed discovering Max Beckman, with whom none of us had previously been acquainted.

“Why do the people look so weird in these paintings?” Corzoo asked.  “They look distorted, and none of them smile.”

“Expressionists weren’t out to recreate reality in their paintings.” Dave said.  “They were much more interested in evoking a mood, and it didn’t matter so much that the objects didn’t look like they do in real life.  And beauty in the traditional sense was not the main objective.”

“That’s right,” I added.  “Take Edvard Munch’s The Scream, for instance.  It doesn’t give you a warm and fuzzy feeling exactly.  But it isn’t supposed to.  You’re supposed to be able to see and feel a scream.”

Corzoo was taking all of the images in.  “Is this sort of like what Schoenberg, Berg, and Webern did with music?”

“Yes, exactly!” we replied.  These were the main composers of what is known as the Second Viennese School.  These composers probably felt like nothing new could be done with tonality that hadn’t already been done, and they were ready to abandon traditional tonal centers and expand into a completely new musical language.  They did things differently!

“Like in Pierrot Lunaire,” I said. “where Schoenberg uses sprechstimme instead of the traditional way of singing.  The singer’s notes drift on pitches, just like when we speak.”

“I think that is just the coolest effect ever!” exclaimed Corzoo.  He launched into an impromptu imitation of sprechstimme. “Des Mondlichs bleiche bluten…” It was especially creepy-sounding in the large, echoing gallery we were in.

“Shhhhh!  Corzoo!” I said, as a few other museum-goers looked our direction to see what in the world was going on.

“Well, it fits the mood of the room, doesn’t it?” he asked with a bit too much glee as he gestured towards some of the haunting images that surrounded us.

Later on that evening Corzoo was doing some research on Max Beckman since we liked him the best that day.

“Look at what I found!” he exclaimed.  “It’s a painting of Max Beckman and – me!”

I went over and looked at what he had found.  Sure enough – there was a self-portrait of Beckman holding a little instrument that looked remarkably like Corzoo.

“He looks like he’s about to launch into some Berg – maybe a tough lick from Wozzeck!” Dave said, referring to Berg’s most famous opera – an opera that happens to have infamously tricky horn parts.

“Whatever lick is coming up, it has a short life left.  KaPOW!” Corzoo jumped with delight as he did a karate kick and punch.

The next day we were off to London, a favorite city of mine.  Unfortunately, we once again had a mere couple of hours free in which we could explore.

We were staying close to Kensington Palace and I discovered that they served tea every afternoon in the Orangery.  Can you guess where we ended up?  Yes!  Having tea.  There was a wait to be seated but it was worth it.  The scones were the best I’d ever eaten – not these dried up things one most often finds in the States.  The cream – yum!  The tea – perfection, of course.

After a short rest, we were off to Royal Albert Hall, the location of the Proms.  The Proms are what you might call a Big Deal and definitely a Scene.  The feel of these concerts which last over several weeks throughout each summer is more like a rock concert than a typical classical concert.  The way you get a ticket for the Proms is the exact opposite of what you would do to get a ticket for, say, the Vienna Opera Ball.  Tickets for seats are chosen by lottery, and Prommers, as they are called, line up for hours in advance for the opportunity of buying a standing room seat.  Now, the most interesting part is that standing room tickets, rather than being in the back, or way at the tippy-top, are right up front on the ground floor.  It is a large space that can hold around a thousand standing concert-goers!  Because of all of this, the Proms has been called the most democratic of music festivals.  Every one gets a fair chance at attending – you just may have to show how much you want it by your time commitment and your perseverance!

The last night of the Proms is televised by the BBC and is full of tradition.  British flags are waved and the mood is celebratory.

“Too bad this isn’t the final night.” said Corzoo.  “We could hear Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance and Parry’s Jerusalem!”

“We would have had to camp out for days to get a ticket!” I said.

“I wouldn’t mind one single bit!” said Corzoo.

We went inside the cavernous and famous Royal Albert Hall and looked around while Dave was warming up for rehearsal.  It sort of reminded us of a circus venue – circular and massive with its large open concrete floor that was used for standing room.

Corzoo and I headed back to the hotel during the concert.  It was sold out, and besides, we had some practicing to do.  In a mere few days it was back to work for me, so I had to be in shape.

The next day – Paris!  What a tragedy to be in such a beautiful city for just a few hours.  I wanted to show Corzoo the Tuileries, the Cluny Museum, the Pantheon, Sacre Couer, Notre Dame, Sainte-Chapelle, and a dozen other places in this beautiful city.  But alas, we settled for walking the Champs-Elysees and getting some divine macaroons from Laduree.  One could spend an afternoon in worse ways, I suppose!

“Corzoo – you did it!” I exclaimed.  “Your extraordinary adventuring skills have earned you a photo in front of the Arc de Triomphe!”

“I’ll come back one day to see and learn more,” he said as he struck a pose in front of that giant monument.  “You don’t regret bringing me along, do you?” he said, already knowing the answer.

“Not for a millisecond!” I exclaimed.  Not only did I not regret being cajoled into bringing Corzoo, I rather enjoyed seeing the world through his eyes.

We took off for Philadelphia the next morning after having one last Parisian croissant.

Au revoir, Paris e Europe!  We’ll be back someday.

“Do you ever feel that History is a Person?”  Corzoo suddenly asked on our way to Dresden.

“Well, not exactly like a Person, but I think I might know what you mean,” I replied.  “Do you mean like someone who is right here with us, rather than far away and remote in the past?”

“Yes!” he said.  “And I think he has been following us all over Europe!”

This was very perceptive of the young Corzoo, I thought, and as we arrived in Dresden, I began to realize that my little friend might feel History even more keenly here – because it was more recent than much of what we had been experiencing.

The outskirts of the city were often bleak.  There were desolate plots of land, run-down buildings covered with graffiti, and overgrown gardens.   However, as we crossed the river into the old part of town we saw glimpses of what Dresden used to be.  It had been known as the “jewel box of Europe” before the end of World War II when it was all but destroyed by bombs. It was known for its elaborate baroque and rococo architecture, and it had been a cultural center of Europe.  But the war, and the awful things that happen during war, had changed the face of Dresden forever.

Once we settled into our room, we read up a bit on the history of the hotel and discovered that where we were staying, the Taschenbergpalais, had been the Wermacht headquarters in Dresden!  We also found a photo of what Dresden looked like after it was bombed.

Dave had been here in the early 1990’s, not too long after the reunification of Germany, and the city had changed drastically since then, he said.  “Do you remember the outskirts of the city we came through?”  We nodded.  “That’s more or less what the entire town looked like then.  They have done a lot of work!”

We only had a few short hours that afternoon, so out we went for a walk.  We walked across the street to the Zwinger, a baroque palace, and through the center of the city to the Frauenkirche, then to the river.

“Look at the different colors of bricks!” Corzoo said as we passed several structures.  Some of them were black from age and soot and pollution, and some of them were white and clean.

“The black ones are the older ones,” Dave said, “and the white ones are newer.  They have been doing restorative work here, hoping to reconstruct the city to a portion of its former beauty.”

“But with such complete devastation, why not start from scratch?” Corzoo asked.

“Well, that is one approach to rebuilding, to be sure, and I’m sure they did that quite a bit,” I speculated.  “But here in the center is where there most treasured buildings are.  Such buildings are valued because of their history, what they represent, and the care that went into creating them.”

“Oh, I see,” said Corzoo.  “Naturally they wouldn’t want to just throw it all away.”

I told Corzoo about what I learned in one of my very favorite passages from The Book Of Tea, a book about Japanese aesthetics.  “Do you know what they used to do in Japan for a very treasured and prized tea cup when there is an accident and it falls and breaks?”

He shook his head.

“They don’t throw it away.  Instead, when they repair it, they fill the cracks with gold and put it back on display.”

“So people can see that it has survived and now is more precious than ever!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, I believe so.  Its very imperfection becomes something to marvel at and treasure.”

The next day, we were off to Berlin, where again, we had only a few hours to explore.  We made it to the Brandenburg Gate and to the Reichstag, and then we met an old friend of mine – Christian Biegai.  He is a Berliner, but lived in New York for a while which is where I got to know him.  Now he is back in Berlin, writing film music and playing the saxophone.

While walking around our hotel, both Dave and I were thinking – this is very weird!  The area had a bizarre feeling.  Christian explained – it is because this area of Berlin was no-man’s land when the wall was up.  The wall was a sort of double wall, and this was the area in between.  Aha!  Now it made sense.  Too bad we didn’t have time to explore some other areas of Berlin to get a feel for a different area.  Some day!

The next day we flew to Frankfurt, the major financial center of Europe.  Just so one doesn’t forget, a very large statue of the Euro sign has a prominent place in town.

We had planned a boat trip on the Rhine River for Dave’s free day, and as we walked towards the departure location with Corzoo in tow we were excited about seeing the river and the ancient and storied castles.

My first impression of the tour office was one of, shall we say, worried hope.  It was a tattered and shabby little hole of an office, and it seemed that one guy was running the show.  People trickled in from all over – four elderly ladies from Australia, a British woman, another couple of Australians, a Spanish couple, a mysterious young woman who turned out to be from Siberia, an American couple, and finally a Middle Eastern couple and their two daughters.  One of the daughters was a very young baby – quiet and happy.  The other was about three years old and she was screaming at the top of her lungs, which her mother later attributed to the fact that she was teething.

So began our adventure.  We first had to take a bus to our embarkation location on the Rhine, and it was not a quiet ride, let me tell you.  Dave looked positively ill as did little Corzoo.  This was not looking good.

The tour guide told his jokes loudly over the P.A. system of the bus so as to project over the little girl’s wails.   By the sounds of it, he had told these jokes every single day – and enjoyed telling them in many languages!

Corzoo huffed and repositioned himself so as to get a look farther back in the bus at all the unfamiliar faces.  That is when he noticed that directly behind us sat an elderly gentleman we hadn’t noticed before.  He had a long, gray beard and was sitting quite still with his eyes closed.

“The man behind us looks remarkably like Johannes Brahms!” whispered Corzoo to me.

I turned my head to take a quick peek.

“He does, doesn’t he?  But you know it’s not possible.  He lived in the 1800’s!”

“I know but….I think it might be him.”

“Well, OK, but it’s not polite to stare,” I cautioned him.

Before I knew what had happened, Corzoo had slipped between our seats to sit next to the man.  I heard him say quietly, “Entschuldigung! Excuse me!  Herr Brahms?”

The man with the beard opened one eye and looked down at little Corzoo.  He grunted.  “Ahem, ahem.”  Then opened both eyes and gave Corzoo his full attention.  “Is it possible that a tiny version of one of my favorite instruments knows who I am and is calling my name?  Am I dreaming?”

“I thought that I was the one who was dreaming when I saw you, Maestro,” said Corzoo.   “So it is really you then?” asked Corzoo.

“It is, indeed – in the flesh, I think – or perhaps not.  I can’t be sure.”

“What in the world are you doing here?” Corzoo asked.

“Well, it is my country, not yours, boy!” he said gruffly, a little indignant.   “Nevertheless, it is surprising, I suppose, to find me on whatever kind of large horseless carriage this is.  They told me it would take me to the boat so I could go for a little Rhine Journey.”

“So you came here to go on a Rhine Journey, Herr Brahms?” Corzoo asked.

“Well, no, not exactly.  Hmm, let me try to explain,” he said.  “Every once in a great while, the Powers That Be decide to send me as an ambassador of sorts – an ambassador of History and Music and Beauty.  They find people who are curious and sensitive and open to meeting me, and send me to talk things over with them.  However, I think the Powers got their wires crossed this time and sent me down to talk with the wrong young lad.”

“Why do you say that?” Corzoo asked.

“Well,” continued Johannes Brahms, “I was supposed to meet this young man in the park at eight o’clock this morning.  Then at precisely one minute to the hour, according to the nearest clock, I received a message via pigeon.”

“Via pigeon?  Like the bird?”

“Of course, like the bird, young man.  How else does one receive a last-minute, urgent message?”

Corzoo held his tongue when he realized that it would be very difficult to explain to Mr. Brahms the advent of texts and emails, and even then, he wouldn’t have a device on which to receive such things anyway.

“In any case,” continued Brahms, “the message was very curious.”

He handed Corzoo the folded piece of paper the pigeon had delivered to him:

Herr Brahms,

After consulting my daily schedule this morning, I regret to inform you that I have a variety of conflicts with the scheduled hour of our rendezvous:

1) I have a How To Make Breadcrumb Trails class at 9:30AM – 11AM on Mondays and Wednesdays. We have a test coming up, and I cannot afford to be a moment late.

2) My Synchronized Plate Spinning rehearsal is from 11am-1pm on Mondays and Wednesdays. Tardiness and absences require three and a half week advanced notice, but I only just received information regarding our meeting time two and a half days ago.

3) Foot and bicycle traffic make it impractical to navigate your preferred corner of the park from 7:30AM-9:30AM.  Therefore, access to and from the specified park bench is limited because of congestion and I cannot guarantee my punctual transit.

For these above-stated and most worthy reasons, I believe my time with you needs to be rescheduled for another day and time. The Powers That Be have a spreadsheet on which my availability is recorded. To be brief, I am only available between 2:30-3PM tomorrow, between 1pm and 3pm on Thursday. And then from 11PM-11:30PM on Friday. After that I need my beauty rest.

I am sorry that the Powers That Be made such a mistake.  It is shocking and has deprived you of getting to know me.

Thank you!

In The Name of All That is Worth Something In This World,

The Young Budding Maestro Stinkenputz

Corzoo looked at the paper in disbelief.  “But, doesn’t he realize that you are Johannes Brahms and that you have traveled through time and space and possibly from another dimension to be here?” he asked.  “Even if he doesn’t realize all of this, this is no way to treat anyone, Brahms or not!”

“Well, boy, there’s nothing I can do to change his ingrained ways.  So, I thought to myself, ‘Well, what am I going to do with this time in this strange modern world now that I am here?’  That’s when I passed a sign that proclaimed, “Today is your lucky day! Take A Boat Ride on the Rhine!” – and in five different languages!  I thought it must be a sign from The Powers That Be. So here I am – on a Rhine Journey!  It would give old Wagner and all the Wagnerians a turn in their graves!” he chuckled to himself.  “Imagine, Johannes’ Rhine Journey! It is ironic, no?”

“Ironic why?”  Corzoo asked, a little confused.  “Didn’t Wagner like you?”  The thought of this came a surprise to Corzoo.  He had thought that all composers must have some sort of affinity for each other.

“Let’s just say he was a very outspoken and lively man, and things had to be a very certain way to suit him.” Herr Brahms said. “There were those who liked his music and there were those who liked my music. People even came to call it the War of the Romantics. We were men of different stripes.  Plus, I was a very unpolished and old-fashioned fellow. I liked to roam the woods, and I had very broad-minded tastes and inspirations in my music.  And, to top it off, you see – I am wearing no socks!”  He pulled up a pant leg to reveal his bare, hairy ankle.  “Socks make my ankles itch, so I don’t wear them unless I really must wear them to keep warm.  Otherwise, why bother? Am I going to wear itchy socks just to please people who are offended by my lack of socks and who do not understand the trials of an itchy ankle?  I think not!  Plus they take time to put on, and I am anxious to get out of doors when I get the hankering!”

Corzoo laughed.  He felt as if he had found a kindred spirit in Mr. Brahms’ untamed nature.  “I have good news for you, Herr Brahms – they make socks now that are less itchy.”

“Accchhh!  I can’t be bothered.  In any case, I am only here for today, then I go back to the Great Beyond until the Powers That Be schedule me for another rendezvous.”

“Attention!  Attention!!” The tour guide was on the P.A system. We struggled to hear him above the screaming not-so-little girl whose teeth were allegedly coming in.  “Attention, attention, ladies and gentlemen! Today, I have very exciting news for you.  Very good news, indeed. Before we embark on our boat trip of the magnificent Rhine River to see the World Heritage Site and the impressive Lorelei rock, we will be stopping at a typischer German restaurant for a little lunch.  It is our treat and included in the handsome price you paid for your ticket today.”

Dave and I looked at each other.  What?? We thought we would at least get to go on the boat ride first.  We had only just finished our breakfast!

“Yes, that is right, ladies and gentlemen.  But remember, it is only the food that is included in your lunch.  If you would like anything to drink, anything at all – and that includes water – you must pay your waitress.”  He proceeded to translate to the Spaniard.  “Las bebibas no son incluidas!”

“And I have another excellent surprise for you, ladies and gentlemen.  Yes, another surprise.  We will take the bus up to the top of the hill so that you can ride down on the gondola to the restaurant.  From there you will have excellent views of the renowned vineyards of the region and of the beautiful and famous Rhine River.  Yes, the most excellent views!”  He said with a flourish.  “Please be advised that you must pay seven euros to ride the gondola.”

“Siete euro para llevar la gondola!” he yelled to the Spanish couple.

“If you do not wish to take the gondola down, we will take the bus back down the hill, which will no doubt contain the screaming child, and deposit you at the restaurant.  This is a free service.”  He proceeded to translate, “Es gratis para regresar por autobus con la niña desconsolada.”

Seven euros each or no, we were getting off of that darned bus.

“Herr Brahms,” Dave said, “we are happy to treat you to a nice quiet ride on the gondola down the hill.”

“Thank you, Herr Bilger, but I think I might just walk down the hill.”

“Really?” I asked.  It did seem very far.

“I have missed my walks in the woods, and now I have my chance,” he replied.  “I will see you on the boat!”

“On the boat?  But what about lunch in the typischer German restaurant?”  But Herr Brahms had already disappeared into the trees, his hands clasped behind his back.  He was indeed an accustomed hiker, moving deftly over the roots and twigs in his sock-less feet.

Let’s just say that we wish we had joined Mr. Brahms on his hike, because, though the gondola ride was quiet and did indeed have lovely views, the restaurant was, shall we say, meant for people taking a tourist bus to get to a tourist boat ride on the Rhine –  not for people like myself or Dave or Mr. Brahms.  Then Corzoo pointed out to us that we were taking a tourist bus to get to a tourist boat ride on the Rhine River.  I guess we couldn’t argue there.  Corzoo managed to find delight in the kitschiness of it all and we did have some excellent laughs.

Finally, it was time to catch the boat.  We found Herr Brahms leaning over the railing looking thoughtfully as the water flowed and churned beneath him.  He was humming a little tune and looked calm and invigorated from his walk.

This was the best part of the day.  It was windy and chilly on the top deck, but we didn’t mind a single bit.  The air was fresh, and we were not inside of a noisy, cramped bus or kitschy restaurant.

We passed castle after castle.  Some were in ruins.  Some had been made into hotels or youth hostels, others were now owned and occupied by people who made their homes there.  While we were watching the scenery go by, Corzoo ventured to ask a question of our esteemed companion for the day.

“Herr Brahms, is the horn really one of your favorite instruments?”

“Ahem,” he said, jolted out of a reverie.  “Well, I wrote the trio for the horn and piano and violin, didn’t I?”

“Yes, sir, you did.” Corzoo replied.

Mr. Brahms looked sideways at Corzoo, annoyance giving way to curiousity.  “Aren’t you a little young to know much about my horn trio?”

“Oh no, Herr Brahms.  Well, maybe.  I mean to say that I am young, but I hear Frau Bilger playing it from time to time, and I like to learn about pieces that I didn’t know of before, so I did some research.”

“And what did you find out?”

“I found out that you wrote it for your mom, and that you were inspired by your walks in the woods.”  Corzoo spilled out his sentence all very quickly and matter-of-factly so as not to come across as too sentimental and prying.

“And?” he prompted.

“And you wrote it with the natural horn in mind rather than the valved horn, even though it was the valved horn which was gaining in popularity when you wrote the piece.”

“Yes, you know, I played the natural horn – the Waldhorn!  I love the sound and the poetry of it.  It is a sound from the earth!”

“But Frau Bilger only plays the valved horn.”

I tried to shush Corzoo.  I didn’t want to offend Mr. Brahms by making him aware of the fact that I did not play his piece on the instrument he most loved.

“Well,” Herr Brahms said, “she is trained on the modern horn and no doubt would sound dreadful on the natural horn.”  I nodded in agreement.  “As long as she always promises to perform the piece with the sound and the tendencies of the Waldhorn in mind, I will forgive her.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brahms.” I replied sheepishly.  “I promise I shall do my best to give informed and thoughtful renderings of your piece.”

“Yes, Corzoo,” said Herr Brahms, becoming introspective again.  “I wrote it as a way to grieve for my mother when she left this world, and I took comfort and inspiration in the woods, as always, and in the sounds and instruments of my childhood.  It is music from my life and my heart.  Would you like play it one day?”

“I would, sir!” Corzoo exclaimed.  “I hope to become good enough to do it justice.”

“I have a hunch that you shall, young man.” said Herr Brahms quietly as we passed by another medieval castle.

Corzoo leaned over to me.  “Psssstttt” he whispered.  “He filled the cracks in his teacup with gold, didn’t he?”

“I should say so, my little friend!”  I was glad that Corzoo had seen how Mr. Brahms made something very special out of the sorrow he was feeling for his mother.

Our boat ride had been going splendidly.  We saw such beautiful castles and vineyards and quaint little towns.

All of a sudden, “Holy Lorelei!” cried Corzoo.  We nearly jumped out of our skins when the speaker in front of us started blaring a tune, unfortunately on the trumpet.  Dave was the first to cover his ears.  We were passing the famous Lorelei rock where legend has it that a mermaid would distract sailors with her siren song and many boats crashed against the rock.  Needless to say, rather than finding their dream-mermaid, they found a watery grave instead.

“I shall go to my watery grave too if they don’t stop this awful, blaring song!” Dave yelled above the din.  He pretended with ears covered to be ready to jump overboard.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we are passing the very famous Lorelei Rock!” the announcement proclaimed excitedly in English, German, French and Japanese.

Very soon after the grand finale of the Lorelei Rock, it was time to get off the boat – by ramp to the dock, not by jumping.  It had been a very short hour and a half.  We waited as long as we could before getting back on the bus, looking at the river and enjoying the fresh air.

“Attention, attention, ladies and gentlemen!” said our tour guide once we were back on the bus.  “I have yet another great surprise for you,” he shouted.  “We will now return to our favorite typischer German restaurant for a very nice wine tasting of the very famous wines that are made in this very famous region.  We have only the best for you to sample.”

Return to that restaurant?!?!  Oh no!

“I smell a sales pitch,” muttered Dave.  “You know that’s coming!”

The last thing we wanted to do was go back there.  We looked for a way to escape.  Was there a train station close by that we could take back to Frankfurt?  Nope.  No escape.

Fortunately, the scenery was slightly different this time, as we were all crammed into the other half of the restaurant – the one with the Lorelei Mermaid Theme.

Each thimble-full of wine came with a full fifteen-minute description from a waitress whose voice was like fingernails on a chalkboard. Early on, Mr. Brahms had his fingers in his ears and headed towards the door.

“Hey you!” shouted the waitress, her abrasiveness making our stomachs churn.  “Where are you going? You don’t want to taste the best wines in all of the world?”

“I’ve lost my socks and have to go find them.  Forgive me!”  Herr Brahms said as he pointed at his bare ankles and shrugged his shoulders helplessly.  Out the door he went to his freedom.

Dave and Corzoo and I immediately wished we had worn no socks as well.  But we decided not to make a scene and stayed almost to the end.  I finally felt it wouldn’t be too impolite to get out of my seat once the sales pitch came, just as Dave predicted.

“We have a surprise for you, ladies and gentlemen!” she shouted.  We all braced ourselves.  “All of these very, very special wines are here for you to purchase and take home with you.  You can’t find them anywhere else in the world.  Only here!  And if you buy three bottles, you get the fourth for free!”

We were soon back on the bus and had a couple other “surprise” stops on the way back to Frankfurt.  Let’s just say that the tour guide made sure to come through and collect his tips BEFORE it was obvious that we were stopping by the airport to drop one of the tourists off for her flight.  No doubt she had slipped him some Euro.

At the end of our eight hour tour, we felt drained by being dragged this way and that by our enterprising tour guide, but happy for the boat ride, short as it was, and very happy for the company of our unexpected fellow tourist.

“Herr Brahms,” said Corzoo, “I am sorry that your first appointment didn’t work out this morning, but I am so glad to have met you.”

“Well,” said Mr. Brahms, “I believe that perhaps the Powers That Be intended for me to meet you all along.”

“Really?” Corzoo asked, elated.

“They work in strange, roundabout ways sometimes,” he said.    “You think you are going one place, but then you end up going somewhere else, and before you know it, something wonderful and good has happened – like getting to spend some time with a lively, curious boy who has a good and thoughtful heart.  It’s OK with me if our environment was a little cluttered and kitschy and loud at times.  That’s what the fingers-in–the-ears and walks in the woods are for!”

“Where are you going now?” we asked him.

“Back where I belong,” he said, and without a trace of melancholy. He could see, though, that we were feeling melancholy at the thought of his departure from us. “However, you never know when I might drop in again.”

He had a smile and a twinkle in his eye as he turned towards the park, hands clasped behind his back, bare feet rubbing against the insides of his leather shoes.

If one can make sense of Vienna by an awareness of the historical presence of royal courts and the fact that Vienna was capital of the Holy Roman Empire for a while, one can make sense of Edinburgh by knowing about its nearly-constant battles throughout the centuries, as well as the fact that it was the center of the Scottish Enlightenment.

One of the very first things one is sure to see upon entering the city is the castle, an imposing structure built on, not just a mere hill, but a craggy precipice of rock that stands high above the rest of the town.  It is all crags and cliffs except for one main road called the Royal Mile, which stretches down in a straight line eastward from the castle and reaches the Palace of Holyroodhouse.  The palace is the Queen’s residence when in Scotland, and has always been the preferred residence of the royals since it was built, since the castle was for protection and afforded them few comforts.

Adjacent to the palace is Holyrood Park, a large piece of land that was formerly used as royal hunting grounds.  It contains springs, lakes, cliffs, and the highest point in all of Edinburgh – Arthur’s Seat.

Back westward we go to Castle Rock – on the north side, at the bottom of the cliffs, are beautifully tended gardens and the newer part of the city farther north.  On the south side, nestled in the shadows of the dramatic rock face, is the oldest part of the city. Tiny shops line the narrow streets as well as restaurants, old churches, and graveyards.

Such is the general geography of the center of the city, and the part that Dave, Corzoo, and I had time to explore.

On our first afternoon, we wandered around the old part of the city, finding delightful shops – the world’s first liquid deli for instance.  “What in the world is a liquid deli?” you might ask.  Well, upon entering, you see large wooden casks and an array of clear vases with various colors of liquid in them.  They contain oils, vinegars, liqueurs, and any other delight you can think of that might come in liquid form.

“What about chocolate milk?” Corzoo asked.  I shook my head doubtfully.  “Mango smoothies?” he tried again.

“I’m sorry,” said the very helpful shopkeeper.  “but we only have things that keep a very long time.  But we do have fun squiggly-shaped glass bottles that you can have after the older folks in your life finish up whichever liquid they choose to take home with them.”

We moved on to look at old bookshops, tweed stores, and an obligatory tartan shop before winding our way to Greyfriars Kirk and the kirkyard.

“Greyfriars Kirk?  As in Captain Kirk?” Dave teased Corzoo with his Star Trek humor.

“No!” said the gullible little Corzoo.  “Kirk means church!  It is more visibly related to the German kirche.  Remember that?  It’s the word we have to be careful not to confuse with kirsche which means cherry!”

“Ah yes, I remember now!” Dave said.  “I didn’t think I remembered James Tiberius Kirk having a brother named Greyfriars.”

We wandered around the churchyard.  If you can imagine the creepiest of Halloween movies you have seen with old, dark graveyards that harbor restless spirits and long-forgotten secrets – that is what Greyfriars kirkyard looks like!  We found bars over some of the gravestones and wondered why in the world?

We discovered by reading a few plaques that Edinburgh went through a period of time where bodies would be stolen from graves to be used for study by medical students.  People who were alive also had to be careful during this time.  These body-snatchers weren’t averse to killing a person for the same purpose.  YIKES!

We then moved on to a portion of the Royal Mile to explore and came across St. Giles Cathedral.  It is an elaborate and very old church – some of the oldest portions date to the 12^th century – and contains a small space called the Thistle Chapel.

“Oooohhhhh!” cried Corzoo.  “I was hoping I would get to see this chapel!”

“Why?” we asked.

“It is the official meeting place of The Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle,” he replied with a buzzy flourish.

“Well, I know what a thistle is and that it is the official flower of Scotland, but I don’t know what that Order is,” I said.

“I believe I can fill you in,” he said.  “It is a chivalric order containing knights and ladies that have been appointed by the Sovereign – the Sovereign being whoever is king or queen at the moment. It was established by James VII of Scotland – most likely in order to secure the loyalties of certain politically strategic people.  Nowadays the Queen (in this case) usually appoints people who have contributed in some great way to Scottish society.”

The chapel was small, but filled with detail and symbolism.  Each of the sixteen knights and ladies has his or her own heraldry, or coat of arms, displayed above his or her seat.  There were tiny carved animals on the each armrest between the seats – each one different.  There were angels playing bagpipes and pelicans and, of course, thistles!

The next morning we visited the castle first thing. The views of the city from atop Castle Rock were impressive.  We could see the entire city and beyond.  It was very easy to see why one would choose the craggy rock for the castle location.  We saw the crown jewels and the Stone of Destiny, which has been used in coronations for 1000 years.  We went to the residential part of the castle called the Royal Palace where Mary Queen of Scots gave birth on June 19^th, 1566 to James the VI of Scotland, who became James I of England.   Upon seeing the accommodations, we understood immediately why the royals preferred Holyroodhouse as their residence.  This was very barebones, indeed!  We also visited the Great Hall, which displays brutal weapons of war – swords and spears and guns.

Underneath all of this were dungeons for prisoners of war.  The stories that come from the castle would not make, in general, not very good bedtime stories.  It was a place of war – not of peace – and as such, much suffering and violence took place there.  However, it was especially interesting to see the old prison doors.  Initials, names, and pictures were carved roughly into the wood.  Ancient graffiti!

We also saw the sweet, tiny St. Margaret’s Chapel, which was built by King David in the year 1130, dedicated to his mother Margaret.  It is the oldest surviving building in the entire city!

Dave’s concert was later that day, so we needed to get back and rest for a while, but before we did, we stopped in at The Elephant House for coffee and pastries.  This is one of the cafés where J.K. Rowling began writing the first of her Harry Potter books.  The back room of the café overlooks the creepy Greyfriars Kirkyard, all the winding streets of the old part of the city beneath, and looming above is the castle.  It was easy to make the leap from the scene out of that window to the world of Hogwarts and all of the fantastical things that happened there!

When we returned, our half-day of exploration had surprisingly worn us out.  Corzoo decided it was time for a Scottish snooze, cuddled up in woolen tartan!

The following day was dedicated to the exploration of the Palace of Holyroodhouse and Holyrood Park.

“Ok, Tour Guide Corzoo,” I said.  “What can you tell us about how such a magnificent structure as this came to be?”

Corzoo dove in eagerly to some historical information for us.  “Well, the first thing to have been built on this site was actually an abbey whose ruins remain to this day.  The legend is that King David had a vision here of a stag with a cross between its antlers.  The king took this to be a sign and built an abbey dedicated to the Holy Rood.  Rood means cross.”

Aha! I had wondered where such a funny word had come from.

“Really, the abbey and the adjacent hunting grounds – what is now Holyrood Park – were the most important things here for a very long time.  But the royals’ guesthouse expanded into a more permanent residence and eventually became this exquisite palace.  The abbey was partially destroyed by English raids in the 1500’s and by more mobs in the 1600’s, and since the design of roof of the abbey was faulty to begin with and seemingly irreparable, the ruins were finally left just as they were.”

“Thank you, Tour Guide Corzoo!” we said.

We walked through the magnificent, ornate palace.  It was everything that the royal residences at the castle was not.  It was comfortable, elaborate, and extremely beautiful.  But our favorite part came when we walked out of doors off to the side of the palace. There before us stood the ruins of the abbey that King David had originally built.  The ruins were nothing less than poetic.

“Did you know,” said Corzoo, “that this is the place that gave Mendelssohn his inspiration for his third symphony, the Scottish Symphony?”

“Oh!” I exclaimed.  “That makes a good deal of sense.  I can see how he might hear that music while visiting here.  It is such a melancholy place.”

We wandered around the abbey ruins for a while.  Corzoo was whizzing around the abbey in a world of his own.

“What game are you up to, lad?” asked Dave.

“I am defending the abbey from the attackers.  Watch out!!!”  He made a lunge with his imaginary sword just to Dave’s side.  “Whew, that was close.  I saved you!”

“If I were King David instead of just Dave, I would bestow upon you knighthood of the Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle.”

“Perhaps I will one day do something good enough and brave enough to be made a knight!” said Corzoo.

“I’m not sure it works that way, but perhaps you will,” answered Dave.

“What do you mean?  Don’t most knights do very good and very brave things?  I should be able to become one if I do many good and brave things, right?”

“Well, not to be a downer, small frye, but often the bravest of folks don’t get the knighthood their actions might warrant.  And those who are knighted, well, they might be very good and very brave people indeed, and have done extraordinary things, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t those who are just as good and brave who – how do you say George Eliot puts it, Angela?”

George Eliot is one of my favorite authors.  Mary Ann Evans was her real name.  “She says they rest in unvisited tombs,” I replied.

“Yes – unvisited tombs!” he said.

“But I would rather be knighted and have a magnificent tomb – or better yet, never die and have no tomb at all!” said Corzoo.

“Well, yes, there is that, isn’t there,” said Dave.

“What is the point of being brave or good at all if I won’t be remembered as noble and recognized forever and ever by everyone?” Corzoo’s imaginary sword had dropped out of his hand, forgotten.

I tried to console him a bit.  “There’s nothing to say you won’t be remembered by people and have recognition, but that can’t really be your aim now, can it?  Otherwise you end up going about doing brave and ostentatious acts for the sake of looks.  More harm can be done than good that way, and often you end up bumbling around like silly Don Quixote fighting his windmills.”

The reference to Don Quixote caused Corzoo to perk up a bit.  Cervantes wrote many funny stories about the “ingenious gentleman” who wandered the country in search of adventures to prove himself a knight.  He traveled on his skinny horse with his sidekick Sancho and declared the name of his lady-love before every “brave” act he committed.  One of Corzoo’s favorite things was to listen to the very cheeky Strauss tone poem based on Don Quixote and his mis-adventures.

“You know, Corzoo, many people that we think of as being heroes are just very ordinary people, but they say that when put in a particular situation, they felt like they had no choice but to act in the way they did.  Often, they wouldn’t have chosen to be put in that position in the first place!”

“Unlike Don Quixote who tried very hard to prove his knight-worthiness and ended up looking quite foolish,” Corzoo said.

“Exactly.” I replied.  “I think that the ones who are real heroes are those who go quietly about their business tending to their ‘inner shining armor.’  The necessary actions flow quite naturally from them when the time comes.  They have no choice but to do what they feel is right.”

“Hmmm, an inner shining armor…” I could see the image resonated with him and his spirits were lifting.  “But how exactly does one tend to creating an inner shining armor?  Just in case I have the opportunity to write a treatise on the philosophy of such things, you know.”

“Ahem, yes, of course,” I smiled at Corzoo’s sense of pride.  “Well, I think perhaps it is a gentle and small thing that happens inside a person every single day,” I said.  “Sometimes the bravest acts don’t look so brave on the outside – like putting oneself in someone else’s shoes and trying to understand the world through their eyes.  Or acting in a peaceful way even though you want to retaliate….”

“That’s really difficult and gives me no satisfaction!  And after all, an inner armor must have a sword along with it.  What is the sword for?” said Corzoo.

“It’s for cutting through the crap!” Dave said.

“Succinctly put!” I replied.  “It helps us see better – to get to the heart of things.  To clear away the brush so we can see the proper path.”

We sat for a while, and wandered through the beautiful gardens of the Palace.

“Well, speaking of seeing things better,” I continued, “shall we go for our walk up to Arthur’s Seat?” I pointed to the peak of the large hill in front of us.  “It will be good exercise and we’ll have excellent views of the entire city and even farther than that!”  We were feeling a bit out of shape from sitting on planes and buses, but we huffed and puffed our way up.

About a third of the way, we spotted more ruins.  It was the ruins of St. Anthony’s Chapel overlooking St. Margaret’s Loch.  Loch is the Scottish word for lake, Corzoo was sure to inform us.  We inspected the ruins, and Dave pointed out the remnants of a fire someone had made in the corner of the ruins, and some ugly black graffiti people had left behind.  It was apparently a favorite hang-out for many throughout the centuries.

“Why did they mark up the ruins this way?” asked Corzoo.

I told him that my guess was that they figured they wouldn’t have a monument made for them after they died, so they wanted to leave traces of themselves behind in some way.

“Does it always come back to tombs with you?” Corzoo asked.

“Oh no, quite the contrary!  But it does make sense, doesn’t it?”  Corzoo had to agree with me.  I determined not to mention tombs for the remainder of our outing.  At least we weren’t talking about body-stealing like yesterday!  But this was Edinburgh after all – a place that does creepy really well. It was okay to be just a little broody and dark.

We walked on a gravel path most of the way, passing vast tangles of bushes and brambles and fields of thistles as well as gentle grassy knolls.  Towards the top it got rockier and rockier.  We were going to earn our view at the top!  There were some moments where we had to be very careful with footing, walking along what was essentially a cliff with no barrier to keep from falling very far.  But by keeping eyes fixed on where we were going rather than where we could have gone, we made it finally to the top.  I helped Corzoo to get the best view possible of Castle Rock, the old part of the city, and as far as the Firth of Forth and beyond.

“I like it here,” said Corzoo.  “Can we come back sometime and look around more?”

“I would absolutely love to,” I replied.  “There are also many castles in the countryside too – those would be fun to see one day.  And do you know, Corzoo, there is this thing called Scottish Country Dancing.  With your love of movement, you just might like that dance!”

Did I hear a groan coming from Dave and sense an eye-roll?

“I shall watch you two from the sidelines with pleasure!” he said.

“Aw, com’on!” said Corzoo.

Off we went down the hill, debating the merits of dance, but in agreement about visiting this extraordinary city again some day.

For those of you just joining our story, Corzoo is a feisty, precocious, curious little fellow, who happens to be a kazoo that is shaped like a French horn.  He longs to be a REAL French horn player one day and has finagled and cajoled his way into being taken along on our travels, citing that I am responsible for his development as a musician and human being.

Our stay in Luzerne went by in a flash.  What a shame, because it was a beautiful little town, with fresh, cool air, a mountain lake, and nice little shops.  Our highlights were watching the swans on the lake and eating Eiskunst ice cream.  “Das schmeckt mir gut!” as Corzoo would say.  “Yummy!” as I would say.

The day of our travel to Dublin was here, and it was Dave’s birthday.  Corzoo was getting in the mood – both for going to Ireland and for Dave’s birthday dinner that night.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya, Mr. O’Bilger!  Seems a fine day for a wee birthday party!”

“Indeed it does, Corzoo,” he said.

“Would y’ care to dance a jig with me?”  Away he jigged with funny little steps and kicks.

Dave pretended to consider, then said, “Perhaps later, lad.”

“I’ll dance with you, Corzoo,” I said and joined in.  If Dave had any doubt as to whether or not I had lost it, now he knew for sure.

So off we went to Dublin.  Whenever one sees photos of Ireland, it always looks exceedingly green.  I had always thought that this was an exaggeration of some kind, or nostalgic memories of displaced Irish for their homeland.  But, as it turns out, I could see as we landed that Ireland is very, very green.  The weather was chilly and rainy when we arrived, but we ventured out for a walk in the fresh air anyway, hoping to make it to hear one of Dublin’s famed choirs sing Evensong.  The choir of Christ Church Cathedral has a storied history and, along with the Choir of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, premiered Handel’s Messiah in 1742.  Unfortunately, I had gotten the time wrong, and doors were closing to the church as we arrived.  But it was soon time for Dave’s birthday dinner anyway, so we walked around and observed the people and the very active streets.  Our cabbie earlier that day had told us that there had been a Gaelic football match that evening, so it was going to be mayhem in town that night.

“There are two things we Irish are known for,” he said.  “Drinkin’ an’ fightin’!”

We promised him we would try to not get in the middle of anything, though I think Corzoo was hoping to witness some kind of scene.

We had a delicious birthday meal for Dave, and merrily headed back to our hotel on foot to enjoy the air and to walk off a little of our dinner.  Dave was carrying Corzoo in his jacket pocket now, so the little guy could have a change of scenery.  As we were walking we came across some street musicians playing dueling marimbas!  We stopped and watched for a while.  A few minutes later we came across two musicians playing a little tune and a young woman happily dancing by herself in the street, completely in her own world – that is until we walked by….

Before anybody knew what had happened she grabbed Dave by the lapel and said, “Dance with me!”  She was so adamant and quick about it that I had no choice but to let go of his hand and allow Dave to dance with her.

“Heeeelp me, St. Paaaaaaadddyyyyyyy!” cried Corzoo as they were both being swept away.  But in one of the whooshes and whirls of their dance I heard a buzzy yelp of delight.  It wasn’t quite a jig, but at least Corzoo got to dance in the streets of Dublin with a real Irish woman!

The next morning, the orchestra had a rehearsal at the hall and I thought perhaps today was a good day to go with Dave and listen to a little bit of rehearsal.  Corzoo and I happily found an unused corner of the lobby and practiced for a little while, then looked around the inside of the hall.  What a pretty space!  And of course, it had its share of green embellishments. We listened to the orchestra rehearse Stravinsky’s Song of the Nightingale and heard some of Dave’s big solos.  What a fun piece to listen to with all of the effects the various instruments make!

After lunch, our next stop was the Chester Beatty Library.

“I have been doing a little investigating and have learned some things.  Would you like for me to tell you about Mr. Beatty’s history?” Corzoo asked us.

“Yes, please do!” I replied.

“Well, Mr. Chester Beatty was an American who studied to be a mining engineer at Columbia University in New York.  He then started working at the bottom of the mine shaft, so to speak, shoveling coal, but worked his way up the ladder and built a fortune for himself.”

“Wow!” Dave and I exclaimed. “Do go on.”

“He was a man with a great love of books and the history of the written word, and when he could, he started collecting things that interested him.  He found and purchased Chinese books made out of jade.  Can you imagine books with pages made of precious green stone?” Corzoo said excitedly.

“Mr. Beatty found ancient manuscripts, many of them religious – illuminated manuscripts of the Bible, for instance.  Shall I inform you as to what an ‘illuminated manuscript’ is?”

“That wouldn’t hurt.  Please refresh our memories, Corzoo,” I replied.

“In the Middle Ages, meaning from around the 5^th century through the 15^th century, monks would carefully copy out passages of the Bible or sometimes prayer books and other religious texts, but they would make them into works of art as well.  They would often have elaborate illustrations, and they would always have a fancy first letter to begin each passage.  Sometimes they would use pigments of real gold and other precious metals as their ink!”

“Amazing!” I said.  “And what else did he find?”

He also came to acquire some of the very oldest Christian texts known to exist.  Passages from the Gospels – Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John – from as early as the year 150 A.D. and more from 200 A.D.”

“That is truly incredible!” we replied.  We were all very eager to see such ancient texts.

“And this is not the oldest thing he found,” continued our young friend.  “He found pages of ancient Egyptian love poems written on papyrus.  Do you know what papyrus is?” he asked.

“Well, I think so, but go ahead and tell us again for good measure,” Dave said.

“Papyrus is like paper, but made from a plant that originated in Egypt.  It is very fragile, so it is extremely rare to have in one’s possession Egyptian love poems written on a 3000-year-old piece of papyrus!”

We asked him if there were any other highlights we that should be sure to see.

“His collection also came to include some of the oldest Korans, Buddhist scriptures from every region, and also, you might be very interested to see his collection of elaborate book bindings throughout history.”

Book bindings! There was something I hadn’t thought of for a while.  All the books I own are bound in such an ordinary way.  Corzoo went on to tell us that Mr. Beatty retired to Ireland and opened up his collection to the public.  He was later named the first honorary citizen of Ireland.

We thanked Corzoo for doing such great research and proceeded into the library to look at all of the treasures Mr. Chester Beatty had collected during his lifetime.

It was quite something to lay eyes on writings so ancient, to imagine the person who bent over his desk with a pot of ink — sometimes golden ink! — and so painstakingly penned words and illustrations that had such profound effects on societies and civilizations.

In addition to the spiritual texts were humorous prints of social satire.  We all laughed.

“This woman has even Dallas women beat!” Dave said.

“Funny caricatures of women who desire the biggest and best hair is another thing that is not new under the sun, I guess!” I said.

Corzoo looked at me quizzically.  Finally something that I could explain to him!

“Well, you know the saying, ‘There is nothing new under the sun.’ The ancient wise man Solomon said those words.”

“What about Kindles and iPads and iPhones?” Corzoo asked.

“He has a good point,” said Dave.

“Yes, yes, yes, you teasers,” I laughed.  “But I think he’s trying to put things into perspective for us.   He wants to show us our place in the larger scheme of things, and it is also something we can take comfort in.  Everything we feel or experience may show up in a shiny new package or be communicated electronically, but underneath it all, human nature remains the same, and there is nothing we experience that hasn’t been experienced before.  For instance, there will always be women who want the biggest and most elaborate hairdos.”

“Well, in any case,” said Corzoo, “that doesn’t mean that things aren’t new to me.  Like Edinburgh!  I’ve never been to Edinburgh.”

“Well, lad, what do you say,” Dave asked.  ” Should we take a little jog, as opposed to a jig, across the Irish Sea and into Scotland to visit Dùn Èideann?”

“Sufferin’ Scot-itash! You already know the Gaelic name for Edinburgh.  I was going to stun you with my vast knowledge tomorrow when we got there!” said Corzoo.

“Well,” I said, “I will have forgotten the Gaelic name by a minute from now, so you can still stun me tomorrow, Corzoo.”

Dave went off to play his concert, and we went back to the hotel, feeling like we had seen some treasures, and looking forward to the treasures to come.

After our visit to the opera and days of walking on the grand streets of Vienna, we were physically a little spent to say the least.  But, aside from the tiredness, I noticed a lull in little Corzoo’s spirits.

“What seems to be the trouble, Corzoo?  Are you feeling ein bißchen blau?”

“Maybe I’m feeling a little blue,” he said.  The fact that he repeated the phrase in English and not German was a clue to me that he was indeed feeling blau.  “I am not at all sure what is wrong,” he continued. “I have seen so many beautiful and extraordinary things here.  I should be absolutely overjoyed.  I mean, I AM so happy to be seeing all these things, but…” he trailed off, seeming sadder than ever.

I had a pretty good idea of just what might be ailing him.

This type of thing is common among travelers who are artistic and absorbent, but who have limited time.  I have a friend who calls it “beauty fatigue.” There is simply only so much one can take in.  When “beauty fatigue” occurs, the thing that can come next is feeling disconnected from every extraordinary thing you see.  Suddenly nothing makes sense.

I made a plan for Corzoo since he did not seem to have the energy to come up with his own solution.

Step one: take a rest and slow down.

Step two: the next couple meals must be small, ordinary, and familiar if possible.

Step three: go to the hotel gym and get in a good exercise session.

Step four: when you go out again, look for the ordinary behind the extraordinary!

Corzoo agreed to try my tactics.

The following morning and early afternoon was spent moving slowly, going to the gym, eating simple meals.  Aaaahhhhh!!!!

“Und jetzt?  Wie geht’s, Corzoo?”  my husband asked Corzoo before he took off with the orchestra.

“Shall I translate that for you?” he asked me.  This is when I knew he was feeling better.

“Please, do!  I cannot keep up with you two.”

He proceeded to translate with his usual glee.  “Herr Bilger said, ‘and now? How are you feeling?’”

Corzoo was definitely back to his normal self and ready to see more.  I had a specific plan as to exactly what we were going to see though.  We would see nothing too grand – something that showed us the very ordinary processes behind the extraordinary.

After Dave left for his rehearsal and concert, we ventured out to two places very close to our hotel.  The first one was the Haus der Musik.  We decided to focus on just one floor – the part that was the museum for the Vienna Philharmonic.  We found three displays of very ordinary objects that especially delighted us: Mahler’s hat, items belonging to Brahms (glasses, pen, and calling card), and Leonard Bernstein’s tux!

The next place we went was the Vienna Museum.  It is a museum that goes through the history of the city, showing how and why it developed the way it did.  There are several large models of the city at various points throughout time so we could see how Vienna developed and what forces shaped it.

We started in Roman times when Vienna was still known as Vindobona – the time of the Roman ruins that we had been in awe of a few days earlier in Michaelsplatz.  We then moved through Early History and into the Middle Ages and into the more familiar Modern Period, all the while, marveling at what changed about the city and what stayed the same.

Corzoo delighted in ancient coins and old shop signs made out of iron and wood, and a very large “speaking trumpet” used from the tower of St. Stephen’s during the Siege of 1683 by the Ottomans.  The church steeple would have been the highest point, so the watchman could call out warnings to the city from the top.

“It looks like the biggest megaphone I’ve ever seen!” said Corzoo.  Also from this period, we saw brutal weapons and…

“Politics on playing cards!” Corzoo cried.

He was right.  We had in front of us a deck of playing cards from the 1600’s.  The suits were leaves, grapes, pomegranates, and hearts.  And can you guess who the King of Hearts was?  Yes, the leader of the Holy Roman Empire, of which Vienna was currently the capital – Leopold I.

We also saw collections of paintings of ordinary scenes from the city in the 1800’s: a postman, a girl selling honey and fruit, a copper engraver, an ink vendor.

We saw a painting of a cold, poor boy selling pretzels on the street, accompanied by his dog.  The placard beside the painting explained that there were many poor and vulnerable children alone in Vienna at that time, and there was a movement of painting whose goal was to bring to them and other social issues to the public eye.

We saw a painting of a quite better off boy, also with his dog, but in his own world.  The adults around him were small and like statues, without life or motion.

“Corzoo, is that how you see us adults?  No spunk whatsoever?”

“I plead the fifth,” he said.  Then, “shall I define what I mean by pleading the fifth?”

“No, Corzoo, thank you very much.  I understand that you would rather say nothing than to put yourself in a less-than-generous light.”

We then approached one of the huge models of the city of Vienna that were on display throughout the museum.  This one was from the era JUST before the Ringstrasse was built.

“Shall I tell you about the building of the Ringstrasse?” asked Corzoo.

“That, my young friend, you may explain to me,” I said.

“It is quite interesting because it all has to do with the old city walls.  Do you see this flat ring of land that goes all the way around the city?”

I nodded as we walked around the large model.  It looked like a planned park to me with little pathways crisscrossing it.

“Well, that is what is known as a glacis.  By the 1800’s it had turned more into a park, but before that, it was the last area before the city walls.  It was cleared so that those in the city could see who was approaching or attacking and get them, because they’d have no place to hide in that cleared bit of land!”

“Indeed!” I exclaimed.  “Go on…”

“Well, Emperor Franz Joseph – the one who ended up having his own tea room in the Staatsoper, remember,” he teased, “declared that he wanted those old city walls and moats to come down, for the suburbs to be incorporated into the city, and for the glacis to be turned into a beautiful grand street!”

“Aha!” I said.  “And that is why all of those buildings have the same feel to them.”

“You mean to say homogenous?”

“Yes, yes, Corzoo.  My goodness, you know big words for your age!  Yes, you could say homogenous.  Not exactly the same, of course, but all of the same grand spirit.”

We walked around the enormous model looking for buildings in the Innere Stadt, or Center City, that we could recognize and the streets we had walked on during the past few days.  As we approached the southern part of what would be the Ringstrasse, on the railing were explanations and old photographs of what would be the first building to be built on the Ringstrasse – none other than the Wiener Staatsoper!

“Look at this photo, Corzoo!”

It was the foundations being dug for the opera house.  So large was the hole in the ground that the people working inside the hole looked like bugs.

“Every grand building must start somewhere, and the grander the building, the larger the foundation!”

We marveled at the undertaking for a while.

We then noticed a small placard explaining about the architects Eduard van der Null and August Sicard Sicardsburg.  It said there that public response to the building was very negative and spoken about in very derogatory ways in the press.  Eduard van der Null was so distressed that he killed himself.  Later, his architectural partner Sicardsburg died – the placard said he died of a broken heart.  Other sources say he died of a heart attack or tuberculosis.  In any case, neither architect lived to see opening night.

“How is it possible?” cried Corzoo.  “If he only could have seen the future.  If he only could have seen that there were tours in five different languages each hour yesterday – just to see his beautiful building.”

It was truly an awful and very sad thing to contemplate. The whole situation seemed unthinkable.  We stood by the railing and looked at the picture of the foundations for a while.

Then Corzoo said, “I think what this means is that we must never despair, no matter what people say.”

“I believe you have something there, Corzoo.  All we can ever do is give the best of ourselves.  What others say and think means nothing in the grand scheme of things.  What is seemingly a failure right now may lead you somewhere else important, or may turn into something you could never imagine.”

Though our visit to the museum came to an end on this melancholy note, we had learned so much about what made this city tick, and that, indeed, in every era of the city, there were little boys like Corzoo, and grown women like me.  They had tea pots, they had chocolate servers, store signs, calling cards, eye glasses, and hats.  They had ways of communicating – maybe not by computer or text, but they had their ways –  sometimes by trumpet! They had playing cards and political cartoons.  Boys sold pretzels on the street and played with their dogs.

“Do you feel like you have gotten to know Vienna a little bit, Corzoo?  What do you think?”

“Wien ist wundershön!”

“Vienna is indeed wonderful,” I replied.

“…and it is also complicated in all the ways people can be complicated,” he added.  “But there is so much left to get to know next time – so much more to see.  I can’t wait!”

Auf Wiedersehen, Wien!  Till we meet again.

For those of you just joining our story, Corzoo is a feisty, precocious, curious little fellow, who happens to be a kazoo that is shaped like a French horn.  He longs to be a REAL French horn player one day and has finagled and cajoled his way into being taken along on our travels, citing that I am responsible for his development as a musician and human being.

What follows are excerpts from Corzoo’s notebook that he always carries, ready to jot down anything that catches his fancy.

My impressions, notes, and observations of the Wiener Staatsoper for future personal perusal, or (who knows?) potential use in an as-yet-unforseen treatise or scholarly article. Gathered from my brief guided tour in August of 2011.

The Wiener Staatsoper (The Vienna State Opera) is one of the premier opera houses in the world.  It is such a popular destination that there are tours in at least five languages that take place every hour!  Frau Bilger and I sat in the lobby and observed everyone’s excited behavior in anticipation of the tour.  Silly folks, young and old, were delighted with the grand opera costumes set up in the lobby that had face holes for snapping pictures to make it look like the person is wearing the costumes.  Of course, I had no interest in such shenanigans.  It helped to pass the time, though!

The opera house opened in 1869 with a performance of Mozart’s Don Giovanni.  The lobby is beautifully opulent (definition: ostentatiously rich or lavish) and is one of the areas of the original opera house.  The main part of the house where the audience sits, as well as all of the stage and backstage were damaged by bombs in World War II.  It took about ten years for the opera house to be repaired and reopen.  The last opera to be performed before the bombs fell was Wagner’s Götterdämmerung (translation: The Twilight of the Gods). It reopened with Beethoven’s Fidelio.

We went first backstage, which is three times the size of the area where the audience sits!  Sets may be pre-assembled far backstage, underneath the stage, or even above the stage to later be moved into the scene taking place.  There were no sets assembled because the opera season has not yet started; however, I believe there must be rehearsals starting somewhere because one lone baritone walked across the stage and let out a big, lusty vocal warm-up as he headed quickly to his destination somewhere in the bowels of the theater.  I called after him from Frau Bilger’s bag with my Siegfried call and I was suddenly zipped inside – but not before I saw him look back with a look of amused surprise.  “Ah! A young musician in the tour, eh? Sehr gut, sehr gut!”  I was proud of myself for being so bold.  They do have children’s operas.  I shall have to see if there might be an occasion one day for me to take an audition for something like this.   It’s always good to have ideas tucked away in the back of one’s mind.

Next, we saw the plush interior of the hall where the audience sits.  It was much smaller than I had imagined for such a famous place.  There were over two thousand seats, but they went high up rather than far back, so everyone has a sense of sitting relatively close to the stage.  We also visited the most exclusive first tier boxes.  This is where Emperor Franz Joseph’s private box used to be.  And behind it is his Imperial Tea Room where he would retreat and entertain during the intermissions.  There is often more than one intermission in operas.  Frau Bilger was for some reason very taken with this room.  It was extravagant for sure, but not nearly as interesting as backstage in my humble opinion.  That is where the true action happens!  I think she likes the idea of a beautiful tea room of one’s own, which I cannot possibly understand.  I would rather have a practice room of my own.

The opera house, interestingly enough, is not just for the rich and famous in Vienna to enjoy.  The cheapest tickets are only €3, which is about five dollars.  They are for standing room at the very tippy-top.  One must not be prone to vertigo (definition: a sensation of whirling or dizziness) if one is going to purchase those tickets.  The next most affordable tickets are the 5-Euro standing room tickets, and those are on the orchestra level with very good sight-lines.

There is, however, plenty of opportunity to part with one’s money in enjoyment of the opera if one so chooses.  For instance, there is the Wiener Opernball (The Vienna Opera Ball), which happens yearly.  It is perhaps the grandest of balls in the world and showcases the orchestra, the singers, the choruses, and the dancers.  A children’s ballet is a traditional part of the exhibition before the dancing starts.  If a couple wants to be a part of the first dance, which of course is the Blue Danube by Johann Strauss (he is known as Der Walzerkönig – the King of the Waltz) they must go through a strenuous audition process, and the top couples have the honor of dancing.  Then everyone is invited out on the floor to dance the evening away.  It is an Event (with a Very Capital “E”) and full of over 100 years of tradition.

I have already decided I will make it a point to revisit Wien during the opera season so that I may attend – most likely in standing room.  In the meantime, I shall have to “get my opera fix” as Frau Bilger says, with recordings.  Speaking of recordings, I have discovered a recording of the Vienna Philharmonic playing Götterdämmerung.  I post here now, my very favorite part:

The Short Call

Herzlich Willkommen the sign said at our restaurant of choice the evening we arrived.  Corzoo translated for us all, in case we weren’t sure what it said.  A Heartfelt Welcome!

We had arrived in a blisteringly hot Vienna.

“Wien!” said Corzoo with delight as we wandered the old narrow streets towards our first destination. He now would only refer to Vienna using the German name for it.   “Wien! I feel like it is the best and most beautiful city in the world!”

“It is indeed a very special place, Corzoo.  But I feel like cities are a bit like people.  They each have something unique to offer, being shaped by their own particular geography, age, and history.  Each city has a personality, sometimes multiple personalities!  There can be things we love about them, and other things that we could do without…” I was beginning to ramble, a little delirious from the long trip.

“Well, I have a feeling that Wien and I are going to get along splendidly,” replied Corzoo.  “How could I not get along with a city that has street names of Brucknerstrasse! Beethovenplatz! Schubertring! Operngasse!”

Corzoo had been eager to dash out the door of the hotel as soon as we arrived, ready to absorb everything about this city that oozed music even onto its street signs.  However, when arriving in a hot city after many hours of travel, the first priority is to shower and have a little rest.  Second on the list is to have a delicious meal, preferably a sampling of the local cuisine!  That is exactly where we were headed.  Down two levels beneath the street we went, into a restaurant of typical Austrian fare.  It was a large, old wine cellar and a wonderfully cool respite from the heat of the streets above.  We delighted in the atmosphere and, between the five of us in our little outing, we sampled the schnitzel, the goulash, the roast pork and the strudel.

Satisfied to have experienced some traditional Austrian flavor, off we went to finish our meal at the Hotel Sacher with Sachertorte, a famous chocolate cake with a subtle apricot filling.  A must-have in Vienna!

In our wanderings that evening, Corzoo rode only halfway in my bag, so as to be able take in the sights and sounds of the evening.  Since this was the older part of the city, the streets were stone-paved and narrow, and the buildings were grand and ornate, with impressive iron gates and tall, elaborate wooden doors.

We were passing by several shop windows when…

“AAAACCCCKKKK!!” Corzoo let out a shriek.

“What is it?  What’s wrong?” I asked, following his gaze.

There, displayed in a window of a closed bookshop was a colorful book with a picture of a funny little prankster on it.

“Holy Richard Strauss!” he exclaimed.  “It’s Till Eulenspiegels Lustige Streiche!  Shall I translate…?”

“I think I might know this one, Corzoo.  Till Eulenspiegel’s Merry Pranks! Play it for us now if you wish – there is hardly anyone around to bother at this hour.”

Corzoo launched into the main horn solo in the beginning of the Strauss tone poem just after the shimmering strings have played their introduction.

It sounded like a very good joke indeed, full of Till’s personality.  A few passersby offered some scattered applause and smiled at the glee with which the young musician played. Laughing after Corzoo’s round of deep, dramatic bows, we continued our stroll.

Soon we came to Michaelsplatz, one of the many beautiful plazas and squares in the city.

I heard my little friend’s buzzy voice.  “Look over here!  A house beneath the street!”  There, in the middle of the plaza, was a large hole in the ground with a guardrail around it.  It was an excavation of ancient Roman ruins displayed for all to see.

We walked slowly around the large dig.  We were looking down as if standing on the roof of a two or three story house.  The roof was mostly gone but the walls stood.  We could see the doorways, the tiny ancient windows, and the layout of the rooms. Above the house, we could also see remains of an old water system that had been built over this spot centuries later.  Then we could see the old foundations of other more recent buildings.

“Stratification!” cried Corzoo.

“What?” we said in unison.

“Shall I define stratification for you?”

“Yes, please!” we said.

Corzoo raised one valve in a professor-ly way and started in on his explanation: “It is a term used in geology and archaeology to mean the layers in the ground or in rock or in other materials that give us a sense of chronology and the passage of time. It can be used in urban archaeology as well.  It just so happens that one of the layers underneath us has not been reduced to a thin layer of rock or sand yet!”

We all gazed with fascination down into the ancient Roman house.  I put my elbows on the rail and stared down for a while, making sure Corzoo had a nice view as well.  The street was not very crowded, but a few others had stopped to observe the unusual hole in the plaza, and moved on.  We stayed put for a while looking at the site.

“What are you mulling over in that cogitating mind of yours, Corzoo?” I asked him.  “What do you make of this?”

“I wonder who lived here and what they were like,” he said.  “Do you think someone like me lived here?  Or close by?’

My young companion’s questions and musings seemed to me to be one of the most important things one could ever ask while traveling.  It is easy to spot differences across cultures and time and look at the people around us as if in a glass box, far removed. But to find the similarities – this has always been the most interesting perspective to me.

“He would be singing something other than Till Eulenspiegels Lustige Streich, but I believe so, Corzoo,” I replied.  “I can imagine an energetic, curious boy exploring the world, asking all kinds of questions, wanting to understand.  However, we shall keep that question in our minds while we poke our noses around Europe. What do you say?”

Corzoo nodded, but my reference to Till had gotten his musical brain going again and he was humming another joke-like strain from the piece to himself.  My husband and I chuckled at our sincere, but still boyish Corzoo, and finished our stroll back to the hotel.

The following day was a free recovery day for the orchestra, so Dave was able to go out and about with us.  We had never seen the works of Gustav Klimt at the Belvedere, so we made our way in the heat to the impressive grounds and palaces of this former residence of Prince Eugene of Savoy, a great military leader of his day.

Later, we went on an evening walk with Corzoo to show him one of Mozart’s houses.  I say ONE of Mozart’s houses, because he lived in many, many locations in Vienna.  But this is where he lived for a longer period of time, and where he wrote the Marriage of Figaro.  It was closed, but Corzoo was happy to see the narrow, modest street and lay eyes on the outside of the great master’s former abode.

We then headed towards Ruprechtskirche, which is reportedly the oldest church in Vienna from perhaps as early as 800 A.D.! On the way there, Corzoo was reminding us of a potential pitfall of the German language.  “Remember, you must distinguish between Ruprechtskirche and Ruprechtskirshe. We are going to St. Rupert’s Church, not St. Rupert’s Cherry!”

He continued with his ruminations, “I know they say that this is the oldest church in Wien, but you know there is some dispute about that now.  However, documents from the 13^th century do refer to it as the oldest church!”

“Well, in any case,” I replied, “I like seeing it because it is so different from so many other things we could see in Vienna.  It is easy in such a great and grand city to feel overwhelmed, and this feels ancient and simple.  It’s like taking a bath, don’t you think?”

“I hope not!” Corzoo protested.

When we arrived we surveyed the outside, saw what we could of the small stained glass windows, and were fortunate to find the church open for a service of some kind.  We quietly slipped into the back to get a look at the place.  It was a little like looking at the bones of someone who lived long ago.

We then headed towards the old Jewish quarter with its ancient winding streets and Holocaust memorial.  This was the heart of the Jewish ghetto from the 13^th – 15^th centuries, and where Jewish life continued to thrive up until World War II.  There are excavations of a medieval synagogue in the area, which we didn’t get to see since it was closed for the evening.

“Something to see next time!” Corzoo said.  “But one thing that absolutely cannot wait is the Wiener Staatsoper.  When are we going there?”

We could look forward to seeing the opera house of the Vienna State Opera the very next day.  That night I do believe that Corzoo went to sleep with visions of Rosenkavaliers and Rhinemaidens dancing in his head.

The day dawned bright and clear – the complete opposite of the previous day’s sturm und drang, as the budding young musician Corzoo would call it.  Then he would quote the New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians definition for me, just in case I had forgotten about that dramatic, stormy period in German literature and music.  I went about my morning routine with the added tasks associated with packing for a substantial trip, but when I hadn’t heard a single peep from the young lad Corzoo, I thought I had better investigate.

There he was, tucked in bed looking quite peaked.

“Corzoo!  What is wrong, my little friend?  You look positively green!”

“I didn’t sleep a wink and my valve section feels funny,” he moaned.

“I do believe I can identify with that.  I didn’t sleep half the night, and I have a bit of a rumbly in my tumbly as well.”

“Really – you too?” he perked up a little.

“Yes, indeed!  What I mean to say is, I can’t be certain, but it just might be a very natural phenomenon that occurs when one is about to go on a great adventure.”

“This is natural?” he asked in disbelief.

“Yes, quite!  Many people call it ‘travel-day jitters’ but I’ll bet you can come up with a better term for it, being the energetic wordsmith that you are.

“I know!” He now sat up straight and his eyes looked a little brighter.  “It can be called nothing less than embarkation excitement!”

“Bravo! That is an excellent description. And how would the protagonist of a great expedition go about the morning of his embarkation?”

“He would start his day as he does every other day, with a scrumptious breakfast, his daily exercises, and then he would follow the packing and to-do list that he prepared the day before, I have no doubt.”

“Well then, there is no time to lose!”

He had regained some of his color, and after “breaking fast” as he liked to call the act of having breakfast, and going through his routine, his brazen copper-colored shine had returned, eradicating his former green hue.

Before we knew it, we were on the orchestra bus on the way to the airport.  Corzoo was safely stowed away in my purse.

“Psssttt, psssssssssttttt!”  He peeked out of my bag.  “Are we there yet?”

“Corzoo! So soon?”

My husband Dave leaned over and whispered to him, “Fünfzehn minuten!”

“Danke schön, Herr Bilger!”

“Bitte schön!” Dave said.

Corzoo, proud of his first successful exchange in the German language and apparently satisfied with Dave’s answer, slipped back into my purse.  “Fifteen minutes?” I asked.

“Yes, it works every time.  That’s a trick of J. C.’s.”

“Really?” I thought to myself.  Had I missed a commandment to the disciples? “Hmmm,” I thought, scanning my New Testament knowledge for something relating to the time period of fifteen minutes.  Then I realized – different J.C.!

The associate principal trumpet player in the orchestra Jeff Curnow has two very cute and, I’m sure, very inquiring girls.  They probably ask him a million times a car ride if they are there yet.

Then came the check-in line, the security line, the boarding-the-plane line, the line of planes for take-off.  Aside from the expected lines upon lines, everything was going quite smoothly and soon we were up in the air.  Our eyes were heavy from the bustle of activity during the previous days, and in short order we were snoozing.

Suddenly my stomach did a flip.  Turbulence!  A murmur went through the plane. I heard a distant and somewhat kazoo-like voice coming from my purse.

“Holy Mahler!!!!”

After my stomach came back to its normal place in my torso, I reached down towards my purse.

“Corzoo, I heard your exclamations.  Are you alright?  That was quite a bump wasn’t it?”

“Um…” he faltered, trying to regain his composure. “No, not at all.  No big deal!  But, can you tell me, does this happen often on planes?”

“I’m afraid so, and I must say I don’t like it one bit,” I said.

“Could you say it scares the Schumann out of you?” he said with a sly grin, waiting for my reaction.

I suppressed an involuntary snicker and reprimanded, “Corzoo!!!”  Perhaps I uttered his name a bit too emphatically because the very polite oboist behind me called out, “Bless you!”

“Ahem. Oh, thank you, Peter.  I must be allergic to something on this aircraft.”

I turned back to my young companion.  “Corzoo,” I continued, this time quietly.  “You must be careful about the way you say things.  Someone might think you were about to say words very unbecoming to a proper and cultured young man such as yourself.”

“Haha! Let them! It gives me pleasure to keep people guessing,” he said with a mischievous grin.

I saw that despite the precociousness of my friend, he did possess some of the normal qualities of a young boy.

“Well, be that as it may…” I responded, keeping up a façade of indignation.

“Back to my original line of questioning,” he continued, “not that I have any use to ask this for myself, of course, but I am thinking of one day writing a great treatise on how various musicians cope with turbulence as they are flying to and fro, all around the world.  And I think now is as good a time as any to start compiling my research.  May I begin with you?”

“Of course, Corzoo.  I’d be happy to share one or two of my strategies with you, though you must promise not to laugh too hard.”

“I treat all of my subjects with great dignity,” he replied.

“Well, it seems to me in times like these, it can often be helpful to employ the imagination.  One can trick the body into thinking that something other than turbulence is happening.  I would tell you what I imagine as the plane jolts up and down, but, like I said, I’m afraid you will think I am very, very silly.”

“You would be contributing to my future academic prowess,” he said with thinly veiled curiousity.

“Well, alright,” and I braced myself for his reaction. “If it’s really bad, I pretend I am on a magic carpet sailing through the clouds.”

“A magic carpet?”  I could see that he was giggling at me inside.  “Like Aladdin?”

“Well, maybe.”  I back-pedaled a bit.  “One could also think of Harry Potter on his quidditch broom.”

“Oh yes.  I have heard of this Harry Potter.”  Clearly, neither answer was resonating with him.

“Well, Corzoo, what could YOU imagine?”

“The courageous Siegfried!  He does not fly around, but did you know,” he said with emphasis, “that Wagner’s Siegfried comes from the Old Norse legend of Sigurd?  (Which was written, by the way, in Middle High German.) Sigurd, of course, did not have a quidditch broom, but he DID have a cloak of invisibility!”  He finished with a flourish.

“And what would Siegfried do?  How would he respond when his stomach flies up to his throat?” I asked.

“He would play his call, of course – and loudly, to make sure everyone knew he wasn’t scared of anything or anyone!”

“I believe you are right, Corzoo.  That probably is what Siegfried would do.”

“Do you think, perhaps,” he continued tentatively “that the same idea could be transferred to the stage?  In the case of one’s stomach doing somersaults?”  He quickly added, “not that I know what this feels like.  As you know, I thrive onstage.  I am at my very best in the spotlight!  But, you know, if I were to write a treatise one day…”

“Yes,” I replied. “I do believe that connection could be made.  Except one wouldn’t be able to respond with Siegfried’s call all the time in that scenario,” I mused.  “But one could still respond in a courageous way.  I have heard that strategy called ‘pushing the courage button.’” I explained a little further.  “The more one pushes his courage button, the more it gets accustomed to being pushed, and pretty soon, in moments of stomach somersaults, one will be all the more conditioned to be courageous – to do what one must do despite what one feels.”

“And you, Herr Bilger, was denken Sie?”

“Oh, what do I think?” he asked, sizing up little Corzoo.  “Hmmm, well, picture, if you will, your mind as a — well, um, shall we say, a giant commode.”

Corzoo let out a yelp of surprised delight.  As my husband had no doubt anticipated, Corzoo did indeed enjoy the same humor that so many young boys delight in.

“And anything unhelpful to your cause during the moment you must be courageous is waste.  It must be flushed.  Just push the lever and….”

“Kwhhoooooooooooosssssshhhhhhhh!” Corzoo provided the sound effects.  He then caught himself getting a little carried away.  “Well, then, if you will allow me to recap the data I have gathered from you that will appear in my pending treatise on dealing with turbulence, whether on a plane, or inside the brain…”

We listened attentively.

“Tactic one: employ the imagination.  Meaning, turn the situation around in the mind so that one has a different perspective.”

We nodded.

“Tactic two: practice responding with courage, like Siegfried, or like Harry Potter.”

“Yes – whoever appeals to you,” I said.

“Tactic three: anything unhelpful that crosses your mind goes ‘Whoooossshhhhh’ down the toilet.”  He rattled his valves with particular delight at this one.

“Excellent summary of the data, Corzoo.” I congratulated him.  “You have much to share with your future readers.  You no doubt will discover many other helpful and valid tactics as you do more investigating, but this is a very good place to start.”

“Well, then, off I go to cogitate,” said Corzoo. “Shall I quote Webster’s definition of cogitate for you?”

“No thank you, Corzoo.  I believe we need no reminder that you are a thinking young man!”

With that he slipped back into my purse.  All was quiet in our travels for a while.  Towards the end of the flight, however, as we went over some stormy weather and jolted up and down for several minutes, I could have sworn I heard a faint, buzzy voice coming from my purse below the seat in front of me.

“Woooohoooo!  Here I am!  Ich bin Siegfried!  Here to save the day!  Dah Daah d-Dah Dah Dah Dah Dah Dah Daaaaaahhhhhhh!”