August 15, 2022. I hadn’t slept all night, spiraling with anxiety about whether my housemate would agree to move. Bleary eyed, I checked my email and there it was—his message saying he was good to go, out by mid-August. I could feel my whole body let go of the tension I’d been carrying. Relief, like a tide rolling in.

My mind had been tangled up in other things too—co-counseling with David and whether to set some boundaries about what I needed moving forward. It’s hard to make those decisions while you’re camping alone in the woods, staring at the ceiling of your tent with too many thoughts and no walls.

After all that mental chaos, I went for a walk around Königsee to ground myself. After a nice walk I headed to Lessach, stopping along the way in Radstadt. It’s a charming walled town, and as soon as I walked onto the main square, I had one of those surreal moments—a woman who looked like she had stepped straight out of a war-era photo, chain-smoking with the kind of intensity that made me pause. She was skin and bones, a living skeleton with a cigarette. There was something symbolic in that, though I’m not entirely sure what.

I walked the old city walls, climbed up near the towers, took some photos—let myself appreciate the beauty of this day, veiled in a curtain of rain. As I made my way higher into the mountains, the sky opened up. Heavy rain, mist in the valley, hikers moving through the green like tiny figures in a painting. I crested a peak above Obertauern and descended down steep, winding roads.

Turns out I stumbled onto a local Himmelfahrt celebration—Mary’s Assumption Day. And not the touristy version, either. The real-deal village version with a giant Sampson figure and two little people parading beside him. Everyone was in formal Tracht, and there I was in my summer gear, sticking out like an obvious outsider. I tried to be respectful, to just observe quietly. An accidental tourist in someone else’s sacred space.

That night, I slept in a rest stop off the B96 outside Mauterndorf. Woke up to bottles and cans clattering as a rest area worker emptied the trash about five feet from my tent. But I’d actually slept—blessed, needed sleep—and I woke up feeling okay about the world again.

August 16. I woke and started driving aimlessly, letting curiosity guide me deeper into the Lungau region. I got out and wandered through a few little villages, taking pictures of rooftops and flowers and old signs, and then I spotted a sign for a Schloss and of course—of course—I followed it. A soft fog clung to the valley below as I stepped into the quiet courtyard. No one else around. I peeked through the chapel gates, took a moment.

I kept meandering, ended up in a remote village at the head of the Thomatal valley where, to my complete delight, I found a cheese vending machine. You better believe I bought cheese from that machine. It was buttery, sharp, perfect. I think the farmer might moonlight as a woodcarver—the house and barn were full of intricate carvings. I watched swallows dive into the rafters and asked a kid nearby if they had cows. “Yes,” she said, shyly.

Eventually I needed coffee, badly. I aimed for Tamsweg and accidentally walked right into the same café I’d fallen in love with on my last trip. I even asked around for recommendations first, not realizing I was standing right in front of the one I already knew I loved. Ordered a latte that turned out a bit weak, so I added an espresso shot and then treated myself to a Carmelo ice cream sundae—divine. I sat outside, surrounded by Italian chatter. That made me really happy.

I spent the afternoon just…being there. Wandering slowly. I tried some little cakes from next door—a lemon meringue that was excellent, and a marzipan rum square I hated (seriously, why does rum show up uninvited in so many desserts here?). I explored Tamsweg until 4 p.m., took in the castle gardens, chatted with a woman in the tourist office who wore shoes that clicked so loudly on the stone floor they echoed like gunshots. She felt… icy, like an accidental villain in a fairytale. Maybe it was the sound of those heels.

I considered walking up to St. Leonhard, but instead I turned toward the Mur river and started driving in the direction of Klagenfurt. I passed Thomatal again and waved at it, like a goodbye. I stopped at Ramingstein because I saw a castle—Burg Wintergrün—perched above the village. Climbed up, explored. Learned it had ties to Bratislava. An Austrian woman married a count from there in the early 1900s and they restored the ruin. Her close friend lived in nearby Schloss Moosham. It all had this tangle of nostalgia and sadness—she later had to open it up to guests, then sell it to the Nazis to keep afloat.

That theme of sweetness twisted with sorrow kept following me. I drove through villages, past the wood museum founded by Hans Edler (which looked incredible), and down into a resort town that felt totally wrong after so much raw beauty. The river even felt duller there—coincidence? Maybe. But maybe not.

I turned around and headed back to Tamsweg to grab dinner from the grocery store LIDL before it closed. Watched two people buying tents completely oblivious to the long line behind them. I was craving a salad but didn’t feel patient.

I ended up in Mariapfarr that night, mostly on a whim. Tried yet another ATM—no luck. I asked about the public pool and sauna and then walked up the hill to the church. I didn’t realize this was the church that inspired “Silent Night.” I stepped inside just as the lights were turning off and almost turned around—but something told me to stay.

A woman was there, and instead of shooing me away, she began explaining the church’s history in German. Between her patient effort and my broken German, we managed to communicate. She told me about the white stone Madonna—how the original was broken and now lives in a museum in Ohio. This was a copy, but still beloved. I could feel her reverence.

She asked if I wanted to see the crypt. I said yes, if it was okay. She opened an old wooden door with a massive key and led me down into a simple, modern space beneath the centuries-old church. She told me about pilgrims who come here. We didn’t say much, but I felt something pass between us—a connection, a peace. When I asked if we could stay in touch, she smiled softly and said, “I don’t have email.” And that was it. One of those ephemeral moments. A kindness offered and received, then gone.

I walked out into the evening feeling touched and very quiet inside. Paused at the fountain dedicated to the songwriter of Silent Night, then got back in my car and read a new message from Katka. She was hurt, and I tried to respond with care. That night I camped near Moosham after checking with some folks who said it wasn’t technically allowed. I set up anyway. Couldn’t fully relax—cars kept flying by all night, young men speeding like the dark was theirs alone. But the sky was stunning. The Milky Way stretched wide above me.

August 17. I woke early to the sound of someone emptying the trash. People start early in Austria and Germany—I’m talking 5:30 a.m. early. I’d been thinking about the lovely old mill café in Mauterndorf, which I remembered being open on Wednesdays, so I made that my morning destination. On the way, I tapped through a few small towns where I felt a bit awkward—there weren’t really sidewalks, so walking meant being right near people’s homes. Folks seemed understandably suspicious.

I arrived at the mill café a little early and happened to say hello to the man who runs it, who was riding up on his bicycle. I ordered a latte and sat with a slice of peach cake, which felt like the most comforting thing. I told him about losing my friend Jim Charley and how I had once cried on the bridge next to the mill while listening to AmRito’s message about Jim’s spirit. He was very kind—a warm guy with a hat—and we talked about my ATM troubles. He told me I could pay by card and that the café’s open year-round. I said how special that must be for locals, to have a place like this.

I noticed the holes in the bottom of my shoes—ones I bought in Paris three months ago. Now, when I step on wet grass, I feel it. There’s a secret little cave behind the main street in town, where a stream emerges from the rocks. I saw a dipper bird flitting upstream, and it felt like a small miracle.

The greetings shift subtly depending on where you are: sometimes just “Grüß,” sometimes “Grüß Gott,” or more rarely, just “Hallo” or “Morgen.” In Bavaria and surrounding areas, “Grüß Gott” is common. I heard this possibly apocryphal story about how when Hitler tried to enforce the “Heil Hitler” salute, a Bavarian supposedly responded, “We already have a greeting, thank you.”

After spending time at the café, I headed to the village of Muhr and drove all the way to the edge of the national park. A really nice guy was working there, and when I asked for water, he pointed me to a well behind the house where he was staying. I filled up my gallon jug and was tempted to hike, but I wanted to see more, so I returned to town and visited the park headquarters. Inside, there was an amazing exhibit on biodiversity and the importance of the Alpine corridor. Truly one of the best exhibits I’ve ever seen.

I wandered around taking photos of old buildings, including the famous Samson puppet. I tried driving to Zederhaus but the roads were narrow and full of sawmill traffic, and eventually I turned back. Someone later told me I should’ve kept going. Oh well.

In Zederhaus, I found this beautifully conserved old house—thanks to a local professor. I took a picture of the plaque dedicated to him. The place was a fantastic example of traditional architecture, with a mill, a connected stable, and interior furnishings that you could peek at through the windows.

Later, I returned to Mariapfarr to look for Martha but couldn’t find her. I visited the church again and then headed toward Göriach, a small rural town nestled in the mountains. I went for a short walk along a road lined with logging trucks, but didn’t want to risk camping there. So I continued on to Lessach, where I found a quiet parking area at the end of a road. A couple from Vienna had their bus parked there and we chatted a bit. I had every intention of hanging out more, but I was completely wiped out and crashed.

August 18. In the morning I said hello to the couple from Vienna. The woman had been coming to this place with her family every summer. They weren’t sure it was allowed to drive in, but I’d seen so many people doing it that I just went for it—and turns out it’s permitted if you’re heading to the guesthouse. So I did. I walked a bit, took photos, and even posted one to Facebook, saying it felt like the set of A River Runs Through It. An alpine stream curling through mountain meadows—completely idyllic.

On the way out, I saw women raking hay by hand. It might be a requirement for local farmers to harvest traditionally. It’s beautiful to see these methods still in use. I stopped by Tamsweg briefly, considered a coffee, but decided to head back to the Mauterndorf mill café. I grabbed some salads at Lidl, returned to the café, and this time indulged in twocakes (yes, two). It felt a bit extravagant, but I liked them, so I let myself enjoy it.

While there, I met a really friendly Italian guy and his two friends from Tuscany. We ended up chatting in a mix of Italian and Spanish and connected on Facebook. That small moment of connection reminded me how much I love Italians—how welcome and seen I feel with them. I hadn’t realized how much I missed that feeling during my long stint in Austria and Germany.

I took one last walk through Mauterndorf, soaking it in, then headed back to the Holz Museum in Mariapfarr. It was already 2:30 by the time I got there. I also went looking for the historic iron smelting furnaces and pilgrimage church nearby. I walked quite a distance before finally giving in and driving the rest. I found them both—the church had a small basin of spring water coming from a black rock, said to cure eye illnesses. The story goes that people once worshipped the image of a woman—not the Virgin Mary—there, and miracles started happening. That’s when it became a pilgrimage site.

The church itself was under reconstruction and completely gutted, but I still found it haunting and beautiful. I also visited the old smelting stacks—reminded me of the Saugus Iron Works in Massachusetts.

Back at the Holz Museum, I was completely enchanted. There was an exhibit on Carnival and Lent traditions in the region—costumes, rituals, wooden masks. Another section showcased old tools and crafts used in farming and carpentry. There were even mechanical wooden miniatures of mills and machines, and an upstairs exhibit on global forests, especially the rainforest in Costa Rica. They talked about deforestation, biodiversity, and the need for sustainable logging. I loved it.

Right in the middle of my visit, it started pouring rain. I dashed outside—my car windows were open. Everything got soaked, including me. I dried off and kept going. I even explored a few outbuildings at the museum, including a forest observation tower.

From there, I took a very strange route through logged and poorly managed forest—such a contrast to Lungau. Eventually I dropped into a wide valley that felt oddly Russian, with a fortified church that had arrow slits and even a charnel house filled with skulls and femurs. I also came across a large wooden mill wheel, something I’d never seen made entirely of wood before.

I reached Klagenfurt around 7 p.m., parked near the dragon statue, and wandered into a lovely live music event. An Italian man, his Austrian partner, and a violinist were playing together, and later a trio (I think called “Strum”?) took the stage with accordion-like instruments, shifting tones and styles. I stayed until 10 p.m., enjoying the music and some food, before heading off to find a place to sleep. I ended up just off a mountain road, where cars were speeding by at 60–70 mph all night while thunder cracked and rain poured. I barely slept, but still—what a day.