In Impromptus today, I wrap up my Salzburg journal, those “Salzburg Souvenirs.” Thanks to readers for their mail — much of it serious, much of it personal. Some of it light. I thought I’d publish some lightish mail — just random letters, on random topics.
(I learned a new word the other day, in an e-mail from my boy Alston B. Ramsay, a former NR editor. He is also known as “ABR,” “Alston B.,” or “Big A.” That word was “randos” — for random people. I am glad to be up on the lingo. Or am I late?)
In my journal, I mentioned Daniel Barenboim and his Edward Said / Noam Chomsky act. A reader wrote, “You remind me of a cartoon from 1965, collected in The Complete Cartoons of the New Yorker. It shows a pianist onstage, in tails, standing next to his piano. He is saying to the audience, ‘Before I begin, I’d like to make a brief statement on American foreign policy.’”
But you know, some of the statements aren’t brief. (Speaking of pianists who like to make statements on American foreign policy: I mention Krystian Zimerman in today’s “Souvenirs.”)
Along the way, I had occasion to talk about a street in Bologna: Via Ragazzi del ’99, or, Boys of ’99 Street. It is named for the last conscripts in World War I. (That is not a light topic at all, to be sure.) A reader wrote, “How about the street in Paris, Rue des Mauvais Garçons,” i.e., Bad Boys Street? I’m afraid I don’t know the origin of that one. (Neither did our reader.) Surely some readers will.
I mentioned playing golf with a Vienna Choir Boy — I mean, a grown-up one, now a lawyer in Vienna. An Australian-born friend wrote,
The Vienna Boys Choir were in Melbourne at the start of World War II, hence interned there. The archbishop at the time — an actual and active Anglophobe — somehow was able to get them regular visits to Catholic homes. Hence we had Otto and Stefan. Don’t recall much about them, but I’ve checked with my sister.
Otto remained in Australia after the war, married, and was one of the music directors at the family church for years. Stefan returned to Austria where, as our president might say, he re-learned Austrian.
Finally, I said that a couple of things went together like peaches and cream — adding that I had never actually had peaches and cream together. This sparked a good amount of mail. And a lot of that mail was nostalgic — for instance,
Oh, peaches and cream — you have indeed missed out on one of the finer joys of life. When I was growing up on the farm in the 1950s, I would often come home at night and get some home-canned peaches and the milk out of the refrigerator. Then I would put a cupful of peaches, swimming in their sugary juice, into a bowl. Then I would put in a couple of tablespoons of pure cream off the top of the milk. It could not have tasted as good as I remember it, but I will continue to insist that it did.