Vorarlberg

In Vorarlberg the church bells ring on the hour and sometimes on the quarter and the half hour. On certain evenings they chime and reverberate throughout the whole city for almost fifteen minutes, filling the cobblestones beneath my feet and the air of the narrow streets with an energetic, musical pulse that melds with the beating of my heart. In the distance I see the steeple from the cathedral next to my apartment, standing tall and proud above the houses like a welcoming beacon to guide me home. It’s so quiet at the train stop in the middle of the now empty cornfield that I can hear music wafting from almost a mile away. And surrounding me in every direction are the mountains. The mountains! In the cozy evening light, the mountains envelope me with their looming presence, and I am nestled in the center of their palm, held. Like a curious lover, I trace their stony outlines with my gaze, delighting in their ever-changing appearance, wondering when the wind dusts the clouds away if fresh snow lies sprinkled on their majestic peaks. I never tire of studying them, of observing every rise and fall of their bodies. I count on their steady presence to greet me like familiar old friends in the dim morning light as the sun peeks over their ridges and in the hazy evening light as the sun kisses their edges goodnight. And just as constant as the mountains is the familiar ebb and hum of the city. On Tuesdays and Thursdays people gather in the city center for the market; on Sundays the whole city falls to a slow hush. By eight the shops have closed; by ten curtains are drawn and lights fade. Even in the heart of the city, the lights are low in the streets as if to gently nudge everyone towards slumber. In the mornings I awake to the crackle of fresh cut wood in the Kachelofen and a warmth oozing slowly from it. Here I encounter a pace of life steeped full of tradition unfamiliar to me, but I take comfort in the practice of taking part in the rituals of its everyday life.