punk is not ded

There was a hint of something magical along the way. Looking out from the train I noticed that the river water was not clear or black or blue, but bright green – a greener-than-grass green, as if the thing was distilled from crushed and melted emeralds. And I thought to myself how very strange and peculiar that such a river should exist outside of a fairytale, or an illustrated children’s book.

And then we arrived in Hallstatt, and I no longer found it strange and peculiar, and I understood: this place, this Hallstatt, is a thing of the imagination – forged from a magical, childish fancy. When you close your eyes and think of the most serene, timeless place you can picture – though you may know it by a different name – you are thinking, in part and perhaps unknowingly, of Hallstatt.

The town is tragically picturesque. Soft, pastel colored buildings with lattice-work balconies and brown wooden rooftops scurry down the hillside, crowding over each other and almost toppling into the lake like giddy children running to the sea. A protestant church clings to a postcard promontory, and narrow cobbled pathways lead down narrow alleys to quaint households and tiny restaurants. And overlooking it all the mountains lay like nude bathers in a shallow pool, their thighs stretched out in the sun unabashed and bronzed.

And when it snows, and all you see is drifting white and all you hear is silence, you feel like here – in this place protected from time and trespass – you can escape anything, and never be found.

It is a wonderful feeling.

Hallstatt soundtrack: The Ramones

sorry for the bulk posting - internet is hit-or-miss here...