Hey everybody – another story here about Henry:
Must have been sometime in 1967. At that time we were on a two year contract with Esso Libya, and assumed our life abroad was about to terminate. So, we took a great trip to Austria – the major, goal, the opera, the Spanish Riding School – the Lipizzaner stallions, and the Vienna Boys Choir. As always, Henry organized and planned the trip. I had some input, but he knew so much about history and what we “should” see, he naturally fell into planning what we would do.
A side bar here: we could not do what we wanted to on this trip trailing around with two little kids, darling as they were. After some research, we found a Kinder Hostel that boarded children. We talked with other expats who had used this place, it was highly recommended. So, we did it. Took the train up into the beautiful Alps to the lovely children’s hotel, and left them for four days. How could I do that? Looking back, would I do that again? Obviously not. Peter is old enough to remember it, and has never forgiven us – dumping him and Allison.
Well, we make a few mistakes on the way – some of us make several…
A wonderful part of this trip was taking the train to Budapest – through beautiful countryside, but not really recovered from WWII. Such a beautiful place – the little towns with the onion-domed churches, the great flocks of geese in the fields. Budapest is a blur now, except for gypsy violins at dinner, and the evening we were standing on a bridge overlooking the Danube. It was just dusk. The lamplighter was making his evening rounds, lighting each gas lamppost in turn with a long pole, a small flame at the end. As we watched that man work his way down and back up both sides of the bridge, those dark lamps flamed up into an amber glow, Henry looked at me, and we said simultaneously, “the Old Lamplighter”. Had this been a Broadway musical, we would have burst into song!
Back in Vienna, we took the morning tour of the Opera House – complete with a sinister looking man in a great black cape just happening to descend the great staircase as we walked in - the Phantom of the Opera! Our life as been full of coincidences, just have to watch for them. The evening performance was Swan Lake, I could identify here because in grade school I had a coloring book I literally treasured, each page a scene from Swan Lake. I used to color and imagine I would some day be another Maria Tallchief. That didn’t happen!
We did have tickets for the Sunday morning performance at the Spanish Riding School. If you’ve been there, or seen the Lippizzaners on tour, you need no more words. If you haven’t been there – go. There is nothing in this world like seeing those white stallions perform in the Winter Riding School in Vienna. This takes your breath away.
Henry had it planned, as soon as we left the Lippizzaner performance, we raced – we ran faster than he ever did playing ball – to get in line for a ticket for the Vienna Boys choir. No reservations were allowed then, first come, first serve. About four hundred other tourists were doing the same thing – we had all read the same guide book. It was a mass race – not too much pushing and shoving, but for people who would be in Vienna only that one Sunday, this was really important. We made it into line, along with hundreds of other people, some who gave up the Riding School to stand in line hours earlier. There were people in line from, literally, every place in the world. Listening to the languages being spoken while we stood there was an experience in itself.
About fifteen minutes before the mass was to begin, things were beginning to look desperate. There were only so many seats in that place. Seating had commenced for at least an hour before we arrived. Henry left me in line, and went to inquire at the “box office” if we even had a chance. We did. Taking into account the seats left in the Hofburg chapel, the number of people in front of us, we would possibly be among the last ten people admitted. Back in line, we watched a huge brash man make his way to the box office, literally shoving everyone aside, and in a great loud voice tinged with Texas, announced he had flown all the way from Houston to see “the Boys”, and he demanded, since he came from The States, that he be seated. His place in line was about twenty people behind us. The very polite Austrian handing out tickets tried to explain that everyone in line had come from far away for this performance, and it would be necessary that he return to his place in line. This man was blustery, insulted, and not happy, as only The Ugly American could be. He walked back down the line, counting people, he saw Henry – obviously an American, standing there a foot taller than the clutch of little nuns and tourists from so many countries. Plus, one could hardly miss the crew cut and aviator sunglasses. In those days Henry looked like a Marine drill sergeant, which most people who didn’t know him, assumed he was. This Texan with the Big Voice came right over to Henry, and said, “Hey mac, you fellow American. When you get to the window, ask for two extra tickets for me and my wife.” Henry looked down at his feet, then looked him straight in the eye and said,
“Gee. I am so sorry. I don’t speak a word of English.”
End of story. The best line of his entire career
Apologies to Texans – some of the best people we know.
Unfortunately, there is one exception.