Maybe it’s all the extra change I’ve fed the Lawrence parking meters. All accidental, true, but still, paying it forward, no? Or maybe a tolerance reward, for that man next to me on the plane from Dusseldorf, the one who cheerfully interrogated my life’s history, who performed backbend yoga in the aisle, who veered in and out of nausea and ate all my ginger candies.

I don’t know. But whatever I did to deserve apple strudel and snowball-sized whipped cream in my coffee, I’m grateful. And I’ll take it.

Tomorrow we leave this beautiful city, Vienna, and train down to Salzburg. Oh sure, it’s Mozart’s hometown, but it’s also the first place I ever saw in Europe, back in 1990, when I was younger, less brave, and afraid to taste the city. That trip’s highlights: sleeping atop my padlocked backpack, throwing up alone on a mountain and, courtesy of a near-consumptive cold, eating only Fisherman’s Friend cough drops for two days. I promised Greg I wouldn’t trip too hard down memory lane this time in Salzburg; but I didn’t promise you. A few stories to come along with reports on wiener schnitzel, hot wine and enough Palatschinken to feed us all. Happy Holidays with love, from your Simmering correspondent in Austria. It’s professional dessert research, and someone’s got to do it.

* extra credit and a virtual slice of Sachertorte: What does the post title have in common with Salzburg? Hint: jam, bread, and one hot captain with seven children.