Mozart's House in Salzburg

How lucky was I to have been there? That's what have to keep asking myself over and over. To be where he was born, where he lived and began his years as the genius who will be forever revered for his talents. This was, by definition, precisely what I came to Austria to do. While it may sound somewhat morbid, I think it's safe to say that being able to see his hair, even behind a glass case, was about as close to a religious experience as it gets for a musician. I drooled over his buttons, swooned over his childhood violin, and paid hommage to his pianoforte (the only artifact I was not able to sneak an illegal picture of...). It was amazing to see where he'd been a baby, before anyone knew who or what he would become.

I played the role of the ugly American tourist, sneaking pictures of his hair and buttons not five feet from the museum security guard. I lingered too long next to the Klavier, and bought about fifty dollars worth of chintzy Mozart memorabilia to remember our musical hajj.

While we remember Mozart for his music, his abilities as a composer, and his supposedly colorful personality, it was perhaps most poignant to see how he grew up. To read about his relationship with his sister, how his mother watched quietly in the background while his father raised him to be a music machine. I was finally satisfied in my quest to touch history, having viewed one of the world's masters from such a personal angle.