Salzburg, though charming, felt insignificant compared to the rest of Europe and somewhere beyond the echoing Alps, Father heard a calling full of promise and opportunity. While Mother quietly began packing, Father dreamed of a Grand Musical Tour[i] filled with thunderous applause and divine glory at every stop.
My understanding of geography at the time was still quite limited, often reduced to are-we-still-in-this-carriage and tolerating lukewarm soups in mildly appeasing inns. Travel in eighteenth-century Europe was a heroic act of optimism. Comfort ranked low among available travel options. Instead, travel meant enduring muddy roads, rattling carriages, and parents who seemed far more concerned about the wellbeing of the precious travel harpsicord than the rest of the cargo, including myself.
I found our journeys unbearably boring. Endless hours confined to a narrow, dark, and smelly horse-drawn carriage seemed to drag on without end. To pass the time, Nannerl and I invented a magical kingdom. The creases in our driver’s coat became its map. Naturally, I appointed myself king. Nannerl became queen.
This charming illusion lasted until the king and queen woke up in yet another opinionated bed at a questionable inn, somewhere along an endless road to a city whose name I could not yet pronounce.
[i] The Mozart family grand tour was a three-year journey through western Europe. From 1763 to 1766 the family traveled via Munich and Frankfurt to Brussels and then on to Paris where they stayed for five months. They then departed for London where they stayed for more than a year.