Austria: Cathedrals, Castles, and a Ticket on the Autobahn

by CL Rogerson, world traveler and salty sailor

I entered Austria at 200 kilometers per hour, underground. Somewhere beneath the Alps, Italy surrendered to something older, colder, and more precise. When the train surfaced, I was in Salzburg, and the air felt different. Not just colder, but clearer. Like the country had taken a deep breath and was waiting to exhale.

Now, I’ve known mountains. The Rockies. The Sierra Nevadas. The Cascades. They’re brash, youthful, full of drama. But the Alps? The Alps have memory. The Dolomites faded behind me, and the Austrian peaks stood like stone monks, silent, ancient, watchful.

Salzburg felt carved from a storybook. For two days, I wandered its narrow lanes and towering fortress. I rode the funicular up to the clifftop castle, where the city unfurls below like a painted scroll. I sipped glühwein as the air hinted at snow. I learned to understand love-lock bridges, not just as a tourist trend, but as an act of permanence in a transient world. I walked the banks of the Salzach River and felt stillness I didn’t know I needed.

When it was time to move on, I rented a vehicle for the eastward trek to Vienna. I asked for a car. What I got was a Ford Transit van, something more suited for band tours or moving furniture. But I didn’t complain. It was wheels.

Driving in Europe, however, is not for the faint of heart, or the unfamiliar. The Autobahn gives you a false sense of freedom… until you run headfirst into a riddle. Speed limits are posted, then they’re slashed through with a red line. Does that mean “no longer limited”? Or “don’t you dare”? Apparently, I chose incorrectly. I was informed of my mistake via a charming little fine. It’s humbling, being outpaced by rules you didn’t know existed.

And just when I thought I was adjusting, I checked my rearview and saw… a train. Not a metaphor. A literal train. Sharing the roadway with me. In what world does your lane merge with a streetcar? Austria, apparently. It’s a strange sensation to signal right while yielding to a locomotive.

But Vienna was worth every kilometer.

Vienna doesn’t ask for your attention, it assumes it. It’s not trying to impress you, because it doesn’t have to. It wears its centuries like silk. You walk down cobbled streets and pass orchestras, imperial palaces, quiet cathedrals, and the kind of pastry shops that make you believe in God again.

I arrived just as Christmas markets were coming to life. The city glowed. Every square had its own flavor, some quiet and reverent, others festive and raucous. I wandered through lights and laughter, cinnamon steam rising from mugs of punsch, the air filled with the music of carolers and clinking glasses. Strudel. Chestnuts. Brass quartets under baroque arches. It was like walking through a snow globe built by aristocrats.

Vienna isn't cozy, it’s composed. Regal. It knows exactly what it is. A monument to order, beauty, and discipline. A place where culture isn't performed, it’s lived.

I was supposed to have a business meeting here. My contact was stuck in Qatar and texted, “Stay a few extra days, we’ll meet when I return.”
But the road was already calling.
I had a date in Poland.
And between us, Germany awaited.

Until the next border,
—CL Rogerson

About the Author
CL Rogerson is a licensed captain, lifelong wanderer, and reluctant romantic with a compass where most people keep a clock. He’s traded boardrooms for backroads, deadlines for destinations, and now spends his time chasing meaning across maps—one country, one cup of coffee, and one train ride at a time. Follow his journey at CLRogerson.travel