It’s difficult to complain about the length of a flight to Europe when you consider what our ancestors went through to get here. Their tears at the sight of the Statue of Liberty weren’t just from inspiration; they were overjoyed to get off that boat.

Still, the prospect of seven hours or more strapped into a seat grows more daunting over the years. But there’s a bright spot for those of us traveling with a tour group. Because we can’t check into our hotel until at least mid-afternoon, we take an overnight flight and arrive in a somewhat somnambulistic state in mid-morning. What’s great about that? you ask. It’s this: late afternoon or early evening departure from the east coast of the states. No early-morning rush to get to the airport. That’s saved for the return flight, which deposits you at your home airport almost exactly when you left it — right in the middle of afternoon rush hour.

Thus it was that we debouched into the Munich terminal about 9:30 in the morning, found our way to Customs and the baggage carousels, and shortly to our “private motorcoach” for the run to Salzburg. I don’t know how Bea was feeling — she fell asleep on my shoulder, and the bus was pretty quiet — but I was pretty wiped. The driver was smooth as silk (as were all the drivers we had during our trip), and the highway pleasantly different from its counterparts back in the States. There were still German rockets flying by in the leftmost lane, but less apparent competition among the rest to be the first to wherever we were headed. The word, Gemütlichkeit, appeared in my consciousness for the first of many times over the next ten days.

Salzburg is celebrated as the birthplace of Mozart. I had a dream once in which the angel Gabriel came complaining to God about the excess musical talent he had on hand and needed to get rid of in the world below. It was the evening of January 26, 1756. God took a look, allowed there was indeed quite a pile, and suggested dumping it all at once that night on one child about to be born. He looked down from his cloud, spotted a woman in labor, and said, “Salzburg, Gabe. Frau Mozart.” And so it was.

But to my surprise, Salzburg is famous for something far older: salt-mining, which began here as early as Neolithic times, when people discovered that the brine bubbling to the surface here could be used to preserve meat. Later, still hundreds of years before the Common Era, they began opening mines in the mountainsides. The name, Salzburg, refers to its origins; surrounding towns — Hallstadt and Halle, for instance (from halite, the name of the mineral) — likewise. In early days it was referred to as “white gold,” and indeed for some time it was worth its weight in gold. Naturally, the local gentry, both political and ecclesiastical (in those days there was little difference), assumed control of production and distribution, and became extremely wealthy. Thus the proliferation of palaces, abbeys, and fortresses.

It’s been showery and misty since we’ve been here, so our rides in cable cars and funiculars to see the magnificent views have instead showed us the fluffy interiors of thick overcasts. But better weather is on the way.

Austria exhibits an ambiance different from Germany’s, a slightly wacky aura that I often compare to the difference between New Hampshire and Vermont. Or the difference between Bach and Mozart: When the angels in Heaven play music for God, they play Bach; when they play for each other, it’s Mozart.

We dined this evening in a baroque ballroom. Between courses a lovely string quintet entertained us, most notably with excerpts from “The Marriage of Figaro,” which was sung by a lively pair of singers as Count Almaviva and Susanna. All very light-hearted and beautifully done. Not to mention the dinner: capon in a perfect sauce. It was during the evening that I gave up wine for beer, at least as long as I’m here. If there’s a mediocre glass of beer in Austria, I could spend a happy life looking for it.

Tomorrow we check out of our hotel and on our way to Vienna by bus we’ll stop at the immense abbey at Melk. Just the cobbled courtyard of the abbey is large enough for a football field. Then we’ll board a river excursion boat and cruise down the Danube for several miles, watching the vineyards and churches go by. I’ll be forced to make the difficult decision between beer and espresso. It’s a hard life.

The other folks on the tour are (except for two) old friends from past trips. We’re all getting on a bit. I know this can’t last. So I’m enjoying every minute while I can.