The Here and Now

The Here and Now

Honoring the dead

is best achieved,


it seems to me,


by spending time

with the living.

-BW 7/12/2016

In our last post, Wormwood shared some heavy thoughts on tourism. Since then we had a few experiences that fertilized our love for new places. We did a one-night trip to Budapest on recommendation from several people. Then we connected with some awesome locals in Austria.

Budapest was a whirlwind 24 hours. We trained in and immediately went to the public baths. There are several around the city and all use natural hot springs to deliver warm pools of varying temperature. The ¬†experience is incredibly unique. The Szechenyi Baths that we explored had multiple outdoor pools, all around 30 degrees Celsius. Then there were saunas and steam rooms, some with medicinal herbs. One basement sauna maintained a temperature between 80 and 100 degrees Celsius! We lasted about three minutes in that room. It’s a unique experience, sweating from every pore, but feeling dry because the sweat evaporates nearly instantaneously. Don’t worry, immediately after we plunged into a pool of 10 degree Celsius water. That wasn’t shocking at all…


Nightlife in Budapest is thriving. There seemed to be a good mixture of nonchalant bars and posh restaurants, which reminded us of Minneapolis. Combine that with a record setting number of V-neck T-shirts and man buns (haircut) and you’ve got yourself a Twin Cities in Europe! Buda = ¬†St. Paul. Pest = Minneapolis. There’s a river that runs through both, and enough “third wave” coffee houses to turn the Danube brown.

Wormwood went to a few bars and ended the night at a dance club with multiple music rooms. Needless to say, two midwestern boys were a bit out of place on the Pop, Disco, and RnB floors, but then we found the House music. Ben instantly lit up like the Fourth of July (which we sort of missed this summer.) Both of us enjoyed the repetitive and predictable flow, so we shook our tail feathers a bit! We danced at the nightclub until far past our bedtime and then spent the next day walking around the city looking for further “hipster infrastructure” and enjoying much needed quiet. We found plenty of bike-happy zones. Go Budapest!


Wormwood spent its last evening in Ausria in the company of two lovely locals. Barbara and Vincent were introduced to us by Baylen’s roommate, Julian. We travelled to the Beethovengang once more to meet this friendly couple and share some Viennese wine with them.

As it turns out, Viennese have never been proud of their vino, and the traditional way to drink is to mix the fermented white juice with sparkling water to help it go down. We liked it! but when the company is good, it doesn’t much matter what you drink, eh?

The four of us shared a meal and exchanged notes on the cultural differences between Minnesota and Austria. While we chewed on dumplings and schnitzel, the group agreed that Midwesterners are the caricature counterpart to the Viennese. There is an equal and opposite to “Minnesota Nice” and we laughingly called it the “Viennese Scowl.” Note to other travelers: If an Austrian frowns at you, it does not necessarily mean they are angry!

After dinner the group went down to the Danube and Wormwood played a set of music for our new friends. The river is not particularly blue, but with evening sun it gleams like molten silver. Das ist gut! Several passersby were happy to stop and listen. They even paid our tram fare with some loose change. Thank you!

As we bid our friends goodbye and began preparations for our travels to Prague, we reflected on our week. One thing is clear: A city is only as great as it’s people. Budapest showed us a vibrant modern culture of “refurbished and repurposed” living. Vienna eventually revealed its simple charm by the grace of two locals. Thank you, Barbara and Vincent for reaching out to these two crazy Americans! Our German is terrible, but I think we are starting to make some sense of the world.





Hear lies
one million
carefully cut stones
commanded to be
placed particularly
propping up
conquesting ideas
tightly clutched
forced and thrust
into all
and ten hundred thousand times

All I can see across the Western world is the honoring of men who have the blood of man and beast on their hands. It fills my sight perpetually. These “discoverers,” “unifiers,” and “brave leaders” of the noble, wise nations and their self-serving ideas of God and country are the heroes in the stories we have chosen to tell ourselves through our classrooms, national monuments, and historical sites. This is how we have chosen to shape our collective becoming, often resulting in the unbecoming of those more simple and peaceful sons and daughters of the Earth. Yet, these are my people. This is my history. Their blood runs through my veins. What am I to do with this truth that lives just as strong today as it has for hundreds of years? I do not know. At best I am uncertain. Yet, it cannot be ignored.

Perhaps it’s time for new stories. New monuments. Beginning with, I think, the momentary monuments we wear.

A smile. A gaze through which we peer intently and an open ear in which we listen carefully.

A gift. A vulnerable, non-transactional sharing of self through word and deed.

A moment’s pause.
One that considers before speaking and a soft heart which shares in our collective Spirit’s suffering.

Here lives
unknowable numbers
of intentional hands
placed particularly
lifting up themselves
alongside their neighbor
to gently sway
in our Mother’s
sweet, cool breezes
so that one another
might find each other

-BD 7/9/16

This week has been filled with highs and lows. We’ve been in a variety of places with varieties of people, and we’ve discovered a few things about ourselves as humans.

Earlier in the week, as we were exploring Vienna and seeing the sights one is supposed to see (giant churches, old government buildings, palaces, statues, etc…) we were both struck deeply with a similar dissonance. These monuments, while historically significant in the rising, falling, and shifting of nations, peoples, and ideas represent only one possibility of our self-creation through our stories. This one narrative that the Western world seems to tell itself – which honors the acts of the wealthy warriors, the proud, nationalist, white men – rings a bit hollow. We can’t enjoy those monuments without feeling a healthy dose of nausea. There are too many people that have lived and died that these statues and museums don’t seem to recognize. It’s especially hard to reconcile when we get news of sad events back home. We are waiting on the day when we stumble across a statue built to honor widowed mothers or average white men that did not conquer anything but, instead, lived peaceful lives within their means and were attentive to the needs of their developing children!

The day after our foray into downtown Vienna, Ben planned a hike into the hills. We took off in the early morning toward the northern reaches of Vienna’s urban sprawl. This is the start of the historical trail known as Beethovengang. The stream-side hike is supposedly where Beethoven walked during the later years of his life when his hearing was slipping away along with his calm. We weren’t visited by Ludwig’s specter, but we found solace just the way he did.

It only took a few minutes in a natural setting for our spirits to brighten. We played music under Viennese trees and ate lunch at a tiny “bistro” that was really more of a cottage. The menu was “soup” and stroganoff. There were no options, just “one meatball or two?” It seemed to us like the kind of lunch your Austrian grandmother would make if you came to visit. Good! but not inventive, haha.

Later we stumbled upon three Chinese-German men sitting on park benches playing erhu (a traditional Chinese instrument) and singing. After a moment’s hesitation, we approached and gave attentive audience. They greeted us cheerfully when they saw our instruments. As a group, we exchanged music and smiles, but they spoke no English, so the only practical languages were non-verbal and musical. It was wonderful! Ben got a short lesson on erhu, and we gave them a spin on our instruments in turn. Two parties of strangers bid farewell as friends.



After that we made it to a vista looking out over Vienna and the Danube. The distance made the sprawling city seem so much more peaceful. We played music for fellow sight-seers and were well-received. One gentleman from Brazil said something along the lines of, “This was perfect. I’ll never forget.” Two young people, one from Vienna, the other from Turkey, thanked us with a box of chocolate dipped wafers. They were delicious!

It’s those kind of sentiments and moments that clarify our intent when we are a bit drained. Wormwood is an intimate performance. We don’t do well in giant plazas or busy streets. We don’t do well as people in those places either! As great as it is to see the landmarks of famous places, crowds and noise leave us feeling hollow.

What does that mean? It means Wormwood is (and will continue to be) the worst tourists ever. We don’t buy tickets to museums, or exhibits, or tour buses. We don’t buy souvenirs or trinkets. We don’t even use transit most of the time (much to Baylen’s chagrin.) In fact, we sometimes attract tourist’s coin and detract from the economy of tourism in a region! Yikes!

That said – we believe that the moments we’ve shared with fellow travelers and locals have been reason enough for our journey. Whenever we follows our bliss as humans, serendipity lights up our lives. We’ll look for people and trees and leave the bronze-cast heroes to history.

Like Mother Like Son

Like Mother Like Son

Growing up my mom (Baylen’s) would frequently tell stories of her semester in Austria. Salzburg was her favorite adventure as a young person. She loved the castles and cathedrals, the grazing cows and inexpensive chocolate bars, and most of all the Kapeller Family that hosted her during her semester of study. The Kapellers were the quintessential Austrian family, against which my sister and I were constantly compared. Our childhood antics and American insolence “would NEVER be tolerated” at the heavenly cottage on the hill in Kasern, Austria. Needless to say, my sister and I shared many skeptical glances throughout the 90’s.
My mother’s description of Austria was the stuff of fairytales. It was our childhood bedtime story that helped us make sense of the dubious claim that my mother was once a young person in school. “You mean you studied other subjects besides being a mom and torturing children with piles of nasty tasting vitamins? I don’t believe it!”
Then, in the summer of 2016, I took a trip through Europe with my best friend and our string instruments. We saw Scotland, England, and Italy, before we landed in Austria. We arrived in Salzburg and immediately climbed a mountain to recreate our own Sound of Music photo shoot. You can read about that in our previous blog post.


The following day, I asked Ben to help me seek out some family history. He was doubtful we would find anything, and truthfully so was I, but he agreed nonetheless and I was grateful. He is a skilled navigator, and I am not. I pick up curious details of my surroundings and often deduce useful knowledge, but I usually can’t tell which direction we are traveling. It’s a weakness I’ve come to terms with.
Ben and I looked up the Lindner Haus, a hostel in Kasern, just north of Salzburg proper. We estimated the distance as a manageable hike so we set out. The Linder’s were a family that hosted my aunt, Corinne, just after my mother stayed with the Kapellers. If anyone would know the whereabouts of the Kapeller family, it would be a Lindner.
We hiked for roughly an hour along bike paths and small roads until we reached a steep hill dotted with houses. On our right a sign read, Lindner Haus. To our left a little further on was a train station (which we absolutely could have used to travel there faster, but we frequently forgo that kind of…intelligence.)

imageAs we climbed the hill an enchanting view of Salzburg was laid out to our left. I found myself wondering if my mother gazed on the same vista, and how different it might have looked decades ago. What does it mean to feel nostalgia for a place you’ve never actually seen before? Was it some trick of my inner child’s imagination. Was it something inherited that my mother passed to me in spirit or body? All I know is that a wave of surrealism hit me then and only continued to grow as the next few hours played out.

We climbed to the top of the hill and found the Lindner House. We knocked and rang the doorbell, but much as we expected, no one was home. Ben was definitely ready to call it quits, his midwestern agitation at imposing on a strange neighborhood was visible. I could not allow myself such a quick retreat, though. It was far too momentous just to be in Kasern. My inner child would never forgive me if I did not exhaust my options.
I knocked on the next door, and introduced myself when a dark-haired man in glasses answered. He switched to English quickly and nodded vigorously when I mentioned the Lindners and the Kapellers. “Sure, sure,” he said, “The Lindners are not home, but let me go make a call.”
He stepped back into the house and in just a few moments, a bright-faced woman approached us from around the back of the house. She introduced herself as Ms. Christine. Her sister is the Lindner family member that runs the guest house next door. Hers is also a hostel. I quickly explained my reason for intruding and she took us over to see the back of the Lindner home. We snapped a few photos and explained ourselves a bit further.
Our explanation must have put her at ease, because next she invited us into her home and offered us some water. She got out her phone book to make a call and looked at me brightly when she finished. “Ms. Kapeller just got home. She would be happy to see you.” I was floored.
Ben and I offered to show our gratitude in the best way we know – with music. Ms. Christine asked if she could invite down her current guests to listen, and we immediately agreed. Wormwood played a set to our lovely host and her four Australian charges. We made a few friends and then packed up to go down and see Ms. Kapeller.

When I called hello, a kind-eyed woman came around a fence corner to shake my hand. I managed an awkward smile as I tried to prepare my words. It’s a strange thing to say, “Hello, my name is Baylen Wagner. I’m the son of Carlyn Hints, a young lady you hosted 38 years ago. You met her then-boyfriend, Duke Wagner when he came to visit. He’s my dad…errrrr…Nice to meet you?” But that is exactly what I did, and Ms. Kapeller couldn’t have been kinder!
She invited us into her yard and we talked about her family and mine. She remembered my mother and my father, how they got special permission to stay in the same room once, and how they climbed a nearby hill to a church and signed the guest ledger as a couple in love. She told me how her daughters, Ulli and Petra, whom my mother had mentioned many times, live in Salzburg still. One of them even owns the house next door and they both have children, some very close in age to Ben and me.

We played music for Ms. Kapeller and we visited for at least two hours. In just that short amount of time, I could see exactly what my mother described. This woman was sincere and kind and well-mannered and strong. She told a story about a young child she met on holiday who was clearly spoiled. She told us how she set him straight in a very firm way and made friends with both the child and his mother. The fourteen-year-old in me was jumping up and down saying, “Your mom wasn’t lying! Listen to that kind-but-serious tone of voice!” The feeling of surrealism continued to mount.
I used the internet to show Ms. Kapeller pictures of my family and helped her download one picture to show her daughters later on. It struck me how unlikely it was my mother would have ever gotten word to this woman if I had not physically made a trip to Austria. She did not have a Facebook account, possibly not even an e-mail. Hers is not a global generation. The world is small, yes, but there are people that still remain out of reach.
After much talk and several hugs and photos, we parted ways and started our trek back to Salzburg proper. I smiled unabashedly the whole rest of that day. It was like a piece of my childhood had been recovered. This wonderful place that my mother praised so highly was real. The family that practically informed my mother’s parenting style was alive and well. I had travelled through time and space to bring a relic into focus. I’m grateful beyond words to unnamed neighbors, Ms. Christine, and most of all Ms. Kapeller for showing me and Ben such kindness. There are wonderful people the world over, and I’ve got stories to prove it.


The Hills Are Alive

The Hills Are Alive

I am
and the Light shining upon them

I am
and the Beasts thriving within them

We are
and Water manifest into Spirit
momentarily captured
between physical borders

-BD 7/5/16

On Saturday we successfully made our way from Peschiera del Garda to Verona to Brenner to Innsbruck to Salzburg. Four trains with a collective layover time of only around an hour. Twenty minutes after arriving in Salzburg, we were checked into our hostel and ready for an early night to bed. We have officially “leveled up” our international transit skills.

As we traveled, I was fascinated at how quickly the culture changed along with the landscape. From blazing sun, palm trees, and endless fields of vines quickly into mountains shrouded in clouds, cooler weather, and coniferous trees. Along with that, “Grazie” became “Danke,” leathered skin and loose fitting clothes became fair skinned and lederhosen (for those dressed more traditionally), and the architecture was transformed. It made me consider in a new way Dr. Suzuki’s words “Man is the child of his environment.”

On Sunday, we were successfully the worst Salzburg tourists, yet perhaps the best adventurers. We got a fairly early start and found a nice public garden to play a couple of sets to warm up for the day. We then followed our ears to discover something that was familiar to my (Ben) eyes and ears, yet in a new place. A community band! Growing up and continuing to play with the Oskaloosa City Band is/was always a treat. So, here’s an Austrian shout-out to those keeping the music alive.

Afterwards, we decided to pay our respects to Mozart by offering up my viola as a tribute.


In the spirit of being the worst tourists, we decided not to do the paid tour of his home, rather to improvise a set of music across the street in dedication to this great 18th century improviser. We set up inside of a piece of public art and amassed a small, curious, and appreciative audience.

We continued to explore Salzburg free of any paid tours and Baylen was once again able to afford us the opportunity to play in an enormous cathedral. We’ve come to discover that Baylen has a wonderful strength for approaching people and gaining permission for us to make music in spectacular public spaces or simply for finding the right people in the most unexpected of places (more on that in the next post). I, on the other hand, am learning of my midwestern roots and “don’t want to impose.” We certainly balance each other out as travel companions.

On the flip side of that coin, the balance that I’m able to offer is to say…

Ben: “Hey Baylen! Forget the Sound of Music Tour! Let’s make our own. Look at that place that is far away and up high with no clear roads, maps, or trails guiding us there. That’s where we’re going with our instruments!”

Baylen: “You’re crazy.”

Ben: “Yup, let’s go!”

And so began our 2.5 hour hike up Gaisberg. First on roads, then on trails, then back on roads, then on remote backcountry trails up to this…

We had an appreciative audience of two that stumbled across our performance on their way down the mountain. So appreciative that they even offered us a ride back down the mountain to our hostel. Thank you so much Joanna and Reinhold!! We polished off the day with boiled beef, potatoes, vegetables, and a delicious Weissbier (or two).

Needless to say, it was a full 12 hours in Salzburg. Stay tuned for an equally eventful day two.