“The language of Europe is translation.” — Umberto Eco

When the writer spoke about Europe and linguistic barriers, he was thinking of translators. Literary, commercial—but above all, the armies of interpreters in Strasbourg and Brussels who made the impossible happen: enabling hundreds of people to shape together—agreement after agreement—the modus opera…

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Viennese is a world unto itself—a patchwork of words woven from the four corners of what was once Europe's largest empire: Czech, Hungarian, Slovenian, Polish, Yiddish, Slovak, Italian, and Turkish.

Although not all German speakers warm to the Viennese cadence, so melodic (for some, too melodic), with its distinctive ups and downs in intonation, it quickly grows on you and becomes an essential part of the city's soundtrack, alongside the waltz and the clip-clop of horses on the cobbles of the historic centre.

I lived in Salzburg for years, studied in Vienna, and every year I return to the Austrian capital to spend time with my Austrian-Italian-Middle European family. I love the pure Hochdeutsch of northern Germany, but I've learnt that in Austria, as everywhere else, if you want to lead a decent life, it's better to abandon the subtleties and immerse yourself in the local language without shame: enter the dialect like an explorer, have fun imitating it, then learn it and make it your own, at least a little.

Every place has its own soul and deserves to have its own language, made up of dialect and nomenclature. And what place in Vienna has more soul than its cafés?

The history of Viennese cafés is a mixture of historical fact and legend, born out of the complex relationship - confrontation, exchange and clash - between the Austrian and Ottoman Empires, culminating in the siege of Vienna in 1683.

1683 was the year of the siege and the end of the Ottoman Empire's further ambitions. But it also sealed the cultural exchange between the two empires: with coffee. When the Armenian Johannes Deodat (Diodato) received the first official licence to serve coffee to the public in 1685, he gave birth to a culture, a tradition and an institution - the Viennese coffee house.

This cultural phenomenon became so important that in 2011 UNESCO included the Viennese coffee house culture on its list of intangible cultural heritage.

Viennese cafés: the stage where this city's unique cultural identity unfolded.

To enter a Viennese café is to inhale literature, thought and poetry: from Sigmund Freud to Alfred Adler, from Hugo von Hofmannsthal to Karl Kraus, and then Arthur Schnitzler, Ludwig Wittgenstein, Robert Musil, Stefan Zweig, Franz Kafka, Elias Canetti, Thomas Bernhard... they all sat at the tables of historic cafés such as the Central, the Landtmann or the Griensteidl. In the air, without the need for laser holograms, you can still feel their presence.

If you want to return to the present, open the coffee menu: you can get lost in it, you must! It will always be difficult for an Italian to give up his ristretto espresso or his macchiato. But the almost infinite list of variations - I counted up to thirty - reveals a Borgesian world of incomprehensible and perhaps imaginary lists. Close your eyes, point randomly and make your choice: the surprise could be quite pleasant.

Wiener Melange is a pillar of the local tradition, so much so that it deserves its own monograph. Its ingredients are coffee and milk. Nothing strange so far. It's made with a lungo espresso or a moka. For a 250ml cup, you need about 125ml of lungo espresso and 125ml of milk. First pour everything into a glass or large cup. Then add the same amount of milk foam. At this point the cup is filled with milk foam and the Viennese Melange is ready. Kaisermelange is the premium version: coffee with egg yolk and cognac.

An "Einspänner" or "Kaffee Wiener Art" was the coachman's coffee: you had to hold the coffee glass in one hand and the reins in the other, drinking it little by little and hoping it would stay hot. The coffee was poured into a hand-held glass, covered with a generous (read: enormous) layer of whipped cream - the Schlagobers - and sprinkled with powdered sugar. By not stirring, the cream protected the coffee underneath from heat loss. To drink the coffee through the cream, without mixing it, is still an art that defies the laws of physics and leaves the mark of a fine moustache "like an old emperor".

First of all, if you are not a coachman, you can opt for an elegant Salon Einspänner - imagine a double espresso topped with a cloud of whipped cream. It's the Viennese version of a morning power-up!

On those scorching summer days, nothing beats an Eiskaffee. Picture this: cool coffee, vanilla ice cream, and a generous dollop of whipped cream. Heaven in a glass! Though between you and me, making it at home will save you a few euros. Kaffee Obermayer is a Melange with vanilla ice cream—the premium version of Eiskaffee. Not in love with vanilla but prefer chocolate? Then there is Othello for you: Mokka with chocolate flavoring. You'll love it.

Now, if you're visiting in winter, you absolutely must try the Fiaker. Named after Vienna's horse-drawn carriages, it's a warming blend of strong black coffee and rum, topped with whipped cream. Just maybe save it for after your January detox!

Franziskaner is a melange with whipped cream instead of frothed milk, for those who want to enjoy the full flavour. If we talk about Franziskaner, we cannot forget the Kapuziner: it is an espresso with a little milk and milk froth - no more and no less than a cappuccino, which is exactly what Kapuziner means.

Moving on to the more exotic, there's Kosakenkaffee, the Cossack coffee, - a fascinating blend of black coffee, honey and vodka. Fun fact: over the years, it's become more vodka than coffee, and you can now find it bottled in grocery stores!

The Sperbertürke is a legacy of Turkish traders: Turkish coffee brewed in a cezve (ibrik). Some people also like Turkish coffee, which is filtered Turkish coffee.

These three coffees are high in alcohol and sugar: the Marghiloman is mokka with cognac and orange liqueur. Mazagran is cold, strong coffee with rum or cognac. You'll often find the Maria Theresia in Viennese cafés: made with a shot of French orange liqueur, preferably poured in a Biedermeier glass, mixed with a little brown cane sugar covered with a double espresso and whipped cream on top, decorated with a little freshly grated orange peel. Bold, powerful and slightly overweight like its namesake.

Talking of alcohol: the Katerkaffee (Hangover Coffee) is a strong black coffee with a shot of alcohol - the official hangover coffee! Twenty years ago it was my weekly ritual.

What about the Überstürzter Neumann? A black coffee with milk added quickly ("overturned Neumann") - it's all in the barista's hand. If you want more milk, you can get a Weißer mit Haut, which is coffee with lots of milk and a thin layer of foam ("white with skin"). The Konsul, on the other hand, is a large black coffee with a small amount of cream, for those who like cream but not espresso.

For those loving sophisticated variations, here are some very elegant ways to drink coffee in Vienna: Kaffee Kirsch is coffee with cherry brandy. Never tried it, but it seems perfect for ladies chatting away their long afternoons at the café. Kaffee Landtmann is Mocha with honey and whipped cream. Not for everyone.

Of course, we have our everyday favorites too. The Großer Schwarzer (large black coffee) and Kleiner Schwarzer (small black coffee) are our reliable standards. They go together with the Verlängerter, an Espresso with hot water (similar to Americano).

What about Mokka? In Vienna, we say "Mokka" when we're actually talking about espresso. This drives our Italian friends crazy—but wait, it gets worse with the Mokka gespritzt: an espresso with a splash of hot water. In Italy, this would be considered sacrilege. For something closest to a true Italian espresso, order a Piccolo, our small Mokka. Other espresso variations include the Schale(rl) Gold: espresso with hot milk and milk foam, and the Intermezzo—small espresso with cocoa powder and whipped cream. Delicious.

Häferlkaffee is our version of a large filter coffee—the original big cup of coffee, predating Starbucks by generations. The Kaffee verkehrt flips the usual ratio, featuring mostly milk with just a splash of coffee. You'll find its cousin in Tel Aviv, the Cafe hafuch—literally "upside-down coffee": milk first, then coffee. The key difference? While Tel Aviv's youth have embraced vegan milk alternatives, Vienna remains steadfastly devoted to dairy.

For the grand finale: let me introduce you to the Zarenkaffee, or Tsar's Coffee. This luxurious drink consists of a very strong espresso topped with a delicate mixture of egg yolk and sugar. The topping is prepared just before serving by beating the egg yolk with sugar until it becomes frothy, then carefully layering it atop the hot espresso. A truly imperial creation!

An essential guide to Viennese coffees ↘︎

• The top 6 traditional coffee houses in Vienna, Vienna.info

• The 20 most beautiful coffee houses in Vienna, Varta Mag

Wiener Kaffeespezialitaeten

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Since 1985, this has been the official anthem of the European Union. It has been inspiring spontaneous performances in European cities from Copenhagen to Madrid, from Nantes to Berlin, from Rome to Riga.

But its reach extends far beyond: in recent years, crowds demanding democracy and embracing European ideals have raised their voices in Odessa and Kyiv, Ukraine, and in Tbilisi, Georgia, using their united voices in chanting the Ode to Joy as a powerful symbol of resistance. Around the world, people have sung this German text, set to German music, to express universal values and aspirations, to stand up for democracy and to remind us that true freedom is not an individual pursuit but a collective achievement.

This is the story of a musical revolution, a story of words that stir the heart and music that embodies the finest ideals that this old, complex, sometimes provincial continent has given to the world. It's a European story, yes - but it's also a universal one.

Vienna, May 1824

On 7 May 1824, Vienna was blessed with sunshine and almost summer-like temperatures. Those who could - the aristocracy and nobility - had already left Vienna for their country homes to enjoy the summer weather. Yet, the premiere of Ludwig van Beethoven's new work was eagerly awaited: for two years it had been said that what the musician was composing would be groundbreaking.

There had even been a minor revolt in the Viennese cultural world a few months earlier when Beethoven himself had suggested that the premiere should take place in Berlin. But thirty of the musician's most important Austrian admirers - influential, prominent people - signed a petition asking him to consider Vienna as the "capital of truth and beauty", the one that deserved to hear the great symphony first.

Beethoven had a peculiar character, but he wasn't immune to flattery. And so he gave in to his audience. The new symphony was to be performed for the first time in Vienna, at the Theater am Kärntnertor.

On the evening of the 7th of May in 1824, the theatre was sold out - filled with admirers, curious spectators and fellow musicians, including Franz Schubert.

Beethoven himself decided to conduct the orchestra that evening, despite being deaf - and having written this new symphony using only his musical imagination. The impresario and the orchestra were so concerned that they prepared a substitute conductor. Even Caroline Unger, the hired alto, was visibly perplexed. Beethoven, true to his status as a musical star, did not care about the doubts of others.

He appeared on stage in an old dark green frock coat, blatantly ignoring the Viennese tradition of conductors wearing black. He did not care. Besides, he was not in the best financial shape at the time. There was no money to buy new, shiny clothes. And anyway, it was the music that had to speak, wasn't it? It spoke. It really did speak.

As the fourth and final movement began, maestoso, with cellos and basses introducing the Ode to Joy theme - still soft and interwoven with fragments of previous movements - the audience held its breath. As the volume rose and all the instruments joined in, something unprecedented happened: a chorus began to sing! Never before had anyone heard a symphony with a chorus. And what a chorus it was!

The melody, composed of just a few notes, was instantly memorable, with one note per syllable - so simple that even those with no musical training could grasp it immediately. It was like the best popular music, but… two centuries ahead of its time.

The text moved people to tears with its call for unity, fraternity and joy, inviting all to embrace as one under a common divine presence. Europe was recovering from decades of chaos—wars, revolutions, and Napoleon’s shadow. A quarter century of conflict ended only a decade earlier with the Congress of Vienna - which had ended the wars, but restored an oppressive and outdated order. The audience understood both the music and the words, and felt that they were witnessing more than just a masterpiece.

As the final chord of 'Ode to Joy' faded, there was a roar of applause. People rose to their feet, clapping and crying out Beethoven's name.

Knowing he couldn't hear them, they waved white handkerchiefs - transforming the theatre into something resembling a modern sports stadium. At first, Beethoven wasn't aware of the audience's reaction; despite the initial applause, he continued conducting until singer Caroline Unger gently touched his arm and turned him around. There he saw 2,000 people on their feet, giving at least four thunderous ovations. The response was so overwhelming that the local police had to intervene to prevent the joy from sparking a riot, demanding silence from the crowd.

A musical revolution based on an ideal and the words that carried it.

The police rightly sensed something subversive in what they were hearing. As the guardians of order, they were naturally suspicious of the text's call for freedom - and that was indeed the heart of those verses.

But why did Beethoven create this refrain? Was he simply looking for something new and inspiring to add to his musical imagination? On the contrary: the Ninth Symphony was born with the aim of providing a framework for a poem that Beethoven had fallen in love with as a young man and that he had decided that sooner or later he would set to music: Friedrich Schiller's "Ode an die Freude" (Ode to Joy). Written in 1785, on the brink of the French Revolution, Schiller's Ode to Joy expresses a longing for peace and brotherhood: "All men will become brothers... Be embraced, you millions!" and was all about the spirit of Illuminism.

Beethoven was fifteen years old at the time, growing up in his hometown of Bonn and immersing himself in transcendental idealism and Enlightenment philosophy. He audited Kant's lectures at the University of Bonn and kept his hands busy not only with piano and music sheets but also with books—particularly Goethe and Schiller.

In a volume of Schiller, the young Beethoven discovered a poem that electrified him: the "Ode to Joy" — a manifesto of Enlightenment ideals that touched on all the themes dear to Ludwig.

Let's explore these verses together, imagining the idealistic teenage Beethoven, convinced that art's mission, including music, was not to simply entertain, but to elevate humanity. Let us picture him, alongside us, reading these verses for the first time:

An die Freude Freude,
schöner Götterfunken,
Tochter aus Elysium,
Wir betreten feuertrunken,
Himmlische, dein Heiligtum.

Joy, beautiful spark of divinity,
Daughter of Elysium,
We enter, drunk with fire,
Heavenly one,
your sanctuary!

Deine Zauber binden wieder,
Was die Mode streng geteilt
Alle Menschen werden Brüder,
Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.

Your magic binds again
What custom has strictly divided
All humans become brothers
Where your gentle wing stands.

Wem der grosse Wurf gelungen,
Eines Freundes Freund zu sein,
Wer ein holdes Weib errungen,
Mische seinen Jubel ein!

Whoever has been lucky enough
to be a friend of a friend,
Whoever has won a loving wife,
Let them add their joy to ours!

Further ahead:

Freude trinken alle Wesen
An den Brüsten der Natur;
Alle Guten, alle Bösen
Golgen ihrer Rosenspur!

All beings drink joy
From the chest of nature;
All good, all bad
Follow her path of roses!

Finally:

Seid umschlungen, Millionen!
Diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt!
Brüder, über'm Sternezelt Muss ein lieber Vater wohnen
Ihr stürzt nieder, Millionen?
Ahnest du den Schöpfer, Welt?
Such' ihn über'm Sternenzelt!
Über Sternen muss er wohnen!

Be embraced, you millions!
A kiss for the whole world!
Brothers, above the stars
A loving Father must dwell
Do you bow yourselves, oh millions?
Do you sense the Creator, world?
Seek Him above the firmament!
Above the stars He must dwell!

When you read these words - in German or translated - it is easy to see why the Ode to Joy has become Europe's anthem. These verses speak of love and universal brotherhood, not of pride or war. They invoke images of starry skies and happy lives, not of nations asking their people to die for them. They are a distillation of the Enlightenment ideals on which Europe was built, and the desire for peace, for which the political Europe was born, after tragic centuries of war.

The Anthem of Europe

When the European Community was looking for an anthem to complement its existing starred flag and motto of "united in diversity", the Ode to Joy seemed the perfect choice. The decision was made in 1972, but it took time to become official - well, like everything in the European machine…

Furthermore, in 1985 it was decided to officially adopt only the musical theme, leaving the citizens free to sing it in the original language or in a local version. They were aware of the linguistic challenges that the German text might pose, but this created a paradox given Beethoven's willingness to set his music to this poem.

None other than Herbert von Karajan was commissioned to write three instrumental arrangements - for solo piano, for strings and for full orchestra. Since then, there have been many versions of the fourth movement, but the most moving remain the choral versions, which bring the original text to life.

From Heaven to Heaven, a Universal Hymn

It is wonderful to know that the Ode to Joy is so closely associated with Europe and its best face. But it is even more wonderful to know that Schiller's verses, set to Beethoven's music, have risen, like the cherubs of his Ode, from heaven to heaven, from continent to continent, to invoke peace, brotherhood and freedom on all continents, sung by all kinds of people.

On December 31, 1975, the Chilean women prisoners of Tres Alamos Camp, sang a Spanish version of "Ode To Joy". They wanted to be heard by a young girl who had been released and lived in a nearby neighborhood. Amelia Negrón recalled that moment in a 2014 interview:

"She had been with us a few months and when the day of her release came, she cried and cried and cried. At last she was getting out, but she was taking the sadness of leaving us behind with her."

The voices of nearly 120 women political prisoners in the Tres Álamos concentration camp rose to the sky with 'Ode to Joy'. Their song carried across the compound to reach their male comrades in the other pavilions and echoed throughout the neighbourhood. Amelia remembered:

"Although closed, the gates were powerless to stop our voices and the voices of all our neighbours at the concentration camp. That night a single choir was formed, free of walls and fences."

In Tiananmen Square in 1989, students played the Ninth Symphony over improvised loudspeakers as troops moved in to crush their pro-democracy movement. Borrowing car batteries from supporters in nearby neighborhoods, they set up a pirate radio system and broadcast the Ode to Joy to counter the droning music and speeches of the Chinese Communist Party.

The students had no weapons - music and gesture were their only fragile means of resistance and their way of telling the world, through the universal language of music, what their struggle meant. We all remember the image of the young man facing the tank in Tiananmen Square. Other images also circulated around the world, surprising international audiences: these young people, facing annihilation at the hands of the dictatorship, sang and continued to sing under fire.

On Christmas Day 1989, Leonard Bernstein celebrated the fall of the Berlin Wall with a concert that went down in history: at the Konzerthaus am Gendarmenmarkt in East Berlin, he conducted an orchestra representing the two Germanies and the former occupying powers, with artists from Berlin, Bavaria, Dresden, Leningrad, London, New York and Paris. The "Ode to Joy" ("Ode an die Freude") was renamed "Ode to Freedom" ("Ode an die Freiheit"), and everyone felt certain that Ludwig van Beethoven would have approved.

The Ukrainian Freedom Orchestra did something similar in 2023, when it premiered Beethoven's Ninth Symphony with a Ukrainian translation of Schiller's text into Ukrainian, changing "Joy" to "Slava", Glory, the battle cry for Ukrainian freedom.

In Japan, the piece has traditionally been performed between Christmas and New Year's Eve as a symbol of rebirth and hope for the future. In 2011, a unique event took place: ten thousand Japanese singers gathered in a large indoor arena for what became the largest-ever performance of the Ninth Symphony. This historic concert honored those who lost their lives in the Tōhoku tsunami—a catastrophe that claimed nearly 20,000 lives.

The list could continue indefinitely. Yet we must also acknowledge the darker moments when the Ode to Joy was misused and dishonored—for example, by the Nazis who forced Beethoven's music to be played in concentration camps, or less tragically and more recently, in 2019, when the European Parliament witnessed one of its lowest points. On July 1st of that year, Nigel Farage and his Brexit party MEPs turned their backs during the European anthem at the parliament's opening ceremony.

But what really matters are the personal moments that each of us associates with the Ode to Joy. Some of these are private experiences, but more often they are collective celebrations that we can watch endlessly on YouTube and social media. Here in Berlin in 2019, as Nigel Farage's MPs turned their backs on Europe and its anthem, we gathered to celebrate 30 years since the fall of the Wall.

A wonderful singalong version was recorded in August 2019 in front of the Konzerthaus in Berlin, on the same square where Leonard Bernstein had conducted the 1989 Christmas concert 30 years earlier:

My personal singalong, which I'll never forget, was part of the same celebration. On 10 November 2019, on an already wintry cold evening, we gathered on the Glienicke Bridge - you probably know that as the "Bridge of Spies" from the Tom Hanks film.

This bridge, which had marked the border between West Berlin and Potsdam (then part of East Germany), was opened as the last gate of the Berlin Wall at 6pm on that historic day. At that exact hour, 30 years later, the music began. And we, armed with printed lyrics and phone flashlights to illuminate the words in the darkness, began to sing.

It is rough and unpolished, but the recording I made that night remains unforgettable to me. Here it is:

This piece is dedicated to
the brave people of Georgia
who are fighting for their self-determination
and for the European dream.

BEETHOVEN IN VIENNA

• Wien.info: Beethoven in Vienna

• Visitingvienna.com: Beethoven locations in Vienna

• Haus der Musik: Beethoven City Map

«Wenn ich ein anderes Wort für Musik suche, so finde ich immer nur das Wort Venedig.» - «When I search for another word for music, I can only ever find the word Venice.»

Friedrich Nietzsche

Through the cobblestone alleyways of Venice, across the grand squares of Rome, and along the tranquil lakeside of Ascona, German-speaking souls have been drawn to the Italian-speaking world for centuries. This enduring love story, expressed through literature and painting, through music and cinema, runs deep in history.

During the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, Europe was not divided between East and West, but between North and South: the South radiated culture throughout the continent and this culture spoke Italian. Italian was the language of great poets like Dante, Petrarch and Boccaccio. It was the language of intellectuals, courts, religion and the figurative arts. Faced with the majestic South, the uncultured North felt admiration and awe. With the dawn of modernity, Europe's political and cultural center shifted north and west. The South was no longer merely admired—it became a source of nostalgia, yearning, and deep affection.

This emotional connection became the defining characteristic of German-speaking classicism and romanticism, embracing both the Italian language and its territories. It could hardly have been otherwise: to love a language is to love the places where it lives. Sometimes the reverse occurs: when we fall in love with a place, it drives us to learn its language—to understand it more deeply and become part of it. This is what the Italian language becomes: a landscape of the soul.

The German word Sehnsuchtsort, born from Romantic literature, perfectly captures Italy's essence through time. More than just a physical location, it represents a place of deep yearning. Through its charm and emotional resonance, it becomes a spiritual sanctuary—a mirror of aspirations and fantasies, offering solace for personal crises and frustrations.

Italienische Reise: Goethe and Romanticism.

A canvas for aspirations, a remedy for midlife crisis, and a physical and psychological journey of self-discovery: Goethe's Italian Journey from 1786 to 1788 was all of these things. First chronicled in hundreds of letters sent back to Germany, it later crystallized into a heartfelt travel diary published in 1816. This work would become the foundation for Sehnsucht—the German-speaking world's profound yearning for all things Italian.

In 1786, at age thirty-seven, Goethe was in crisis. Exhausted by his official duties at the Weimar court, financially unstable, and unfulfilled in his relationship with Charlotte von Stein, a married woman, he embarked for Italy on September 3, 1786. This was no mere break from routine or following in other travelers' footsteps—he was driven by a "demonic impulse for life and freedom." Traveling incognito as a painter, he was well-supplied with money and had reliable friends to count on locally, yet carried a heavy burden in his soul.

On September 8, Goethe crossed the Brenner Pass. From that moment, with each stop along his journey, his spirit lightened as he began to "regain interest in the world." Rather than approaching Italy as a scholar with rational tools, he experienced it as a sentient being: "Now I am interested in sensory impressions, which no book and no image can give me." Setting aside his erudition, Goethe immersed himself in the experience—practicing his Italian in Rovereto (though finding few speakers), buying local clothes in Verona, and losing himself in Venice, the most bustling city he had ever encountered.

In Rome, Goethe immersed himself in the city's pleasures. His Italian journey proved both revolutionary and therapeutic, with its modern sensibilities still inspiring readers worldwide. Italy and the Italian-speaking world gained an enduring reputation as a place of natural healing through his account. His decision to leave everything behind for two years—essentially inventing the concept of a sabbatical before it existed—was remarkable. Rather than treating it as mere travel, he embraced total immersion, ultimately reversing his perspective to view it as a return home, a Heimreise.

On October 29, 1786, Goethe arrived in Rome, exclaiming: "Yes, I have finally arrived in the capital of the world!" While there, he took drawing lessons from his friend, the painter Johann Heinrich Wilhelm Tischbein, and shared lodgings with him in what would now be called a Wohngemeinschaft (commune). This building now houses the Casa di Goethe museum. After three months, the poet embarked on a detour to Sicily, then returned to Rome before finally heading back to Germany two years after his departure. Italy, however, would forever remain his heart's true home.

Goethe's journey transformed Romantic literature: the Italian journey was no longer merely an intellectual pursuit, but became an exploration of life, freedom, beauty, sensuality, dreams, and emotions.

Clemens Brentano (1778-1842) writes in the Italienische Reisegedichte:

Heinrich Heine (1797-1856) echoes this in Florentinische Nächte:

Italy in the Colors of Romanticism.

Not only writers but also Romantic painters drew inspiration from Goethe, journeying to Italy both physically and in their imagination. Their artistic language—expressed through brushstrokes rather than words—showed equal admiration and affection, going beyond mere landscapes with ruins or views of Rome and Venice. These works transcended simple tributes to ancient history or fascination with decaying architecture. German Romantic artists explored every corner of Italy, from the Alps to Sicily, sometimes striving for realism, other times reimagining the landscapes they encountered to heighten their emotional impact.

The view of Palermo is one of twelve Sicilian motifs that Carl Rottmann, Ludwig I of Bavaria's court painter, created as large frescoes for Munich's Hofgarten arcade. Rottmann visited Palermo twice—in 1826-27 and again in 1829—to gather material for his Italian cycle. The journey came at Ludwig I's insistence, as the king deeply desired to possess "a true Palermitan landscape." During his two-week stay in Palermo, Rottmann created numerous sketches capturing the city and bay from various perspectives.

The Nazarene painters, a German artistic group, established themselves permanently in Rome in 1809. There, they engaged in direct dialogue with Italian Renaissance and Baroque art, seeking to rediscover models of pure religious art untainted by secular influences. They drew inspiration from masters like Giotto, Raphael, and other early Renaissance painters. This quest for a synthesis between Italian and German artistic traditions culminates in Friedrich Overbeck's allegory Germania e Italia, Germany and Italy (1811-1828), now displayed in Munich's Neue Pinakothek.

Empires end, the Italian dream remains: the Central European gaze before and after the great wars.

Rilke at Duino

For Prague-born writer Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926), poetry and travel were inseparable. From childhood, he traveled extensively, with Italy becoming one of his favorite destinations (Viareggio, Florence, Venice, Rome, Naples, and Capri). He embraced the Italian language, learning it thoroughly enough to translate Michelangelo, Petrarch, and Leopardi—the latter inspiring enthusiastic passages in his Florentinisches Tagebuch ("Florentine Diary").

While Rilke visited many Italian cities, Duino—a small village on the Adriatic coast near Trieste, then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire—holds special significance in the public imagination. Here, as a guest of Princess Marie von Thurn und Taxis, Rilke began composing his masterwork, the Duino Elegies, in 1912.

In a 1922 letter to Lou Andreas-Salomé, he reflected: "Here is where the Elegies were born, where they fell into me like seeds, to then germinate and grow slowly over the years." Italian landscapes became an integral part of his poetry, manifesting as both physical details and emotional metaphors. The musicality of Italian itself enhanced his work, contributing to the expressive intensity, rhythm, and sonority of his verses.

As Joseph Roth noted in Radetzkymarsch, "Italy is the most beautiful Province of Austria"— an observation that rings true when considering the many Austro-Hungarian authors who formed deep personal and artistic connections with Italy: Robert Musil (1880-1942), Stefan Zweig (1881-1942), Thomas Bernhard (1931-1989), Franz Kafka (1883-1924), and Ingeborg Bachmann (1926-1973), among others.

Musil: "In Italy, passions are stronger and more sincere".

German authors have often compared Italian and Austrian cultures—both imperial and republican—with varying degrees of ambivalence and even irony. In his monumental novel The Man Without Qualities (1930-1943), Musil portrays Italy as a perfect antithesis to Austrian mediocrity. His protagonist, Ulrich, observes that "In Italy, they say, passions are stronger and more sincere" and that "In Italy, as everyone knows, art is not a luxury but a necessity." Even for the man without qualities of finis Austriae, Italy remains an escape destination, where "everything seems easier and lighter." Yet this idealized Italy was also a place where "even the dirt was beautiful."

Kafka: Between Health Trips and Oppressive Bureaucracy.

This was equally true, though with different nuances, for Prague-born Franz Kafka, who found moments of hope and pure joy in Italy. His Italian travels marked a shift from literary sentimental journeys to the twentieth century's tourism and health retreats, exemplified by his stays at the Merano climate resort. Italian culture appears in his works indirectly and often critically—in The Trial, completed in Riva del Garda, Kafka incorporates his experiences with Italian bureaucracy. In the novel's Cathedral chapter, which alludes to his 1911 visit to Milan's cathedral, he painfully recalls feeling powerless due to his limited Italian, foreshadowing Josef K.'s experience:

Bachmann: "Rome is a dream from which one never wakes up".

Ingeborg Bachmann, one of Austria's most significant 20th-century writers, lived in Rome for many years until her tragic death in 1973. For her, Italy served as both refuge and muse, inspiring poems and stories while also revealing itself as a theater of contradictions. In her Roman Chronicles (1955) and Roman Poems (1952), Bachmann captures the Eternal City's paradoxical nature: bustling streets that suddenly give way to silent alleyways, sublime beauty alongside moral decay and corruption. Naples and the South evoked similarly conflicting emotions—simultaneously alluring and repelling. Bachmann didn't merely observe Italian life; she immersed herself in it completely, embracing both its virtues and flaws. Few German-language writers have achieved such deep integration into Italian culture as this Carinthian author. Bachmann articulates this dual nature of Italy in a letter to her companion Max Frisch:

Mann: beautiful and decadent Italy

Italy features prominently in many of Mann's works, both as a setting and as a cultural touchstone. In Tonio Kröger (1903), the protagonist is a troubled artist who journeys to Italy seeking inspiration and self-discovery. Like in Goethe's time, Italy represents an ideal of artistic freedom and creativity. The Italian landscape, with its rich cultural diversity, creates a stark contrast with Tonio's German past, compelling him to contemplate his identity and place in the world.

At Forte dei Marmi, Mann finds inspiration to write Mario and the Magician (1930). Set in this seaside resort during the fascist regime, the story develops the theme of power and manipulation through the figure of a charlatan hypnotist magician, Cipolla. With his manipulative charisma, his ability to control the crowd, and his populist rhetoric, Cipolla subjugates the audience to his power, depriving them of free will and dignity. The reference to Mussolini is evident. The ending of the story remains ambiguous: Mario kills Cipolla, but his act of rebellion proves to be a desperate and isolated gesture that doesn't change the general situation.

Finally, Death in Venice (1912) encapsulates Mann's ambivalence toward Italy. In this story, Gustav von Aschenbach, an aging writer, falls in love with a young Polish boy and succumbs to Venice's decadent allure. Through Mann's masterful prose, the lagoon city becomes a backdrop for profound themes: the tension between art and life, the decay of bourgeois society, and the nature of forbidden desire. The self-destructive atmosphere builds to its inevitable conclusion as Aschenbach, aware of a raging cholera epidemic, chooses to remain in Venice—knowingly embracing death.

A love in the spirit of Goethe that stands the test of time.

Whether viewed through loving or critical eyes, through literature, painting, or photography, Italy and Italian culture remain the Sehnsuchtsort—the "place of yearning"—for all German speakers.

In the post-war period, Italy became accessible and emerged as a tourism mecca—beautiful, happy, and carefree during the economic boom years. Yet for some, it remained a distant and forbidden dream, separated by an iron curtain that divided worlds that loved each other, from Trieste to Szczecin. When the Wall fell and Europe's many languages began speaking to each other again, an entire part of Germany—home to gems of German culture and places dear to the great romantics like Jena, Weimar, Erfurt, and Dresden—looked South toward the Alps, eager to relive Goethe's journey of freedom and dreams of new life.

Go Trabi Go is a 1991 German comedy set shortly after reunification, during the summer of 1990—the "Magic Nights" of the Italian World Cup, won by the already unified German national team even before the country itself was unified! The film follows the Struutz family from Bitterfeld on their adventurous Italian vacation in their beloved Trabant Schorsch (every Trabant received a proper name from its owners). Udo Struutz, an East German German teacher, sets off with his wife Rita and daughter Jacqueline, using Goethe's Italienische Reise as his guidebook.

On his Trabi's trunk is Goethe's saying: See Naples and die. The journey becomes a symbol of regained freedom to travel. Despite setbacks—stolen bicycles at Lake Garda, an attempted camera theft in Rome, a car breakdown quickly fixed by its owner—the family's optimism never wavers. Their adventure continues to Naples in the Trabi, which, after losing its roof, becomes an impromptu convertible. Back in Germany, Udo learns from his wife that they're expecting a baby—a fruit of Italy and that summer when Germans were "the happiest people on earth."

Today's contemporary landscape reflects this ongoing history: Netflix series like Summertime (2023), countless books about Italy, and the endless adaptations of Donna Leon's novels - written by an American who lived in Italy for a long time before moving to Switzerland, becoming famous especially, not surprisingly, in Germany - in which Commissioner Brunetti solves Venetian mysteries. Even in music, there's Roy Bianco and the Abbrunzati Boys, a Bavarian band that captures the Italian summer spirit with songs like 'Baci, baci, baci', 'Vino Rosso', 'Amore sul mare' and, of course, 'La dolce vita', all set to the rhythms of the 1960s. This love affair, born centuries ago, shows no signs of fading.

Bookshelf

Long read worth the time, rich in lesser-known anecdotes and illuminating the before and after of Goethe's Italian Journey: Golo Maurer, HEIMREISEN: Goethe, Italy and the Germans' search for themselves (in German), 2021

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