It is the rainy season in Venice, where the HMS Endeavour makes its destination. Under a black umbrella, I tread carefully down the gangplank to Porto Marghera. But I am soon on another boat, for hire, which takes me to the Stazione. By five o'clock in the evening, I am on a train, bound for Munich.

I nap when I am able, spending the rest of my time in the lounge car, either writing in my journal or gazing out the window, while my soup turns cold. The picturesque vales and Alpine foothills show no sign of unemployment, starvation, or political unrest. This is the Österreich of old, pure and perfect.