What this blog post was almost about today was playwright Tom Stoppard's visit to the Academy. But the visit went off the record at the last minute, and pending release of any remarks or clips from the event, this blog post couldn't report or examine what Stoppard said.

Thankfully, the Stoppard discussion continued at lunch. As after any event, people who had been there talked about what he talked about. So, like Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, this blog post became metatheater. The blog couldn't know what was really happening with Hamlet, as the plot goes, but it had to exist anyway.

Syracuse journalism dean Lorraine Branham had quoted in her Academy-opening speech a line of Stoppard's, "I still believe that if your aim is to change the world, journalism is a more immediate short-term weapon." (Full disclosure: That line was my high school yearbook quote.) There were mentions at the lunch table that Stoppard had given a different version of that line today. But another quote of his appeared to fit today's session — or at least the discussion of it.

"I write plays because dialogue is the most respectable way of contradicting myself," Stoppard has been quoted as saying. Reaction to the line over time has been mixed. On a positive note, Wikiquote once named it a quote of the day. (Not the Nobel Prize, but still, a popular nod.) On the negative, a 1977New Yorker story used it to put him down, running it below a headline nabbed from his own words, "Withdrawing with Style from the Chaos."

The central questions at lunch among several tables of our students and faculty were whether Stoppard had contradicted himself in his views on media and writing, and whether this — your answer to the contradiction question, whatever it was — was a good thing or not. Much like reactions to a new Stoppard work, interpretations varied wildly. On media consumption and artistic direction:

1. Yes, his views there were contradictory, and, yes, contradictory expression was human and a good thing.
2. Yes, they contradicted themselves, but, no, not a good thing, contradiction in expression was bad or lazy.
3. No, he hadn't contradicted himself at all, and, yes, this was a good and complex vision of life's inputs.
4. No, he hadn't contradicted himself, but, no, not a good thing, this was disengaged and a bit disappointing.

Stepping back, the angles of argument were similar to those we've heard constantly here in the past week. When did journalism develop inconsistencies? Were these inconsistencies natural, or were they unacceptable? When was the "media" monolith responsible, and when were we prisoners to our monolithic perceptions? When had we seen enough to judge? With just an hour with Tom Stoppard, or just an hour consuming news, how much had we seen?

Crossposted with some editing from Salzburg Global E-Media blog.

Here is the Bahnhof! We promptly took the train in the wrong direction.

Two weeks left. Says friend Emily, "Who loves traveling abroad!?!" Yes.

I rode the trains at the salt mine today. The trains went hundreds of meters into the mountain, and wind blew my hair back fast in the gap between the cave walls and my head. I had a town-square smile on my face. Automated cameras took your picture, like on a roller coaster. Deeper inside the mountain, there were wooden slides and a cavern boat trip. The slides were a rush but couldn't compete with the trains for me. Their cars never hit a slope. With looks, they were just benches attached to each other with a small engine in front. The unused tracks all over the mine even argued the ride used to go much further.

But the picture in my head was of a family. There were five of them. They had climbed onto the mine train cars of the time, black-and-white decades backward, and smiled for a camera that wasn't as automatic. They were an Army family, moved to post-war Europe and on vacation. Strangers packed in front of and behind them. They wore the mine's standard dark jackets and caps because the miners were still working then. What my train riders wore today were painters-wear with hoods. Local mining crews had raised the salt simply until they were no longer competitive and profitable, and the smock whites now were for show. The family in the picture in my head looked out of focus and beautiful.

Of their five, I'd never met one of them, and I'd met another only in passing. I'd missed them, I think, most of my life. I'd been coming to a better understanding recently of how to find them, to look for them in whom I did know, the three children and others, and in myself to the extent I could make educated guesses. What I had never imagined, though, was to feel their faces. With the train rolling, that town-square smile on my face was the family's smiles. The wind blew our hair, and the mountain grew shaded around us. The trip today, of myself and a few friends, I planned it and organized it, things I never do for myself. I didn't attempt to explain why to my friends. I couldn't have if I tried. But my hair pushed back in the wind, maybe a force with traces of salt in the tunnel but more possibly like any other good breeze, and I was surprised another way to find that family was to ride behind them.

The cameras, automated or not, captured the faces but didn't keep or change them. For myself, I took plenty of pictures and movies in the salt mine, all bound to end up blogged later this week. They were the least important things. Mom, I bought a box of salt for you. Thank you for remembering and finding the picture. Into the mountain we went.

And there were two stops for that, spending hours crossing town…

He played well. But were he great, I wouldn't have seen an accordian.

With the music festival in full run at nights, the city center was packed.

Music was everywhere in the city, always with crowds surrounding.

The leftover people filled the stands at the big chessboard.

Totally outdrawing the little chessboard.

Quieter was the graveyard that inspired the Sound of Music hiding set.

Want an actual Sound shooting location? Mirabell Gardens. Do-re-mi…

… fa-so-la-ti-do. (Runs around in circles.)

Back in the city center, my favorite merchant was at work. I've seen her now three times, and we've talked once. She's so has me sold.

Around the corner, of course, more music.

And old-timey photos!

And the homeless.

And God. Spot was St. Blasius — St. Blaise, patron saint of the throat (long story), which I'm choosing to interpret today as communication.

When a culture forms around a facet of society, those who enjoy the facet have to decide how to meet the culture. Engage fully? Lead? Shy away? Work around the edges? I always enjoy the New Yorker's Style Issue for this reason, even when I read the issue four months late.

From the issue's profile of Bill Cunningham:

Around his neck was a battered Nikon. Its strap was held together with duct tape. Cunningham has often been described as a fashion monk, but he is closer to an oblate–a layperson who has dedicated his life to the tribe without becoming a part of it.

Later:

He has a thing for curbside puddles. "It's a little ridiculous, but a fierce snowstorm is wonderful!" he said. "Oh, it's marvellous–it just rearranges the whole fashion scene when the wind blows down from the top of the Avenue. Six-, seven-hundred-dollar shoes, and they're all in the slush–hey, it's pretty peculiar!" He went on, "Nothing like a good blizzard, kid, and you got pictures!"

We took a bus to Lake Gosausee, did a long walk around and took a cable car up the mountain. (Pix to come.) Along the lap, we stopped at a grassy spot for lunch, and soon enough there were people from four continents skipping rocks into the lake. South America didn't go for it but did put the best phrase around it. Stone-skipping, without soccer and basketball around, was a "transnational pastime," said professor Connie from Chile. Techniques varied but all had some skip success.

Daniel from Germany, who works for the academy.

Joe from Uganda, whose German, along with Daniel's, helped us all.

Pablo from Mexico, electric-fence shocked later while taking a cow's pic.

Mengxi from China, after just learning stone-skipping from prof Andy.