I Had Dinner with a Count At His Castle, and All I Got Was This Lousy Business Card

In which our intrepid travel writer discovers that owning an Austrian castle means constantly explaining you’re not related to Julie Andrews

“Velcome..to my castle.” The 13th-century Schloss Friedberg, home to the Trapp family, near Innsbruck. Photo by Mark Orwoll

SCHLOSS FRIEDBERG, BUILT IN THE LATE Gothic style in 1230, rises dramatically from a hillside in Volders, in the heights above Innsbruck. And right away, I have to confess something: I don’t know many people who own castles. In fact, I know exactly ZERO people who own castles. Until now.

So when I was invited to dinner at an actual, honest-to-God castle, I thought, “Yes, please, I want to go to there,” which is the sophisticated way travel writers express enthusiasm.

The enthusiastic readers among you will recall that last week I wrote about Dracula’s Castle in Romania. I hear you rumbling: “What is this? A weekly column on castles?!” The answer is no. Today’s column exhausts my personal knowledge of castles. You may now heave a sigh of relief. And so, back to Schloss Friedberg…

The wide cinder footpath narrows as you approach the entrance, leaving you to wonder if you’ve taken a wrong turn or if this is like one of those home improvement shows where they intentionally make things difficult just to see if you’ll panic. What’s next? A moat full of angry swans? Hand lotion on the castle doorknob? A note saying “Just kidding, the real entrance is around back by the dumpsters”?

But no—the other guests and I are greeted at the courtyard doorway with flutes of Champagne, which immediately makes everything better, because that’s pretty much Champagne’s only job. We enter the courtyard, where a brass quartet is playing lively tunes in three-quarter time. Oompah music, basically. The kind of music that makes you want to either (a) dance with a stein of beer or (b) invade Poland. The tuba player has done this so many times he’s basically asleep while playing, operating on pure muscle memory and possibly dreaming about a career in smooth jazz.

A brass quartet welcomes guests to the castle courtyard. Photo by Orwoll

Standing literally head and shoulders above all his guests is Count Gaudenz G. Trapp, dressed in a traditional Tyrolean jacket and a scarf tied in a French twist so complicated that I fear it might strangle him if he sneezes. It looks like the kind of knot that requires a YouTube tutorial. Next to him is his smiling wife, the porcelain artist Christiane von Trapp, who appears much more confident that her clothing won’t accidentally kill her.

Your ‘Von’ Is Kaput!

His Excellency and Madam von Trapp moved permanently into Schloss Friedberg in 2009 after extensive renovations. They live on the second floor, and rent the rest of the fully serviced castle to guests, almost exclusively wedding parties. Because nothing says “fairy tale romance” quite like drunken reception guests vomiting in the moat while your DJ plays “Shout.”

Now, here’s where things get confusing. Christiane von Trapp has chosen to use the full family surname, even though Austria abolished the use of the aristocratic “von” in 1919 after the fall of the Habsburg Empire.

Aristocratic titles these days are inherited, but carry no privileges—not even a parking pass, which seems like a tragic waste of a perfectly good count-hood. Official paperwork doesn’t permit the use of “von” in a surname. Nonetheless, numerous hereditary aristocrats continue to use those three letters, because if you can’t get a parking pass, you might as well at least get to impress people at cocktail parties. England’s Guardian newspaper calls it the “von trap”: to use it or hide it? (And yes, that’s an excellent pun, although I suspect the von Trapps are thoroughly sick of all Sound of Music references by now.)

Schloss Friedberg—just the place for a fairy tale wedding reception. Courtesy of Schloss Friedberg

The Austrian government made an exception for artists, like the conductor Herbert von Karajan. Born as a knight in Salzburg in 1908, von Karajan threatened never to appear in Austria again unless permitted to use his full name on official documents, which is the most diva move in classical music history, and that’s saying something in a field where people regularly storm off stage because the timpani player sniffled during the Recitativo Stromentato. Nowadays, some people of noble lineage use the “von,” some don’t. Count Gaudenz doesn’t. Presumably, he has better things to worry about, like whether the castle’s Wi-Fi reaches the dungeon.

The Banquet Begins, but the Seating Chart Is a Mess

After our introductory Champagne—and I would just like to point out that “introductory Champagne” is a phrase that should appear more often in American life—we climb a set of curving steps to a vestibule bearing ancient portraits on the walls. These are the kind of portraits where the subjects all look vaguely constipated, which was apparently the preferred expression for nobility in centuries past.

The room is brightly lit by overhead lanterns. Our every footstep echoes among the stone floors and the columns that support the vaulted ceiling, making it impossible to sneak anywhere, which is probably by design. (“Honey, did you hear that echo? The peasants are revolting!” “Well then, send them a carton of soap!”)

A dining room adjoins the vestibule. Before I can take a seat with my fellow travel writers—who are no doubt planning to write articles with titles like “10 Castles You MUST Visit Before You Die” and “This One Weird Trick Counts Don’t Want You To Know About”—a majordomo asks me if I would like to join the count, countess, and Elisabeth Gürtler at their table.

The guests assemble. “No, no, Mr. Orwoll,” says the majordomo. “The Count asks that you join him at his table.” Photo by Orwoll

Now, a majordomo, for those of you unfamiliar with castle staffing hierarchy, is basically a fancy butler who gets to use a fancier title. And when a majordomo asks you to do something, you don’t say no. I’m too nervous to say, “No thanks, I’m too nervous,” which would be the honest answer.

Gürtler, who arranged this gathering, is royalty herself, at least among the Austrian hotel set. She married into the Sacher family (as in Sacher torte, which is a chocolate cake so rich it probably has its own investment portfolio), took charge of the Hotel Sacher in Vienna, and now is the doyenne of the Alpin Resort Sacher in the Alpine town of Seefeld. She’s one of those elegant women who don’t walk; they float, like they’re permanently being followed by a gentle breeze and a soft-focus camera lens. She’s as handy at crunching numbers with her accountants as she is at leading a Champagne toast to big spenders at her elegant mountain lodge.

Making Small Talk with a Count

As for the Count and Countess, I was ambivalent. Honestly, like most Americans, royal titles don’t impress me much—we fought a whole war specifically so we wouldn’t have to care about this stuff. Viscount, marchioness, and the like are to me not dissimilar to such phrases as “mullioned window” and “wabi-sabi”—colorful words to adorn travel stories and make you sound like you know what you’re talking about at dinner parties.

But to be invited to sit down to dinner with a count (or “graf,” as they say in Austria)—that’s a different matter entirely. I take my seat and strain to make small talk. And by “small talk,” I mean the kind of conversation that is simultaneously inconsequential, insincere, and barely coherent, like a chat between two people in an elevator who are both desperately hoping the elevator reaches their floor soon.

From left: Elisabeth Gürtler, Count Gaudenz Trapp, and Christiane von Trapp, during dinner at Schloss Friedberg. Photo by Orwoll

“I admire your jacket, your Excellency,” I say (having Googled the appropriate form of address minutes before arriving, because I am a Professional Journalist and absolutely did not panic in the taxi). In the traditional Alpine style, his loden-green coat has a high collar and ornate lapels, yet there is a modern cut to the garment, which is the kind of thing fashion writers say when they’re trying to sound knowledgeable. “May I ask where you bought it?”

Graf Gaudenz looks down at the jacket as if surprised to be wearing it, as if perhaps it magically appeared on his body while he was thinking about something else. I almost expect him to say, “What? This old thing?”

“I bought this at a shop that was closing,” he says, seemingly pleased at having gotten a good going-out-of-business bargain.

And right there, I love this guy. Here’s a man who owns a castle—an ACTUAL CASTLE that was built in the year 1230, when the biggest technological advancement was “Hey, we figured out how to make slightly better arrows”—and he’s pleased about getting a discount on a jacket. That’s the kind of fiscal responsibility that probably explains how his family has held onto their castle for generations while other noble families lost theirs in unfortunate incidents involving angry mobs and guillotines.

“I’m glad you like it,” he adds.

For a moment, I’m genuinely afraid he is going to remove the jacket and give it to me, because that seems like exactly the kind of magnanimous gesture a count would make, and then I’d have to wear this complicated jacket with its death-scarf accessory.

My ‘Leather’ Jacket Prompts Worrisome Examination

Elisabeth Gürtler chimes in, saying to the count, “And I love Mark’s jacket.” She pinches my left sleeve. “Leather. Very fine leather.”

I should mention at this point that my jacket is not leather. My jacket is not even CLOSE to leather. My jacket is made of some sort of synthetic miracle fiber that was probably invented in a laboratory by scientists who were trying to create a cheaper alternative to, well, leather. Thousands of microfibers gave their last best effort to make my blazer LOOK like leather, and apparently, they succeeded, at least in dim castle lighting after several glasses of Champagne.

‘Do you know Trump? Whatever else you hear about him, he is very charming.’

So I promptly change the subject before Elisabeth can conduct a closer inspection. I ask Christiane von Trapp about her background.

Surprisingly—and this is where the evening takes a turn into territory that can only be described as “You Can’t Make This Stuff Up”—Christiane, a German, is distantly related to Donald Trump, according to her husband. Both her family and Trump’s come from the same German village, which statistically makes sense because apparently everyone in Germany is related to everyone else in some complicated way that requires a chart and possibly a genetics degree to understand.

I tried not to hold it against her. After all, I’m probably distantly related to some terrible people, too. We all are. That’s how families work.

“Do you know Trump?” Count Gaudenz asks me.

I assume he means whether I know Trump personally, as opposed to whether I know OF Trump, which is a question with a very different answer. Before I can respond, the count continues.

“We know him,” he says, though not enthusiastically—in the same tone you might use to say, We know that guy who always talks too loud at parties. “He was a guest here. Whatever else you hear about him, he is very charming.”

And there it is. The count is being diplomatic, which is probably a skill you learn when you’re raised in a castle. He’s mastered the art of saying “very charming” in a way that somehow implies “but also kind of exhausting.”

Later, over our main course of venison—which is deer meat, for those of you who don’t regularly dine in castles—the count mentions a friend of his, the lately deceased son of a prominent Nazi, who became successful in New York banking.

“Fun guy!” says Count Gaudenz.

The Social Network of a Count is…Complicated

Donald Trump. Nazi offspring. When you’re part of the European aristocracy, apparently, you bump into the oddest sorts. It’s like the world’s most uncomfortable networking event. And why not? If you own a castle, everyone wants to know you. You’re like the popular kid in high school, except instead of throwing keg parties, you’re hosting wedding receptions in buildings that are older than the concept of weddings.

During the castle’s 2006-2009 renovation, the Trapps connected it to the internet (finally answering the age-old question: “Can you get a WiFi signal through three-foot-thick stone walls?”), updated the ventilation system, and modernized the heating. Castles, it seems, are notoriously drafty places—sort of like Trump’s soul when killing SNAP benefits. They installed an elevator to the guest suites, because apparently even counts get tired of climbing spiral staircases, and contemporized the interior decoration while respecting the building’s Gothic and Classical heritage, which I assume means they added some IKEA furniture but tried to hide it behind the tapestries.

We’ve gotten to the point in the evening where too much wine has been poured. I can tell because I’m starting to think that asking deeply personal questions is a good idea. I finally pose the question that I’m sure is on everyone’s mind, though everyone else is too polite to ask. Because I’m sitting next to Graf Gaudenz, the onus is on me. Also, I’m an American, and we Americans are not known for our restraint at dinner parties.

“Your Excellency,” I begin, hoping that I’m not slurring, though I’m at least 60 percent certain that I am. “What is your relationship to the von Trapp family of The Sound of Music?”

I think I see him wince, but in fact he doesn’t even blink—probably because I am the thousandth person to have asked him about the connection, and possibly the fiftieth person this week.

“Distantly related,” he says, with the practiced patience of a man who has answered this question so many times he could do it in his sleep. “But I’m used to the question. It doesn’t trouble me. Sometimes it takes more time to explain the relationship than to just nod and smile.”

There’s an example of noblesse oblige if ever I saw one. Simply to grit your teeth and bob your head instead of shouting, “I’m not one of THOSE von Trapps! Do you see Julie Andrews anywhere? Do you hear children singing? NO!” takes some practice, I would imagine.

The Nurses Sing Like Angels

And sometimes, Count Gaudenz even gets an amusing story from the understandable confusion. For instance, he was in New York several years ago when he had an emergency operation—the details of which are apparently not as interesting as what happened afterward.

“Later,” he recalls, “I was recuperating in the hospital room. I could tell that some of the staff were curious about me, and would peek into the room as they passed by.”

This is probably because in New York, having a count in your hospital is like having a celebrity, except the celebrity is from a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical that came out in 1965.

“Then one day, three nurses, very shy, came into my room and in harmony began to sing ‘Edelweiss.’”

At this, the count breaks into a smile and holds back bemused laughter, which is the appropriate response when three medical professionals who should be monitoring your vital signs instead decide to perform a musical number.

“You get used to it,” he says, in a tone that suggests he has NOT, in fact, gotten used to it, but has simply accepted it as one of the bizarre burdens of having a famous surname.

Countdown to My Escape

As we finish our dessert—which is probably something fancy with chocolate and gold leaf, though honestly, at this point, I’ve had enough wine that it could be a Pop-Tart and I’d think it was fancy—Count Gaudenz rises to address the assemblage, and in particular to thank Elisabeth Gürtler for her many years in the Austrian hospitality industry and for bringing us together on this evening.

Back in his seat, the count presents me with a business card. It identifies him as the principal of a private investment firm, without regard to any aristocratic title. No “Count,” no “Graf,” no “His Excellency”—just a regular business card like a regular person who happens to live in a castle and host dinner parties for random travel writers.

“Please,” he says, “may I have one of yours?”

And this is where everything goes horribly wrong.

The very tall Count Gaudenz and the author. I was afraid he would offer me his jacket. Source: Orwoll Collection

Normally I carry at least 20 or 30 business cards. I keep a few in my inner jacket pocket. I always have five or six tucked away in my wallet. A dozen or more can usually be found in my day pack. I have business cards in so many places that I’m basically a walking Staples store.

And on this occasion, sitting in a castle, having dinner with an actual count who has just asked for my business card, I have precisely…none.

Another travel writer sitting at our table notices me frantically searching my pockets like a street magician who’s lost his rabbit, and raises an eyebrow in that universal expression of “Dude, wuddup?”

I look at him hopefully, with the desperate eyes of a man who has just realized he’s about to commit a major social faux pas in front of European nobility.

“You know that business card I gave you last week in Vienna?” I say. “Can I have it? I’ll give you another one later. I promise. I’ll give you TEN business cards later.”

“Sorry, man,” he says, with the apologetic shrug of someone who is secretly enjoying watching me squirm. “I think it’s back at the hotel.”

I scour every pocket once more—jacket pockets, pants pockets, that weird little pocket inside the jacket that I’ve never understood the purpose of. I again search the crannies of my wallet, digging past receipts from three countries, ticket stubs, and a checked-luggage slip from my last hotel.

What luck! There, hidden between my outdated library card and a ShopRite Price Plus card, is a lone business card.

But not just any business card. This is the homeliest business card you ever saw.

One corner is torn, as if perhaps a small rodent tried to eat it. Somehow, the card has become wrinkled, as if it had been folded and unfolded several times, possibly during a heated argument about proper business card storage. On the back is a smear that looks like dried mud. I hope that’s all it is.

But I have no other options. This is it. This is my moment. I am going to present a count, a man who lives in a CASTLE built in the year 1230, with what is quite possibly the saddest, most pathetic business card in the history of international diplomacy.

I stand as grandly as I know how, which, after all the wine, is not particularly grand—more like a barely controlled wobble. I hold the card with two hands, Japanese-style, because if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it with DIGNITY, dammit, even if the card itself has no dignity whatsoever.

“Your Excellency,” I say with a gracious but, I hope, not subservient nod that I’ve been practicing in my head for the last 30 seconds, “my card.”

And I present him with what is quite possibly the most chewed-up, weather-beaten, possibly mud-stained business card ever exchanged in a medieval castle.

The count accepts it with the same grace he would accept a perfectly pristine card, because that’s what counts do.

They’ve had centuries of practice.

This column originally appeared in a far more mature and well-considered version in Everett Potter’s Travel Report.