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The hitchhiker I picked up on the Arlberg Pass was Viennese, with all the honeyed politeness and eagerness to please of a Viennese. There wasn't much traffic that afternoon in early May, and he was very grateful. Having noticed the French plates on my little Renault, he made some flattering remarks about France.

“I'm not French,” I said.

“I thought not,” said he, “your German is too good. You must be German. Bavarian, I presume.”

For the next few moments I had to concentrate on passing a big truck ahead on the winding road. My companion took my silence to be a confirmation of his statement, and he immediately began celebrating the German-Austrian comradeship in arms during the recent war; a Bavarian had been his closest buddy in the army. I was amused by his flexibility, and said I was not a German.

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