In the summer of 1997, I went to the Second European Ecumenical Assembly, which was held in Graz, Austria. Graz is the second largest city in Austria, famous not only for its historical downtown, but also as the birthplace of Arnold Schwarzenegger.

More exactly, Schwarzenegger was born not in Graz itself, but in the village of Thal, located nearby. So, the second day after arrival, having completed three hours in the exhibition hall handing out information brochures about the organization I represented, I made my way outside to the village. The sun was hot and having exercised my right of an Assembly participant for free transportation, I took the bus for a couple of stops and then kept walking along Wetzeldorfer Strasse. On both sides of the street, bright billboards featured smiling Arnold himself, dressed in tuxeedo with bow-tie on the occasion of his fiftieth anniversary. I was wandering around, discovering so many new things and couldn't but get lost among the rows of equally prim and proper houses. With the help of the map I still found my way. The road, meanwhile, was gradually getting narrow and started making its way uphill. I made an attempt to hitch hike and for some time was walking and turning backwards at each car's noise and thumbing, but the cars wouldn't stop so I quit this rewardless job. The weather was wonderful, the sun was shining brightly and the only thing making me worry was to be back by lunch. On and on uphill, the asphalt ended and the dirt road started. After another hundred meters, thickets of mountain pines parted and I saw Graz in its whole, lying before me, squeezed in a valley between mountains.

The road was further making its way through the forest, crossing Gaisberg Mountain. I passed the sawmill and half an hour later, getting down the opposite slope, already could see waters of Thalersee, glittering downhill. The road brought me to the lake. Under the hot sun I was already all sweaty and indeed admired Arnold's persistence, who was making this way there and back every day to and from his training thirty five years ago. Crossing the ridge to get to the center of Graz took some seven kilometers.

The lake of Thalersee, which I descended to, was squeezed between hills and reflected dark woods covering these hills. On a bank there was a restaurant hanging over the water, and young Austrian girls sitting on the terrace would cast curious glances at me. With my poor knowledge of German, I, however, didn't even try to talk to them.

I passed an old branchy oak and the girls. Then along the old wooden deck, I approached a booth performing the duties of both boat station and fishermen club. This hot noon no one was fishing on Thalersee but the scraps of fishing line with angles, entangled in telephone wires and photographs on the planky walls of the booth, on which happy fishermen were demonstrating fat carps, proved that there was indeed fish in the lake.

I walked back along the wooden deck and started my way uphill via the asphalt road by the lake. The sun was beaming through the greenery of trees growing on the bank. A dead hedgehog's carcass on the roadside added stench to the Thalersee air. In three minutes, I stepped onto a green field with "Grazer Golf" tag on it, walked around and came back to the same place. I had no idea where the house of Schwarzenegger was, I only knew that it was situated near the remains of an old castle. A while back, I had read an unofficial biography of Arnold Schwarzenegger, but now in Thal, everything was turning out to be quite different from what I had imagined. I started walking uphill by the other road and right away saw a white sign with black letters saying "Thal Linak". Here was the place.

House #145 on Thal-Linak, in which Arnold lived until he was 19, also turned out not quite like I expected it to be, and was situated in the wrong place according to what I imagined. Yellow, two-storeyed and prim, with red tiling and hedgerow. No memorial plaque, nothing related to Schwarzenegger. A red sign at the door said "Anderwalt", the family currently residing in the house as far as I knew. Arnold's father died in 1972, and I didn't know anything concerning his mother. I saw a Virgin Mary stained glass behind the hedgerow in the corner of the palisade. Austria is a Catholic country, and the only church in Thal was also Catholic. I regretted that there was no one who could take a picture of me against the house and photographed it alone. I also did not want to attract attention of the house dwellers, who probably were sick of fans taking pictures of their house.

While living here, Arnold shared a bedroom with his brother that faced the old castle ruins. The castle was still here, all overgrown with pines. A stone house and white two-storeyed tower with a red cone roof, adjacent to the castle told me that the place was inhabited. I passed round two sheds standing in front of the house, approached the castle and entered through the wicket-gate. The landlord of the castle was not in and I climbed up the stone walls. The ancient white-lime mortaring the stones was flaking off and the stones were practically not bound. The wall was crumbling under my hands and feet. An idea about whether the castle turned into ruins because of people like me flashed across my mind. Running the risk of breaking my neck and having almost fallen a couple of times, I at last reached the top and cast a look around. Spread before my eyes was Schwarzenegger's yellow house, and around were meadows and hills covered with woods. "Thal is the embodiment of serenity," I recalled a phrase I once read. I thought that Arnold probably would go mushrooming in that wood. Or wouldn't because he probably did not like mushrooms. Anyway I had to think about finding cover because the weather started getting bad. From somewhere wind brought gray torn clouds. I took a picture of the panorama in front of me and started climbing down the wall. I stepped on the earth below as first rain drops fell.

I was sitting on a wooden block in a shed, and three steps away from me, a downpour was beating down and brown water streams were slowly flowing down the road. The shed, which became my shelter for another hour, served as a garage and a workshop for someone. Here and there old instruments lay about, and hay was scattered all over. The shed had no front wall at all. I recalled the time. It was already two o'clock in the afternoon. In Graz, the Assembly participants were already enjoying their lunch. I felt an urge to drink, dragged a block to the wall, climbed onto it and slaked my thirst, drinking water flowing from the gutter from my palms. The rain was still falling. A white car drove past. Heavy lead clouds hung over the pines. I was still sitting in the shed, reading the book about Schwarzenegger over and over, sketched the plan of the terrain on its cover, and from time to time would look through the shed to Arnold's house to compare the photo with the live view. The shed had no back wall as well.

Meanwhile the downpour calmed down and turned into drizzle. I took a Russian-German dictionary from my backpack and got out. Now I had a thought to visit Schwarzenegger's house. I walked one way along the street, returned and walked again. I felt myself quite free to do that, the only thing bothering me was whether my visit would not bring any inconveniences to the hosts. I walked around the neighbor's house and by a back path leading through thickets of burdock and nettle came down to the wicket-gate of the house #145. The back door was half open and one could see light in the windows. I started turning over the pages of my dictionary. What became the key expression which would have to open all the doors was: "Could I wait here until the rain is over ?" With this phrase I had to urge on while the rain was still falling. Knowing absolutely nothing about German grammar I simply translated each word of the phrase into its German equivalent. Then marked time for a bit, learning the expression by heart, plucked up my courage, opened the wicket-gate, came upstairs and knocked the door. No answer followed, so I opened the door, stepped in and said inside the house:

"Guten tag!"

Following my greeting from the door on the right a little woman appeared. Owing to the same book I recognized her as Frau Anderwalt. She cast an inquiring glance at me and I distinctly word by word said out my key expression:

"Kann Ich warten hier solang Unwetter kaput?"

Her eyes widened from surprise and I was not sure whether she understood me at all. But the next moment I heard:

"Oh, Ukraine!"

I completely forgot about the Assembly participant's tag, pinned on the front of my shirt. Now it acted in my favor. Frau Anderwalt was probably flattered by a visit of a Versammlung participant in her house. I kept striking while the iron was hot:

"Ja, Ukraine. Ich kommen von Graz von Okumenische Versammlung. Do you speak English?"

Luckily I heard:

"Yes, a little!"

She invited me to come in. I followed her into the kitchen. And right away, I understood that I was as lucky as usual. I came to visit at the most inappropriate time. Frau Helga was occupied with laundering, the light in the bathroom was on, the washing machine was droning and a big heap of linen lay on the floor. I felt uncomfortable but it was too late to retreat. Frau Helga stood confused and I said in English:

"I am sorry to trouble you, but I was passing by and it started raining, so could you please allow me to stay at your place until the rain is over?"

"Yes, surely."

I sat on a stool. The kitchen was roomy, nicely inlaid with tile, with fair wood furniture. I shifted my gaze up and saw the ceiling from dark wooden bars. At once I recalled "the building with cold wooden floors" in which the Thal police chief Gustav Schwarzenegger, father of Arnold, settled after the war. On the wall by me a message board hung, with a whole lot of notes stuck on it, all in German. I said:

"You have a nice house!"

"What?" Frau Helga obligingly came running from the bathroom. I felt uncomfortable again. Not only had I come at the most inappropriate moment but also I distracted her from her work. "Oh, the house, thank you."

"Have you lived here long?"

"Since 1979."

I decided not to distract Frau Helga. But now it was she who asked me a counter-question:

"But how did you find yourself in Thal?"

I decided to be honest:

"I came here to look at the house that Arnold Schwarzenegger was born in, and then the rain started and now I am sitting here."

I did not want to be looked at like some fan of Schwarzenegger. I thought that the Anderwalts were already fed up by such even without me.

"Oh, that's the way, Schwarzenegger," Frau Anderwalt laughed. She went into the next room and fetched a book with Arnold posing on its cover and a pile of newspapers with articles about him. I asked:

"Do you often have guests like me?"

"No, not very, just journalists would run up from time to time. There were two hundred of them the week before last. Were taking pictures of the house."

"Two hundred people?!!"

"Yes," she browsed the newspapers and found a photo - the house with many lenses aimed at it and a lot of photographers around. Well, it was understandable. It was the very time Austria was preparing to celebrate Arnold's fiftieth birthday. Among the other stuff a stadium named after him was to be opened in Graz.

"Does Arnold often visit you?" I asked her another question.

"He would come once in a while. We are expecting him to come in September next time," Frau Helga went to the room again and was back holding a photo album in her hands. She offered it to me. I started turning over its pages. The pictures featured the last visit of Schwarzenegger. Schwarzenegger and the well-dressed Anderwalts near the house, Schwarzenegger in the house, Schwarzenegger in the church, again Schwarzenegger and the Anderwalts near the house. "This is my husband," — Frau Anderwalt pointed at a short man in glasses with beard.

"And these ones are probably your children," I said.

"Yes. Ruth, Susan, ..."

"Elisabeth and David," I ended.

"How do you know?" Frau Anderwalt was astonished.

"From the book."

She smiled. I thought that still the situation should look strange to her. Like a bolt from the blue some young man appears at her house, who knows everything about her family just because it was mentioned in Schwarzenegger's biography. And I also thought that if I were in her place and such commotion was risen around my house because once Schwarzenegger lived in it finally I would have become sick of it.

"Do you want to drink?" Frau Helga asked. I nodded. After all I had had no lunch. She brought a packet with orange juice and at last went back to her washing. I was sipping the juice, browsing through the newspapers and talking to the mistress of the house. I asked her what she did for living and what her husband did. She told me that an Irish choir would be singing in the church that night and invited me to come. Then her younger daughter Elisabeth came in. She turned out to be fifteen years old, punk-type girl - red hair standing on end and an ear-ring in the nose. Nonetheless smiling and polite. We got into conversation. She just came by bus from Graz where she was taking the most direct part in the Versammlung. Her task consisted of watching whether Versammlung participants were not bothered by Jehovah's Witnesses. As I got to know later, activity of Jehovah's Witnesses is forbidden in Austria. I asked her whether she was doing that because of her religious convictions. No, said Elisabeth, it's just a good way to avoid school. As it turned out, religion was of little interest to her. In the professional aspect she wanted to become a make-up artist. Then the theme changed, certainly, to Schwarzenegger, and she asked me whether I was another fan of his. I answered that I used to be before I learned about Jesus Christ. Elisabeth smiled and informed me that she personally did not like Schwarzenegger. It is just in front of the camera, she said, he is so friendly, and all the other time not. I liked Elisabeth and enjoyed talking with her.

Then she left, and I, to compensate somehow for my sitting, offered my help to Frau Anderwalt. She just brought a full colander of juicy styrian strawberries to scour and I undertook to do the work. I washed my arms up to my elbows, sorted out all the berries tearing off green tails, washed all the rubbish out of them by water stream, washed them thoroughly once more, threw out the rubbish in the trash bin and placed the ready result before her. Frau Helga even asked me whether I had ever been doing this professionally. As a gratuity for help she fed me with just baked styrian curd fritters, awfully tasty, with meat and garlic. It was like a compensation for the lunch missed in Graz.

Then her father-in-law, robust, gray-haired and good-natured old man came in. He spoke no English at all and we would just smile to each other. Frau Helga told him my story and he laughed. I was about to leave. The rain was already over and I did not want to bother these hospitable people any more. Having received the farewell curd fritters recipe from the house mistress I thanked her and having said cordial goodbye went out on the street.

The sky was already clear and the sun was shining again. I came down the path. After the meat and garlic I wanted to drink again. I went behind the fence of a house where I noticed a water fountain and had some water. Attracted by water splash, some old lady appeared in the window and started angrily outraging in German. "Ich schprache nicht Deutsch", - I said to her and she stopped in the middle of the sentence. I descended to Thalersee. Walked along the bank, took a picture of the restaurant from the far side of the lake and came back to its terrace. At once I heard:

"Guten tag!"

I turned round and saw a fair-haired middle-aged frau. I greeted her. She probably took me for a tourist and decided to show me the greatest place of interest:

"Would you like to have a look at the house where Arnold Schwarzenegger was born?"

Inside, I laughed.

"No, thank you. I just came from there."

"Really?" she was surprised. "Maybe then you would like to look at our church?"

I did not mind looking at the church. The frau offered me a lift. But first I asked her to take a picture of me against Thalersee. The view was really splendid. I brushed away heavy raindrops from the chair, sat at the table on the terrace, and she took a photo. We got in her car, drove a couple of hundred meters by the road along the wood, turned left into the wood and ascended uphill. I got out of the car and thanked frau. She drove away. I was standing near the gray and pink school building with "Hans Gross Volksschule" letters above the entrance. This school had also been attended by Arnold. I approached the entrance door and knocked on the window. An old frau in blue overalls came out from inside and asked me what I wanted. I couldn't explain what I wanted in German, and she spoke no English. The frau closed the door and disappeared inside the building, and I turned around and made my way towards the church. Having walked along the ascending path I pushed the church door and came in. To my right was a chapel and I entered it. There a collection of tapestry icons from many monasteries was stored. I read the tags, there were tapestries from Poland and even from Ukraine. Having seen the collection and the altar I left the chapel. Behind the several massive folding glass doors the church hall concealed by shade could be seen. I touched a door knob. The knobs were made of polished ram horns. I slightly opened the door and stepped in. The floor in the hall was made of stone, with relief cobbles walled into. First it seemed to me that the rows of seats were also made of the same material, but it turned plastic to the touch. At first sight it was indistinguishable - it seemed that floor and seats formed a monolith block - like stone walls set in a single moment. Here and there on the backs of the faux marble seats lay prayer-books in red covers. I walked along the aisle to the front. On both sides of the altar the walls were painted with biblical subjects in composed brown, green and orange colors. The altar itself was made of colored glass; behind it the stained glass window, probably facing outside, appeared through. Gleaming was the podium, formed of polished black stone plates. Above the little table, casting emerald sparkles with its glass sides, a two-meter cross from glass and concrete soared. All this was glittering, twinkling and gleaming. I regretted that poor lighting did not allow me to photograph this beauty. Looking for a switch I searched in every nook and cranny but still failed. I touched the strings of one of the electric guitars laying on the podium and went outside.

There was some man coming up to the church along the path. We exchanged a few phrases, he turned to be the church service man. I asked him to switch on the light and he invited me to come inside again. On a table by the entrance lay postcards with the church image destined for honest tourists along with a money-box. The deacon opened the door into the office room with his keys, turned on the switch and at once the hall was lit with light. All the mass of glass went sparkling in colors, church corners scintillated with plate-glass, and round lamps walled in the concrete floor shined brightly. All of a sudden the ceiling painted with red, green and yellow stripes brightened. As if they had been waiting for this, some more guests, probably Irishmen from the choir, entered. The deacon busied himself with them, and I chose the best foreshortening and impressed the church interior on the film.

I went outside and a light breeze freshened me up. The sky was dull again. It was almost six o'clock and I hurried up towards the bus stop. The last bus from Thal to Graz departed some minutes past six. Very inconvenient for those who don't have a car. Some man was already looming at the stop. We greeted each other and he turned out to be Russian, from Saint Petersburg. All the way back to Graz we were chatting about Austria and trips abroad. He also was an Assembly participant, but was accommodated in Thal. Then in Gosting we were waiting for the change bus. The guy from Saint Petersburg collected money from various countries and I gave him a small Ukrainian banknote. We parted at the bus stop in Graz.

I was walking along the street, back in Graz. Little by little the sky cleared and again was shining with blue. It was just seven o'clock, and the time for dinner had not passed yet. By the wet pavement, I headed towards the tram stop.