Today, I went into Vienna central city. I know it doesn’t really matter, but I’m sick of my clothes. I’m especially sick of the clothes I packed for Bratislava and laundered repeatedly while in Bratislava. I feel like I look a run-down old man. So when I fell in behind a fellow, probably in his forties, in Hauptbanoff who was about my height and sporting a wonderful long cardigan over yellow-khaki trousers, I inwardly yearned for that sweater. Throw in the trousers, I’d like them, too. In fact, given that I was only steps into the day and still a little goofy, I called to him silently – can I just be you for the day; a clear voice, a solid gait, that sweater and those pants. The hair and the beard? Okay, I get it, full package or nothing. Fine. Just for a few hours in Vienna.
He apparently didn’t hear my inward scream and stopped at a bank machine. I went on to the U1.
The three ticket machines jammed into a corner had an even larger crowd lined up to use them than there was last night. But this morning, more alert and not at all hungry, I noticed written above the machines, “Get Your Ticket Online – WienMobil” I signed up then and there and had one of those squares full of squiggly lines on my phone within minutes. Not getting my way with the sweater was beginning to seem less important.
With increasing confidence, I strode (after a fashion) to the platforms, found a perfectly understandable sign with what stations lay in which direction, and joined the crowd waiting for the train toward Stephanplatz. As a trained and experienced New Yorker, I quickly sized up the situation and strode (with much more confidence this time) to the more sparsely populated end of the platform. The train arrived, and I could have scored a seat, but I graciously allowed other, older riders to have them instead. I was bound for adventure.
Stephanplatz is smack in the middle of the commercial district. The church it is named after is half covered with scaffold, as are many of the major historic sites. So good. Conservation is a good thing. I set out for an imperial-scale wander.
Now, my one goal for Vienna (if you don’t count lack of urinary emergencies, and let’s not) was to find a charming cafe that served real Viennese pastry and great coffee. I wanted to imagine that I was hanging out with the ghost of Arthur Schnitzler, an accomplished Viennese playwright of the late nineteenth century. It would be on a side street, paneled in walnut, cafe curtains in the window, marble topped tables with cast iron bases. The pastries would be as one can only find in Vienna, heavy with Schlagsahne und Schokolade. I would spend an hour there watching the locals promenade.
But first, I visited the imperial quarter. About fifty thousand others had found it before me. Turns out October 26 is the Austrian National Holiday. It celebrates an act of parliament passed in 1955 declaring Austria’s permanent neutrality. The imperial plazas, most of them, were filled with booths, stages, and displays. And good Austrians.
I passed a gate to the relatively empty Volksgarten and wandered in. It contains a huge rose garden perfectly cared for, with monumental views of the buildings of empire. The city fairly shouts wealth and power. The empire for which it was the center may have been the largest, stable European state since the fall of Rome (this is a fascinating new look at the Hapsburgs) and it made sure to leave visitors with a lasting impression. But the cafes I’d seen to this point were steel and glass enclosures on wide streets with hundred of customers. Schnitzler’s ghost was nowhere in sight.
So I wandered until I got lost. I had lunch at a place call La Sosta (Italians Do It Better). I ordered a caprese, which true to form, was exactly as large as its small plate, which meant the first few tomatoes were cut with surgical precision so as not to grace my lap with an unwanted splurp. I wandered the great squares filled with thickening crowds. I scurried down corridors of stately buildings, gleamingly white and cream, but found no purveyors of pastry, anywhere. Around two, my feet were tired so I turned towards whence I’d come, recognized enough landmarks to make my way to the underground, and was soon at Hauptbanhoff.
Central Vienna is impressively clean and well-organized, but I could not find anything that would really qualify as a side street, let alone one where I could find Schnitzler musing over coffee upon the amorous proclivities of his contemporaries. Deep inside I was heartbroken.
Then, waiting to cross the street towards the hotel, there in front of me was the man with the sweater. He’d doffed it – the weather had grown warmer – and threaded it through the straps of his pack, but it was undoubtedly him and undoubtedly the sweater. It was as if I had been him for the day, but never noticed until we had separated again at Hauptbanoff.
I have to look up a photo of Arthur Schnitzler. You never know.
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Amici, scusate ancora. Sono all’aeroporto a Vienna. Forse sarebbe un traduzione di Google un po’ avanti della settimana.