Vienna Waits For You #7: Strauss, Suspense and Sustenance

Another early start (though the workmen had mysteriously disappeared), with the first of Aaron’s papers at 8.30 am. We congregated at breakfast again and met in the Mind, Society and Tradition seminar, which was generally okay. I then decided to hit the Strauss Haus (very fun to say) before any relevant afternoon sessions. I needed, therefore, to lunch early, so I went back to the international food stands by the Rathaus.

I tried the Japanese stall this time; chicken with rice and mixed vegetables. It was very fresh. It was lovely to have the rice, not having had any rice on the trip and as I am a regular consumer of this grain, I missed it. The vegetables were the best part, all courgette-y and beansprout-y (I may just have been hungry when I wrote up this journal entry). I enjoyed the shade for a while as I ate and savoured, though I decided that on balance I preferred the Chinese stall with the chow mein and duck.

Yeah, and about the duck - you're better off not knowing.

Determined to make the most of the remaining time, I hopped on the no.2 tram and took the long way round the Ringstrasse to the Schwedenplatz U-Bahn, from whence it was but a short hop to the relevant station. I emerged without a clear sense of direction, and it took a few minutes of walking up and down the street, Praterstrasse, before I was sure which way was which. Once oriented, I aimed for the museum and kept walking. Once it had struck me that I may have gone too far, I checked the map again, and sure enough I had passed the location. I turned around and kept going the other way until fairly confident that I must have passed it again. I turned a full 360°.
“Huh,” I said to myself, and got the guidebook out again. It have me an address – the first floor of no.54 – and when I looked up I found myself in front of no.52. No sign of Strauss. Then I heard a voice from behind me.
“You search Johann Strauss?”
Now, there’s a question you don’t get asked every day, but why not? I confirmed.
“He is next door.”
With confirmation of Strauss’s existence, if not whether or not he was at home, I marched next door with renewed confidence, straight to the door of the Praterstrasse McDonalds. Appalled and culturally confused, I checked again, and found that the door to the first floor was along an alley. I went in and upstairs. There was indeed a glass plaque with a Wien Museums logo on it, but the door to the Strauss Haus was firmly closed. It turned out that it was closed until 2, and only open from 2-6, despite the claims of the guidebook. I decided not to stick around since it was only 12.15, but took a picture so that I could at least show I had found the place. This would be at least what Strauss would have seen when he forgot his keys.

Back into the U-Bahn I went, and all the way to MuseumsQuartier. I heard that the Leopold Museum had a good selection of Klimt and fin-de-siécle and Secessionist works, as well as the world’s largest collection of Egon Schiele paintings, which I was keen to investigate. MQ is a large courtyard around which several different art collections are gathered. I found the ticket office in the shop. Then I made a beeline for the great white cube of the Leopold Museum.

Since my feet were starting to bother me again, I decided to be sensible and start with the Klimt (clearly I am not in a high-risk group for Klimt-fatigue). The top floor is a treasure-trove – Munch, Gerstl, Schiele and, of course, Klimt. I spent a long time investigating. My favourite paintings of those that were new to me were Emil Nolde’s Flower Garden, Xenia Ender’s Composition 1918, and – naturally – another St Margaret and the Dragon, this time by Aton Faislauer and in some particularly maritime tones.

The floor down from that had a large exhibition of Adolf Hölzel, who was interested in colour, and moved from Impressionism to abstraction. Finally he discovered pastels and began to design stained glass. I was terribly excited by it all, as I have seen very little pastel work by major artists and it’s my favourite medium, and it was also encouraging that his style was similar to mine. Maybe they would give me a gallery!

I hit the shop, and was very restrained, all things considered, though I did spend a bit on some extortionate postcards and a new pen, as my excessive journalling was taking its toll on my trusty two-Bics. Then, of course, I had to check out the other shop of the way back from the WC.
I found a line of kids’ clothes called “made with love” that made me laugh, due to the cake incident. Also the metallic gnomes in various colours – no black, sadly, but I selected an appealingly shiny red for the Black Room, since Meg bought us a gnome calendar earlier this year.

I still had some time before the Third Man, and at MQ they had large concrete cuboids with a hollow in which to lounge. And lounge I did, under the blinding sky. I even dozed off, clutching my bag tightly. I left, however, when I saw unfriendly dark grey clouds charging in over the modern art museum (also dark grey), and made my merry way to the familiar BurgKino for the Third Man. Definitely an essential experience.

Afterwards I resolved to take a photo of the marquee, but when I got out there – while the Third Man was still up there – there was a man up a ladder changing the listings.

The effect was humorous, and also reminded me of a short-lived period of gainful employment when I did that job at our local cinema, advertising films such as “Dune” and “ET” before giving up when “The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood” was released. The digital age was coming; I would have soon been obsolete anyway.

I went back to the hotel, and had hardly put my bag down when we decided to head down towards the film fest. Keith Jarrett’s Tokyo concert was promised – one I hadn’t encountered.

There were no tables apparent – it looked like the jazz fans had turned out in force – so we separated and agreed to meet on the other side of the stalls, by a fountain. There still weren’t any tables, but we all squeezed onto a bench with our food – and by the way, it’s hard to eat chow mein with chopsticks while sitting on a bench, balancing a hot plate on your palm.

An appealingly half-hearted game of Truth-or-Dare later (the best kind, in my opinion), we decided to investigate the gelato stand – a bit pricier than the one opposite our hotel, but excellent. Strawberry tasted like strawberry, in this time when it’s unusual that actual strawberries taste of strawberry.

We wandered through the park and around Votivkirche, which was very pretty with the spire lit up from within.

A late drink, then bed, in preparation for our very last day in Vienna.

Read on: Vienna Waits For You #8: Last Waltz

Vienna Waits For You #6: No Longer Alone...

I planned to lie in on Monday morning, having no sessions until 1.30, so of course I was wide awake and up for breakfast at seven. I did get to see everyone again, though, and retrieved Harry Potter from Meg before she left. Mrs Ramey and I mentally toured Vienna over breakfast as I delivered my (I hoped helpful) introductory tutorial in the Viennese public transport system. We went in search of a Wochenkarte, having been told to go two doors down to the Tabak. The ladies in the shop that was actually two doors down didn’t know where one would get such a thing, but I was pleased that suddenly all my German came flooding back and I was able to rattle off a good explanation to prevent our looking like silly tourists! And seriously, I really hope I’m right that my German came flooding back as much of my verb selection and conjugation was entirely instinctive. However, the shop assistant spoke back in German, and it seemed like a logical response to what I thought I was saying, so…

Having found the correct Tabak, and, in the end, done most of the eventual transaction in English, we got the tram, then I headed back to the pension. I napped and read several chapters of the new (and last! *sniff*) Harry Potter before the afternoon’s conferencing began.

Then 1.30 brought a Mary Douglas fest! It was just sad that Mary Douglas couldn’t give the final paper. One of her former students, also presenting in the session, gave an extra fifteen minute presentation, “Remembering Mary Douglas” with memories of his studies with her and her contribution to scholarship. As the papers continued into late afternoon, my brain began to work again, fortified by the combination of rest and new stimulation, and I remembered why I love my topic and that I can actually be passionate about socio-historical stuff. Yay!

The less scholastically-committed (given that some of those who had arrived late the night before had started at 8.30 am and were threatening to continue to 9pm) among us gathered at the hotel and discussed whether to head out for food or to wait. We resolved to wait until we were hungry, then resort to the biblical principle of “you snooze, you lose” – and it is so biblical. Ask Sisera. Nod off at an inopportune moment, and what do you get? An irate woman who’s handy with a tent peg.

In the end, Meg, her mother and Michael accompanied me downstairs to the restaurant next door. Michael was kind enough to request three English menus and one German for me (very funny), while I tried to explain in German that really, English worked quite well for me. Needless to say, I ended up with a German menu anyway, which I quickly gave up trying to decipher and tried to sneak a peek at the English (offered to me upside down – I am sorely tried!). The Rameys ordered goulash (“the best goulash in Vienna,” we were told, at least according to the newspapers) and Michael and I ordered a chicken, bacon and chips combo, in a weird sort of two-sides-of-the-table main course standoff. The combo came with some sour cream and excellent chilli sauce. While we waited we played “Two truths and a lie”, with varying degrees of success, and as a memo to me, I need to change my lie, since people keep guessing right, but not for the right reasons. I think I’m too gullible to play it well, sadly. We debated dessert. The rather dour waitress had a great sales pitch, a la the goulash – “the best apfelstrudel in Vienna!” – but we decided to settle for some more water. She finally smiled as she brandished the jug. “The best in Vienna!”

Sleep was welcome, but didn't come until my Harry Potter book was devoured. I was woken at 6.20 by work going on on the scaffolding right outside the window. WHY? I staggered into the shower and was still slightly dazed at breakfast, which is why, upon seeing fellow St Mary’s student Daniel (living in Paris for the summer) sitting in the breakfast room, I did not greet him with, “Why, Daniel, what a lovely surprise! When did you arrive?” but with a grunted approximation of, “What are you doing here?” Thankfully, these people are used to me.

Meg’s paper was first, and went wonderfully. Afterwards, some poking around the university revealed a courtyard stuffed with significant Viennese academics, from the obscure but influential to celebrity scholars like Freud – in bust form, of course.

My second session of the day sounded good but was disappointing, after which I wandered into the Innere Stadt some time prior to the arranged rendezvous at Café Central, a fin-de-siécle hangout for great literary figures (Peter Altenberg), artists and architects (Adolf Loos) and political and intellectual legends, assorted (Trotsky).

I returned to Minoritenkirche as promised, and found a light gothic interior that I liked very much.

Except for one thing. There was a remarkably large replica mosaic of da Vinci’s Last Supper on one wall of the sanctuary.

I admit that the craftsmanship was fairly impressive, so this was not in itself all that tacky. What pushed it over the cliff of good taste was the metre you put fifty cents in, in return for about a minute and a half of really bright fluorescent light. That is just tacky.

I located the café, which was easily done. I had a good 45 minutes to go, however, so I continued across the Innere Stadt to Kirche Am Hof, which was, naturally closed with building work going on all around it. I was slightly concerned by the multiple fire engines until I remembered that the central fire station had a museum around there. Since the church was a non-starter, I continued to Judenplatz, the nerve centre of Vienna’s influential Jewish population until WWII.

Now it’s a very pretty but quiet square, the site of the Jewish Museum, a statue of Lessing (erected in 1935, destroyed by the Nazis but replaced by the artist following the war), and the Holocaust Memorial, a sombre white library with the names of the concentration and extermination camps around the base.

I walked back to the Café Central, and a complex series of misunderstandings eventually led us inside. I understood instantly why Vienna’s great intellectuals would spend their days here. It is a huge café, with lots of space and wide booths, but the small table and the vaulted ceiling made it feel warren-like.

The colours were gorgeous and the food reassuringly expensive – just what you need to feel sophisticated. The booths were marked with the names of their regular inhabitants, and we ended up in architect Adolf Loos’ booth. I wondered what he thought of all the ornamentation!

We both had a very good potato soup with bacon and mushroom – it was filling. I spotted the papier-mâché Peter Altenberg sitting at his table by the door.

I trudged back for the afternoon papers. There was one on the sabbath that I had fun mentally interacting with! Yay! Brain still worked. Better than before I left, too. Though that is not hard. Then there was one on Jesus and Hell, and I went back to the hotel for a rest. Aaron said, “So you had been through hell, and needed to lie down.” Pretty much.

One quality nap later, we all walked back down to the Rathaus Film Festival.

During the summer when the opera and ballet are closed, they show concerts, operas and ballets on a large screen on the front of the city hall. They were showing Manon. Meanwhile, we investigated the international food stands that were an equally enjoyable part of the festival, and parked ourselves at a long table. I had some chow mein with beautifully cooked sliced duck, and there was a truly international selection on the table by the time we were all seated. List-related games ensued – my favourites – like “list the five countries you have not yet been to that you most want to visit”, and we shared hilarious if occasionally hair-raising stories. For the record, my five countries were Spain, Poland, Morocco, Vietnam and India.

I decided to get another drink, Aaron came with me, and we both returned with crepes. I maintain that he is the bad influence. Mine had melted toblerone. Mmm. I failed to convince Aaron that his raspberry pancake with ice cream was the menu item entitled “Schinken, Käse und Champignon” (ham, cheese and mushroom). Sigh. Another foiled prank.

We traipsed back, moderately zonked.

Read on: Vienna Waits For You #7: Strauss, Suspense and Sustenance

Vienna Waits For You #5: Mishaps and Meetings

Having fled the bathroom of death, I went to the ring to get the tram to the cinema. I planned to rest my artistically exhausted feet while watching the Third Man, another essential Viennese experience. I had to walk north quite a way to find a Haltstelle, a tram stop, then when I finally got off the tram I checked the map, and found to my horror that I had gone the entire Opernring too far. Watching the other-direction tram departing from the other side of the street, my heart sank. There wasn’t likely to be another tram for several minutes, and sure enough, with fifteen minutes to go until showtime, the next no.2 tram was in nine. I bolted down the nearest subway steps and followed the signs. It took several minutes to reach the correct platform, and a few more to wait for the train. Of course, when I reached the MuseumsQuartier station I bolted up the escalators and in what I thought was the right direction. It wasn’t, as I realised when I found myself approaching the Secession building. I turned, finally orientated, and staggered through the correct door at 3.12, three minutes before guidebook time, to discover that the updated schedule had the show starting at 2.45, D’oh!

However, Harry Potter was on at 15.45, so I contented myself with that. After hanging around the foyer for half an hour, I reflected on how glad I was that there was at least a smoking ban inside the cinema itself. I still haven’t decided whether it’s just me, a year on from the smoking ban, being much less tolerant of smoking or less accustomed to having to put up with it, or if Vienna is an unusually smoky city, but I noticed smoking a lot more there. The theatre was perhaps the comfiest I have ever been in, but my filmic experience was somewhat marred by the group of American teenagers who turned out to be very obnoxious indeed, and talked loudly the whole way through. Grr. But I enjoyed it, even if I really need to see it again.

I found some grub and returned to the hotel, to await the Black Room, ETA 11.30 or so. The Black Room, for those who are not already aware, is my room in the Roundel with Meg, Aaron, Kelly and Justin – Justin being the only member not about to arrive in Vienna for SBL. Around 11.30 I went and sat by the reception desk (in some very uncomfortably upholstered chairs) with Mrs Dalloway and a bottle of water. I waited. And waited. The bell didn’t ring, sadly. Between 12 and 12.30 I began to fall asleep and had strange, literary-inspired dozing dreams. “Put the flowers down, Mrs Dalloway!”

Around 12.45, I noticed a man checking back and forth at reception, and eventually asked if I had seen a group come in. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t,” I replied. “I’m waiting for a group myself.” Since we’re very clever, it only took five or six minutes before the obvious became, well, obvious. We introduced ourselves. This was Michael, from Oxford, with whom I knew Meg had been corresponding but whom I hadn’t met. We discussed when we thought they should arrive – before “now”, basically – and when we should begin to panic. We set a time of 1.30 to begin panicking, though exactly how this was meant to help or where the next stage would take us we hadn’t worked out. At 1.29, just as this was about to become an issue, the buzzer buzzed. We rejoiced, and Michael bounded down the steps with me trailing sleepily behind.

The ladies had arrived, Meg, her mother and Mary from Cambridge, and they headed upstairs, leaving me down by the front door to let Kelly and Aaron who were following in a second taxi. After another five minutes they arrived, but as I tried to open the door I realised that one needed one’s key to do so, even from the inside. As they approached the door I tried to wave towards the right hand side of the door, where the intercom was, only to see them look vaguely confused and continue up the street. I waved them back, perhaps more frantically than was necessary, and beckoned them towards me. They found the intercom and were buzzed in. I grinned sheepishly. “I’m here to let you in!” Oops.

Read on: Vienna Waits For You #6: No Longer Alone

Vienna Waits For You #4: Feeding the Jugendstil Obsession

The Black Room and attached persons were to arrive this night, so I decided to hit all the Kathleen’s-obsession-specific sites during the day, so nobody had to listen to me whining about how hard it was to fit in a visit to Majolikahaus between SBL sessions during the week. In this spirit, then, I made a beeline for Otto Wagner’s masterpiece, the aforementioned Majolikahaus, as soon as I was adequately breakfasted.

I managed to go the wrong way first, and hopped out one station down the wrong track, but used the opportunity to admire the lively Art Nouveau U-Bahn station.

Which was actually a waste of time, as the correct one turned out to be identical. I didn’t have far to go, as Majolikahaus was actually visible from the station platform, then I took a lot of photos.

You can see how Wagner was influenced by some of the trademarks of Glasgow’s own Charles Rennie Mackintosh in his designs. The point of this house, though apparently richly decorated, was simplicity in contrast to the rich mouldings of many Viennese buildings, including the Art Nouveau buildings. CRM and Margaret Macdonald Mackintosh (whose figures, by the way, I love and who also had a profound influence on Klimt) were due to move to Vienna in 1914 – where their work would no doubt have been better appreciated – but were prevented by the onset of war. I’m such a geek.

Then I got back on the U-Bahn. Again, I managed to go the wrong way, but soon fixed it. I changed at Schwedenplatz to tram N, as planned (really hoping I was going in the right direction), and made it safely to the extraordinary, revelatory, gorgeous Hundertwasserhaus. A riot of colour. Just look at this:

Hundertwasser was commissioned to liven up state housing, and he probably fulfilled his mandate. Hundertwasser’s floors are uneven, mimicking a forest floor, as he said, “the straight line is godless.” My kind of guy. He also believed that humanity should minimise its negative impact, so he reclaimed as many surfaces as possible for nature, referring to trees as the other “tenants”. Each corridor may be decorated with murals, doodles or anything else the residents feel like, as he was of the opinion that the tenants should have the right to control their living space. The building is crowned by an enormous gold onion dome, signifying that “God is in every home.”

To prevent the growing numbers of tourists ringing doorbells in an attempt to get into the building, he built Kalke Village opposite, an arcade which contains similar décor and uneven flooring – a wee bit disconcerting when combined with staircases – and – get this – the Toilet of Modern Art. I kid you not:

I didn’t pay the Euro to get into the actual toilet area, and sort of wish I had, now. But you get the idea.

Back upstairs, I bought a Christmas ornament – good German practice, also – and a teeny bust of Mozart for Mariam. As an afterthought, I returned to buy one of Strauss for myself. Very sophisticated, I think.

Next stop – Karlsplatz. Again. This time, however, I took the chance to admire Otto Wagner’s original U-Bahn pavilions from close range before disappearing into the Wien Museum.

I quickly toured the history of Vienna from Roman times to the building of the current Stephansdom. I wanted to make it to the small but fine fin-de-siécle collection on the top floor. Klimt!

I did dutifully pop my head into the mediaeval to Renaissance exhibitions, usually not my favourite era, and got distracted by the enviable shininess of the armour. Once drawn in, I actually found that I enjoyed the exhibitions and got lost in the various panorama of Vienna painted at different stages and with different intentions – one, for example, intended to make known abroad Vienna’s impenetrable fortifications (slightly overstated). Then there was a fascinating series of works devoted to the Turkish siege.

Upstairs, I skipped the Biedermeiers initially (too straight-laced), and went straight for the “Vienna in the fin-de-siécle” gallery. Klimt! I spent so much time in there that I practically bought the entire gallery in postcard form! I usually only buy postcards of my very very favourite paintings or those I spend a lot of time with. Great Klimts, especially “Liebe”, my favourite Klimt painting. I spent the most time looking at three portraits of men embodying this period in Vienna: Richard Gerstl’s portrait of the composer (and sometime artist) Arnold Schönberg, Richard Gerstl’s self-portrait, and Schönberg’s portrait of Alban Berg. Particularly interesting was Gerstl’s portrait of Schönberg, which I gazed at, noting the soft but intelligent expression and deciding that it had to have been painted with a real warmth and respect for the subject. On reading up a bit about Richard Gerstl later, I found out that Gerstl’s mistress, Mathilde, was Schönberg’s wife, and Gerstl’s eventual suicide was prompted by her return to her husband. Fascinating.

I tore myself away to locate the WC. I had just got in when the outer door opened, a clanking squeaky noise began, and then was followed by singing. Scary, tuneless, yet creepily joyful singing. It sounded like there was a cleaner in the house. A cleaner who was ready to kill! I made my escape while she was in the gents.

I checked out the café in the atrium. I didn’t know if I was meant to sit down or not, but the man at the bar leaned forward expectantly, so I thought I should come up with something intelligent to say. It’s hard enough in English.
“Um… für Mittagessen?” I squeaked. (Um… lunch?)
He raised an eyebrow and responded in English. “If you like…”
Things went about this well from then on. I began to suspect it wasn’t just me, when the waiter began to jump out from the kitchen area to holler, “Grüß Gott!” at unsuspecting visitors as they emerged from a nearby lift. Many jumped. I realised, in a moment of great epiphany, that it didn’t really matter if one man in Austria thought I was a bit odd – in the grand scheme of things, at least.

Nevertheless, I fled the café as soon as I had paid, and decided to visit the ground floor WC on my way out, planning as I was to go to the cinema next. I had no sooner turned the lock than the outer door banged open and the tiled bathroom reverberated to the sound of creepy singing…

Read on: Vienna Waits For You #5: Mishaps and Meetings

Vienna Waits For You #3: A Failed Bid for Church-Fatigue

I gave myself one last chance to properly sleep in before my return home! I had a late breakfast then ventured back down to Karlsplatz. I walked through Resselpark, a lovely shady green park with an U-Bahn station in the middle. Karlskirche, my first target, has a beautiful Baroque exterior in white, and I’m not usually excited by the exteriors of Baroque churches, so that’s saying something.

It wasn’t open yet, so I sat on the steps and watched Viennese life in the park. As tourists were taking pictures of the church from the plaza, I suspected that I was ending up in all sorts of pictures, so I made a special effort to look into the cameras and grin broadly. Wonder if anyone will notice. I was accosted somewhat half-heartedly by a Mozart-bewigged concert ticket seller, who gave up with an air of resignation before I had even declined politely. The large pool before the church made me want to go in – and indeed there were two women playing fetch with their dogs in the pool. The Viennese seem to really love their dogs. There are pooches everywhere – on the U-Bahn, on the streets, in cafes… and little of the associated mess. The more time I spend on the continent the more I wonder why Britain finds it so difficult to keep the streets clean and the trains running on time!

The Karl after whom Karlskirche is named is St Carlos Borromeo, conveniently also the name saint of the emperor Karl, who somehow managed to honour himself as well as the saint. I didn’t think it was one of the apostles, though he could have been an auxiliary, and I envisioned the following exchange taking place on a first century mission trip:
“Who’s that?”

“That’s Karl.”

“Karl?”

“Yeah, he’s a temp. Matthew’s off sick today.”

The church opened, saving me from the questionable musings of my own brain. Again my German went well, and she even looked surprised when I requested an English audioguide in German, having already programmed in the German language code. Yess! Though, as I wrote in my journal, I was sure it would fall apart once the Black Room arrived.

The church really is a Baroque masterpiece, with ceiling frescoes everywhere (well, on the ceilings, anyway).

I noted the tetragrammaton in a triangular, Trinitarian symbol in the centre of a sunburst high above the altar.

I took the lift up to the dome, which provided a rare chance to see the frescoes up close while their restoration is underway.

You can also climb several more steep flights encased in scaffolding, but since it seemed to require a sign saying, “Schreien ist uncool” I thought it might be a bad idea. I had a good look at the paintings before I felt the boards move as people walked, and began to feel the height – not inconsiderable, I might add – and fearing the onset of a very inconvenient panic attack, I took the next lift back down. Perhaps to the consternation of the lift attendant, but better than a frozen Kathleen at 200 feet.

Next, I proceeded to the heart of Vindobando, the original Roman settlement of Vienna, now the Innere Stadt. This of course led me straight to Stephansplatz and the iconically-roofed Stephansdom.

I walked around three sides of the cathedral and past some very smelly fiaker (the equally iconic mode of Viennese transport, the horse and carriage), I found the door and… wow! Gothic!

After so much Baroque, it was both a shock to the system and a breath of fresh air. And not overpowering, thanks to the unobtrusive but contemporary windows replacing those destroyed in a fire, and those removed before a subsequent fire.

There were also an unexpectedly large number of worshippers around, for a large cathedral these days.

Once outside again, I walked in one direction, intending to check which later, but soon stopped for lunch. In Vienna, lunch is usually the main meal, and when in Rome… or Vienna. I found a sort of pan-Asian café serving sushi, curry and food from all regions between. Chicken Peanut Noodles sounded a little bit like pad thai, so I gave it a go. And I spent the meal gazing up at a wonderful Jugendstil motif.

Lots of people seem to dine alone in Vienna. I asked my waitress if it was common for people to go out to lunch alone, and she told me that Vienna is the most single city in Austria, which was another of those random statistics I love. Then she sighed in a way that made me think that she was (a) single and (b) not really enjoying it. Then, fortified, I struck forth to try to locate Franziskanerkirche. I thought I had stumbled across it, but later discovered it was the Jesuitenkirche – just as well, since it didn’t look terribly Franciscan, with its forty shades of ice cream.

The illusory dome painting was impressive – I knew it wasn’t real but I still had to stand at the front of the church and look back to get any sense of the real shape of the roof.

There was a modern painting – I wasn’t all that keen on the painting, or at least the headache-inducing colourscheme, but I liked that in this historical centre, with tourists filing through its churches, the church was still concerned with new things and different modes of expression.

Since I wasn’t really sure where I was, the question of where I was going next was not so simple. I ended up going south instead of north, and found myself at the Dorotheum, so called due to its position of Dorotheegasse.

It was an upmarket pawn shop for the well-to-so who had fallen on hard times – hence the euphemism, “Going to visit Aunt Dorothy.” Then, rather optimistically, I followed signs for the Lutheran church, but in the true spirit of the Reformation, it was locked. I located myself on the map, then keeping it carefully in hand I picked my way, intersection by intersection, to Peterskirche, a compact but towering central church and the headquarters of Opus Dei (daVincilicious, if you’re into Dan Brown).

It was darker, but still Baroque with all the frills.

Again, the tetragrammaton made an appearance above the altar – I wondered if this was a local trend, or something I had missed in Baroque art before. I haven’t worked this out, but since getting back I have tracked down a couple of other Baroque churches with this symbol, all north of the Alps, so it seems there is something there.

As I was getting ready to leave, mass was being prepared. This was clearly another working church. I had seen an exhibit at the Secession that consisted of €500 notes arranged in a frame, representing the average Austrian annual wage. Its value as art was considerably more than the hard currency within, and indeed the entire work was a comment on whether a monetary value could be placed on the work of the artist in creating art. The fourth church of the day was the fourth that seemed to have both a thriving liturgical life and a humanitarian place in the community. I am extremely familiar with the decline of the modern city-centre church, as fewer people live in the city centres of Europe, but you could say that God is alive and well and living in Vienna!

I thought about something Danny said in Munich, about balance – there has to be a balance between repulsive extravagance (like the Pala d’Oro in San Marco, Venice – a shockingly ostentatious display of financial triumphalism from an age of abject poverty in the city) and actually providing a facility and having the visibility to be a force for good. It occurred to me, as I watched the tourists file in and out and the elements being laid out, that if the people coming to visit these churches perhaps aren’t all that keen on Jesus, they’ve certainly got to be keen on art, and perhaps if they are able to see something in all the Rococo that Philistines like me miss, and connect that with the work of the church in the literature available, they may be left with a more three-dimensional impression of what the works represent.

Even after all that reflection, I was not yet church-weary, and wound my way to Michaelerkirche, getting distracted by a fiaker-jam in from of the Michaelertract, the entrance to the Hofburg (imperial palace) from the Innere Stadt and what the Rough Guide called an “exuberant arc”, and certainly my classic image of Vienna.

The Michaelerkirche was originally a Gothic structure, and retains its austere but light plain interior, but with a dramatic Rococo altar, all tumbling clouds and angels.

Then headed down to Minoritenkirche, now the centre of Vienna’s Italian church community, but as people were gathering for mass there, I left it to another day. I was so relieved to see the U-Bahn station that I staggered down the steps and back to the hotel. Investigating the TV for the first time, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I could just about handle the German in a gala concert being televised live from southern Austria, which included a wonderful performance of Beethoven’s Third Piano Concerto. You may think that one doesn’t need much German to follow that, but I maintain that he played with an accent. Afterwards, I channel-hopped until I found BBC Prime, which was showing “The Definite Article”, my favourite Eddie Izzard show, and it was with the feline experiments of Gareth Pavlov and, “Follow him! He speaks in sentences!” that I saw out the evening.

Read on: Vienna Waits For You #4: Feeding the Jugendstil Obsession