Time to move on. I checked out (as usual, in multiple languages – the people checking out were Italian, and since I was able to get enough to respond appropriately to their horror at the fallen tree, the guy at the desk assumed I was Italian). I found a taxi without a problem, and even managed a proper conversation, admittedly straightforward, about where I had been and where I was going. Then he asked if I was Scandinavian, which was a great compliment. I said I came from Scotland and he went into raptures about the beauty of Scotland – a subject which I am well qualified to discuss in any language. I even got to use “Wallace-Denkmal” for the first time in about eight or nine years.
I found my platform, despite the variety of numbers given, and discovered that I was on the train to Budapest. I found a seat alone, in what would have been a group of four had there not been a table/shelf-type thing running alongside me. A late-twenties-ish man (who, despite the beard, really looked like David Duchovny from the side) wanted to use the table for his laptop and asked if he could sit when my bag would have crushed his knees. Then he inquired if I was traveling further than Vienna, as if not he would happily put it up on the rack for me and take it down whenever I wanted. I was so taken with my own language skills in understanding and being obliging that we had the bag up at ceiling level before I realised that it would not fit… thankfully there was a space behind the seats that would serve the purpose. However, as a result of this whole exchange, I missed photographing the view of Salzburg as we passed through again!
I wrote in my journal for much of the journey, catching up as best I could with the previous 36 hours of non-journalling, and listened to a story – two German-born children were travelling with their Hungarian mother to see their grandparents in Budapest, and it became story time on the train! I love a good story. This was about a policeman, and definitely at my level, I thought, until my vocabulary ran out and I have up in the huff. I spent the remainder of the journey thinking (and writing about it).
When I had said to the taxi driver that I was going to Vienna for a conference, he said something to the effect of, “So, not a holiday then?” I agreed, meaning the conference part, while thinking that I had not only enjoyed the free-time bits of the trip so far, but that the whole experience of a change of focus and getting out of St Andrews had been beneficial to me. I had been near-burnout before I left, I realised, not in any kind of routine with the endless demands of the move, and putting in long hours with little to show for it. I was becoming reduced to my thesis and struggling with even that. Breaking the routine (or lack thereof) has given my brain a break, new stimulation and challenges and liberated my body from its desk-to-bed straightjacket. It’s nice to walk a street that isn’t North Street.
I also have had the time to notice how I have changed as a person since last I paid attention. I used to mentally try to hold trains or planes back, as I didn’t like arriving somewhere and having to deal with the next task, as it seemed like a hurdle. This time I’ve just wanted to get through my mental to-do list, and have without a fuss. I no longer feel apologetic for my existence. I may have similar weaknesses, but I make allowances for them, prepare for their surfacing and deal with them as they appear. I’m as easygoing about the unexpected while on the road as I am in obliging others when at home, and I no longer tend to freeze or panic. I seem to have confidence in my own abilities these days.
I think it also helps that I have friends these days, and good friends who seem to find me fairly competent, though the reasons for this are beyond me, given my more worrying recent discovery that I have absolutely no sense of direction. If in the past I was surrounded by people who made me feel marginalised and paranoid, I am no longer willing to feel bad about it. My friends seem to think I’m an extrovert, and I miss my social life more than I miss solitude if I have to miss one of them. I have friends who find my self-image as a quiet person a totally ridiculous concept, something I would have found tremendously encouraging ten years ago. Thanks, friends!
Good times. Add to this what I had done in the previous few days, without really a thought or panic, and I didn’t quite recognise myself. My father, in an uncharacteristically affirming mood (when he complains that I’m misrepresenting him, look back on the blog to when he suggested I jump out of a window and try to land on my head), said “Recognise yourself!” Um, okay.
I arrived at Wien Westbahnhof (don’t you just love that I’m giving you the minute details) – it was HOT! And, as per my shiny new personality, I couldn’t wait to get to the hotel. The taxi driver was Peruvian, as it turned out, and struggled with my high German – meanwhile, I was struggling with the heavily accented Viennese dialect, so we defaulted to Spanish, which threw me off for the day! Admittedly, my Spanish is Castilian and not great, but it helps to speak a language of which at least one of the people is a native speaker. At least I got to the hotel. And I maintain that since he thought my “Alserstrasse zweiunddreissig” sounded like “Mariahilferstrasse einundzwanzig”, it’s not me who had the problem.
He let me out of the taxi, where I couldn’t see the hotel at first, but followed the numbers (see? No panicking) and saw a plaque next to a door. I went in and found myself in a long hall, elegant save for the wheelie bin parade. I followed it around the corner, up some steps, then saw a sign for the hotel pointing upstairs. I decided it might be better if my bag and I went in the cage lift, so we piled in and emerged outside the Pension door.
Inside, a great welcome awaited, and I began in German. As usual, I reached the point where, “Tut mir leid, ich verstehe nicht” was my fallback.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to confuse you, it’s just you started in German and some people get very angry when you don’t help them “practise”.”
Breakfast would go on until 11 – whoo! – and I had a huge room, even though I had just booked a single. It was pretty much a king size – two twins pushed together. I had to sit on the toilet with my elbow in the sink, but the bed was comfy and it was the coolest of the rooms I had stayed in.
I took an hour to unpack and have a shower before hitting the pavements again. In my sights? The Secession…
Read On: Vienna Waits For You #2: Secession
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