The Ephesus Museum is one of the many museums that are contained within the Hofburg, the Imperial Palace poised between the old Innere Stadt and the elegant nineteenth-century Ringstrasse, in all senses. As it bordered the Ringstrasse, I assumed it would be easy enough to find. I hadn’t bargained on my sense of direction. I went too far again, after leaving in just enough time and being delayed at the first tram change, so I finally legged it two-at-a-time up the steps of the relevant wing, arriving ten to fifteen minutes behind schedule. As no one else was there, I assumed they must have gone inside, and, picking up my audioguide, struck forth. Inside, I gave the entire museum a lap to see if I could find my group, but it became apparent that they were not there. I had my audioguide, however, and, checking back in the lobby occasionally to see that they were not gathered waiting for me, I decided to hang around the fun way – by the sculpture, with historians talking in my ear. I was thorough. There’s quite a bit of stuff in there. Yet, by the time I arrived back on the steps of the Hofburg, and, blinking, stepped into the sun (incidentally and ironically, the only part of this blog not ghostwritten by Tim Rice… hmm. Wait, where was I before I got derailed by whimsy? Oh, yes-) there was no sign of my buddies. Rather than cry about it – my first instinct, naturally – I sat down on the steps and began to catch up with my journalling,
Lo and behold, given ten minutes whom should I see skipping gaily across the square but the residents of the Black Room with Michael!
“We’re late,” said Kelly, who was first to arrive.
Well, I still had my ticket, so we were all duly swallowed by the Hofburg. Not a bad setting for a museum, really, and not too ostentatious to be my residence when I take over the world.
Once Meg and I had established that Aaron and Kelly’s matching outfits were not planned, we set about the serious business of scholarly perusal. Dominating the historical displays of the upper level was this statue of Artemis (Diana – goddess of hunting), presumably representing our quest-like scholarship. Or something.
Downstairs there was a wooden model of the site, showing all the buildings. We pored over that accordingly.
Mostly, though, we relied on Meg, who has actually been to Ephesus, and capably played tour guide across the landscape.
The highlight was the marble frieze excavated from the city, which would have run around the base of a temple. Impressive.
Between the two sides, I was amused as I stood in silence to see the other four with audioguides pressed to their ears.
And one last piece of sculpture – here’s a rather animated baby.
Aaron, Kelly and I were all intending to spend the afternoon wandering the Innere Stadt, so together we headed out through the outer courtyards of the Hofburg.
When we reached Stephansplatz, Kelly left us in search of kid-friendly Mozart memorabilia, but not before a final touristy moment!
I was, by now, very ready for lunch, so my plan was to abandon Aaron as soon as I found some food. This was probably for the best, as I quickly realised that in finding gifts for his kids, Aaron went into to souvenir shops and came out empty handed, followed by me wrestling my new-smelling shopping bags out the door. Before I bankrupted myself and exceeded my hand luggage allowance, I found a Chinese restaurant that looked quite good and hoped to eat there – but, it being nearly three by then, it was closing until the evening.
I doubled back towards Stephansplatz and kept going until I found something open. This was an underground Italian restaurant with reasonable prices. Underground! Normally, I would have chosen a busier restaurant, one full of locals, as all travellers know that an empty restaurant or one filled only with tourists can be the worst sign – not to mention that disappearing underground alone feeds my paranoia. But given the time and my hunger, I decided to risk it. It transpired that there was one couple sitting just out of sight from the door, and I was reassured by their apparent appreciation of the food. Given the menu, however, and given the random things I dislike on pizza (capers, artichoke hearts – no Pizza Roma for me – most types of seafood), I ended up with a “Pizza Hawai” – you can probably work it out. I ended up eating with the waiter, who was having his lunch break and with whom I got chatting, in German. Mostly, we retrod the conversational ground of my prior restaurant conversation, about Viennese eating habits and eating out, but this time with more fluency. By this point in the week I was copying down language school phone numbers on the U-Bahn, having got over my language fear.
Confidence bolstered, I ventured into one of those souvenir shops that are actually quite tasteful, though not too expensive, and consequently the staff accost you as soon as you enter. I had been too timid to enter one near Stephansplatz on my first full day in Vienna, but nothing was going to stop me now! The sales assistant was Brazilian, which I think helped my comprehension as she used very standard German and didn’t speak too quickly. I explained that I was still seeking a memento for my mother – if my language sounds strange, it’s because I’m interpreting exactly – from my visit to Vienna. She practically dragged me over to the Klimt display, which, prices aside, I would have loved to buy – umbrellas, mousemats, prints, bags – but I had to confess that while I love Klimt, my mother – well, perhaps not. She then showed me some small-ish cat sculptures by a Viennese-born, Brazilian-trained-and-influenced (hmm, wonder why?) and German-living artist which were indeed very cute, and I couldn’t resist. They were obviously quality work, and not exploitatively priced, but I quickly became concerned that the primary reason for buying was euphoric, slightly egotistical joy at having understood the whole artistic lecture.
I was getting carried away. “Ach, it’s so sweet – and exactly like my mother and I!” I gushed, which, if you know us, and you see these cats, is a totally ridiculous statement venturing far beyond amusing into the bizarrely inaccurate.
I doubled back towards Stephansplatz and kept going until I found something open. This was an underground Italian restaurant with reasonable prices. Underground! Normally, I would have chosen a busier restaurant, one full of locals, as all travellers know that an empty restaurant or one filled only with tourists can be the worst sign – not to mention that disappearing underground alone feeds my paranoia. But given the time and my hunger, I decided to risk it. It transpired that there was one couple sitting just out of sight from the door, and I was reassured by their apparent appreciation of the food. Given the menu, however, and given the random things I dislike on pizza (capers, artichoke hearts – no Pizza Roma for me – most types of seafood), I ended up with a “Pizza Hawai” – you can probably work it out. I ended up eating with the waiter, who was having his lunch break and with whom I got chatting, in German. Mostly, we retrod the conversational ground of my prior restaurant conversation, about Viennese eating habits and eating out, but this time with more fluency. By this point in the week I was copying down language school phone numbers on the U-Bahn, having got over my language fear.
Confidence bolstered, I ventured into one of those souvenir shops that are actually quite tasteful, though not too expensive, and consequently the staff accost you as soon as you enter. I had been too timid to enter one near Stephansplatz on my first full day in Vienna, but nothing was going to stop me now! The sales assistant was Brazilian, which I think helped my comprehension as she used very standard German and didn’t speak too quickly. I explained that I was still seeking a memento for my mother – if my language sounds strange, it’s because I’m interpreting exactly – from my visit to Vienna. She practically dragged me over to the Klimt display, which, prices aside, I would have loved to buy – umbrellas, mousemats, prints, bags – but I had to confess that while I love Klimt, my mother – well, perhaps not. She then showed me some small-ish cat sculptures by a Viennese-born, Brazilian-trained-and-influenced (hmm, wonder why?) and German-living artist which were indeed very cute, and I couldn’t resist. They were obviously quality work, and not exploitatively priced, but I quickly became concerned that the primary reason for buying was euphoric, slightly egotistical joy at having understood the whole artistic lecture.
I was getting carried away. “Ach, it’s so sweet – and exactly like my mother and I!” I gushed, which, if you know us, and you see these cats, is a totally ridiculous statement venturing far beyond amusing into the bizarrely inaccurate.
My mother would like it to be known at this point that she thinks we're exactly like that. I, meanwhile, stand by my earlier statement.
After some further wandering between the Innere Stadt and the Ringstrasse to say goodbye, I returned to the hotel for our final night’s meal, back down in the restaurant which had the best everything in Vienna. We sat outside, where it was cooler and the traffic had eased, and which offered some respite from Gloria Gaynor and Strangers in the Night. Feeling the weight of cultural opportunity, I finally tried the goulash, though my overly compensatory smiliness in confirming to the waitress that, indeed, this must be the best goulash in Vienna failed to elicit a smile. Alas. The rest of Vienna was cheerful! We followed the goulash with Sachertorte, not from the Sacher Hotel, admittedly, but apparently much better. I was sorry to miss out on the original but was assured it was dry and not as good, so I’m glad I ate it in Alserstrasse instead!
On Friday we left Vienna. With our flight departing from Slovakia at 10am, sadly we were awake to confirm that Friday dawned, and dragging our bags to the U-Bahn station at 5.45 am. My great drama happened early (as it is wont to do on last days), when my trusty and meticulously packed Evans bag containing my hand luggage items (plastic, admittedly, which one could say was asking for trouble) snapped at the handles when going over a bump. Kelly offered me his SBL bag and when early-morning me caught on as to the logistics, it worked well – the Evans bag placed inside the SBL bag with the SBL handles keeping the Evans bag together. My knight in shining tote bag!
There was a bit of silent-movie-like running back and forth, debating where to wait for the bus, but we caught it without incident and were whisked through the countryside to the Slovakian border, a brief stop, and on to Bratislava. We didn’t see a whole lot, but I was reminded of the need to return.
On Friday we left Vienna. With our flight departing from Slovakia at 10am, sadly we were awake to confirm that Friday dawned, and dragging our bags to the U-Bahn station at 5.45 am. My great drama happened early (as it is wont to do on last days), when my trusty and meticulously packed Evans bag containing my hand luggage items (plastic, admittedly, which one could say was asking for trouble) snapped at the handles when going over a bump. Kelly offered me his SBL bag and when early-morning me caught on as to the logistics, it worked well – the Evans bag placed inside the SBL bag with the SBL handles keeping the Evans bag together. My knight in shining tote bag!
There was a bit of silent-movie-like running back and forth, debating where to wait for the bus, but we caught it without incident and were whisked through the countryside to the Slovakian border, a brief stop, and on to Bratislava. We didn’t see a whole lot, but I was reminded of the need to return.
The twelve-hour trip back was mostly – mostly – uneventful, so I will spare you the minute details (bet you weren’t expecting that! Ha!). Ryanair’s Bratislava to Stansted service was the only experience of less-than-friendly service I’ve had on Ryanair (though if I worked for them I’d be grumpy, too), but at least it got there in time. We had to queue for a long time in front of some obnoxious and, for me at least, embarrassing Scotspeople, and being polite ended up some of the last on the plane. Us “ladies” (what? I’m refined) found three seats across an aisle together, while the guys were up at the back. Sensitive, prone-to-queasiness readers look away now. While I was trying not to vomit at the snuggling and overly self-conscious cuteness of the couple next to me, Aaron and Kelly were struggling with vomit at the rear of the plane. A little girl had become travel sick as soon as taxiing started, but so as not to lose their slot the cabin crew couldn’t do anything immediately. She ended up throwing up in the aisle at the rear of the plane, leaving not only vomit on the floor but a couple of dry-heaving people in response. Thankfully the guys, having six children between them, were not daunted by a little sickness, but I believe Aaron had to comfort the woman next to him who was less immune.
Sensitive viewers can come back now! Coming into land was interesting. Meg leaned over.
“This airplane doesn’t inspire much confidence, does it?” Paranoid, as usual… at least, I think that’s what she said. I couldn’t really hear her over the metallic banging and creaking.
Tiredness was setting in, and we nearly lost the guys to non-EU arrivals.
“Slovakia’s not in the EU, is it?... oh, no, it is, isn’t it? They just don’t have the Euro.” Crisis averted. Those of us who were coming on to Edinburgh had a bit of a layover. We found a fairly posh Italian sandwich shop, and took turns going up to order our sandwiches, which would then be brought out to us toasted. We sat there with our little numbered flags on the table, hemmed in by luggage trolleys, and discovered that, with about thirty to forty different sandwich combinations to choose from, we had all ordered the same sandwich. It was disorientating. But demonstrated just how in sync we are in the Black Room.
Easyjet check-in took forever, as the two queues moved at unequal speed. A sticker-printing machine was malfunctioning on the long-suffering desk clerk who was getting substandard service from her technical support, and I’m sad to say not everyone in the queue was supportive. But eventually we got through, with the added bonus that she never really paid attention to the weight of our luggage – I got away with a couple of extra kilos on both flights, prepared as I was to remove stuff. But we got checked in and proceeded to security. Naturally, as my hand luggage was compacted and oddly configured, I had to be checked, and got a good idea of how the drugs testing thing worked. He had to unroll all my trousers, being very apologetic about me having to repack the bag, and get all the souvenirs out. The good thing was, however, that when I was going to roll up my handbag and put it in the Evans bag again, he told me that now I was through security, I could have as many bags as I wanted! So I let myself off the hook on that one.
We paused to buy refreshments in the waiting area before finding our gate, a little too early. I couldn’t find a bottle of water in Boots – the only shop without a queue – so I bought a fruity, still drink. I knew I needed to rehydrate, as all I’d had since Bratislava was a Diet Coke. After we got to the gate, and I was drinking the last of it, I suddenly thought (and said), “Gosh, I hope that wasn’t a diuretic.” Aaron nearly spat out his own drink.
“I think you need a better internal-monologue filter,” he said. “The particles that are getting through are still too big…”
Easyjet was a bit more relaxing, though another full plane. We were so zonked that the flight seemed to pass quickly, mostly in silence, without any reading, journalling or iPod. You’d think that staring at the back of a headrest for an hour would give me a pretty distinct memory of it, but no.
In Edinburgh we met my parents, who had brought a suitable car for me to drive, and we returned to St Andrews to reunite families with daddies and Meg with her fire escape. I meanwhile uploaded all my photos onto my computer and began to organize them… Hmm, maybe travelling doesn’t change us as much as we think.
