Vienna Waits For You #8: Last Waltz

Our final day dawned – presumably. It was light when we woke up; we didn’t see it happen. But through the gift of human reason, let’s say it dawned. Our non-St Andrews companions had to leave that day, so we planned one final group activity, appropriate for the biblical scholar. Yes, nothing says “Geek” like the Ephesus Museum.

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.

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.

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.

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