Day 5: Österreich
The enzymes are not enough. I repeat: the enzymes are not enough. Yesterday was a headache, on Wednesday, a stomachache. The dairy is clearly catching up with me. I left my hotel in search of a vegetable, and walked twenty minutes or so away from the city center to a bakery and cafe my friends Scott and Steve had recommended. The sun was shining, which made everything more pleasing—the imposing 19th century architecture became elegant and pretty, the shops left their doors open, welcoming customers in.
Meinklang Ofladen, too, was extremely pleasing. The interior was sleek and modern, but still cozy thanks to good lighting, warm wood, and handmade ceramics. My server was a bit more kind than those I’d encountered the day before, and he helped me translate the German menu. I ordered a cute little salad and tomato and onion focaccia. Not the most Viennese, but delicious. I wrote for a while, then set off across the neighborhood toward a few shops I’d highlighted on the map.
When I’d had my fill of shopping, I decided I was long overdue for my daily museum. I walked toward the Ringstrasse once more to see the State Hall, aka the Austrian National Library.
Soaring arched and frescoed ceilings, marble columns topped in ornate gold decoration, and along the walls, two tiers of dark wooden shelves filled with over 200,000 books and with sliding wooden ladders in each section—very Beauty and the Beast (iykyk). There were even little hidden doors built into some of the shelves that led to secret chambers beyond. Like the work of one of my favorite photographers, Candida Höfer, come to life! And in fact, research shows she did photograph this library in the 90s. Which reminds me, I should probably invest in a print of hers one of these days.
After the library, I walked down the street and upstairs to the glitzy cafe above the confectionary shop Gerstner K. u. K. Hofzuckerbäcker, another S&S rec. A charming older waiter wearing a white shirt and cinched black vest asked me to wait just five minutes, then passed me off to a woman wearing the same outfit who seated me at a corner table by the window with velvet armchairs and a gold-rimmed glass top. The walls were lined with marble columns reaching up to the intricate gold ceiling dotted with Renaissance-esque paintings and elaborate chandeliers.
At the center of the room stood a large glass pastry case boasting the many cakes on offer. I was determined to try the sachertorte, which Suri has often praised, long before I ever planned to visit Vienna. It’s a chocolate cake, somewhat dense, with apricot jam between the layers and under the smooth, matte chocolate ganache. The jam is essential: otherwise, the cake would be quite dry. I liked it, though I was a bit jealous of the whipped-cream-layered cakes the two older women next to me were sharing. Along with the cake, and though it was well past 4 p.m., I had yet another coffee in anticipation of the long opera ahead.
Back at the hotel, I showered, put on a dress, dried my hair, and tried to look the part of a lady at the opera. Then I walked back to the Wiener Staatstoper, the State Opera House, which was lit up and glowing from each of its many windows. I circled the building, unsure where to enter, until I found a crowd of gussied-up people to follow. In we went, up the marble staircases on either side, and I continued to the top floor center balcony.
My seatmates arrived soon after me, and I heard foreign yet familiar sounds—Korean. I spent the rest of the pre-show wait trying to translate the couple’s conversation and ogling the enormous chandelier above and the many tiers of red-velvet-lined balconies and boxes below. I understood enough to know they were talking about the various people around us, but not much beyond that.
When the curtains rose, they revealed a set that resembled a great, grey rockface with a few large boulders placed here and there. A man dressed in black pants and a black hoodie lay flat across the rock. Leporello, the little personal subtitle screen in front of me said. He began to sing. And the singing continued for three more hours with a brief intermission halfway through. I found Mozart’s Don Giovanni entertaining enough, though both the plot and characters could use some work. It’s essentially the tale of a terrible womanizer and the women and their menfolk who wish to get revenge on him…
While the set wasn’t much to look at and the story only so-so, the music was incredibly impressive—both the singers and the orchestra. Beyond the pure skill required to produce such beautiful sound, I marveled at how much these actor-singers and musicians are able to memorize! A true feat, well worth the many rounds of bows and applause at the end.
The best of the singers was the woman playing Donna Anna, a soprano from Romania. She was quite thin for those wondering if heft is required for excellent opera. Her trills up to the highest of high notes were immaculate. As I walked back to the hotel, doner kebab in hand, I wondered how early opera training begins, and how children find their way to it. What a strange, but impressive profession.
