Day 4: Wien

I woke up with a headache. Sleep deprivation does real damage, and it was after 1 a.m. by the time I crawled into bed. The train had continued to be delayed by more and more minutes throughout the journey, and we arrived nearly an hour later than scheduled, around 12:15 a.m. Though eager to try Vienna’s public transit, I opted for a taxi, the quickest means of getting to my hotel. The driver, though, was surly, even after a smile, even after tip. When we arrived outside Hotel Das Tyrol, he stood looking both bored and impatient, waiting for me to retrieve my bag from the trunk. 

I’d checked and double-checked that the small hotel had a twenty-four-hour front desk And yet. I approached the glass doors to find them locked with a printed sign asking guests to use their room key to get in, or to call one of two numbers in case of emergency. I dialed the first number, but Verizon would not complete my call, despite my paying for a Travel Pass. I tried again. Fail. I tried the second number, and again, that little, “duh, duh, DUH!” melody signaling: call failed. A bit frantic, I fired off a message via the Booking.com app, then Googled “how to dial an Austrian number from a U.S. phone.” 

Have you ever heard of dialing an “exit code,” dear reader? I certainly had not. But dial “011” I did before entering the phone number et, voilà. The phone began to ring. Moments later, a man emerged from a door behind the desk and pushed a button to open the door. I stepped through, only to find myself blocked by another glass door. The man signaled that I should keep walking, but how? I pushed a button, it didn’t work. He made a “turn around” motion with his hand and that’s when I realized: I’d been looking in a mirror the whole time. I turned around and stepped into the actual lobby, dazed from the illusion and feeling foolish. 

In the morning, though already skeptical of Vienna and its lukewarm welcome, I decided to reserve my judgement. I sat down at a traditional Viennese coffee house called Cafe Savoy and ordered a traditional Viennese breakfast: thin slices of ham, salami, and cheese served with bread, butter, and a whipped yellow cream I avoided but assumed was similar to hollandaise. Thus began my dairy day. Still, I ordered my melange (the Viennese cappuccino) with häfermilch (oat milk). The service was more friendly, but still quite cold compared to Italy and the U.S. 

Onward to Secession I went, Gustav Klimt’s funky alt art space that he and others built as part of their broader, rebellious movement. I walked downstairs to see his famous Beethoven Frieze, then upstairs to wander through more contemporary exhibitions. The art tour continued with a brief, but stressful, tram ride to the Belvedere Palace and Museum—stressful, because there was no obvious way to pay for a ticket. I spent the bulk of the ride downloading an app, creating an account, and purchasing a ticket I’m not sure I even used. 

Inside the Upper Belvedere, I joined the flocks of pilgrims all paying homage to Klimt’s The Kiss before wandering through the rest of the galleries, seeing pieces referenced in the Vienna Fin de Siecle class I took with Steve back in May. Portraits of society women, impressionistic landscapes, and even a famous (and enormous) painting of Napoleon I’d seen in my A.P. Euro textbook back in the day. 

From the museum, I walked back toward the city center, to the Ringstrasse, and wandered through, viewing the various municipal buildings all built in the late 19th century. Each building soared upward, intimidating in its ornamented stoney heft. Grey, grey, grey. Nearly all of the city center had been paved over in stone, streets and buildings alike. I saw no trees or greenery outside of the parks, which I find quite depressing. It’s not unlike Stockholm. In fact, much of Vienna gives me flashbacks to Sweden—though the grey sky and chilly weather has certainly contributed to this impression. The prim (and sometimes prissy) people I’ve encountered aren’t helping any. 

I settled in for another kaffe and an apfelstrudel (laktosfrei!) at Landtmann’s Cafe on the west side of the ring, and was impressed by how long they’ll let guests linger in their chintzy rooms with floral upholstered chairs and booths, glossy dark wooden tables and white tablecloths, crystal chandeliers, and white china with gilded edges. This seems to be the signature Vienna style. No wonder Suri is so fancy. 

Back toward the hotel I walked as the cloud-covered sun began to lower, and through the museum quarter and busy shopping street that Hotel Das Tyrol sits on. I was struck by a woman who looked so perfectly put together, I couldn’t fathom how she achieved it: a black wool coat, leather bag, leather loafers, all of which looked new. Shiny dark hair, cut with such a straight edge, as if she’d just had it done. Face and makeup: immaculate. And she wasn’t the only one. I’d passed other women and even children with stylish outfits, perfectly cut hair, and made-up faces. 

Feeling like a scrub, I dressed for the Philharmonic performance, then walked the seventeen minutes to the Musikverein, the city’s music hall full of more gold, more chandeliers. I’d purchased a seat in the upper balcony, on the right side, and in the first row, so that I could lean my arms on the velvet balustrade and peer down at the people and orchestra below. I watched as a trio of gussied-up lesbians in matching haircuts and black patent leather shoes took photo after photo of themselves in front of the stage. They looked so happy and excited to be there. 

The musicians and conductor took their places, and the performance began. Their first piece was long and lush, upbeat and lovely. A real crowd-pleaser. When they finished playing it, the conductor signaled for us to clap for the first violinist, then he extended his arm toward the crowd, and waved his hand. At this, the youngest of the lesbians, wearing a blue satin blazer with a floral pattern, stood and walked to the stage to shake his hand, as well as the hand of the first violinist. I wasn’t alone in wondering who this woman was; the composer, perhaps? I watched as she returned to her seat, and kept glancing at her as they began the next song. She held her knees with her hands and looked down, breathing as if to calm her nerves. I felt like I was about to cry; somehow, I’d become so invested in this woman’s experience. I was happy for her, proud of her. Music really brings my emotions right to the surface. 

Each time the flute did a little dance with the cellos, my heart swelled. When the first and second violins played furiously and in harmony, I could feel it in my lungs. The roar of the tympony brought me right to the precipice, and the smooth lilt of the clarinets walked me back again. If you thought the man getting arrested on the plane was dramatic, oh no. This, this gorgeous coming together of so many music lovers—the many members of the orchestra all working and playing together, as well as all the guests who’d donned fancy outfits to sit and listen—this was heightened reality. 

ANYWAY. I had a nice time. And tomorrow: we head to the opera.