Serpentine Sunrise

  

Morning in the Park

  

Marble Arch, London

  

Before The Show

  

Thursday, or Good Night Vienna

I realise that I am too tired to enjoy well, anything, until I got some proper rest. I go to the Sued station to collect my suitcase from the locker, and get my ticket to Munich for Saturday morning. Back at the apartment I take a shower and a siesta. In the evening I go out almost reluctantly: the weather is shit, and I don't really fancy the idea of cruising the streets soaked with rain. However, I would never forgive myself had I squandered an entire evening in Vienna just sitting in my room. I drag myself out, and go to the Vienna Eagle. The bar is very quiet, I chat a little with the barman, a big bear of a man, kind and friendly, and he introduces me in turn to a young man who joined us at the bar, a local or at least regular as he seems to know the barman well. Michael and I engage in a conversation, and we become best of friends. He even gives me his phone number as I am about to leave. As the bar (a major port of call on the leather scene in Vienna, I am told) doesn't seem to be waking up I decide to do the sensible thing and go home while the U- Bahn is still running. I catch one of the last trains and give myself the first good night's sleep since I've had since Tuesday. Bliss.

Thursday, or Lunch with Atmosphere

After all my trials and tribulations I decide to reward myself with a sumptuous lunch at the recommended Augustine Keller. It's full of old world charm with low ceilings, vaulted chambers, large refectory tables, serving mainly Austrian fare. The food is presented simply but attractively by efficient, curt waiters. I ask if they have a non-smoking area. Hurrah! They have. I sit down, take a beer and peruse my guidebook and notes while I wait for my food. I start with a hearty goulaschsuppe (probably misspelt), then some dish with some meat and things. It's all delicious but... The waiter comes back to me some two minutes into my meal. "Excuse me sir, but would you mind if we let a group of six women take the (empty) table nearest to you - you see, some of them are smokers". So, I am on the spot here. In a moment of weakness which I shall regret to the end of this blog (or a little longer than that) I say OK. The bad news: out of six, four smoke, so there is a lit ciggy at that table at all times. The good news: the smoke doesn't seem to drift in my direction that much, but I rapidly lose interest in my food, and my meal is virtually ruined. Still, as I think of what had just happened here I become resentful. The waiter did put me on the spot. Here is a table with only one guest, who is asked to veto a gaggle of six paying customers (had I said no, they would either stand quite near me while waiting for a table to become free at the smoking section or they'd have left, taking their credit cards elsewhere). I leave a derisory tip and decide to take my coffee elsewhere. Since that was my plan anyway, I set off and reach Hotel Sacher (which is some three minutes away, situated as it is just around the corner. Got to try the original Sachertorte! Now it's early afternoon, I am resplendent in my rain-soaked clothes: Blundstone hat (from my nephew Roey, a gift from happier times, when my head must have been a little smaller. What's that about?), a wet T-shirt, faded green cargo shorts, and my beloved butter coloured Crocs, not even trainers. Just the type they really like to welcome into the velvet and oak salons of this classy joint. In for a penny, in for a pound, say I and line up quietly and patiently out, in the drizzle, still smarting from the smoked lunch I had just had. The maitre-d' looks me up and down, barely able to conceal his contempt. With resignation he leads me to the table for (this one he utters loudly, almost venomously) "one person". They are very popular, and the turnover here is faster than they can cope with, so I overlook the fact that my table is still dirty from the previous guests, and the carpet around it is covered with crumbs and other tea-room debris. I order the cake and the house coffee. They arrive very quickly, but my expectations and hopes are shattered: Both items are disappointing, big time. I am despondent. I look around me. The crowd is far from glamorous. Why, they all look like me for heaven's sake. Only not in shorts. Or Crocs. So that's why I keep getting funny looks from people... I must be the person who makes the place look untidy!

Thursday, or Room and Errands

My host shows me my room, and very nice it is too. There is a small trolley (or a cart) with a kettle, a coffee maker and such, but the breakfast part of the deal is contained in a mini fridge on top of the washing machine in the... bathroom. Every morning he will leave some bread on top of the fridge, and I can help myself to whatever I want. I pass. On the positive side he is charming (and very good-looking, a delicious blend of Austrian and Italian), and he plies me with local info to the gay scene, and to the best beaches around Vienna. Unfortunately there would be no beach fun for me here as the weather has turned rather autumnal, and it looks like it would rain for much of my stay here.
My first priority, oddly, is to get to the local Apple store - I had looked it up at the Misery Cafe. I make my way there with my sick i-Pod, and soon run into navigational problems - the street is so small its name is not printed on the map. I know I am in the vicinity, but can't find it. A pleasant, friendly, polite and helpful man, busy arranging the window display of his store (did I mention what it was? a gun shop) willingly shows me exactly where it is. Am I the only one who find it ironic? It puts a wry smile on my face, but his directions are perfect, and I find the place easily. It really is a small side street, and the "store" is barely visible but for the black apple sign outside. Something tells me we are not in London anymore. The place is just a little workshop of a sort, with a jumble of various parts and bits on display, really a service centre, a small service centre. The girl I talk to tries to charge, reset, look at the other side of the patient, but can only utter "no warranty, warranty expired, you vill haff to buy a new one". WHAT?!! That's another £300 one year and 3 months after I bought my first one. I don't think so! And what about the 11 GB already on it? Lose it all - yet again? (OK, some of it is not strictly mine, but from Limewire, but still, I love it so) I see that no joy will come from this place. Frustrated, I leave, resolving to take it to the Apple Store in London, where I bought it, and give them a piece of my mind.

Thursday Morning or @cafe of Misery

While in the neighbourhood, I pop into the Stefandom, the huge gothic cathedral, then find a nearby large internet cafe, where the girl at the desk seems to be as cheerless as the light rain that is now falling. Oh, well, she speaks English when she speaks at all. The hardware here is less than impressive, only two computers have a webcam and a headset, but when I try to open a messenger it turns out to be MSN, not Live Windows, and I can't get to hear, let alone see my dad who is online in Israel. I call little miss misery chops, and she tries to "do something", but soon gives up, saying: "I can't understand a computer that gives me problems I can't solve". Oh, that was deep, wasn't it?! My fairly up to-date guide book (Marco Polo, one of my favourites) mentions this cafe but under a different name so I assume it has changed hands recently, and I speculate it must have been a friendlier place before. Or even worse? Still, I check my emails, catch up on the news from the Israel-Hizbollah conflict, fire off a few emails, and make my way to the EBAB apartment. When I spoke to my host I told him I would be a little late, maybe 10:30 or later, would that be OK? He replied that he would wait for me. I feel a little guilty for making him wait at home. In my rush to keep our appointment I forget to return to the train station to collect my suitcase. Damn! At the flat I find him in no hurry as he is spending a relaxed day at home. I have fussed and rushed for nothing.

Wednesday Night, Thursday Morning or Krakow to Vienna

Groom walking his horse across the street (lane, really)


























Trainer takes a horse out for morning exercise at the Spanish Riding School, Vienna
מאמן מוציא לאימון בוקר את אחד הסוסים של בי"ס הרכיבה הספרדי, וינה

















A courtyard in the Museum Quarter. These were the Imperial Apartments of the Habsburgs.
חצר ברובע המוזיאונים בוינה. אילה היו הדירות של בית הבסבורג


Thursday Morning

Around 6:30am and I wriggle free of my cramped cubby hole AKA sleeping bunk. Actually I have been up almost since we crossed the Austrian border. At the station I first buy a Vienna Card - a three day travelcard. It will serve me today, Friday and Saturday morning. I then leave my case in a locker, take my back pack and go in search of that internet cafe I read about in the guide book. You see, when I called my host in Vienna he told me he had a guest who was checking out this morning, and could I arrive around 10am, so I have a few hours to kill. I take the U-Bahn to where that internet cafe is, and find that in my haste I failed to notice that the time of 6:30, when the highly recommended place opens its doors, was joined by "PM". I have wasted precious walking time on a wild goose chase! Annoyed, I decide to take a trail suggested by another book (Frommer's Guide). It's a stroll around Imperial Vienna. Naturally I start where I should finish, and get lost a few times, but no matter. Vienna is just spectacular. I am stunned by the grandeur of the buildings, and enjoy the almost eerie calm of a city waking up. I happen to pass the Spanish Riding School when out emerge the grooms (or whatever they are called), thin and elegant in riding gear, walking their horses out of the stables, hidden courtyards, across a narrow street into a dark passage, until they all disappear again. To them, a daily routine, to me a sudden flash of a secret world, intensely interesting. I try to capture the moment but my crappy old camera with its relaxed attitude to a fast moving world takes forever to respond to my finger pressing the shutter. All I want to do is take some snapshots, but not with this one. "Eventual shots" would better describe them. I've dragged my feet for some time now on the painful (i.e. costly) subject of a new camera but really, there is a limit!



Wednesday Night

The platform is buzzing with anticipation. Passengers awaiting the arrival of our train, some waiting for the train from the other side of the same platform - a short (only four carriages) old looking Russian train, destination Kiev. The crew, quite a few of them, in smart uniform, milling on the platform, I try to crane my neck to get a good view if the sleeping compartments but fail. They are already late but don't seem bothered. I see my train has arrived, and there is a certain sense of excitement in the air. Everybody start shifting and picking their luggage, and we start boarding. The handsome, bookish conductor collects my ticket as I climb aboard. "you get it back in the morning" he replies to my query. Oh well. Now, where is my couchette? Ah! Found it. It's the top bunk - that is, the top one out of three! My fellow room-mates are a middle-aged Polish man under me, and finally an Italian man in one bottom bunk, his teenager daughter in the other. They trundle an enormous suitcase in, and it completely fills up the gap between the bunks, rendering use of the ladder impossible. That means I have to tread, ever so gingerly on everybody's beds whenever I want to leave or return to my own bunk. The middle bunk above the Italian girl remains empty but I'm fine where I am. It is cramped - impossible to even sit upright, it is hot, but not unbearable, and something just around the head area is squeaking incessantly, but only when the train is in motion. I perform amazing feats of organisation by placing my luggage in the most unobtrusive way possible, and keep my back pack on the shelf near my head for easy access to drink.
The compartment next to mine is full with more Italian girls, I assume they are all school chums with the one in my compartment. She seems resentful for having drawn the shortest straw here. No gabbing with the girls for her. And what if it isn't her father at all but say, her school's headmaster or a teacher?! Nah, that would be illegal, wouldn't it?
To add to my chagrin, my i-Pod froze on me in Krakow, and although I have a few tracks on my new Nokia N80, they are mostly The Dixie Chicks, and Dynamite by Jamiroquai. This is my second i-Pod - the first one started freezing me out while on holiday in Gran Canaria with my friends Jan and Jean-Francois. For 12 agonising hours we were deprived of our breakfast recital, and I had a very quiet day on the beach. It was hell I tell you. That i-Pod kept playing up till it went into a coma, and not even the Apple Store "genius" could unleash any of the 13 GB of music, drama, comedy and pictures I had stored on it, not all of which was backed-up. I had to start afresh with a "new" (reconditioned, actually) unit. This one has been in my possession some 3 months, just over the limited 3 month guarantee it came with. It already had on it 12 GB, and again it slammed the door in my face, just when I needed it most.
The night seems long - I manage to sleep a little, and if not for the constant noise of some mysterious part squeaking I would sleep much better! We are woken up a few times along the journey, by border control upon leaving Poland and entering the Czech Republic, then before entering Austria, and unless I've dreamt it up, somebody must have established another temporary country because there is another passport reading session by severe looking uniformed people, somewhere along the line.
It is morning, I find the Polish man gone - must have left at one of the stops along the way. Seems I slept longer and better than I had imagined. The conductor, who throughout the night stayed in his uniform but kicked off his shoes in favour of homely slippers, emerges from his office at one end of the carriage, and true to his word hands me back my ticket. about half an hour later the train lazily rolls into Vienna South station. I have arrived at my second port of call.