In Vienna, on Sundays, one doesn't use the conventional greeting, "Guten tag" . Instead one barks an energetic "Grüss Gott!" (Greet God!) which made me wondering if I'd happen onto some fervently religious shopkeeper. It was just one of many unsettling moments I'd encountered during my weekend in this strange, wonderful city. The night before, lost in Vienna's dark streets, I'd happen upon a "Free Öcalan" concert/protest in the Stephansdomplatz. The dark, cold square, dwarfed by the gothic church was filled with the sound of Kurdish music. The high, plaintive wailing of the singer made it all so creepy and yet poignant. In the dark, in the shadow of a mediaeval past, the music was intoxicating. Suddenly, as the music quickened, the entire crowd seemed to be locked by arms in a large dancing circle. I stepped away unable to figure out the complicated dance.
Thirty minutes later I was in a bright crowded bar/restaurant muttering enough German to buy and beer and find a seat and wondering why most Viennese bars seem to play the same mix of music -- Bierhall songs, Edith Piaf and old Frank Sinatra. I soon realised, with shocking horror, that an inane song we learned in high school German about a three-cornered hat -- "and if the hat doesn't have three corners, then it is not my hat" -- was a crowd favourite that seemed to inspire them all to sing. The bars, or the three I've been too, are much more informal than in London. They are true meeting places where people come to drink, to talk, to eat and to relax. The Austrians seem a welcoming people and I was pulled into conversations many times (the length of which was directly porportional to the amount of English they spoke or the amount of German I could understand.) It was very comforting.
Did I find a man who spoke enough English or had patience for my haltering German? No. Instead I met a darkly handsome, curly-haired Bulgarian with a name full of three-point consonants who was either a tourguide or a busdriver and who either just arrived in or moved to Vienna. The rest of the conversation was a bit of a muddle, but to be honest after about 15 minutes it didn't matter. We snogged whilst the crowd sang a polka. Surreal.
The next day, out in the cool morning air, I came across a Ski festival on the steps of the imposing townhall. They'd built a ramp, covered it in snow, and were doing ski jumps into the courtyard. The skiiers, all seemingly stunning blond men, mingled in the crowd trying to get passer-bys to their sponsor's booth. I sadly fended a few of them off, then bought a bag of roasted chestnuts and sat on the haybales to watch youngsters fly down the steep ramp. An hour later I was queuing at the Albertina to see the first comprehensive Dürer exhibition in thirty years.
Thirty minutes later I was in a bright crowded bar/restaurant muttering enough German to buy and beer and find a seat and wondering why most Viennese bars seem to play the same mix of music -- Bierhall songs, Edith Piaf and old Frank Sinatra. I soon realised, with shocking horror, that an inane song we learned in high school German about a three-cornered hat -- "and if the hat doesn't have three corners, then it is not my hat" -- was a crowd favourite that seemed to inspire them all to sing. The bars, or the three I've been too, are much more informal than in London. They are true meeting places where people come to drink, to talk, to eat and to relax. The Austrians seem a welcoming people and I was pulled into conversations many times (the length of which was directly porportional to the amount of English they spoke or the amount of German I could understand.) It was very comforting.
Did I find a man who spoke enough English or had patience for my haltering German? No. Instead I met a darkly handsome, curly-haired Bulgarian with a name full of three-point consonants who was either a tourguide or a busdriver and who either just arrived in or moved to Vienna. The rest of the conversation was a bit of a muddle, but to be honest after about 15 minutes it didn't matter. We snogged whilst the crowd sang a polka. Surreal.
The next day, out in the cool morning air, I came across a Ski festival on the steps of the imposing townhall. They'd built a ramp, covered it in snow, and were doing ski jumps into the courtyard. The skiiers, all seemingly stunning blond men, mingled in the crowd trying to get passer-bys to their sponsor's booth. I sadly fended a few of them off, then bought a bag of roasted chestnuts and sat on the haybales to watch youngsters fly down the steep ramp. An hour later I was queuing at the Albertina to see the first comprehensive Dürer exhibition in thirty years.
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