Wiener Wandering

(The Vienna photos. It's hard to take a bad shot in this town.)

You may recall I already visited Vienna once before with the Borths family and Carolyn. So, when I have an entire continent of exploring, why retrace my steps? Reason 1: Marty needed to see the city and we were pretty damn close in Prague. Reason 2: I wanted to visit Nick, a fellow graduate of St. X and Ohio State who’s doing a teaching Fulbright in Vienna. Reason 3 (and most important): Vienna demands a second go-round. It’s just that glorious a city.

The plan was to meet Nick at the Vienna train station or at his house. This would be awkward to time because his parents were also visiting for two weeks and we wanted to give them plenty of time to spend with their son. Nick wasn’t in the station. I couldn’t raise him on the cell phone or by text message. We were on the industrial outskirts of the city, and that just wouldn’t do. If you’re in Vienna, go to the pretty parts, so we did.

We buried ourselves in the pedestrian heart of the Old Town, eating Wiener Schnitzel (Wien is the German name for Vienna) and drinking excellent cocktails at American Bar, a place recommended by Miya back in Hamburg. The bar was designed in 1908 by one of the fathers of modern architecture, Adolf Loos, who believed ornate decoration was a sinful waste of worker’s sweat. The bar specializes in American-style cocktails, so I sipped an Old Fashioned, and Marty enjoyed a Smoky Martini while we tried to figure out how to track down Nick and discussed if our action-hero of a waiter would be able to save us from nuclear apocalypse.

St. Stephan's Cathedral at the center of the old town's pedestrian district.

We poked our heads into St. Stephan’s Cathedral in the center of the old town and discovered the shadowy interior was obstructed by a locked iron gate. Well, the only thing to do when you can’t visit the cathedral is grab some ice cream. With cones in hand we continued down the street and I literally ran into Nick. He, his family, and his girlfriend were just leaving dinner and were discussing how to contact me (apparently none of my text messages and only one voicemail message actually made it to his end of the line). If we had all just trusted to serendipity, much stress could have been avoided.

We walked Nick’s parents home then went to visit a few of Nick’s favorite Viennese bars. The first was a dive that usually features live music. They did this night, but the act was, to put it gently, awful. Two inebriated guitarists, one with a six string and the other with a twelve with only half the strings in tune, sang in unison, belting Dylan, Clapton, and Cash at the tops of their lungs. I’ve come to the conclusion that Rock and Roll is one of America’s great contributions to world culture. But, listening to these two, I wished the Austrians had never abandoned their accordions and Alphorns for the Blues. If they hadn't, my ears might still be functional. We moved on.

Next, discussion around a comfy table in squashy chairs at an English Bar. I wasn’t sure what “English Bar” entailed until I saw the walls were encrusted with dozens of book cases with hundreds of English language paperbacks and classics. In other words, my kind of bar. When we left, a two hour odyssey ensued as we waited for buses that didn’t arrive on time (have I mentioned I don’t like buses?), talked to lonely Indian men who wanted to know about plate tectonics, and ate Viennese sausage (or “Wieners” as we might say. Note on the Wiener: In this town they believe in the bun. Germans tend to just use a hand-sized roll to hold a much larger sausage. Here you are given a kind of baguette. The top is sliced off and a tunnel bored into the bread. The mustard and cheese go in along with the sausage, creating a self-contained, walkable, street food. Brilliance on – or in – a bun.). We finally got home in the wee hours of the morning, and didn’t earn ourselves very much sleep because we wanted to get to the Vienna Ring.

The epic and Neo-Classical Austrian Parliament building. That's Athena towering over Vienna.

For breakfast we ate massive, chocolate covered cream horns then explored the parliament building and the Natural History Museum. The Vienna NHM is famous as the home of Venus von Willendorf, a somewhat abstract and slightly pudgy limestone carving of a woman roughly 26,000 year old. She’s one of the oldest human forms ever discovered and was one of the first examples of Paleolithic art to be hauled out of the ground. In 1908 she created a sensation despite being faceless and footless.

In December I visited the Kunsthistorisches Museum, the architectural twin of the Naturhistorisches Museum. They sit facing each other across a manicured park, just off the main drag of Vienna. I knew the Kusthistorisches Museum (Historical Art Museum) was a piece of art in itself, a palace built in 1889 for the sole purpose of exalting art. I didn’t know the Natural History Museum had been designed with the same aesthetic. Canvas painting of exotic animals, people, and localities rimmed each artfully plastered gallery. My favorite touch came in the bone hall where casts and actual mounted fossils were surrounded by a chorus of Classical figures (nyads, dryads, and satyrs perhaps?) each bearing an extinct animals. One wrestled with an ancient sea-monster, the next with a pterodactyl, the next with a massive crustacean…I love the American Museum of Natural History, but they don’t have that kind of class.

On the left a figure tries to keep a grip on a Rhamphorhynchus. His buddy has his own prblems holding on to a Ichthyosaurus.

I love the kangaroo-posed Iguanodon, one of the oldest dinosaur names around.

Hopping into the Metro, we traveled out into the Viennese suburbs to explore Schönbrunn Palace with Nick and his family. The plot of land the palace commands was purchased in 1569 but the current royal residence wasn’t set up until 1696. Originally the designer wanted to make it bigger than its model, Versailles, but he had to deal with the budget and dialed things back. Rick Steves claims it’s the second-best palace in Europe behind Versailles, so that designer wasn’t far off his mark. We explored the palace’s parks, climbing behind a massive fountain and up to the Gloriette for a view of the palace and Vienna rolling away to the horizon. We discovered we really didn’t have time to do a full palace tour, or hit the zoo. The zoo is the oldest in existence. This fact was only revealed to me late in our exploration and there just wasn’t time to visit the pandas. That’s what next time is for.

After sitting on the lawn, sipping Easter-market punch, Marty and I waved good-bye to Nick and headed for the Vienna Opera house where we cued up for the best deal in Europe: three Euro tickets to the opera. Our legs were sore from three consecutive days on our feet, but we took standing-room seats at the center of the house for “Die tote Stadt” a 1920 opera by Erich Wolfgang Korngold that revolved around a husband who wouldn't’t allow his dead wife’s memory rest in peace. Heavy, operatic stuff. Note that this was our second opera in three days.

After the performance we met Nick at a Jazzland, a cellar-turned club that’s been around since 1972. The original plan was to meet Nick and his parents, but only Nick felt energetic enough to join us. After jockeying with other patrons to secure a spot with a decent view of the band, we settled in to groove to a great set that featured scat solos and all the trumpet I’ve been missing. Second Jazz club in four nights. Marty and I really are too cool to hang out with ourselves.

When the band wrapped up, so did the bar, so we rolled on to a place on the canal that Nick claimed, “you have to see.” The other patrons ranged from high schoolers trying to have a night on the town, to forty-year-old transvestites. There wasn’t a demographic missing or a character that wouldn’t find a home in a quirky sitcom, including a construction worker who just wanted to dance to the monotonous techno beats. Getting home went smoothly, but again we stayed out late and woke up early.

Our first stop was to the Votivkirche, a neo-Gothic structure built by Emperor Franz Joseph in 1879 in thanks to God for deflecting an assassins knife on the spot the church was erected. It’s huge, neo-Gothic, and once featured a massive stained-glass window that depicted the Emperor’s deliverance. The windows were bombed out during WWII and in ’64 the windows were replaced with less of a divine-right-of-kings kind of theme. There was also a devotional chapel featuring Our Lady of Guadalupe. The sign made it seem like this was the image that was discovered by Juan Diego in 1531. We were in awe, but our awe was misspent on a copy sent by the Mexican government in 1954 (the Empire of Mexico was ruled by an enlightened, but unlucky Hapsburg prince, Maximilian I for three years before he was killed by firing squad in 1867). Oh well.

After a brief detour to recover Marty’s passport from Nick’s apartment (it was so well hidden he had forgotten about it) we were on our way to the Belvedere Palace. The place was set up in 1716 as the residence of Prince Eugene of Savoy, a brilliant general who beat the Ottomans, French, and Italians over the course of a fifty year career. Originally French, Louis XIV ditched Eugene because he wasn’t particularly attractive. Taking his brilliant mind east, he found the Austrians would give him a chance and they reaped the rewards. So did he and thence the palace.

Now the building houses an art collection that ranges from Medieval to 21st century stuff, but focuses on the work of the Vienna Secession, an association of artists who wanted to promote Austrian art at the turn of the 20th century. The first president was Gustav Klimt and the Belvedere has a bunch of his work, including the iconic “Kiss” and “Judith.” Personally, I thought the haunting, expressionist work of Egon Schiele was even more engrossing than Klimt. Marty left to catch his train and I continued to explore the Romantics and Impressionists until the lure of the gardens became too strong.

The flowers all seemed on the verge of leaping to colorful life. The daffodils and tulips were doing their best, but I knew if I walked through in one week, the place would be a gravel-lined riot of color. Again, next time.

Weaving through memorials and churches I said goodbye to one of the most beautiful cities I have ever explored, then set my feet in the direction of the Vienna airport. I had my last cup of Viennese coffee, eavesdropped on a Canadian businessman who was also in awe of the beauty of the city and flew to the Cologne/Bonn airport where Rheinisch rain greeted by arrival.

A church I discovered at the last minute called Karlskirche. Next time I'll go inside. Never act like you won't return to a spot. It stresses you out and might not be true. Witness this trip.

I huddled in the bus stop with my fellow Bonners and mentally listed what I needed to pack up because the next morning I would be catching the train to Paris!

Pretty photos of a pretty city.

Beware: High Brow Arty Stuff

Warning: What follows is a serious geek-out over the history of art and a little opera thrown in. If art isn't your cup of tea, then turn back. Before you turn back, though, I also would like to ask you why you drink tea but don't like art. I feel like the two are locked together in vaguely affected matrimony until the Rapture. But that's just me.

I'm glad you decided to stick around. You might need a cup of tea to get through this...

The next morning, armed with audioguides and little comprehension of its vast size, the Borths family entered the Kunsthistorisches Museum (literally “art-history museum”) in Vienna. The Naturhistorisches Museum across the way was closed for the day, meaning I didn’t get to see the 25,000 year old Venus of Willendorf. I guess that’s what a return trip is for. We did get to analyze the exterior of the building though:

The exterior of the Natural History Museum has statues of people representing each of the continents. Here is the perfect specimen of the 19th century "Noble Savage." America (Note: this figure represents both North and South America. For a long time both landmasses were thought of us one continent. This jived well for the Renaissance idea of balance. There were four elements, four directions, four winds, four limbs, four gospels, and four continents: Europe, Asia, Africa, and America. Australia and Antarctica butted in later, after the whole balance idea was given up and South America gained a separate identity from the North.) looks of to the side defiantly, but still at the mercy of the elements as indicated by his furrowed brow of worry. Australia hunkers down, giving protection to the child. She’s sitting in the dirt, but she’s not looking to anyone but the viewer. It looks like she wouldn’t listen to them anyway.

Europe on the other hand reaches her arms wide, ready to take in the wayward continents with the torch of knowledge and the gift of art and music (even if the continents don't really want to learn the lyre). Oh, the age of Imperialism.

The Naturhistisches Museum and the Kunsthistorisches Museum were constructed at the same time and opened in 1891, each as a place to house the Hapsburg Royal Family’s various collections. Obviously the art collection is in the Kunsthistorisches Museum. It is actually one of the few major art museums in Europe built explicitly to display art. The interior is covered in ornate marble columns, gilt ceilings and busts of royals and nobles.

The grand staircase of the museum. It’s the first thing that greets you as you stride through the door. Normally museums have a bustling, echoing main atrium. Here you must ascend the stairs to the art where the echoes don’t travel. You physically travel to a more elevated plane on pink marble.
Above your head is a massive fresco showing just that. The stairs continue into the image and you enter behind the guy down center who is in awe of all the enlightened figures around him including the heroes of the Renaissance. Above their heads and in their midst float sacred Inspiration and the muses. It all bubbles over through the Pantheon-like dome.


At the top of the staircase is an incredible statue of Theseus winding up to brain a centaur, as imagined by Antonio Canova. Thesus is reasonable, civilized man conquering the baser animal instincts that threaten to tear civilization to shreds - or at least stampede civilization into oblivion. What I was struck by is the incredible ability of the artist to make some of the densest stone on earth look squishy.

The centaur's back folded, agonized flesh and his fingers actually grip Theseus's forearm, leaving a depression. The hero's knee is digging into his foe, knocking the wind from his secondary human diaphragm (at some point I need to pontificate on the possible anatomy of mythological creatures. What exactly do centaurs put in the horse-half's thoracic cavity if they have lungs and a diaphragm in their human half? I guess it could be arranged the other way, too. Thoughts?). Gorgeous.


This is the "Salt Celler" a table ornament made by the 16th century goldsmith Cellini. The sculpture shows Earth (Ceres) and the Sea (Neptune) in harmony, surrounded by the symbols of each realm. When their powers combine, you get salt (originally from the sea, mined from the earth). The piece is a masterpiece, but is especially interesting because it was stolen in 2003. The museum offered € 70,000 for its recovery, which doesn't quite seem generous enough. I guess that means museums are poorly funded everywhere, even in Europe. In 2006 it was recovered after being buried a lead box in the woods in northern Austria. Real, high profile art theft.

The museum also houses a massive Bruegel collection. This one is by Pieter Bruegel the Elder and it's called "The Hunters in the Snow." Bruegel the Elder liked to paint peasants doing peasant-y things, like hunting, ice skating and getting married. He doesn't like to glorify their lifestyle. Many artists were a bit disconnected from the struggles of the working-class and created idealized "pastoral" scenes. Not Bruegel. The hunters look exhausted. The day looks frigid and even the dogs look like they've had it. But there is joy. The view is lovely and there's plenty of room left to Curl on the ice. The whole thing just has such incredible framing, and nary a face can be seen. Bruegel.

Another Brughel. "The Tower of Babel." This visual metaphor crops up every time we need to be reminded that we aren't as cool as we think we are. The king and architect oversee the project that is clearly doomed to failure as it continues to lean to the left. No one really notices though. The scale of the tower is incredible and the artist made sure to provide plenty of ant-like humans scurrying around its surface.

Before we moved on, we needed a break. We had been through about a quarter, or maybe just an eighth, of the museum and had a long way to go (like...the Italians and the Baroque). There was one cafe in the museum, situated on the second floor. You had to wander through it to get to the next series of galleries. We had let our breakfast carry us past noon, but it was time to take a break. Unfortunately it was a very busy day, so peak serving time never really went away. We hovered for a few minutes, hoping to catch a table, but were beaten every time. My mom and brother volunteered to wait by the restaurant to swipe a table while dad, Carolyn and I went on into the next room.

As I contemplated a cityscape of Vienna in 1700, my brother triumphantly grabbed me. He had figured out the system and asked a couple that were getting ready to pay if we could have the table next. He had staked a claim and had the support of the original occupants in defending his new territory.

We sighed with relief as we eased into the chairs. Marble can be tough to walk on for three hours. I did my hurried, traditional translation of half the menu items ("ummm...potatoes with, uh, some kind of sauce. Beef soup and...I'm going to guess that's some kind of vegetable or mushroom...) as our frazzled waitress swept up. She promptly told us half the menu was sold out. We ordered coffee and made our food selections based on this new information (I think we went for sandwiches). Dad got the soup. Minutes ticked by, art time was lost. Our waitress returned. They were out of sandwiches. We ordered salad. She returned, they were out of salads. We ordered soup and it took half an hour. She finally returned to our table with calories. We bolted it down.

As we paid, a man in a wheelchair was rolled near the Josh's seat and the woman pushing him waited for us to get up. As we left another man swung in and tried to take the table, even as the wheelchair was being docked. We didn't wait to see the result of the territory dispute. We had art to see...

Meta-art: a photographer taking a picture of an artist painting a picture of an artist painting a picture. It's like the hall of mirrors. The original piece is "The Allegory of Painting (The Painter in His Studio et al.)" by Johannes Vermeer. The lighting in the painting is delicately rich, falling on the curtain, map and subject in glowing highlights. The viewer seems to peer from the corner of the room, past a chair blocking your progress. Such detail. It's a bummer we couldn't examine it all that closely. We were worried of being in the secondary artist's way.

"David with the Head of Goliath" by Caravaggio . The artist was known for his intensely realistic religious scenes. He didn't like to use a lot of angels or obvious Christian iconography. He just used light to emphasize his point, in this case, the grisly triumph of a shepherd boy. Caravaggio liked to show his subjects with dirty feet and hands. His models weren't idealized. If you knew the guy standing in for David, you would recognize him on the canvas.

Caravaggio also has the distinction of being a murderer and a bit of jerk who was always looking for a duel. But he sure could paint. Goliath's head is actually a self-portrait, perhaps as an act of penance for his exile. Or maybe he just couldn't find someone that wanted to see the bloody stump of their neck on canvas. We may never know.


These are so cool. "Summer" is at the top and "The Sea" is at the bottom as painted by Giuseppe Arcimboldo . He painted them in the late 1500s. Apparently he also did traditional commissions for churches and such, but these "portraits" made him stand out in the Renaissance, and they still make him stand out today as the spiritual father of Surrealism. If you zoom in on the fruit and fish, that's all you see. They don't seem to be arranged in any strange way until you back up and the face distracts from the details. It's a still life that happens to be a face. Might I also add that everything from the shark to the literal ear-of-corn are painted with the accuracy of an Audubon guidebook.

Science side note: They (They = psychologists I saw in a documentary once) actually used these 16th century paintings to show that one part of the brain is used for recognizing faces and a separate part is used for recognizing everything else and these two reception centers reside on different sides of the brain. A person with a severed corpus callosum, the neural highway that facilitates communication between the left and right side of the brain, saw one of these pictures with his right eye, and all he saw was a face. Then he was shown the image using only his left eye and he thought it was a different picture, this time a still life with a bunch of fish, fruit or whatever. They used multiple subjects and acheived similar results. I should note additionally that the separation between each side of the brain was an accident and not performed for the experiment. The study lent credence to the idea that we are specially adapted to respond to faces. Science section over.

The museum also had a massive antiquity collection that we really didn't get to see. This Late Roman vase called "The Gryphon's Hunt" was unearthed in Austria (I think). It was buried as the advancing Barbarian hordes rushed into the Empire and the Roman citizens were forced to leave their possessions in the ground, in the hopes of looping back for them. Not many people were able to come back to dig everything up. That's what archaeologists are for (Note: I am a paleontologist, not an archaeologist. I look for dead animals, they look for things made by people. I feel it is one of my professional duties to take every opportunity to remind people of these definitions.).

It was dark by the time we left the museum behind and it was time to get a more substantial meal before our next encounter with high art: the return to the State Opera. Rick Steves recommended a trendy seafood restaurant nestled in the Hapsburg palace's botanical garden. While we were a bit leery of his recommendations after our tram-to-nowhere experience the day before, we took his advice again, and enjoyed exquisite grilled fish and vegetables. As a family we were in the minority. Most of the clientele seemed to be hip, young Viennese couples and friends, all enjoying good wine and a kind of elevated Cuban vibe (though the fireplace projection on the wall undermined the Caribbean atmosphere a bit). After the meal it was time to get in line for the opera.

This time we arrived at the theater before the performance began. This meant my new-found ticket haggling skills were unnecessary. We just needed to stand in line with hundreds of our closest friends to get our standing room tickets. Josh may be grinning in the above picture, but he was mentally calculating the population of the line ahead of us, trying to figure out if we were too late to get in and if we could hope for a central position. He didn't relax until we had the cardboard in our hands and our feet by a rail. Instead of getting standing room in the middle, we had to content ourselves with being high and to the side, but at least we were in to see Rossini's "The Barber of Seville." By clicking on that link, you will find the synopsis, but as Josh has repeatedly told me - despite my protests - opera is not about plot. It's about music. So, if you want to listen to the music - the important part - here's a video that offers a nice compilation of the selections from the piece:

The performance was fantastic, as one would expect at the State Opera in Vienna. Figaro, the barber of the title, is the orchestrator of a plot to help a nobleman get to his jealously guarded paramour. The singer performing Figaro made me feel like his best friend, slyly playing with everyone, letting me in on the joke of it all. The set was gorgeous...talk to Josh about details of the vocal performance.

After the show, the older generation went home, leaving Josh, Carolyn and I to strike out into Vienna on our own. We were leaving the next day for Salzburg and wanted to see a Viennese bar before we headed out of town. Moving away from the theater, we swept our eyes up and down the streets of the darkened shopping district. Nothing. We walked past St. Stephen's. Nothing. There must have been a bar district, but where would they tuck it? We didn't want to stay up all night, so we stopped by a notice board and looked at the restaurants advertised. There was one called...hmmm. I remember they brewed their own stuff. It might be "Schnitzelwirt Schmidt" or maybe just "Schwechater." Tough call. Regardless, it was pretty dead at 10 PM the day before New Years Eve. The place seemed aimed at tourists with fully illustrated menues and traditional Austrian decorations including waitresses in dirdls.

We ordered a round of pretzles and a round of beer. My dark Alt-ish bier was really smooth and the squat little hunny-pot of a glass was especially fun. Carolyn and Josh tried Zwickel, which is unfiltered lager (Carolyn did the research on that one) and also very good. Good reviews all around, though that's a useless recommendation until I remember the name of the place. It's near St. Stephen's. Follow the tourists down into the cellar. Have fun.

It was time to give a final toast to Vienna and get back to the hotel so we could depart the next morning for Salzburg, city of Mozart and the Von Trapp Family Singers...

A Third Definition of "Service" and tram trouble

After a German-style breakfast at the hotel (a forthcoming entry will deal explicitly with the German concept of breakfast and my own), we picked up the car and drove to Vienna’s western train station to return the vehicle. Brigitte would have to ride in my pocket for the rest of the tour. Returning the vehicle was uneventful, but figuring out how to get into town was a stressful exercise in figuring out the public transportation system of a city we didn’t know yet. Buses, Strassbahns, and trains all left the station, but we couldn’t figure out where the trams were. After examining the maps, I was finally pressured to go to the information desk. There I was told the trams were in a different station down the road. Figures.

Eventually the Borths family found the tram station and began our tour of downtown Vienna. I should note it was my birthday, my 23rd year on God’s green Earth (or more accurately "Blue Earth with some green and brown shading", but that doesn't have alliteration going for it...or brevity).

A plague monument in central Vienna. When the plague swept through town, people would make deals with God that went something like this: Lord, if you get rid of this disease, we'll put up a monument to you somewhere in the the city, cool? The plague would go away and public art was created.

We emerged from the subway next to St. Stephen’s Cathedral, the seat of the Archbishop of Vienna, and started to wander through the streets. New Years (Sylvestertag to the Viennese) in Vienna is a massive event with people waltzing through the streets and classical music piped through the speaker systems to the dancing crowds. Every store gets dressed up for the occasion. Apparently there are a few symbols of good luck in the German-speaking world that become ubiquitous as the 31st draws near. Pigs, lady bugs, shamrocks and coins are sold and displayed on every street. Notable enthusiasts of the good luck charms are the candy stores. Marzipan piglets cover trays and counters, waiting for someone to pick them up and eat them to ensure a lucky new year.

Glücksschwein, or "Lucky Pigs" ready to bring in the New Year in all their marzipan glory.

We explored candy stores and churches as we threaded our way through the city. Our destination was the Hofburg Imperial Palace. Since 1279 the seat of power in Austria has called the area home. The Parliament building sits next to the palace, basking in the aura of its ancient centralized power. After World War I the Autro-Hungarian Empire collapsed and the Hapsburgs, who were in charge of things since the 1100s, were run out.

A baroque church near central Vienna. It's name escapes me, but I remember the interior explosion of plaster and gold leaf vividly. They also had the bodies of two Roman martyrs who they dressed in gold and jewels. The skeletons in repose were a little creepy, but their garb was in sync with the rest of the church's aesthetic.

One of the entrances to the Hapsburg Palace in Vienna. Around the arch are statues of Hercules kicking mythological butt. On the left side of the entrance are the stables for the Spanish Riding School. They had the day off, but normally you could watch the horses exercise and do some tricks. On the right is the royal residence and museum. There also might be a few plates involved.

The palace is now a museum for the royal wares of the dynasty. After admiring the exterior including impressive baroque statues of Hercules laboring, we entered the palace. The museum was packed. They had run out of audioguides and were handing out pamphlets with transcripts of the explanations of the exhibits. The first floor was a display of the Royal Services. Before entering the exhibit my definition of “Service” was something along these lines: an action performed for the benefit of another. My second definition involved tennis. In the palace I learned a third definition. Service [sur-vis ] /ˈsɜrvɪs / (noun) : an opulent collection of cutlery and tableware.

A "service." Given for some significant event to the Royal Family. It was probably used once then sent to the basement for storage where an army of polishers kept it all shiny. It's good to be the king.

The Hapsburgs had accumulated a lot of services. They had ornate gold plates given by kings to celebrate a birthday, China to celebrate a coronation and silver for celebrating anniversaries. There were literally hundreds of cups, plates, lobster forks and candle sticks to wander through. Fortunately by the end of the exhibit we had learned tidbits about the Hapsburgs such as their constant desire to connect themselves to Charlemagne and the Holy Roman Empire and their enthusiasm for intricately folded napkins. I also learned that Rheinish wine (wine produced in Bonn’s neck of the woods) is served in a special green goblet. I felt a twinge of pride that we get a distinctive service accessory.

Another service on display. If you're ever looking for an image of ornate tableware, drop me a line. I have a few pictures you might be interested in. This one had a charming putti (or maybe just fat baby) going for the sugar dish. I'm still curious to know how you go about transporting all of these accessories from the kitchen to the table... and what happened to you if you chipped a dish or dropped the tray.

The signature napkin of the royal family. Only two people on Earth know how to make this fold. I will be the third.

After exhausting ourselves looking at plates, it was time to look at some with food on them, so we got coffee and desert.

My birthday lunch: Almond and cream "noodles" with amaretto in a chocolate dish, washed down with a caramel mocca concoction. A bit of a sugar rush to help get through the rest of the museum.

The next floor of the palace/museum dealt with the Hapsburg royal family. Really, they focused on one family member in particular: Elisabeth of Bavaria, Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary, Croatia, and Bohemia (1854-1898). She is described as the Princess Diana of the 19th century. Through the lens of 20th century films, plays, and musicals she has been cast as an free spirited woman who loved to buck the strict expectations of courtly life. As far as I’m concerned she was a bit of a whiner. She didn’t like being thrust into the spotlight when she married the emperor, so she retreated to her room and wrote emotive poetry about how much her life sucked. I’m sorry, but she was the empress. I’m pretty sure it sucked more to be a factory worker in 1870 who’s labor fueled her idleness. I admit that’s a very American sentiment, but I can’t help it.

She was very beautiful and her taste in clothing and jewelry was trend setting. She was assassinated while evading public life on a dock in Geneva. The guy who assassinated her was an anarchist searching for a French prince. He couldn’t find the prince, but heard Elisabeth was in town. It didn’t matter who he killed, so he went for the Empress with a sharpened file. He succeeded in killing her, but failed to accomplish whatever political designs he had. Funny how assassins suffer from a distinct lack of purpose (listen to “Assassins” by Stephen Sondheim for further elaboration on this point).

After leaving the story of Elisabeth’s life, you moved into the royal living spaces. You could see the desk where Franz Joseph I, one of the last emperors of the empire, worked and the table where he talked to his subjects on a biweekly basis. In contrast to his wife, Franz was a very with-it ruler. He just made the mistake of dragging his country, and the rest of the world, into a fight with Serbia over the assassination of his nephew Franz Ferdinand of Bohemia kicking off World War I. He might have regretted that decision in hind sight.

We weren’t allowed to take pictures in the residence, which is regrettable, because there was a mystery item that I would like the online community to weigh in on. Elisabeth was a bit of a health nut, in the 19th century sense of the term. She would drink strained duck juice and vegetable stock and recline with raw meat on her face to preserve her figure and features. She also had an exercise room complete with gymnastics rings and the mystery item: a vertical board with handles sticking out from the sides. The handles were spaced at six inch intervals and ran the length of both sides of the central board. The thing was bolted against the wall, flush with the floor. Did she use it to elevate her dainty feet for push-ups? Was it originally suspended and used like monkey bars? The world may never know how the moody queen stayed so trim.

The rest of the palace was luxurious and we didn’t exit through the modest carriage house until the sun was setting. We stopped by St. Stephen’s to actually examine the interior. On the way we saw street performers and were heckled by at least a half-dozen concert hustlers, trying to get us to attend touristy classical concerts. I’d be willing to bet that Vienna is the only town you will ever visit where there are more hustlers on the street handing out pamphlets for Mozart than for comedy bars and “gentlemen’s clubs.” Feel free to take me up on that bet.

Carolyn taking in Vienna. The hat is a staple of her winter look. Unfortunately this trip was its last hurrah as it went missing at some point after Munich. Pay attention to its appearance in subsequent entries and mourn its passing.

A service was underway at the church, so we could only peep through the iron grating and admire the medieval, Renaissance, and Baroque art from afar.

The interior of St. Stephens. A gorgeous church, but we had to make a rushed visit, jostling through tourists from every corner of the globe to gaze down the aisles.

We then turned to dinner. Before I left for the holidays, Dr. Martin told me I should sample Viennese boiled beef. He admitted that sounded like a weird way to prepare meat, but that it was delicious. Rick Steves sung the praises of boiled beef joint not far from the cathedral, so we decided to head to “Plachutta” on Mr. Steves’s recommendation. The restaurant is a Vienna icon with pictures proudly detailing the famous guests that have visited the place, including Woody Allen and Al Gore. Unfortunately this means you need a reservation. It was roughly 5:30 PM when we wandered in the doors. I asked the maitre d' where if there was seating available for 5. He said there was an opening at 9:15. I retreated to my party to discuss. We decided it would be worth it and I got back in line to tell him as much. The second time I approached the podium he said something in rapid German that I didn’t catch, but pretended I did (there was a reference to time). He then gestured for me to follow, I grabbed by family and we were whisked to a booth. To this day I’m not really sure what happened. Did we take someone else’s reservation? Did we get incredibly lucky? Another thing the world may never know.

The food was fantastic. We ordered Tafelspitz, the house specialty. The boiled beef is served in copper pots filled with thyme and the broth the meat makes while its boiled. The sides included horseradish, potatoes and puréed spinach that was roughly 85% butter (read: delicious). A memorable birthday meal.

Mom and Josh intensely discussing the pairing of carbonated water and beef stock.

Carolyn and dad intensely not discussing. There's excellent food on the table after all. Note: the copper pots hold the beef and broth. Always good to keep tabs on it.

When we were finished, the night was still young. My family hadn’t explored the architectural history tour that is the Vienna Ring, so we headed towards city hall. Rick Steves told us we could hop on Tram 1 or Tram 2 from the Rathaus and we would be treated to a tour of the entire loop, offering us a chance to get our bearings on the city and admire the massive buildings. He hadn't steered us wrong for dinner, and he probably wouldn't steer us wrong here.

We piled onto Tram 1 and started our journey, handing the guidebook around as we passed art museums and churches. Then we stopped seeing the sites described in the guidebook. We crossed the Danube river and headed out of the city center. With increasing apprehension we saw less quaint facades and more dry cleaners. Our fellow riders also looked less like exhausted tourists and more like exhausted locals. Maybe we would hang a left soon? Could our confidence in Mr. Steves be misplaced?

We continued into the residential part of the city, then the graffitied ghetto. I scrutinized the route. Carolyn folded and refolded the map, trying to inconspicuously figure out where the tram had decided to take us. Before we could figure out which black hole we had plunged into, we abruptly we stopped. We had reached the end of the line and were the only people left on the tram. I wrestled with going up to the driver and asking what the hell went wrong. I tried composing the conversation in my head as my family encouraged me to get some information. But my pride won out and I sat in place, confident we would eventually retrace our track back into the city and I didn't need to reveal our mistake to the driver, who seemed quite content to nurse his Coca-cola.

A 14 year-old-punk wannabee hopped on the tram, said something that seemed like an insult and stood in the front. I didn’t know what to do. Maybe he knew why Rick Steves had led us astray, but he also didn’t seem like he was ready to help us. I stared him down, trying to figure out if I should talk to him. I think that freaked him out because he dove off the tram before we thankfully pulled away about three minutes later.

We still didn’t have much of a handle on the full Ring of Vienna, but I can tell you a lot about her graffiti. The Viennese aren't fans of Bush or the GTO. What else is new. Rick Steves doesn’t mention the street art in his guidebook. Missed opportunity, I say. The next day we found out from a guard at the art museum that the trams were rerouted only two weeks before we arrived. Just in time for us to create a beautiful holiday memory before returning to the hotel for euchre and well earned rest.

A more Romantic view of Vienna at night than the tram ride offers.

Ride of the Borthses

It was time to bid Germany Adieu - or more accurately “Auf Wiedersehen” - until after the New Year. The Borths Family piled into the car and started southeast across Germany, headed for Austria. It was a roughly a seven hour drive, so we got an early start with important coffee breaks along the way.

Over the last few years I’ve become an armchair (captain's chair?) expert on the rest stops and gas stations of the planet’s highways. Obviously there are many countries yet to explore and other people have a more refined perspective on the issue but I think I have sufficient expertise to divide Earth’s rest stops into two categories: Pay-to-Pee or Free-to-Pee. Most places on God’s green Earth fall into the former category. Germany is no exception. If you walk into a convince store with a full bladder, you will walk out roughly 50 cents poorer. Every time we stopped to fill up the gas tank or get food there would be a distribution of change. This is the face of the German road trip.

As you drive across Germany the topography changes from rolling hills to snow capped mountains surrounding more quaint towns. The churches in these towns tell you if you are in the East or West. In the West the churches are capped with pointed steeples with a pyramidal structure. In the East the steeples are onion domes with Hershey kiss profiles. The delineation between these designs is as abrupt as the former Iron Curtain.

Our first destination was Melk, a town just east of Vienna that is well known for its massive Baroque Benedictine Monetary. Apparently this monastery is on of the 1,001 places to see before you die according to the authoritative text on the subject, “1,001 Places To See Before You Die."

The Melk Monastery and gardens are on the right with a commanding view of the town on the left. Vicariously enjoy one of the places you should see before you die.

Before we could explore the Baroque Architectural masterpiece, we had to get some food. We entered the restaurant on the monastery’s grounds and found a subdued diner-esque restaurant , reminiscent of Bob Evan’s – except the waitresses were wearing dirndls. As the sun sank to the horizon we enjoyed Wiener Schnitzel in Austria for the first time (Fact: Wien is the German name for Vienna. Thus Wiener, as in “hot dog,” and Wiener Schnitzel are both references to the capital of Austria. I’m not sure why we have a habit of renaming cities. It doesn’t seem very respectful of the city or the people. I’m going the blame the French for the trend.).

The entrance to the monastery. That's a shuttered fountain in the middle of the plaza. A wonderful place for contemplation if you have time...
We didn't.

But I did manage to hurriedly take some pictures so I can enjoy the place at my leisure.

It got late quickly and we had a schedule to keep. The Vienna State Opera was performing Wagner that night (there was some debate as to which opera was being performed) and Josh wanted to get moving. Thus, after pleading for our bill and finally receiving it, we literally ran across the monastery grounds, snapping pictures while trying to get on the road as quickly as possible. The fragment of the campus we saw was gorgeous. I guess I’ve seen it now, so I can tick it off the 1,001 list, but it may need closer examination to really be appreciated. As far as I know, monks don’t like being rushed and neither does their architecture. We paid no heed to their wishes.

The dash into Vienna became a race against the clock. We decided the hotel should be the first stop and we would be a bit late to the opera. As we slowly circled the city and the hotel, Josh, dad and Brigitte got progressively more tense. We finally found the place we were staying at and exploded from the car. Josh, Carolyn and I hauled our bags to the room and took off for the opera house by cab. Mom and dad would check in and meet us there.

We entered the ornate complex and were immediately confronted by guards stationed by every entrance to the theater. Each sported a green cape and a dapper hat. They also spouted disappointing news. The show was sold out. According to Rick Steves, this was a rare event. We paced, searching for a box office to get the bad news from an official source.

After bouncing from guard to coatroom and back we finally settled in the official opera café where our guidebook told us we could watch the opera in action. We found a table, looked at the TVs and saw no one shattering any mirrors. Instead, the TVs were plastered with trashy entertainment news and a ski jumping competition. Josh was agitated, and by agitated I mean he looked like a German who has just been told to wait in line. He shifted, finally asking the waiter to if the opera was available on the monitors. The waiter lazily reached up and switched on the opening act of Götterdämmerung, the final opera of the Ring Cycle. If you think of big women wearing Viking horns when you think of opera, you’re thinking of Wagner’s Ring Cycle or “Der Ring des Nibelungen.”

For a reminder of what the music sounds like, here’s a classic retelling:


Rick Steves also told us you could pick up a ticket by begging it off tourists leaving the performance. The State Opera sells several hundred standing room tickets for each opera. Each only costs 3 Euro. You can see world class opera for less than a German Big Mac. Let that blow your mind for a minute...okay moving on. The cheap price means there’s a major turnover in spectators. If you just want the experience of seeing an opera in such a classic location you can go in, watch a few scenes, and head out knowing you haven’t wasted your cash. Josh set up at the bottom of the stairs waiting to catch these less-enthusiastic audience members and ask for their tickets. He managed to get one. This allowed him past the guards, but he wasn’t allowed into the theater until the break between the acts, so he set himself up by the theater bar where the opera was displayed on a larger monitor and there was less annoying chatter.

After witnessing Josh’s success, I decided to try my hand a snagging tickets so we could sit with him and watch. I also wanted to see if I could get tickets for my parents who hadn’t arrived yet. I stood at the base of the grand staircase and waited for someone to make a bored exit. A woman emerged from the theater hacking. I pounced (in German) “Excuse me, are you leaving?” “Yes.” “Could I maybe have you ticket?” “Yes, no problem. It’s not standing room though, it’s in the seats on the ground floor.” “Oh, well, thank you very much!” “How much…” “No, it’s yours.” “Thank you!” One down. I wanted to give that to Josh though.

Next two girls emerged (in German) “Excuse me, if you are leaving, could I have your tickets?” The looked at each other, bewildered, “Um, we don’t speak…” “Oh no problem, I don’t speak German very well either.” Relief swept over their faces when they heard my English. “I just asked if I could have your tickets if you’re headed out.” “Oh, yeah sure, um, we paid 3 Euro…” Okay, so the floor seat from an Austrian was completely free, but I ended up paying the Americans full price for only 2/3 of the show. I felt a little cheated. Where’s the ex-pat love? Let the National stereotypes roll on.

The main staircase of the Vienna State Opera. You will see the guard prominently placed on the steps, ready to tell you to run along. You will not see a blond kid running around trying to get people to cough up their tickets. He already succeeded.

With tickets for Josh and my parents my mission was complete because Carolyn and I had to get to dance class. For my birthday, my parents gave Carolyn and I a waltz lesson in Vienna. THE New Years tradition of Vienna is the waltz, so we thought we should figure out how to 1-2-3 in the city that invented the dance. We set off across the “Ring” the historic middle of town where the Hapsburg’s castle and the parliament building are situated. We had the address of the place, but had never explored the city and had no idea where what the dance studio would look like.

Vienna's City Hall, a Neo-Gothic structure evoking the medieval history of the city when the city was ruled by powerful guilds and everyone generally agrees things were pretty good economically.

The National Parliament Building, a Neo-Classical structure evoking the Golden Age of Greece, another time everyone generally agrees things were pretty good politically.

After wandering in the cold while admiring the Viennese architecture we got to the street we were searching for. There was the number…but everything looked dark. The website said there were lessons, but maybe they were actually geschlossen, too?

We opened the door and saw a sign for “Tanzen” (dancing) on the second floor. We climbed the steps and were confronted by a massive wooden door that would have looked comfortable blocking our entrance to the emperor. We looked at each other silently asking, “Are we really going to do this thing?” Suddenly other dancers appeared and entered. They were carrying official dance shoes and costumes. Hmmm…We followed.

We entered and found a coffee shop/bar with a hostess standing at a cash register. Not sure if I was in the right place I stumbled through the question “Is this the place for waltz lessons?” in English she responded, “Yes, please have a seat!” Okay, well we committed now. We found a place in the café and felt very conspicuous. Everyone seemed north of 30 years old. They also seemed like regulars with official foot gear.

Suddenly a door swung open revealing a room filled with mirrors and colored lights. Seemed like a place to dance. We wandered in and saw people confidently executing some Latin dance that my feet have never been trained to execute. I stared trying to figure things out and Carolyn gamely did likewise. Suddenly the hostess reappeared and beckoned us to follow. We had strayed from our sitting spot. Stupid Americans.

We were lead to a tiny blond woman who was dressed in sequins and spandex, the official uniform of the professional dancer. She shepherded Carolyn, myself and anther couple down the stairs to another dance studio that was decorated with photos of two champion dance couples and the trophies the duos had won. The photographs showed the men and women awkwardly posed in athletic, possibly provocative poses. The women seemed to understand how to strike the “come hither” expression the photographer was going for. The men just kind of leered and did so for the course of the lesson.

Our instructor lost no time getting our feet moving. She had taught the lesson before, but never in English. She was very good, sufficiently lowering her expectations for beginners. It quickly became clear that the other couple needed a lot more instruction than Carolyn and I. We hadn’t waltzed together in a long time, but we dance together often enough to know how to lead and follow. Our fellow students weren’t quite there, so Carolyn and I enjoyed the rare distinction of being the best dancers in the room. That doesn’t mean we pulled everything off flawlessly, but we were waltzing and turning before our companions really got the box step down. We left ready to take to the streets at midnight on New Year’s Eve and spin with the Austrians.

When the lesson was over, we wandered back to the opera. We caught the finale as the ring is destroyed the gods plunge to their doom. Josh was an excited ball of enthusiasm, raving about the voices and stage design. His mission was accomplished and we had only just started to encounter the ancient capital of the Austrian Empire…