If Budapest felt like we were at times on our way to some rendezvous with an operative out of a John le Carre novel, Vienna was distinctive and all the same appealing. The Magyar capital seemed post-war; first or second, take your pick. Vienna resounded with an imperial belle epoch neo-renaissance glitz. The huge palaces, the artfully conceived ring strasse and pretty public gardens all felt destined to echo and hum with the clip-clop of handsome cabs and the rustling of vintage trams.
First impressions were rather less ebullient as we ascended the steps from the u-bahn into the uncomfortable bustle of Stephensdom Platz and the main tourist drag. Further wandering however led us to the elegant shopping quarters and the impressive grand buildings lining the ringstrasse. These included the Parliament, the Opera, and state museums, to speak nothing of the imperial residences. I particularly liked the story of why the Vienna town hall is arguably the grandest of the civic architecture for the fact that after decades of imperial direction on renovating the cityscape, the commerical burghers of the city decided that enough was enough of visibly playing second fiddle in their own front yard.
Continually finding pleasant pockets of streets slightly away from the Cathedral hub, this most livable of cities (as meaured by the Economist) reminded me as a sort of cross of the proud bourgeios architecture of Amsterdam and the limestone faced Catholic churches and cafe culture of Rome.
Speaking of the coffee, I did adore the antention to detail and civility of the newspaper strewn proper coffee houses (not like Amsterdam there). At the locally popular Cafe Pruckel we sat outside in the late afternoon along the eastern side of the Ringstrasse. I had a glass of wine, while most of the local patrons partook in wine spritzers.
The next morning at the Cafe Museum near the Opera we enjoyed a nice cup of americano though I would later read the decor of plush red velvet booths had recently been modifed from the cafe's more workaday appearance in the fin d'siecle.
Of palaces, we took in the grounds of the Belvedere and Schonbronn, and disappointingly touring the state rooms of the Hofburg. My thinking was along the lines of "these are just a series of unrelated rooms with, quite frankly, drab furniture and fittings organized around various colours... I saw this at the White House when I was like 9."
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| Ah, Vienna |
Perhaps the highlight of attempting to investigate the local area around the Belvedere was finding ourselves in ordinary working class south eastern Vienna, myself obviously wearing jacket and tie, since I thought I was visiting a palace. We were rebuffed at one dive bar that was in the guide book as a decent local coffee house, before shuffling into a crossroads tavern bar, It was full on Alpine with the wooden booths, frumpy hostess, good beer and tasty schnitzel. I even proudly recall I managed a couple utterly rudimentary sentences in German, with the Bavarian return prego I remember as bitteschon.
Naturally, I get very excited about the chance to imbibe truly locale tipples. So it was for Vienna and Gruner Veltliner (as I would learn pronounced velt-leener). In a worldwide scene dominated by the likes of Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc, it is intriguing to me the modest success story of a grape like Gruner. It is almost entirely grown only within the wine regions near the Danube in eastern Austria. It is typically a light-ish white that is perhaps more pleasant than it is distinctive and thus is well suited as an aperitif or pairing with food.
After a couple Gruner's at a hipstery kind of bar near the museums, we returned across town to the hotel for a regroup, where, with my proverbial tail up, I knocked about the Spar supermarket up the street for another bottle of the local white Veltliner.
Making a night of it, just off Schweden Platz we remembered a well lit, small wine bar that we had ventured past the first evening immediately across, handily, from the Canadian embassy on Laurenzerberg.
We wandered in and pulled up a stool at the counter and began to converse with the jovial proprietor, Roland. Turns out he had just opened the joint barely a fortnight ago, sinking his savings into his dream of running a wine bar, in part focusing on locally produced stuff. He had even roped his wife into service that night as she was, to her chagrin, on summer holiday from a desk job in their nearby provincial town.
Laughing and chatting with Roland, the glasses kept being topped up with various Austrian Gruner's and Rieslings and even some South African rose bubbly he had picked up on a golfing trip and had opened the previous evening. Before long a cured leg of ham was produced and we ended up helping Roland and his wife close up the joint.
Finally, we tread the well worn path to the Cafe Central, replete with its fluted interior where in the years before the First World War one might have come across Sigmund Freud or Adolf Hitler on any given day. Unfortunatey the grand old cafe of the city does a brisk tourist trade. Maybe it's always been the case, but the table next to us was a couple of frat boys in Florida State t-shirts- at least they'd gotten out of bed before midday. Much worse was the bloke in cargo shorts, blond surfer hair and flip flops who walked in, browsed the confectionary counter, and then turned around and took a selfie with one of hand held poles. 5-2 he was Aussie? Plus, the coffee was rubbish.
Our last evening in the city we grabbed a beer along the main canal, similar to the pop-up cocktail bars in summer along the Tiber embankments in Rome. It was a relaxed setting watching the joggers and after-work amblers. If I could speak more than two sentences of German I even mused I could imagine myself in a city like Vienna. A coffee, Gruner Veltliner and Palace infused culmination of a universiy wine buddy and I's week in the Habsburg capitals.
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