Vienna was boring in a good way. After Athens, I had longed to return to civilization. I mean this in the best possible way, on Athens’ part. I realized how stupid civilization had made me, that I just wasn’t used to watch my own business all the time. To decide for myself, when I wanted to cross the street, to watch my wallet carefully, to have heating only from six till nine in the evening, to be required to say yes or no to men courting me. I loved it all, it gave me the freedom to decide for myself, to take responsibility and to be clear about what I wanted, and yet it was draining me.
In Vienna, I could just join the people waiting for the traffic lights to turn green, something I had now come to find very annoying. At breakfast in the hotel, guests were quietly reading their newspapers. I remember feeling uncomfortable for disturbing the peace by having a lively conversation with a young man from England. In Greece, we would have been the quiet people. In Vienna, the metro transported passengers, it was not a marketplace for people trying to sell socks. And temperatures were down, way down. It was very cold and very rainy.
In Vienna, the museums were just places where you go to admire the paintings from a distance, while making a clever remark on the relevance of emperor Rudolf II for the art of that period. They were not a complete immersion in the sacredness of the environment like the Acropolis Museum in Athens had been. My emotions were not constantly pushed to the edge. Something I had been so hungry for and yet, without any previous training, I had come to find myself longing for some rest and known ground. Where I could just turn on my automatic pilot and go with the flow.
I visited the palace of Belvedere, famous for Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss. It made me feel a bit sick, this kiss. I probably misunderstood it, but for me, it just seemed too much Weltschmerz. However, crowds gathering in front of The Kiss, meant I was left in peace with my personal favourite painting. Who would want to queue up in front of The Kiss, when instead you can watch a sexy Frenchman on a horse? To be fair, Napoleon was not the most handsome Frenchman I had ever seen, but still. And sitting on his horse, you hardly noticed his disappointing height. I was quite happy sharing some private moments with him, while the others were revelling over The Kiss. At least, my man was not already taken.
However, the museum that really made the blood run through my veins, was the Albertina. If I would ever start a museum of my own, it would have many pieces from the Albertina. Lots of drawings–Albrecht Dürer, Michelangelo–and lots of French vibes–Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Picasso, Chagall. Art Nouveau, roaring twenties. The colours were so vibrant that they came off the paper, the diagonal lines and waves made them look like moving pictures, dancing. I was having a party in there.
Maybe this is, what I love about Vienna. It looks like a heavy German city, but in reality, it takes every opportunity to throw a party, French, Italian, Slavic, but in basis very Austrian. Solid, intellectual, cosy, and yet with a huge appreciation for humour, drama and elegance.
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