austria.

As the train pulled into Vienna on Wednesday‘s early morning I realized just how little sleep I had gotten on the overnight trip.  Whacked-out on deprivation and caffeine I threw my bag in a storage locker and fell out of the station in search of breakfast proper.  The lack of time in Vienna made my goals quite simple: a fantastic Melange and a fantastic Schnitzel.

The first sight I came across while walking down the more “alternative” Gumpendorfer Straße was oddly enough either an ex- or current skinhead squat.  Small bursts of paint were scattered across the front of the building, accompanied by spray-painted warnings of the contents within.

I continued on past a myriad of closed shops, eventually landing in a working man’s cafe.  The politely surly waitress was feeding liquor to the early bird alcoholic, which tipped me off this would be a no-frills affair.  The basic Austrian breakfast of Melange (read: chocolate-dusted latte), butter-covered bread, and soft-boiled egg was great on the wallet but left me rather unsatisfied.  As I continued onwards I was struck by the older man holding an umbrella underneath a construction site.  It was only as I approached him that I realized he was one of the construction workers, personally walking people down the length of the leaky overhang.  I laughed the entire time he kept me dry – it could have been my lack of sleep but I found it incredibly kind.

As I reached the museum quarter I emerged out of side streets right into a city center that took my breath away.  Berlin is that tough older girl in high school – rough around the edges, not very easy on the eyes, but it’s easy to fall for the complex young growth and endless tolerance breaking through the concrete.  Vienna is that airbrushed model from the high-fashion magazine – femininity made impossible.  I hopped on one of the ring-trams for a good hour, hoping the city would notice me too.  I have to admit being dazzled by the number of women wearing impossible footwear, strutting through the city with giant cellos strapped to their backs.  Sorry New York City, girl got nothing on this.

A guidebook’s recommendation for the perfect Schnitzel turned into a quite-tasty-if-a-bit-undercooked Chicken Cordon Bleu and a very kind pouring of wine from Figlmüller.  In hindsight I should have stuck by my craving guns, but you should know I’m powerless in the presence of any dish featuring three animals in one.

The wine only added to the sheer surreality and I knew I would soon pass out in the warm Vienna sun, so I jumped on the train to make my way 70km further to Krems for the festival.  The moment I arrived I went to the nearby grocery store to stock up on basic foodstuffs.  As I made my way through Spar I came across a rather thick-necked and nondescript woman with a terrible haircut – making eye contact and smiling like I usually do.

There are several times in Europe I‘ve wanted cameras behind my corneas, for those moments that in no way tolerate fumbling for equipment.  The look this woman gave me was of utter disgust, as if I had taken my trousers down and rubbed myself against the produce in my hands.  I laughed in response but it gave away my discomforted thoughts… Just fucking great.  Four days of intolerance in small-town Austria.

I’m happy to report my time here has been anything but!  Besides the token old lady I shared a table with who scolded me for putting pepper on my pizza, the Austrians I’ve met have been beyond friendly and fun.  Especially my new favorite cab driver – complete with silver hair, blue-tinted sunglasses, and pop electronica blaring on the radio.  I call him and plead Kommen Sie hier bitte! and this old rad dude just shows up.

My favorite two Austrians have got to be the two fellas I met at the very beginning – the three of us showing up to the first venue WAY… TOO… EARLY.  While their combined ages equal mine it has been this splendid series of hanging-out conversations.  I keep trying to feed them Red Label whisky while answering questions about America, they roll their eyes when I keep bringing up Michael Haneke.  It could very well be that Buffalo ‘66 is the most universal of languages.

Of all the new faces I’ve come across, the most unexpected would have to be Lil’ Rusty.  Thanks to both Xiu Xiu’s faithful rendition of the entire Joy Division album Unknown Pleasures but moreso the Fuck Buttons (!!!) I emerged from the night completely exhausted and deaf.  Mostly sober and lamenting my hotel being a good 3km away I began the long walk down the Danube.  As I passed the main train station I noticed all of the bicycles brightly lit and tightly chained… save one.  Lil’ Rusty was bent and rusted through, her purple frame enhanced only by her oversized metal basket.  But more to the point: Lil’ Rusty had no lock, no chain, nothing but a sad lil’ kickstand.

I walked another 100 feet and I couldn’t take another step.  I giggled like a maniac and leapt upon her uncomfortable seat, riding as fast as I could through the rest of the town and straight into the pitch darkness covering the bike path.  My jacket billowed behind me like a super villain – my heart racing as I rode parallel to the river, all of the way to my hotel.

While I returned Lil’ Rusty to her rightful place she was once again waiting for me last night.  It’s become a love affair of pure thrill - getting away with nothing, pedaling as fast as I possibly can, trusting the path continues on and on and on.

I won’t post this entry until I’m en route to put Lil’ Rusty back where I found her, this time for good.  You busted purple beast, these nights have been wonderful.