Vienna: where might a Viennese go in the hope of finding a pick-me-up?

The usuals: bars, friends, friends at bars, friends at cafés, friends elsewhere, for a walk.

At some point, oh say 100 years ago, they may have gone here:



The waiting room at Freud’s house on 19 Bergstrasse

I wasn’t really in need of a pick-me-up, but still found it a good place, really an extraordinarily fascinating place to head to on a Sunday morning.

Vienna, like Warsaw, pretty much closes down on Sunday (except for the coffee shops). Yet the people (like in Warsaw) go out in great numbers to parade up and down the main shopping gasse's and strasse's (the park is to the side and does not lend itself to parading up and down. You can dispense with it in an hour or so).

You would think one store at least would seize the competitive advantage and throw open its doors and rake in the Euros, but no. Sunday is Sunday. You eat and you drink and you eat some more. And stroll.



The Havelka: some describe it as Vienna's most bohemian, intellectual, literary, smokey, etc etc cafe.



fewer people, quieter spaces


It seems I ought not strain myself either on a Sunday. And I did not. I kept the camera in its pouch and, apart from the museum visit, I concentrated on strolling. And eating.



chanterelle mushroom salad



plum strudel -- hold the cream, please.


And in the very early morning, I amused myself by taking pictures in the mirror of a neighborhood café.



Cafe Aida

Vienna: afternoon delight

Thinkin' of you workin' up my appetite, looking forward to a little afternoon delight.

Everyone’s doin’ it




Taking the world by sturm: white plastic cups filled with young, fruity, purple liquid. Crowds packing the main square, standing, talking, sampling. The new wine has arrived!


the well-dressed

the casual

the dark-haired young

the white haired older

the white-haired younger

to a new season


Why wait until the middle of a cold dark night.
When everything's a little clearer in the light of day.

But you've got some bait a waitin' and I think I might try nibbling
a little afternoon delight

Eating it up

Of course, it's not all in the drinking. Around the corner, the street foods are there for you and they don't lack crowds. It's all pleasure and indulgence. Looking for low-fat? Not in this neck of the city.




















this calls for the real stuff (after first emptying the tall sturm cups)

My motto's always been; when it's right, it's right ...
With or without whipped cream?

In the end, I want my now very late afternoon coffee. I have it in my mind that the day will not be complete without Austrian apple strudel.
I don’t speak German, but being surrounded by it makes it easy to start picking up words and phrases. Since I got the coffee thing wrong my first day here (too little coffee, too much whipped cream), I thought I’d work with the words on the menu and request something closer to what I wanted: lotsa coffee and lotsa milk.

On the menu I see: kleiner espresso mit milch and
grosser espresso mit schlagobers im glas.

Easy. I tell the waitress:
Grosser espresso but not mit schlagobers im glas; instead, mit milch in glas, danke.

She says (in German): ah. You want a latte.


the cream comes anyway. with the apple strudel.

And you know the night is always gonna be there any way...

Afternoon delights turn into evening pleasure




Vienna at sunset is outrageously beautiful, imposing, regal.
And really, it's time I tasted the traditional Viennese foods, prepared perfectly, with an eye toward freshness. I found what I was looking for.
[Okay, no I did not just look at foods, look at people eating, sit and eat myself, stand and eat, walk and drink and eat, no I did not do that. But it seems that way, doesn't it?]



to start with, a frothy pumpkin soup with pumpkin seeds and pumpkin seed oil



followed by absolutely perfect Weiner schnitzel, updated with greens on scalloped potatotes



ending with poppyseeds. In a white chocolate mousse. with fruit.

Sky rockets, really, this day was all about sky rockets. Completely delightful.

Vienna: if it's Saturday, shouldn't I be at the market?

[After an early morning sweat trying to fix my camera I finally gave up and went in search of a replacement. I am now ecstatically in SLR land again. But if there is a learning curve to using new equipment, I'm not going to be sitting back and reading the literature. It's hit 'n miss time! I am, after all in Vienna. On a gorgeous hazy-sunny Fall day. Oh, is it gorgeous outdoors!]

Markets. They are such a draw for me! I always gripe that Madison's market is crowded with out-of-towners. Sorry, Vienna, I am the one blocking tight spaces now, with a camera instead of a shopping basket.

My first errand took me to the old town with the cobbled streets. I think the Viennese aren't cynical about their buggy rides. I think many of them do this for a fun recreational little jaunt.





My morning coffee and croissant were postponed until after my errand. The first shots with the new camera were...of baked goods at a small, neighborhood coffeeshop.





In the same neighborhood, I came across a small market where some pumpkin growers were teaching the Viennese how to carve pumpkins. Yeah, there is a learning curve, isn't there...



this part was fun...



the young skeptic: sure you know how to do this, mom?



I'm thinking as well that the Viennese are better at carving this



though there are plentyof ready made ones available for purchase



while the band plays on


In the meantime, at the main Viennese outdoor market, I came across the crowds I am so familiar with on a late Saturday morning at the Madison market. Oh, there were other seasonal similarities. But here, in Vienna, the diversity of foods was striking. And for the first time, I found the influence of other cultures, other eating habits. Stalls of Turkish candies and dried fruits, numerous stands with stuffed olives -- things that spoke of migration from the south. My camera veered toward the regional foods though. Just a few examples:




fresh fish and a determined little guy



straight from the barrel



I envy them their fresh mushrooms



starchy lace and Muscat grapes



every few stalls there are opportunities for a swig at the barrel;
no, I did not, so there.


Instead, I limited my purchases to this store, where I went in search of something for the little one who could not come to Vienna this time around. Of course, the sales clerk knew how to work her spells. Here, try this on, I'll take a photo, it's perfect for you.



Fine, fine, I'll take both...

No, it's too beautiful outside. I can't take another minute for this post. Off I go, exploring.

Vienna: royal airs and modern foods

Why does Vienna sometimes elude me? Is it that its past imperial might was so far reaching, so enduring that, though beautiful to witness now, it is also, at some level—face it – terrifying? Is it that it, to me, it stands for establishment rather than rebellion (painting aside)? So that the young and old never seem quite comfortable with one other?



Franz Joseph and maybe little Franz?

It is so astonishingly beautiful in the last rays of an October sun. The parks, the statues, the buildings, the open stands of sturm (young wine – really halfway between grape juice and wine) and sausages that capture crowds of those on their way home from work, the pastries, oh those damn fattening pastries – all this is magnificent.



late afternoon street food: sturm, pretzels, sausage



at the infamous Cafe Demel (looks a little like fried brains...)


And the food, updated to meet the new demands for fresh and honest, has pushed aside the reliable boiled beef with juniper berries and the breaded, fried (“to the color of a Stradivarius violin”) Weiner schnitzel. Witness: my more modern veal dish – with potato gnocchi and morels.





And yet, even at the restaurant, I see the tension. Two tables of older couples – one of them American actually, but comfortable with the silence, the decorum. At another, a somewhat younger set, with mixed ethnicities, lots of laughter, spilling over friendliness. Then, at the side, my daughter and I (she has work in Vienna and I am tagging along), lost in our own conversation. We get frowns from the older sets – they clearly think we are too lively, too animated. Not fitting with established ways, even though the restaurant is anything but pretentious.

In the end the younger table wins. They hail us over as we get up to leave. Now our conversation spills and floods the entire premises. The staid are swept to insignificance even as they refuse to acknowledge the sudden shift that has just occurred. Sure, we emerge triumphant. But the tension was there. Palpable.

At the door, we chat with the proprietor about this bullying presence of those who want so much to keep boundaries and hierarchies firmly in place. He shrugs his shoulders – an older man, trying to please both, favoring the young the animated, the joyous, but understanding that the other, the older have a firm clasp on Vienna’s soul. And pocketbook.

Brisk walking on cobble stones creates a loud echo at night. But the streets aren’t entirely empty and there is no misty rain. The moon is bright, the city looks beautiful even in the darker shadows. We close with more cakes, hot chocolate, and for me a delicious coffee enhanced with orange liquor (yes, and whipped cream) at the Café Central. It is said that Leon Trotsky planned the Russian Revolution from here. That’s so like Vienna – to speak proudly now of revolutions – that took place …elsewhere.

Vienna: sweet thoughts

My very fist pastry book, purchased more than thirty years ago, was this:



Whatever gripes I had with Vienna, I truly believed that in terms of baked goods it ruled the world. If I was going to take on the task of becoming a pastry expert (I had such exaggerated visions for myself once) I should learn from books that tracked the greats and the greats were all in Vienna.

And so I begin the process of teaching myself to bake.

I really truly (my family will verify this) started with Sachertorte. Dense chocolate, a layer of apricot preserves, all topped with a dark glaze – what could be more satisfying? I can follow instructions. I can grate, melt, mix, temper. I can do this. I can do anything!

The Sachertorte is the only cake I ever completely botched (my family will verify this as well). Blame it on inexperience, blame it on excessive bravado, blame it on the chocolate – I did – but the fact is, that first Sacher of mine was putrid. Dry, too dry, way way way too dry.

So what is the first thing I do when I arrive in Vienna? (Besides breathe great sighs of relief as I almost missed my connecting flight. Almost. I run fast across airports. It helps.)

Of course I get a slice of the original, the one deemed by the Austrian court in 1965 to be the only true Sachertorte, as presented at the Café Sacher.

It was also my first shot of Austrian coffee. There I have to play around a little. Because if I continue in this vein, I will truly need to develop a habit of chomping sausages after my afternoon pastry hits. Too much sweetness! The superb whipped cream, mounded on both cake and coffee truly causes your sweet tooth to collapse under the weight of it all.

So, there are other foods to admire, other pastries that will most certainly appear here on Ocean, but this post is devoted to the king of tortes, the Sachertorte. My introduction to Vienna today, to baking many decades ago.


perfect. not a thing wrong with it.


when people see me taking photos, inevitably they ask: do you want one with you in it? This one was taken by an old, beautifully dressed Viennese woman. Obviously she has a steady hand.


why stop at one Sachertorte when you can order...four more.

Vienna almost almost but not quite

FAMILIAR:
Irritating O’Hare Airport. Get rid of O’Hare. Raise it, graze it, bury it. It is not a place of happiness and joy. It is a place of inefficiencies and frustrations. I say start from scratch.

UNFAMILIAR
Hark! A computer with internet access in the Air France Lounge. I pick up some troubling emails but I cannot respond. I cannot cannot cannot. What goes in does not go out. Boil, what else can I do… Boil and steam and then say who the hell cares and board the flight.

FAMILIAR
The French crack lots of champagne bottles before take off. If we plunge into the ocean, we’ll all be giggling and singing songs from Gigi.

UNFAMILIAR
I hear Polish from passengers on the plane. Oh damn! Here comes the guilt, can’t stop it now. I am traveling within a stone’s throw of Poland and I am not entering my homeland. Hello Poland, there, just over the horizon. Sorry. (It’s like going to New Jersey as your kinfolk sit huddled in New York waiting for your gracious return. True, my kinfolk are not huddling nor waiting at the moment, but you get the point.)

FAMILIAR
Going home to Europe. So that I can take in a breath of this small, wee little continent before I return to my regular lofty existence.

[an aside]

Last night I met, for the first time, two special people: One who is a regular commenter on Ocean and one who is a reader but has never posted a comment. To you, reader-non-commenter: I think you should comment. Especially given your craft in life (writing). I could use an occasional slap when my style is off, or when you puzzle over an odd choice of words. Plus, your saying "you're doin' alright!" would mean a lot to me (as it did last night), especially since I am one of those who gawks in complete adoration at people who basically have put aside all earthly pursuits (including eating and paying bills) in favor of writing.

To the rest of you -- comment at your will. Of course, you should know that I print and paste every word onto my bedroom walls and fall asleep happily slurping it all in, repeating out loud each clause, adoring each comma. And if none appear I get drunk on Polish vodka (or cheap beer, Brando) and crawl under the bed weeping. But I believe in taking knocks in life.

Vienna: prelude, part 2

Today I am off on a brief trip to Vienna. For the next four days Ocean will be focused on the other side of the ocean.

*****

It is now 1973. I am in New York, boarding a flight back to Europe. I am heading home. I have spent a year back in Manhattan. I’m working here and attending college. But I can’t seem to stay away from Warsaw. I go back at least three times a year.

Tired of always making a connection through waterlogged Amsterdam, overrun with what look to me, from my still very Polish eyes, like American potheads and drifters, I route myself this time through Vienna.

It is a mistake. I had traveled through Austria just a few years back and felt no pull to it then. It may be that I don’t speak German. I am not used to being in Europe and not speaking some words of the local language. It may be that I have evil thoughts about Austria, in much the same way that I have evil thoughts about the other bordering countries that took Poland apart bit by bit not so long ago.

And now, in the wetness of a cold spring Vienna evening, it may be that I am twenty and everyone around me looks middle-aged, stogy, lost in thought and most definitely ready to hurry home and close the door firmly behind them. Even though it’s barely 9 pm. And they are all wearing horrible, sensible shoes.

I go to the nearest movie house and see Butterflies are Free. With Eddie Albert Junior.

People on both sides of the ocean keep noting how lucky I am to be back in the free, democratic USA. I don’t feel lucky or unlucky. When I am in New York I miss Warsaw, when I am in Warsaw I miss New York.

In my young mind I take the words from the movie and mutate them so that they can be slapped onto my life with some kind of personal meaning. Butterflies are free. Only butterflies are free. No one else, just butterflies.

Vienna: prelude

Tomorrow, I am off, on a brief trip to Vienna. For the next five days Ocean will be focused on the other side of the ocean.

*****

It’s 1966 and I am returning to Poland. I have lived in New York for six years, a diplomat’s brat, a kid picking up ideas and habits off the streets of the city, left alone a good deal of the time, always happy to poke around weird neighborhoods, so different from the ones back home in Warsaw.

But now I am returning for good to the city of my birth. We (my sister, mother, father) all sense that it could be a while before any of us sets foot on “western” soil again. Poland remains a closed country, its western neighbors for the most part refusing to let in those damn commies who just want to escape their own land and deplete western resources.

A train takes us from Cherbourg, where our ship has docked, to Paris. I stand by the window and watch the green Normandy pastures, pelted by rain, beyond my reach now, disappearing before I can touch them. An old man stands next to me, there in that train corridor. He says in French – do you know how to bring yourself luck? Every time you see a white horse, spit on your thumb, touch your palm with it, and pound it with a fist. Comme ca! -- he shows me. At 52, when I see a white horse, I spit on my thumb, touch my palm and pound it with a fist. How else to connect this day with that one?

From Paris, we pick up a car and begin the road journey home.

Our last nights in the western world are in Vienna. I am thirteen. I am determined to find the Spanish Riding School and the White Stallions. I had recently seen the movie about the horses at the time of the War. In one scene, the actor Eddie Albert is there, a soldier in an Austrian tavern, singing the ballad "Just Say Auf Weidersehen."



I want to see the real Lipizzaner horses. I want to touch a stallion that was heroically rescued in the last weeks of the Second World War even though, reluctantly, I have to admit that this will not even be the colt of the horse that lived and performed in Vienna more than twenty years ago.

I drag my family to the Hofburg Palace. The luck of the spit! We come just in time to see the stallions rehearse. Oh God, put me into that horse’s saddle, have me take the reigns and control this one lovely piece of life! The stallions can prance on their rear hoofs, front ones in the air, they can do anything you ask them to!

We buy shoes. My mother says – who knows when next we can buy decent shoes. Consumer sales are in a bleak phase back in Warsaw. Store shelves carry colorless items that look like clothes off the back of someone’s grandmother. My Vienna shoes, brown, sturdy, with a brass buckle tightly crossing the front, last me all the way through the first years at the university.

Vienna, my first encounters with this city of solid shoes and white stallions.

wrong impulse

You would think I’d do the right thing, but NO. I have to stand in the middle of the street with my ears covered, staring dumbly in front of me, slowly trying to incorporate and process what just happened.

My walk to campus this morning was rudely interrupted by a massive car crash on Johnson and Lake. I was about to cross, when #%*&!!#@*&!! a red truck plowed into an innocent little station wagon, moving slowly in its own little lane.

The thing is, I saw it coming. And what do I do, do I scream watch out, watch out, do I run forward arms waving, staving off what surely is a huge collision in the making? Do I then quickly jot down all license plates, like a good lawyer should?

No, I do not.

And it was a hit and run. The pick-up driver had been talking on his cell phone when it happened. I can see his devil eyes looking over the damage and making the calculus. Obviously he didn’t like the numbers he was coming up with because he quickly drove off.

No one was hurt, but still, what kind of a dumb person am I anyway? Where is my sharp wit and quick impulse? Where is my camera??

Then, to add insult, I decide I better hurry off to class. I go up to the screaming-in-anger driver, mumble a few reassuring words and walk away.

Driver, if you read my blog, know that I was ready and willing to help but you seemed fine and on top of things.

Red pick-up driver, you are a slime-drenched piece of ...vomit. (I'm showing restraint here.)

UPDATE: Legally blogged

A week (almost) to put up pictures from the small group karaoke evening? Reasons for the delay? I am so by the book Camic, that I bet if you googled by the book Camic you’d get Ocean as your first hit (don’t try it; in the words and spirit of our leader, reflecting on the wisdom of selecting Miers to fill the Supreme Court vacancy – “trust me”).

By the book Camic obtained written permission to post from all herein so that I would not get a pounding on my door from some overseer of blog legality-propriety informing me that Ocean needs to shape up or ship out to sea.

So, here they are, a few One-Ls from my sweet and lustrous small section, ready to beat the pants off of any other university group engaged in the art of karaoke song.