VIII. Selbstständigkeit

Choir rehearsal this evening. We practiced for an hour, then had a farewell party for one of the tenors. That's the thing about Christ Church's congregation; very few of them are permanent residents of the city, so it's hard to build a lasting community. (I must add here that the stereotype that Anglicans are fond of drink is altogether true. But they're lovely people nonetheless.) Walking home I had, for the first time, some sense of what it would be like living in Vienna on my own, getting to appointments and rehearsals and the like. It would be very rewarding, I think. I've been quite coddled by the whole experience of living with 38 other Americans, and it's prevented me from experiencing the city as I would otherwise. (Mind you, it's necessary to have friends in Vienna, as the citizenry will never be warm here. Polite, yes, always, but never warm. It's an important distinction.) To live in Vienna as an independent individual would be challenging, of course, but eventually learning to do so would be worth it. Even now, having been here only seven weeks, it's rewarding to reflect on how much I've learned: what sort of Schnitzel to order, which tram line goes where, which churches have the best music, how not to offend waiters. It doesn't feel like home yet, but it could.

IV. Einsamkeit

Freud—you've heard of him, I suppose?—made his name attempting to treat rich neurotic Jewish ladies in Vienna. (Their symptoms would manifest as all sorts of things, from headaches to spasms to partial paralysis. The blanket term for this was, naturally enough, hysteria.) Was it something about the city that drove these women to that degree of profound nervousness? Perhaps. As I've found out, the weather in Vienna is maddeningly cold and rainy for weeks on end: while back home the violets are peeping above the mould, we've had nothing but moist, cloudy, 3° weather since we arrived. (Actually, it snowed a bit yesterday.) It is enough to make someone agitated. Add to that the layout of the streets, all curving; it's impossible to maintain one's sense of direction, since all the buildings are so close together that one never can see a great distance. Though one is never far from other people, it is difficult to get a sense of social interaction. The Viennese are intensely private, never raising their voices in public. (The only conversations one hears on the U-Bahn are those of Japanese and American tourists.)

There must be something about the city that nurtures the creative urge: is it this simultaneous closeness and isolation that drives residents of Vienna to seek the consolation of art and philosophy, creating such novels, paintings and symphonies? Would we have Mahler, Klimt and Wittgenstein without this maddening city?

I don't mean to say I dislike Vienna; no indeed, it's a beautiful place with no real inconveniences to speak of. But it is important to spend time with friends, lest one go all hysterical; fortunately, I have many Americans here with me. And one simply must avail oneself of the parks—which, at least, Vienna has plenty of. Today I went out to Schönbrunn again, walking up the zig-zag path to the Gloriette and back down. Then I had a Käsekrainer, which can't possibly be healthy but was delicious. I can tell already it will be difficult leaving Vienna when this term is over.

III. die Leute

In Wien übersehen zu werden, ist unmöglich. Man kann nur ignoriert werden.

("In Vienna it's impossible to be overlooked. One can only be ignored.")

—Alexander Löwen

Viennese people aren't like you and me: they're different. But I suspect that this difference is not so much one of nationalities, or of languages (though those are certainly factors, as well); rather, it is that they are urbanites, and I will always feel more at home in the country. The Viennese, I posit, are more like New Yorkers than New Yorkers are like Midwesterners. (They may even be more like Chicagoans than Chicagoans are like the people of rural Illinois!) City people simply don't have the time to be friendly like country folk. On the other hand, they're less likely to judge anyone, for any reason whatsoever. Both qualities stem from the fact that city people don't, well, care. This is liberating, certainly. But were I not surrounded by friends from Augustana at all times, I suspect I'd become lonely and dejected among all these unsmiling, well-dressed, blasé city dwellers.

In the meantime, however, I'm enjoying myself very much. The amount of culture here continues to astound. Visited the Musikverein this evening, and saw Beethoven 4 and Tchaikovsky 6 for only five euros! (It was a standing room ticket, but I didn't mind. Music, played well, should be able to distract us from our legs, shouldn't it?) The Pathétique was especially satisfying; Tchaikovsky may have been weepy too often, but he was very good at it. Before the show I got an authentic Viennese Hot Dog—which probably isn't what you think it is. Their ketchup tastes different here; I can't quite put my finger on it.