IX. Spargelzeit

Here in lovely Vienna it is the height of asparagus season, and it is a gustatory delight to take part in it. After a service with the Anglicans, we went over to Café Prückel again; their Spargelcremesuppe is outstanding (and the Eiskaffee very good as well). It is now beyond question that Prückel is my favorite café in the city; if I could live anywhere here, I think it would have to be somewhere on the western side of the Third District (Landstraße), within a short walk of Christ Church, Stadtpark, and the café. And it seems that side of the Ring gets more sunlight, anyway; over on Schottenring it's too shady, at least in the afternoon. (There is one thing over there that grabs my attention every time I pass it, though: the Kleinbahn shop. If I ever have the money and an empty basement, I am going to have a miniature railroad in it, by gum.)

Freud walked around the Ring every day, it is said. There are certainly worse places to walk. I didn't quite make it all the way around today, but I did a respectable two-thirds, from Prückel around and up to the U4 stop at Schottenring. (You can see my route on that map, there.) It's getting so that I could actually see myself living in Vienna; I'm entirely uncertain how I'll be able to leave so soon.

VII. Café Prückel

It's the Vienna Marathon today. After church (Anglican; special music included an excellent brass quintet), we walked over to the Ringstraße, where the runners were. There were Strauss waltzes being blasted out by loudspeakers around the course! Only in Vienna, I suppose; I certainly can't imagine any sort of classical music being played at marathons in the states. At an outdoor table at the Café Prückel (which, I've decided, is my favorite Kaffeehaus in the city) we had omelettes and coffee and watched the runners. I finished it off with some exemplary Sachertorte. It's been simply a wonderful day, so far; the trick is to take time to observe, to think, to discuss. That's why the Viennese have cafés: to eat slowly, watch people, and generally enjoy themselves. (The waiters at these establishments are professionals, and act as such. They realize that it's their job to see that customers are content, and accordingly give them all the time they want. Never are we forced to eat quickly and leave, here.) Americans would do well to emulate this way of living: if only we had time to sit back and relax, we'd be happier and more productive.

If there's a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon than at a Viennese café with some Sachertorte in the Springtime, I've not experienced it.

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.