Vienna, Austria
December 6, 2015
Latitude 48º
13' N
I
was 35 in the summer of 1984
and my traveling shoes had been active for more than ten years. When
others just stayed him for the summer holidays, I'd be off someplace
different. Some summers it would be the United States, but usually
it was Europe or the Middle East.
The
1983-1984 school had been the worst year I'd taught since I'd begun
teaching. I'd also just completed a Master's degree and the
combination of the two had put me on an anti-depressant for six
months. I needed a break and Vienna was going to be the place.
In
the early winter of 1984 I'd read a small advertisement in the New
York Times Education section. “Study German at the University
of Vienna. Summer programs for Foreigners. For a free brochure...”
It
was January, the time of year when I'd begin planning my summer-get
away. I sent off a letter and month or so later the University of
Vienna sent me a snazzy, and very tempting, brochure. Four weeks
studying German, combined with living in a private room in one of the
University's dorms would cost less that $400.00 US. $338.34 to be
exact. That was less than one graduate course I'd been paying for
for several years. I really had no interest learning German, but the
what an opportunity: a chance to live in Vienna for a month!
So
I grabbed the opportunity, and because my travels were never done in
a straight line, I booked a flight to Rome, spent two week in Italy,
and only moved on to Vienna a day before classes would be begin.
I
knew pitifully little German. I'd had a tutor once a week since late
winter and could count to a hundred, conjugate a regular verb in the
present tense and could identify a few pronouns. That was it. I was
pitifully unprepared for life on the street. On my first day, a
Sunday, when the city had retreated into itself, I walked the main
shopping street, Kärtner
Strasse. I'd not eaten much because anything on a menu made
about as much sense as this: *&^%$# #@%)_ )*&$##. I was
delighted to see Burger King. Ahh...something familiar! I walked in
and nothing looked familiar. Anything anyone said to this confused
foreigner made no sense. I walked out and noticed, on close
attention, that I walked into Burg Kino. A movie theater! I
still laugh at that.
Once
classes started, there was a pattern to my days. I'd rise just in
time to shower, grab a Diet Coke and sweet bread at the nearby Ankor
bakery, and get to class before 9:00 am. Three hours later I'd have
lunch with some of the other students at the school cafeteria near
our classroom. Afternoons I spend sitting in Rathaus Park
reviewing the day's lesson, reading a novel and then moving on to do
something “touristy.”
Other
dorm and classmates became my “friends.” Classmates included an
equal mix of refugees who'd been put in the class my the Austrian
government and the rest of us—students from the USA, Australia,
others parts of Europe. There was a mother-daughter from Melbourne;
Nino, a fun young man from Italy, a group of zany college students
from the UK. The other group included folks who'd come from the
Philippines and a large group of people from Communist countries
who'd been granted asylum. One young woman, Jewish, had just left
Iran and was on her way to California to live with her grandparents.
It was the first time in my life I'd known a refugee.
One
of the students was a woman, a bit young than I, from Romania.
Ruxandra was highly educated, spoke English, French, Italian and was
not diving into German. She'd left Bucharest two months earlier
because the nature of her job was going to require her to join the
party. She was a well-trained engineer but had left all her documents
behind. She also left behind her mother and her grandfather. “I'll
make beds in a hotel room if I have to,” she told me. She just
wanted out. I greatly admired her courage.
We
became fast friends, and even though we were 180 degrees apart
politically, we enjoyed each other's company. Almost every day we'd
do something together, but it was usually at dinner that we'd meet.
After
class and after lunch, I'd head first to Rathaus Park where
I'd review the day's lesson, transfer vocabulary to a note book,
smoke one cigarette after another, read and people watch. Part of
that “sit” time included indulging in an ice cream cone.
Austrian ice cream, eis, is still some of the best ice creams I've
had in the world. I got to know the woman behind the counter and
learned all the names of every flavor. I let her knew I was studying
German and she became the first person I “spoke” to.
As
part of tuition to the University, students were give a free pass to
the Kunsthistorisches
Museum.
Every day, and I mean every day, I'd walk to the museum and explore
one room. One room only. I have never been able to sustain hours in
a museum, so this was perfect. It was the most pleasant museum
experience I've ever had. From there I'd explore some site within
the Ring.
I
also took Viennese Waltz lessons, but could only dance to the
right—the only time I've ever shifted in that direction.
I
loved living in a dorm again. I had my own quiet room, maid service
once a week, and the pleasant camaraderie of other students. One of
the guys I got to know there was another American, XXXX, a year or
two younger than I. We go out periodically to bars and come home
late and drunk. It was like I was back in college again.
Once
a week I'd walk down to and slip into the American Express office.
I'd cash a few travelers' checks and get my mail. In those
pre-Internet days this was one of the few ways to have an address in
another country. What a sweet surprise to get a letter from home. I
still have them, tucked away in the back of the journal I wrote that
summer.
Each
night either Ruxandra would meet me for dinner or I'd eat at a local
schnitzel
house. The exchange rate against the Austrian shilling allowed me to
eat every meal in a restaurant, something I rarely do today when I
travel.
Twice a group of us took off for
the weekend. First to Salzburg and Munich and the following weekend
to Budapest, a trip I still hold dear to my heart.
Early
in the program I realized I didn't care a rat's ass about German.
What I did like was going to school, interacting with the students,
staying in a dorm and having the privilege of living right of the
“Ring.” I'd go to class, do my homework, study, put the
German to work on the streets, but I refused to take tests. I'd just
finished that Master's degree and was plum-tired of real academic
work. I did not endear myself with Hannelore, our tireless, and very
good, teacher.
Every
Tuesday I'd attend a free all-Strauss concert in the garden in front
of the Rathaus, a
ten minute walk from where I lived. It was mostly a local crowd, but
I'd see the occasional tourist every now and then. In 1984 Vienna
was far off the European tourist circuit and far enough east that it
didn't get heaps of tourists, and only a few of them would be at this
concert. The same people seemed to be there each week—old ladies,
mostly, who'd tap their feet to the upbeat waltzes this father and
son team composed a hundred years earlier. It was one of the
highlights of my week.
By
summer's end I could navigate a small neighborhood of German. I got
the hang of putting the second verb at the end of the sentence. I
could have very minimal conversations with people. I could identify
every type of ice cream in the Eis Salons.
And
sometime that summer I'd jettisoned the anti-depressant I'd been on
since winter. That horrible school year and the mad-dash completion
of the Master's degree was fully behind me.
On
the last night I was in Vienna before returning to Rome, a local
friend asked me what I wanted to do. “Eis,” I told him.
“I want one more amazing Austrian ice cream.”
His
name was Wilhelm Böhm and
he told me he'd take me to Vienna's most popular place for ice cream.
How could this not be great!
The
line was long and when I chose my flavors—quite adeptly in
German—imagine my surprise when I bit into American ice cream.
Well, I was disappointed. Who wouldn't' be.
Later
that night I boarded an overnight train to Rome and few days later
touched down in New York city where Steve was waiting for me. For a
few weeks I'd say entschuldigung
when I bumped into someone, but that didn't last long. I found a
tutor to continue my studies, but that lasted for about a month.
Where was a going to use German? Pretty soon any German I did learn
was soon forgotten.
But
not Vienna nor the summer I spent there. It became a benchmark for
other summers, one to be compared to, one I'd hope would happen
again. Other summers were equally great; others not so. In my
travel nostalgia I'd often daydream of Vienna, sit in one its lovely
parks, eat eis, listen to Strauss waltzes in Rathaus
Park.
A
summer later would be a stay-in-the-USA summer, and I made
arrangements to meet one of the American classmates in San Francisco,
his home town. The visit was stiff and uncomfortable. Whatever
friendship we'd had was one of those temporary on-the-road things the
young forge amongst themselves. We never saw each other again.
Over
the years I would return to Vienna several times. More than
anything, I wanted to share this beloved city with Steve, and I
did—two years later. Each time I'd reconnect with Ruxandra. In
1998 her mother had retired and was living with her in an apartment
in the city where I was invited to stay. It would take 17 more years
before I saw Ruxandra again—this time in Spitz in the home she
shared with her new husband of five months.
I
loved being able to say “I lived in Vienna” and when asked what I
thought was the most beautiful city in the world I'd always give
credit to this spectacular, elegant, imperial city.
I
miss those glory days, though, when Vienna was far east of the
European circuit, before the days when cheap air travel ferried
people back forth within Europe for mere dollars.
And
I miss ice cream. It just doesn't seem to be as prevalent today as
it was then.
I
have never lost my affection for this city and probably never will.
