Week 4: People (part II)

3 August - 9 August: Austria and Hungary

When you´re travelling you discover new places, learn stuff and meet people. In Vienna I became acquainted with the modernist artist Egon Schiele (photo above of his Death and Woman). I picked up a bio on him from the Museum Quartier’s BookShop for a mere €5. I learnt the life story of the very gifted modernist painter who met his death (along with his expecting wife) at the hand of Spanish Influenza in 1918. He was 27 years old. His work developed quickly over his short life. His gift for drawing was recognised early on, and he saw Gustav Klimt, who spearheaded the Secession Movement, as his mentor and hero. But Schiele´s work went far beyond combining reality with decorative art. His subject matter dealt with the decay of an empire and his numerous self portraits depicted the agony he saw that every man suffered in life, which was particularly pronounced during the time that the Hapsburg Empire was fading towards its demise and the Great War took place. His work is not always comfortable to regard, but I found that after reading about his life, I relished my visit to the Leopold Museum. I felt for the first time in a very long time that I understood how privileged I was to be standing in a room of the world´s largest collection of an artist who had foreseen important things to say and I believe had even more things –I think of actually a positive nature - to tell, before that pandemic swept him away. There is something very contemporary about him, and I am not just referring to the swine flu.

Beyond some dead artists from 100 years ago, Edwin and I did meet some Austrians, albeit briefly. We had bought our dinner at a wonderful film festival where excellent food was being sold at various stalls. We chose the Yellow restaurant’s stall, which was selling noodles with crispy chicken, crispy duck, vegetarian or prawn. I took the first off the list, Edwin the last. We had nowhere to sit, as all the tables and chairs were occupied, so we looked for a spot to stand around a small cocktail table. Two gentlemen in their 50s looked friendly enough for us to dare to ask if we could use half of their table. I have read of the haughtiness of Austrians, their class snobbery and arrogance. I have always been uncomfortable with this stereotype so was very pleased to find these Austrians were very gracious indeed. We were about to tuck in when they spoke. “Where are you from?” The question was neither demanding nor outraged, but simply direct and straightforward. We told them, and they approved. We returned the question. “We’re the only Viennese here!”they laughed. They told us about the Film Festival and how it had been around for a good decade or so, and how the program and the food had gotten better and better each year. One of the gentlemen offered us a tip on something to do, something the guidebooks wouldn’t tell us. “Go to Hermann Spa. It’s near the Schwedeplatz. It’s an (artificial) sandy beach and you can bathe there. It’s fabulous. It’s hard to find, but you must go there.” We would have taken the tip, but it was not to be. Next time, Vienna, next time.

Café Central is where the literati of Vienna have always met (until the tourists took over about 50 years ago). Well telling from the behaviour of our jaded, rude but pimply (therefore very young) waiter that´s what I reckon. I like the concept of the Viennese coffeehouse. It´s an extension of the loungeroom except that you have service. (And you have to pay for your tea, coffee and cake, but then again, you have to when you´re at home, but it´s just all at once at the supermarket). Artists and writers could be found at their haunt when not at home. All one had to do, if one wanted an audience with someone like Beethoven or Freud, was to go to their hangout and wait. They would inevitably turn up for erudite conversation and delicious coffee with lashings of cream. We thought that we would have had time to loll about and pass the time to our leisure, when barely had we taken the last slurp of our first course (soup) that we were served our main. But, then again, we are by now used to the eye rolling and evasive attitude of Viennese service. In fact by now, if we were to receive anything bordering on warmth from a customer service associate, we would suspect we were no longer in Austria.

We have met a number of dogs on our trip and I thought it was time I write a brief entry on them. There was Boem, the spaniel that we met in Vienna. He cried when his Belgian owners tied him up on a long lead and left for a day in town. There was the Saint Bernard in Creglingen, who was attached to the campsite, and watched the guests dolefully as we came in to chat to the eccentric owner or buy our bread for breakfast. He only drooled a little bit. Our Hungarian neighbours have a sausage dog with oversized ears, called Lorenzo – although she is a girl. Aside from delicately peeing on our plot, she likes to come over and observe us. It could be that she saw, in front of our place in the reeds at the water’s edge, what I hope was a large field mouse (but was more likely a water rat - ugh), that she keeps sniffing around the shore, but maybe she does like us a little bit.

Last night Edwin and I were walking with our arms draped about each others waists when I exclaimed, “Edwin, your love handles have gone!” He was mightily pleased to hear this. I continued, “What about me, have mine gone?”to which he replied, after a little pause for thought, “Well, they are harder to grip onto.” Delightful. I think. The campaign to slim down to my bridal size which was about 10 kilos lighter than I am now seems to be working. Slowly but surely.

Wandering along the esplanade at Balaton Lake late yesterday afternoon, we saw people in mid 19th century dress and a brass band. There was a gathering and a ceremony around a plaque which commemorates Gáspár Noszlopy, whose freedom fighters landed at that point on 9 August 160 years ago. My reading of A Lonely Empress by Joan Haslip told me that there was a Hungarian uprising in the ´49 which was quashed by the Russians to Emperor Franz-Joseph´s relief. Not for the first time would Hungary be passed from one empire to the next. Their patriotism is palpable, every Hungarian hoists a flag at his campsite and no wonder.