Twelve months in Vienna, and two lousy blogs to show for it!
I’ve joked to Derek a few times now that beginning a relationship with him was the worst thing to ever happen to my burgeoning writing career. Poetic, flowery language flowed so readily through me when I was full of angst, and now I’m just full of contentment and security and other nouns which do not provide easy fodder for existential blog posts.
In the hope that creativity is a muscle that can atrophy and not a bucket that can empty, I am determined with new vigor to do the thing which makes a person creative: to create, whether or not I feel like it. To sit still long enough to have an original thought. To observe. To once again impersonate Harriet the Spy and ruthlessly surveil strangers. To reflect. To write it down.
So, voila! I’d like to show you a lovely June day in Vienna, existential reflections and all. My blurry iPhone 8 camera and mediocre photography skills are inadequate. Instead, I will paint you a brief picture using these ingredients: a black notebook with a broken spine, semi-legible pen marks with many crossed out phrases, fingers typing haltingly on a laptop, and a rusty vocabulary.
To begin: in the morning on Aspernbrückengasse:
A toddler darts around the corner of the alley with the gusto of a surprise party reveal. He leads his parade of two down the sidewalk, Dad walking resolutely behind. A woman with cloud white hair, back bent into a question mark by decades of gravity, steadily approaches the family. She bends her frame even further, peers at the toddler in his Hawaiian bucket hat, and breaks into a generous grin. Whatever German words she offers the boy result in his slapping a hand over his mouth in a flurry of giggles. They both continue on their journeys, her movements a Georgia O’Keefe painting, his a Jackson Pollock.
Dark clouds loom ominously over the city, and the trees shake their heads in the breeze. There will certainly be rain, yet here we all are in our optimistic tank tops and white sneakers. If enough of us decree that summer has arrived in full force, will it?
Later, at Stadt Park:
Three sisters– six, younger, and youngest–race across the grass. Crossing the invisible finish line results in a ceremonial dogpile, then the course is reversed and the quick feet begin again. A brother, the eldest, patters along beside. He cannot be bothered to truly join the event, as every few steps he must stop to practice his superhero leaps.
Seated to the far left of an empty bench, a bald man in a suit jacket and shiny brown shoes waits patiently. For what? He glances at his watch, rests his arm around a leg which is crooked over the over. A job interview? The bus? A fairytale romance, begun the moment someone wonderful commands the far right side of his wooden bench? He sighs. He continues waiting.
A man drapes an arm around his girlfriend. He looks to her, to his surroundings, to her again. With care and gentleness, he moves his hand up and down her shoulder. He is protective and kind. Throughout these many minutes, his girlfriend has not glanced away from her phone. She stands to leave. After five infinite seconds, he follows.
Later, at Balthasar Kaffee Bar:
The barista glances up as I enter, briefly pausing the towel he’s running over the drying dishware. He looks me in the eye and exclaims in English, “You dyed your hair!”. I flush, replying with a laugh, “Yes, I did!”. I feel my brain take a snapshot of this moment, complete with the “click” of a 90’s polaroid camera. We’ve lived in this new world for almost one year, and somehow this momentary event feels significant. I live in Austria, in Vienna, in Leopoldstadt. This is my neighborhood coffee shop, and I am known here. If not by name, at least by hair color.
Minutes later, I sip my Americano (always an ironic drink to request, as I order with my obviously American accent). No local coffee shop carries flavors for coffee, so I’ve grown to appreciate the unadulterated taste for its own sake, not just for the ambiance of the places where it is enjoyed. 10-years-ago me would have found this contemporary version of me very cool. The contemporary version of me is more confident than ever that “cool” is crap.
Sunlight pokes its way through the clouds and windows. Somewhere, a weatherman shakes his head as the promised rain grows more and more unlikely. One by one, like an incremental game of Follow the Leader, each person or party once perched inside migrates to the outdoor seating. What could I do? I follow. After all, these are my neighbors.