Far Between Eastern Europe Part 2: Sunday in Vienna

In Vienna, whether you’re packed into a sweltering tram or out soaking in a surprisingly warm, torrential downpour, you’ll end up drenched through. Maybe that's the consequence of being somewhere so temporarily that you must rush around to see all that you can. On one particular Sunday in Vienna, outside the meticulous blueprint of a plan, my friend and I found ourselves under a narrow bus shelter, barely protected from a storm that had been following us down Europe. We had arranged to make the most of a day that our weather apps had informed us would be arid and bright by drinking wine atop a hill named Kahlberg. I had sourced a vineyard with a vast view of the Danube (a river that had also remained with us throughout our travels so far), and settled into the idea of an escape from the city bustle into the arms of a glass of locally-pressed grape. 

At the foot of Kahlberg, a good twenty minutes hike from our vineyard, we made the spontaneous decision to firm what was left of the rain and find a nearby cafe where we could seek refuge until the rain softened (half an hour according to one weather app, ten minutes ago according to the other). We darted through the streets, under roofs, and through tunnels until we reached the cafe. The staff were sitting at a table, and one hopped to the bar when they saw us enter. It’s usually very obvious that we’re tourists, perhaps because of the way we dress, the way we look, or the way we carry ourselves. Nevertheless, we always made sure to remain polite in places that may have met us with hostility. We asked if they took card payments, and the nice woman said they did not. We had enough euros for a couple glasses of Kahlberg wine (two euros each), so we agreed to stay there while we prayed for the rain to clear. Surely enough, just as we were nearing the ends of our glasses, the rain came to a stop. We swiftly bade the staff farewell and left the cafe to begin the hike up the road to the vineyard. 

Now that the air around us had settled and the sun was dimmed by clouds, we were finally able to take off our extra layers and appreciate the rolling grape fields, steeply jutting into the hill. The gush of rain still echoed in a stone gutter beside the road; however, this came in handy when my friend had realised that the twenty-minute walk may not be long enough to contain the wine she had consumed only ten minutes prior. I suggested that she straddle the stone gutter while I kept watch for cars. Hiking up her dress, she quickly relieved herself, and just as she stood up, a car came around the corner. It was a narrow miss—the first of many. 

I could tell we were getting close to the top of Kahlberg from the vineyard signs that had started appearing and the faint sound of music. It was loud enough to have been just over the hedge; however, the route to our planned wine bar diverted across a track between two fields. The track led us to a building the size of a modest house, and, on entry, we were met with the gargling rummage of children, as holidaying families scoffed and drank in what appeared to be a conservatory. The wine menu was limited, and the glares were complementary; therefore, with a single shared glance, my friend and I decided to leave our destination and chase down the music we had heard prior. Only this time, we began to recognise both the songs that were playing and the London accent in the vocals strimming through the jazzy melody. Ignoring the doubt that emerged from the strange, twisting footpath, we followed our ears until the path opened up into a road dotted with smartly dressed Austrians singing and laughing. Joining in with their ant path, we scuttled down the road until the music was as loud as it had ever been, and we realised that not only was the music being sung live, but it was exclusively covers of who we later named Amy Weinhouse, singing her siren song to us two liquor-dry travelers.

Finally reaching the large, gated entrance, I noticed a banner across the bars. Neither of us spoke as we read and reread the event labelled, in layman's terms, 'a law firm reunion'. Morale beaten down, I made the executive decision that we had come too far not to try. Knowing little German from classes in primary school, I placed all hope on the phrase ‘zwei wein bitte’. I rehearsed the phrase in my head as we walked past groups of adults in suits and lederhosen, relieved that we had opted for shirts that day as well. It was our first opportunity to act within, having passed enough barriers for most to assume we belonged. After sitting at a table long enough to observe our surroundings, I plucked up the courage to walk to the bar. It was a small cabin room, clearly built for events, lit dimly at the bar and with strobes beside Amy in the corner. As I watched her belt You Know I’m No Good, the rebel inside of me truly believed there was no way I wouldn’t be successful. 

'Zwei wein bitte.' I held eye contact with the server, and she replied with a question in German. 

I should’ve replied with ‘ya,’ but, having caught the attention of everyone in the room (apart from Amy still grasping the mic), I caved. We quick-stepped out of the vineyard, relieved that we had faced no consequences and thrilled that we had gotten so far. Before walking out of the gate, I lifted an ornate bunch of flowers from a fallen glass jar that had decorated the track up to the establishment and passed them to my friend. It had started raining a bluster, and everybody was distracted with staying dry and moving inside while we remained atop Kahlberg, exposed with the grapevines, making our way down past the closed vineyards. It was like a pub crawl except, instead of having a drink at each place, we would sit under some awning and admire the view across Vienna. One thing that surprised me in our trip across Eastern Europe was how much the urban landscape embodied the beauty of the rural from high up. When you’re in a city, you can barely notice the blueprint of where you are or which direction you’re facing; when you’re observing a city from high up, everything begins to make sense. It is, then, perhaps untrue to say that you must be close to see details or that you must feel something to understand it. I couldn’t have been further from the city that I was staying in, but my connection to the place had only grown.

Heading down the hill, we checked our maps for anywhere we could finally have some wine. The last location we ventured to was a restaurant called Weingut Feuerwehr-Wagner, where the front-of-house, when asked if they served wine, replied, 'lots,' with a broad smile. We entered through a vibrant space of music and conversation, with people of all ages drinking and chortling. Our table was a few along from a bearded man, dressed in lime green lederhosen, playing the accordion. My friend placed her flowers on the floor, and we ordered two glasses of white wine. Zwei wein bitte. The waiter brought us over a large jug of water, leaving us wondering whether we should’ve picked up some glasses. The waiter returned after noticing our confusion and explained that the jug was a vase for the flowers. We were immediately calmed by the knowledge that we were (along with our stolen flowers) welcomed here, included in every toast and cheers that brought the room together in a mutual merriment. The warm yellow lights continued to hum through the rich green lampshades and off the varnished, wooden table dividers.

Betweenness and spontaneity have a romantic entanglement that is often lost in spontaneity alone. If you try to be spontaneous, you can lose yourself in an attempt to do the unusual. Our Sunday began with a plan for where we would start and where we would end, but it resulted in a diversion from both. If we had tried to be spontaneous, we would likely have followed the music, been disappointed by the private event, and dragged our heels to the next closest place (the original destination that we’d turned away from). More often than not, betweenness is a state of being that occurs not by choice but by the acceptance of deviation from choice. If a plan lies at one end of the spectrum, and spontaneity at the other, perhaps the best place is in the between.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it. Next week I will be posting a slightly longer form short story called ‘The Moon Surveyor’. It was a summative submission which has since been refined, and follows the life of one glorious surveyor, stationed on a moon as the past creeps towards him.