I took this trip 15 years ago in the early days of Eastern Europe being open to the west.
The goal -- get from Vienna, Austria to Frankfurt, Germany in ten days, see awesome paintings, live and in the flesh (OK, canvas) by my art heroes and have a bit of adventure along the way. This was about as defined and planned as this vaca was gonna get.
I landed at Flughafen Wien, found a bus into the city and a pay phone (remember pay phones?) where I dialed up a bunch of prospective B&Bs and fleabags motels. I ended up at the Austrian version of the Y -- a good, central place from which I could explore the city, specifically the incredible art museums. I’ve always been a huge fan of Gustav Klimt, his student Egon Schiele and
Oskar Kokoshcka -- this was their city, their hometown -- a fabulous opportunity to witness the goods, live and in person. While there, I also managed to fall in love with Vermeer and I finally “got” Warhol.
For all that this was, and still is, painting Heaven for me, after a few days I was done in, all museumed out.
I packed up my rucksack and trundled down to the Südbahnhof to peruse the big departure board. Where to go next? Should I try Budapest? Ljubljana? Prague? Krakow? I’d never been to Poland and the train for Krakow left in 30 minutes -- decision made! Despite struggling a bit with the language in Austria I figured I could get by with it as the bridge language in Poland (assuming that most Poles spoke German and that I could understand German spoken with a Polish accent). Have I mentioned that I’m an optimist?
The first sign that I was not in Kansas anymore, (or Austria for that matter) was at the Slovakian border where the train crew changed. A conductor came into my compartment who looked like every inch the1940s film noir villain. Hair cropped short and slicked back, a shave that looked more like he sanded and burnished his face daily, pants so crisply ironed you could cut diamonds on the creases. He barked at me – seriously, he barked. I had no idea what he was saying – it didn’t sound like German. (OF COURSE it didn’t, we weren’t IN a German speaking country anymore!) Between the barking and the diamond cutting pants I was getting a little nervous and shouted back “Ich spreche keine…..” I waffled my hand, feeling really stupid for not being able to come up with the dominant language of the country, He switched to German, now barking the much more recognizable “pass, pass” at me. I handed over my passport wondering if I’d see it again and whether I was now entering into more of an adventure than I’d anticipated.
The adventure continues tomorrow!
I landed at Flughafen Wien, found a bus into the city and a pay phone (remember pay phones?) where I dialed up a bunch of prospective B&Bs and fleabags motels. I ended up at the Austrian version of the Y -- a good, central place from which I could explore the city, specifically the incredible art museums. I’ve always been a huge fan of Gustav Klimt, his student Egon Schiele and
For all that this was, and still is, painting Heaven for me, after a few days I was done in, all museumed out.
I packed up my rucksack and trundled down to the Südbahnhof to peruse the big departure board. Where to go next? Should I try Budapest? Ljubljana? Prague? Krakow? I’d never been to Poland and the train for Krakow left in 30 minutes -- decision made! Despite struggling a bit with the language in Austria I figured I could get by with it as the bridge language in Poland (assuming that most Poles spoke German and that I could understand German spoken with a Polish accent). Have I mentioned that I’m an optimist?
The first sign that I was not in Kansas anymore, (or Austria for that matter) was at the Slovakian border where the train crew changed. A conductor came into my compartment who looked like every inch the1940s film noir villain. Hair cropped short and slicked back, a shave that looked more like he sanded and burnished his face daily, pants so crisply ironed you could cut diamonds on the creases. He barked at me – seriously, he barked. I had no idea what he was saying – it didn’t sound like German. (OF COURSE it didn’t, we weren’t IN a German speaking country anymore!) Between the barking and the diamond cutting pants I was getting a little nervous and shouted back “Ich spreche keine…..” I waffled my hand, feeling really stupid for not being able to come up with the dominant language of the country, He switched to German, now barking the much more recognizable “pass, pass” at me. I handed over my passport wondering if I’d see it again and whether I was now entering into more of an adventure than I’d anticipated.
The adventure continues tomorrow!
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