(June 9 journal entry)
As of yet, my only experience with the city is walking from the Westbanhof station to our hostel, and a short meander down Mariahilfer, where Allison bought herself (and kindly shared) a small cheese pizza; seating outside the restaurant on a lovely evening (and partially as to avoid televised football games) with splendid people-watching! So little to relay, and already I'm in love with Vienna's atmosphere, its look.
And early night for me, and dreams of Ringstrasse & opera!
(June 12 journal entry)
Oh, how exhausted I am, yet so many things to write of since my arrival in Austria's capital! Still out-beat by Paris (and I'm not sure Berlin, or any other European city I might one day see, could surpass Paris), Vienna is as marvelous as London, somewhere I could spend a couple years (whereas, Liverpool, Munich & Salzburg are summer escapes). Big-city (one-fifth of Austria resides here), elegant & elaborate architecture & fashion that once only existed in dreams & visits to New York. Food! History! Music & theatre! Art!
On Donauinsel, enjoying the river & surrounding until returning to the city for my second Staatsoper production, I Vespri Siciliani. Craziness, but this time I'm prepared, a pashmina (my Parisian gift for Mom) in my bag, waiting to be knotted around the rails!
Our first day in Vienna, plenty of sightseeing was accomplished (Stephansdom, Karntner Strasse, Stadtpark & Monument Against War & Fascism) before a late lunch at Kurkonditorei Oberlaa. Everything was forgotten (or set aside) after my magnificent night at the opera. Richard Strauss' Capriccio. 3,50 standing-room tickets, orchestra level immediately below the Emperor's box. RENEE FLEMING. After waiting over two hours for unfathomable inexpensive, precious tickets, you run to said level, waits impatiently for the house to open & then push, shove your way like untamed opera beasts to the best place to mark your territory with scarves. It was hot outside, and we didn't plan on leaving our coveted rail space, so it'd be okay, right? No scarf, no spot; whether you choose to remain or not, your marking (no jackets; the ushered speedily removed mine) claims your space, otherwise, it's fair-game. Kind, middle-aged women in front & behind us offered tissues & newspapers, securing our places, assuring we'd see & melt at the first notes to come from Miss Flemming.
(June 13 journal entry)
Austrian countryside; ten hours on the rails (one transfer in Nuremberg) to Berlin. Enough time to concentrate on my too-brief affair with Vienna?
One might expect the Staatsoper house to be gaudy, brimming with gold & decorative arts -- it's not -- but its appearance expected, so familiar with photos & recordings, it felt I'd already attended dozens of operas & ballets there. Acquainted with a handful of lovely (some infamous) theatres, I'm still partial to the Benedum's illustrious house, but lobbies & exteriors? Ah, there's the rub, the Wien Staatsoper in rivalry with only a few others. Delectable. How do performers remain focused on their roles amidst glory?
Regardless, conductor raises baton, orchestra sounds, curtains separate, presenting sets, costumes & actors, all rushing over you in hurricanes. Capriccio was no exception, even more exhilarating, a virgin of Viennese opera & performing arts. I absorbed music, lighting, blocking, and as wonderful as Skovhus, Erod & Schade were, my eyes strained and grew at first glimpse of Fleming, seated behind a corner of a sumptuously mirrored revolving sets. No time to read a synopsis, as all I gathered during the production was two men, Oliver & Flamand, both desire Grafin's heart, one wooing with music, the other with words; she must decide. It didn't annoy me in the least, knowing no other details. Yes, storytelling is essential, but so many more components begged for my glutinous attention. I was enthralled, enraptured, my eyes & ears all over, even taking in a bit of the audience & their reactions. Later, I read the opera is left open-ended, Grafin choosing neither Oliver or Flamand, her final words, "Gibt es einen Schluss, der nicht trivial ist?" ("Is there an ending that is not trivial?")
Americans are mocked for their celebrity obsessiveness, I'm aware, but I thought I'd at least try meeting Renee Fleming at the stage door to give my amateur compliments (the same she hears nightly, I'm sure). Little did I expect, hoards of international opera goers flanked the exit (some even shoving their way back into the theatre, so as actors & crew could only exit with great difficulty), waiting for Miss Fleming. And there she was, in a simple black dress & crimped teal shawl that floated with her, flawlessly styled hair (wasn't she wearing a wig for three hours?). With experience, she moved the crowd from the stage door, was encircles & as she moved, admirers followed, hurling programs, photos & notebooks at her for autographs. I've never seen anything like it! (Not even Broadway!) When the mob (really, it was a mob!) died away, I approached & had the inside cover of my notebook signed (upon seeing my stickers, she remarked, "Lucille!") & magazines for Angela & myself. "I loved watching you New Year's Eve at Lincoln Center." "Oh, wonderful!" she replied, smiling & I waited a few moments more as she crossed the lamp-lit street (with business partners, of course) to Hotel Sacer. Magical! Unforgettable!
My night ended with a small (inexpensive) jar of caviar & crackers.
Later: Day two, Allison & I took a streetcar out of the city to successfully find the graves of Beethoven, Brahms, Shubert & J. Strauss in Central Cemetery & then on to nearby St. Marx Cemetery, where the smashed remains of Mozart's skeleton are buried. How wonderful Amadeus is, but oh, so dramatically fictional!
Moved on to other sites (Austrian Parliament, Burgtheater, Rathaus & Hofburg), and I climbed stairs along Vienna's old city wall to better see Beethoven's residence. Sorry, Austria, if I had to choose between Mozart & Beethoven: Ludwig! Unfortunately, Vienna's west side was littered with fences, enormous screes & drunken sports fans all cheering for their football teams (in Vienna, Austria & Poland played). I come to Europe for culture, and what greets me all the way back in Manchester? Sports. Insignificant, petty sports. We're forced to walk around the Burgarten (which I wanted to enjoy for its statues & roses) -- set aside for Fanzone.
Cooked spaghetti in Wombat's guest kitchen & called Dad at his office (no one answered at home), which lifted my frown. The closer this journey comes to an end, the more I anticipate my return home.
(June 14 journal entry)
Brennan's 13th birthday!
Delicious coffee steams -- some in my mug, remains (not for long!) in a French press -- and after eager first sips, strings of saliva still run from my deprived mouth & down my chin. No coffee for eight days (by force of pocketbook, not willingness; our two stops in Austria did not include breakfast in their rate)! It's a pleasure sitting alone at the kitchen table & writing, the hostel slowly waking, but still relatively quiet. So, this must be when I finish relaying my Viennese adventures. "I'll catch up tonight. I'll catch up tomorrow," I tell myself, but every day new experiences beg to be written of, and I find my eyelids growing heavy.
Scattered sights our final day in Vienna (how much more time I need there & already know the same shall go for Berlin) on many interlocking Medieval roads & plazas that required careful attention (a maze, some roads not marked on maps) & a good deal of walking. Highlights included Karlsplatz & Karlskirche, Ruprechtskirche (city's oldest -- 11th century -- church) & a stone memorial -- a library turned inside-out -- to Austria's murdered Jews in Judenplatz, a 15th century Jewish community & once one of Europe's largest. Did Kohlmarkt, Graben & the plague monument (survivors' bribe & thanks to God), Augustinerkirche (in which the Hapsburg's hearts are interred) & on to Donauinsel for a picnic lunch & a few hours of relaxation in nature before my second opera.
My nerves were revved up, knowing what to expect, but without Miss Fleming (and despite Verdi), no seasoned theatre goers (or very few), only tourists without a clue. And I was in-the-know, scarf tied onto my center rail, mind lost in music. Nothing mattered but the world on stage. I'm reminded, tragedy or not, of escape through theatre & tragedy's ability to comfort. Comedy is great fun, but I prefer tragedy. Nothing beats a good tragedy!
Love walking alone, lips sealed. I must reek of American stank, yet I find myself imagining I'm native to x city (or in the very least, a permanent resident).
As of yet, my only experience with the city is walking from the Westbanhof station to our hostel, and a short meander down Mariahilfer, where Allison bought herself (and kindly shared) a small cheese pizza; seating outside the restaurant on a lovely evening (and partially as to avoid televised football games) with splendid people-watching! So little to relay, and already I'm in love with Vienna's atmosphere, its look.
And early night for me, and dreams of Ringstrasse & opera!
(June 12 journal entry)
Oh, how exhausted I am, yet so many things to write of since my arrival in Austria's capital! Still out-beat by Paris (and I'm not sure Berlin, or any other European city I might one day see, could surpass Paris), Vienna is as marvelous as London, somewhere I could spend a couple years (whereas, Liverpool, Munich & Salzburg are summer escapes). Big-city (one-fifth of Austria resides here), elegant & elaborate architecture & fashion that once only existed in dreams & visits to New York. Food! History! Music & theatre! Art!
On Donauinsel, enjoying the river & surrounding until returning to the city for my second Staatsoper production, I Vespri Siciliani. Craziness, but this time I'm prepared, a pashmina (my Parisian gift for Mom) in my bag, waiting to be knotted around the rails!
Our first day in Vienna, plenty of sightseeing was accomplished (Stephansdom, Karntner Strasse, Stadtpark & Monument Against War & Fascism) before a late lunch at Kurkonditorei Oberlaa. Everything was forgotten (or set aside) after my magnificent night at the opera. Richard Strauss' Capriccio. 3,50 standing-room tickets, orchestra level immediately below the Emperor's box. RENEE FLEMING. After waiting over two hours for unfathomable inexpensive, precious tickets, you run to said level, waits impatiently for the house to open & then push, shove your way like untamed opera beasts to the best place to mark your territory with scarves. It was hot outside, and we didn't plan on leaving our coveted rail space, so it'd be okay, right? No scarf, no spot; whether you choose to remain or not, your marking (no jackets; the ushered speedily removed mine) claims your space, otherwise, it's fair-game. Kind, middle-aged women in front & behind us offered tissues & newspapers, securing our places, assuring we'd see & melt at the first notes to come from Miss Flemming.
(June 13 journal entry)
Austrian countryside; ten hours on the rails (one transfer in Nuremberg) to Berlin. Enough time to concentrate on my too-brief affair with Vienna?
One might expect the Staatsoper house to be gaudy, brimming with gold & decorative arts -- it's not -- but its appearance expected, so familiar with photos & recordings, it felt I'd already attended dozens of operas & ballets there. Acquainted with a handful of lovely (some infamous) theatres, I'm still partial to the Benedum's illustrious house, but lobbies & exteriors? Ah, there's the rub, the Wien Staatsoper in rivalry with only a few others. Delectable. How do performers remain focused on their roles amidst glory?
Regardless, conductor raises baton, orchestra sounds, curtains separate, presenting sets, costumes & actors, all rushing over you in hurricanes. Capriccio was no exception, even more exhilarating, a virgin of Viennese opera & performing arts. I absorbed music, lighting, blocking, and as wonderful as Skovhus, Erod & Schade were, my eyes strained and grew at first glimpse of Fleming, seated behind a corner of a sumptuously mirrored revolving sets. No time to read a synopsis, as all I gathered during the production was two men, Oliver & Flamand, both desire Grafin's heart, one wooing with music, the other with words; she must decide. It didn't annoy me in the least, knowing no other details. Yes, storytelling is essential, but so many more components begged for my glutinous attention. I was enthralled, enraptured, my eyes & ears all over, even taking in a bit of the audience & their reactions. Later, I read the opera is left open-ended, Grafin choosing neither Oliver or Flamand, her final words, "Gibt es einen Schluss, der nicht trivial ist?" ("Is there an ending that is not trivial?")
Americans are mocked for their celebrity obsessiveness, I'm aware, but I thought I'd at least try meeting Renee Fleming at the stage door to give my amateur compliments (the same she hears nightly, I'm sure). Little did I expect, hoards of international opera goers flanked the exit (some even shoving their way back into the theatre, so as actors & crew could only exit with great difficulty), waiting for Miss Fleming. And there she was, in a simple black dress & crimped teal shawl that floated with her, flawlessly styled hair (wasn't she wearing a wig for three hours?). With experience, she moved the crowd from the stage door, was encircles & as she moved, admirers followed, hurling programs, photos & notebooks at her for autographs. I've never seen anything like it! (Not even Broadway!) When the mob (really, it was a mob!) died away, I approached & had the inside cover of my notebook signed (upon seeing my stickers, she remarked, "Lucille!") & magazines for Angela & myself. "I loved watching you New Year's Eve at Lincoln Center." "Oh, wonderful!" she replied, smiling & I waited a few moments more as she crossed the lamp-lit street (with business partners, of course) to Hotel Sacer. Magical! Unforgettable!
My night ended with a small (inexpensive) jar of caviar & crackers.
Later: Day two, Allison & I took a streetcar out of the city to successfully find the graves of Beethoven, Brahms, Shubert & J. Strauss in Central Cemetery & then on to nearby St. Marx Cemetery, where the smashed remains of Mozart's skeleton are buried. How wonderful Amadeus is, but oh, so dramatically fictional!
Moved on to other sites (Austrian Parliament, Burgtheater, Rathaus & Hofburg), and I climbed stairs along Vienna's old city wall to better see Beethoven's residence. Sorry, Austria, if I had to choose between Mozart & Beethoven: Ludwig! Unfortunately, Vienna's west side was littered with fences, enormous screes & drunken sports fans all cheering for their football teams (in Vienna, Austria & Poland played). I come to Europe for culture, and what greets me all the way back in Manchester? Sports. Insignificant, petty sports. We're forced to walk around the Burgarten (which I wanted to enjoy for its statues & roses) -- set aside for Fanzone.
Cooked spaghetti in Wombat's guest kitchen & called Dad at his office (no one answered at home), which lifted my frown. The closer this journey comes to an end, the more I anticipate my return home.
(June 14 journal entry)
Brennan's 13th birthday!
Delicious coffee steams -- some in my mug, remains (not for long!) in a French press -- and after eager first sips, strings of saliva still run from my deprived mouth & down my chin. No coffee for eight days (by force of pocketbook, not willingness; our two stops in Austria did not include breakfast in their rate)! It's a pleasure sitting alone at the kitchen table & writing, the hostel slowly waking, but still relatively quiet. So, this must be when I finish relaying my Viennese adventures. "I'll catch up tonight. I'll catch up tomorrow," I tell myself, but every day new experiences beg to be written of, and I find my eyelids growing heavy.
Scattered sights our final day in Vienna (how much more time I need there & already know the same shall go for Berlin) on many interlocking Medieval roads & plazas that required careful attention (a maze, some roads not marked on maps) & a good deal of walking. Highlights included Karlsplatz & Karlskirche, Ruprechtskirche (city's oldest -- 11th century -- church) & a stone memorial -- a library turned inside-out -- to Austria's murdered Jews in Judenplatz, a 15th century Jewish community & once one of Europe's largest. Did Kohlmarkt, Graben & the plague monument (survivors' bribe & thanks to God), Augustinerkirche (in which the Hapsburg's hearts are interred) & on to Donauinsel for a picnic lunch & a few hours of relaxation in nature before my second opera.
My nerves were revved up, knowing what to expect, but without Miss Fleming (and despite Verdi), no seasoned theatre goers (or very few), only tourists without a clue. And I was in-the-know, scarf tied onto my center rail, mind lost in music. Nothing mattered but the world on stage. I'm reminded, tragedy or not, of escape through theatre & tragedy's ability to comfort. Comedy is great fun, but I prefer tragedy. Nothing beats a good tragedy!
Love walking alone, lips sealed. I must reek of American stank, yet I find myself imagining I'm native to x city (or in the very least, a permanent resident).
posted by Colin at
5:46 PM
1 Comments:
Even though I don't know almost anything you write about...I love reading what you write! This is great stuff! :)
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