Last Days in Bezau, First Days in Vienna

With the Schubertiade finished, there was no reason to stay longer in Bezau – except that the weather at this time of year is supposed to be the most perfect, and the mountains remain, well, as beautiful as ever. So the tramp decided that we would stay until we need to depart for Vienna, where, once again we were meeting up with our French friends for an evening of opera before they and I have to return to London.

The weather was stunning one day, grey the next, pouring rain the next and then stunning again. This meant that the timing of walks and gym had to be considered more with the weather in mind than the usual blind application of one day mountains, next day gym. But with the internet weather forecast for the week posted on the door of the camp lounge, it was not too difficult, even for a blonde, to propose to the tramp an appropriate adjustment in the schedule. So we had many beautiful climbs interspersed with hard work at the gym on rainy days. Nonetheless, on our last day, the weather, while not supposed to be thunderous, was slightly off-putting. The trampess was not about to be put off. It was clear that one could not have an inactive day before a long drive. This would be unhealthy and boring. The tramp agreed. We set out in our new merino long-sleeved t-shirts and headed toward Baumgarten. The climb up was quite pleasant: the occasional drizzle, then clear, not cold but not hot either. The tramp, who always insists on not getting wet (except by his own exertion of course) stopped from time to time to either put on his anorak or take it off. The trampess, who believes that drizzle is pretty much the same as sweat, sees little point in putting on an anorak for anything less than a proper rain (she rarely carries an umbrella in London for much the same reason, though arguably in London protecting the hair has some social value which it doesn’t have in the alps – looking like a damp rat in the forest is not really out of place, whereas it clearly is on Bond Street).

As luck would have it, or perhaps less bad luck than dithering over whether to go or not to go and if the former where, we arrived at the lift station at the top of Baumgarten 5 minutes too late for the lift. This was partly because the tramp had said that it would take 45 minutes to reach the lift station from where we were and the last lift before lunch was in 30 minutes so there was no point hoofing it. Unusually, the trampess, who likes hoofing it on principle, complied. Clearly a bad call. The question now was whether to walk down to the middle station (a 45 minute walk according to the sign post) or wait 55 minutes for the post lunch break lift. The tramp, figuring that lunch breaks might not end exactly on time, decided we should walk. By this time, it was very foggy and drizzly. Your tramps both put on their anoraks: the trampess’s coral (one of the reasons for buying the merino wool t-shirt was, of course, its perfect coordination with the anorak), the tramp’s a most exquisite light emerald green.. We were visible! As it transpired, visibility was important. While we chose the fastest, simplest way down, it was not a path that we had followed before, and it required some attention (down always being worse than up in any case) both in terms of following (one could not see very far ahead so the markers were not always visible until after one had committed to a decision) and in terms of slippery rocks. There were two reasons for wishing to make it to the middle station in time for the first lift there: the first was the usual desire to get back for food before late in the afternoon; the second was a corollary: we had seen a large bus load of elderly Germans whom we believed would be eating lunch at the restaurant adjacent to middle station and if they were in the queue before we were (which they easily would be if they were watching to see when the cable started moving) it might take an hour for us to make it down! An army may move on its stomach, but the tramps moved in anticipation of the stomach’s needs. If we didn’t hoof it before, we hoofed it now, but within minutes we were out of each other’s sight. Frequently, the trampess, pathfinder as usual, had to stop to make sure that the bright green anorak popped into sight through the fog. The same fog that prevented us from seeing each other more than a few yards away, prevented us from seeing our target even though we thought we must be near. We could only hope that the timing of 45 minutes was correct and that we weren’t being significantly slowed down by the lack of visibility. The trampess was not optimistic on the later count, but as it transpired, we found ourselves on top of the station almost exactly 45 minutes from the time we set out – and just as the Germans were getting up from their tables. We turned on ramming speed (if you remember the slave ships in Ben Hur), and were in position for the third lift down; not perfect, but not bad. Lunch was at a civilised hour despite dithering, the weather, and the hoards.

We had planned to leave the campsite that evening following a visit from our friendly, local carpenter who was meant to come to fine tune the adjustments he had made to the trailer better to secure the Smart while travelling. He had always been reliable but for some reason he neither came nor called. In the end, we went to bed and decided to leave for Vienna in the morning. We were sad to leave but the bright lights of the city awaited. The tramp had put the trampess in charge of restaurants in Vienna, so the last meal at Hildegarde’s outpost in Bizau before leaving entailed reading both the Gault Millau on Austria and an Austrian gourmet guide. Having written down a selection of about 15 restaurants (chosen for quality and location – in so far as I could ascertain location – location in this case meaning proximity to our French friends’ hotel), the trampess managed, in her best German (it always helps to begin by saying, in German of course, I really don’t speak German – this usually garners sympathy especially when one speaks rather better than expected – of course booking a table for 4 does not require the vocabulary or grammar of Heidigger), to secure a table at one of the finest (at least according to both books) tables in Vienna. The tramp insisted, once we arrived in Vienna and were settled into our campsite, that we go into town and get a feel for where everything was – including which table we had at the restaurant. Now the trampess was not dressed to inspect – in fact there was a distinct possibility that in my faded trousers, hooded Princeton sweatshirt (a Christmas present from tramp1), and Canyon Ranch canvas bag (a Birkin might have made up for the rest), the maitre d’ might decide to lose the reservation. The tramp went in on his own and returned saying that I had better come: the table was in a nice position but it was too big and not conducive to conversation but it was the only one left. Now the tramp is usually pretty good on these matters and has very definite opinions on what constitutes a good table. As it was possible to slink into the bar without revealing my identity, I disregaraded the possibility of rejection and checked out the table. Dear reader, it was perfect: in the window niche (on the first floor) overlooking Graben (the via Condotti of Vienna) – quite splendid. It was a table for six: an elegant banquette on 3 sides and chairs on the fourth. I returned to the tramp. We would sit two on the sofa in the window and two directly opposite on the chairs. And indeed, that is how it was laid when we arrived on the day.

The next day we picked our friends up at their hotel, confidently strode in the direction of the restaurant, walked in and up the stairs to the first floor and were taken to our table, whereupon our friends exclaimed, “but this is a table for a king!” The tramp smiled and said the trampess always managed to find somewhere decent to eat. Now, it must be said that the food was excellent but the portions were very small (unusual in a German speaking country where the reverse is generally the case), so when we left to go to the Albertina to see the van Gogh exhibition, we were sated but not stuffed. This meant that after the van Gogh (outstanding and which clearly meriting another visit on a less crowded weekday morning), a trip across the street to the Hotel Sacher seemed in order. Our French friend seeing the queues outside the main entrance suggested we walk around to the side where, indeed, there was another entrance and only a short queue which disappeared quite quickly. Once we were seated, the two men had no hesitation in ordering the house speciality but your trampess (and it must also be said her French female friend) showed remarkable restraint and just had coffee (this is the real reason French women don’t get fat). Less remarkable, actually when one knows that coffee at lunch included a small box of irresistible chocolates and where the trampess showed no restraint.

With no time to waste, we repaired to our friends’ hotel and changed for the opera: Ariodante. It was worth the trip to Vienna – a splendid production, beautiful music and excellent singing and dancing. Not being huge fans of counter tenors or baroque opera, the tramps were delighted to find themselves enthralled. Dinner afterwards with the conductor (our friends know how to lay on a treat!) meant that bed was an extraordinary 1am (usual bedtime in Bezau being 9 or 9:30) - something to do with campsites not being in the centre of town! Still meeting up the next day was agreed for 9:30 so we could get a decent night’s sleep.

A quick trip to the Kunsthistorische Museum to room 10 (a room your trampess remembered well from her first trip some 35 years prior) – the jewel of the museum, a huge room filled with Breughels: the calendar paintings, the peasant wedding feast, carnival, the tower of Babel and more! With the most important Velasquezes on loan, this was the room to be in. There was no point being anywhere else (happily, our friends share our philosophy: see a few splendid things and leave; do not ruin the experience of the great by feeling obliged to see the rest. Harsh but very rewarding), so after an hour we left for lunch. The restaurant was again amazing but not thanks to your trampess (almost everything she had chosen was closed or fully booked, post Mass Sunday lunches being very popular) – but the concierge worked very hard to find us the perfect venue: the seventh floor of an hotel overlooking Stefan’s Dom. Japanese and Austrian cuisine in remarkably successful counterpoint. The trampess had to cut her meal short (well not before a totally decadent pudding) to jump the underground for the airport: one stop and an easy connection to the fast airport train. Of course, all of you know Murphy’s Law, a corollary of which is that if something is so easy to find “you can’t miss it”, this is surely not the case. To say that I went around in circles trying to locate the entrance to the fast train is the rational description of the frenzied dance I did. Eventually, with the aid of some Italians also going to the airport, I managed to get on the fast train after the one I should have easily made, having first rejected the slow train (I would have definitely missed the flight), a taxi (I would have likely missed the flight) whereas with the fast train I had a least two minutes to reach the ticket counter. Every now and then, I am happy to have discovered the joy of running – this was one of those occasions. Sprinting was easy, the crucial part was sprinting in the right direction. I followed a young English girl who was also on the train and also looked a little nervous throughout the 16 minute journey. Intuition bore fruit – we arrived at the Easyjet counter with 1 minute to spare, checked in, shared war stories on the way to the gate, sat next to each other on the plane, discovered a mutual love of opera and, in short, became new best friends.