Disaster in Vienna!

It was 6AM on a cold, dark Vienna morning, as I sat bolt upright in bed with alarm bells ringing in my ears. Confusion. Panic. What was going on? I turned my head and saw a half-naked man asleep next to me. "Are you sure your clock's in sync with the environment?!" I asked, with more than a little urgency.

Perhaps I should give a little background to this bizarre opening, which is only reported here thanks to secondary sources. I certainly have no recollection of it. But for the sake of gaining what little clarity there might be to be gained, let me take you back to five days previously, as our little band of travellers discovers Vienna..

It was 9AM on a bright, sunny Vienna morning. We had arrived in Vienna, fresh off the train straight into our second city of the trip. Only one of our gang spoke German (The Pristine Marmott), so three of us were left to grope at linguistic familiarity to gain any semblance of understanding. Our Marmott leader (with exquisite skill) guided us towards the right metro platform, and we zipped off into the city. From there we boarded a tram and, with all the politesse he could muster, Mr. Marmott asked the driver, "Geht dieses Strassenban nach Karlieterplatz?". Silence. The question was asked again. All eyes were focussed on our first Austrian civil servant. Perhaps he gave a short, sharp nod of his head. Perhaps it was our imaginations. What is certain is that his eyes did not budge from their straight-and-frontwards gaze and he absolutely gave no second thought to the possibility of removing the garish sunglasses that adorned said looking-balls. Ahh, yes -- this was the Austria we were expecting! We were really there..

When we got to the apartment, we discovered it was all that we had hoped for and more. Plush, lush and with not one iota of squash needed, we'd hit the jackpot. Bags dumped and turds likewise, The Pristine Marmott and The Disgusting Hippo took the metro back to the train station to advance-book our next train which would take us from Vienna to Prague the following Friday, whilst The Hugless Stone and myself made several trips to the supermarket to buy the neccessary supplies we needed to cook ourselves the meal of a lifetime. Mushrooms, peppers, tomatoes, pasta and a suspect "mixed meat" were unceremoniously dumped on the counter of the 'Billa' store, where we were served by a delightful Viennese man in his mid-twenties with a mullet who periodically supped from a sneaky beer he had hidden behind the counter.

Two hours later and the first home-cooked meal of the trip was ready. The gang of four sat down to tuck in. All agreed it was an impressive feat, but there were notes, none more forcibly intoned than by The Disgusting Hippo, who told us in no uncertain terms that "it was too salty and there wasn't enough but without all the flaws it was a solid seven out of ten". Now that's a kind of logic I can get behind.

We spent the afternoon exploring Vienna at it's most beautiful, before traversing the Leopold Museam, home to the world's largest collection of Egon Schiele art. Engrossing and fascinating, no doubt, but for the sake of this blog probably very boring for me to write about and you to write about*.

* "But Sam!" you might be saying, "nothing in this blog is worth you writing about nor us reading about!", to which I'd have to reply, "Fair enough. No argument here.."

The only amusement was found when we saw a special exhibition about a painter who created half a dozen different versions of a painting called 'Dance of the Dead' over his career. Of his fourth attempt he was quoted as having said, "..in the meantime, I have painted 'Dance of the Dead' again.."

Maybe it's just me, but I found the possibility of imagining the unedited quote to be endlessly hilarious: "Dear Diary.. today I dropped the kids off from school.. I drove Wendy to get her hair cut.. I made a soup and did a little gardening.. in the meantime, I have painted 'Dance of the Dead' again.."

Okay, as I said, maybe it's just me.

In the evening we once again took to the streets to discover the city by night. We were invited in to a seedy looking Italian take-away by the friendly owner who looked like he was running the business purely as a money-laundering front for a drug operation, but the sign in the window offered 32 apple-sour shots for a cool 20 euros so we had no choice but to go with the flow. 32 shots later and we stumbled out, happy as a gang of proverbial "Larry"'s. Somewhat lacking confidence in our ability to walk long distances at this point, we took the pubs as they came. First, a dingy looking smoke-arena called 'Bar Casablanca' which took a perhaps slightly unhealthy fascination with old Bogey in that classic flick. Next, it was 'Kenny's Irish Pub', which tried to look sophisticated by lining its walls with endless shelves of books**.

** Closer inspection revealed such classics as Michael Moore's "Adventures in a TV Nation", David Beckham's autobiography and an original William Shatner-penned 'Star Trek' novel. Needless to say, The Hugless Stone was in heaven after discovering the latter.

After a few drinks and a few hours we were ready to head home, upbeat at having scored an invitation to a rave the following night from one of the bartenders. The high spirits continued as we made our way to the metro station, and still as we split into pairs to race to our desired platform (The Hippo and The Stone taking the lift, The Marmott and I taking the escalator). As they waited on the floor below for their great glass beast and we rose towards the ceiling out of view, The Hugless Stone gave me a wave and, with a sordid pleasure, whispered, "See you in hell, bitchessss......."

From there, the evening turned sour. Apple sour.

The Marmott and I (as expected) reached the top in mere seconds, and waited with more than enough smug attitude for our tardy companions to catch up with us. We waited, we waited, and we waited. Eventually, one of us realised they weren't coming. I volunteered to stay put in case they did show up (thus pre-emptively avoiding a hilarious upstairs/downstairs Marx Brothers style confusion), whilst The Marmott trundled off around the station at high pace, searching every nook and cranny for our dearly departed friends.

Forty-five minutes later and the worry was starting to set in. With gravitas worthy of Morgan Freeman, I turned to The Marmott and told him, "Two smart guys like that don't get lost, they don't hide, they don't play pranks like that.. something's happened". In my mind, the Ennio Morricone music had already kicked in long ago. I was just about ready for my close-up. "Look, maybe they're fine and they're waiting for us back at the apartment and one day we'll all laugh about this, but right now we're separated in a city where they don't speak the language, they might be hanging upside-down on fish-hooks in a dingy basement, preparing to gasp their lasts, all the while praying we've taken the mayor hostage and threatened wild horses unless he mobilises the army to track them down!"

Okay, I may not have said it exactly like that, but you get the point. We tracked down the metro police agents and reported them missing, and after checking the security cameras to make certain they were no longer in the station, we headed home. Ten minutes later and we were walking towards our road, uncertain of what to expect, hoping to see two familiar faces sitting smiling on the doorstep awaiting us, since we had the key. With every step we took bringing us closer to that moment, every detail of our surroudings seemed of utmost importance.. the abandoned shopping cart in the middle of the road.. the flapping canape of the local butchers.. the flickering light throwing shadows onto two suspect figures in a phone box.. two suspect figures who looked suspiciously like none other than our missing compadres!

Ahh, sweet relief. Reunited at last, we traded stories and laughed many a merry laugh. But the evening wasn't over yet..

Back in the apartment, I put on my serious hat once again and raised the prospect of our distinct lack of contingency plan for unplanned separations. I wasn't angry or critical, but I did feel that perhaps our partners in travel should have put a bit more effort in their search for us than they had. In the words of The Disgusting Hippo, "we just thought you weren't coming so we thought 'Sod it' and just took the metro back to the apartment". Understandable, forgiveable, reasonable. But we were in Vienna, the safest city in the world, and we'd got lucky. We were heading east to dangerous lands.. Siberia.. Mongolia.. China.. I wasn't satisfied, and pressed the point. The Hugless Stone did not apprieciate this. As we bellowed back and forth at each other, dancing a verbal game of sticks and stones, he screamed, "I'm sure your argument is very reasonable, but I'm NOT going to give in! I DON'T apprieciate being criticised and I DON'T like your tone!"

Doors were slammed, with nary a kind "G'night..", as Day 6 came to an unhappy close.

The next morning I awoke still burning with a furious anger. The Hugless Stone came into my room. 'An apology?', I thought to myself. But it was not forthcoming. Instead, he wanted me to return the belt I'd borrowed from him at the start of the trip, as he was now switching to the other pair of jeans he'd brought with him. The belt was returned, and the rage bubbled on.

The day was low-key, as I made strong efforts to keep interaction with The Stone to a minumum and eye-contact to an absolute zero. I deal my punishments harshly but with total enforcement. These sanctions were only to be removed when a full and sincere apology had been recieved. We wandered Vienna as a foursome for much of the day, including a visit to a cemetary where we said hello to the bones of Beethoven, Mozart and Strauss, not to mention a man with the amusing moniker of 'Dr. Alferd Schreinwreiter'.

Eventually, when we were back at the apartment and The Stone and I set about our task of cooking the evening's meal, he offered up a really nice apology, and all was forgiven. We talked calmly about each other's positions on the issue and both parties considered it a happy resolution. Twenty minutes later we officially "broke bread" so to speak, as the whole group tucked into Version 2.0 of our fantastic pasta bolognese.

The night really kicked off wildstyle when we headed into Vienna once more, to the same Irish pub from the previous night. We'd originally planned to simply rendezvous with the guys there who were taking us to their so-called "crazy rave", but when we arrived it soon became clear that only one of them was there, and that his brother would only be coming a matter of hours later. No problem there, as we clicked straight away with 'George', the younger of the brothers. We talked about movies, drinking, and other such things. On the subject of music, he happily told us, "For me, when I go out? It's only drum'n'bass." This was going to be an interesting party.

As the night wore on, we got to know our new friend and the rest of the wacky characters in his world a little better. His other brother also worked in the bar. "Take your seats, gentlemen", he told us, then asked, "what's your pleasure?". We quickly dubbed him 'Idiom Jim'. "There's so much pressure in the mainstream to avoid being controversial..", he told us in a comical Viennese drawl. "That's why 90 percent of Hollywood movies are shit."

Thanks, Idiom Jim.

Eventually their tardy brother turned up to take us to the rave, so we headed off. A solid six feet with huge, flowing dreadlocks, the guy bore an impressive figure. Admittedly he was nothing short of disgusting to the eye, but he sure knew his Viennese history. As we walked past building after building he happily whipped out a story, a fact, some vague trivia. "You see that one building there?" he asked us, with a point. "That belonged to the Austrian king. He loved his black valet so much that when the man died, he had him stuffed so he could still look upon him as he pleased."

Thanks, Dreadlock Joe.

We finally arrived at the "rave", after discussing everything British from Kiera Knightley and Victoria Beckham (with a kiss of his fingers, George demonstrated his undying affection for the aforementioned ladies) to James Blunt***.

*** Dreadlock Joe was dismayed to find out that James Blunt is not Irish. "But he sounds Irish, no?", he asked us. "No, he sounds like an idiot..", The Pristine Marmott replied. "Oh.", Dreadlocks said, and with an audible defiance continued, "I actually kind of like him, and I don't know why."

AWKWARD!

So, in the end, it turned out the rave was not so much a rave, as a drum'n'bass club with heart-pounding beats and high-octane dance flava. The Marmott, The Hippo and myself got into the spirit of the thing, soaking up the atmosphere and generally living it large, whilst The Hugless Stone sat decidedly stony-faced in the corner. "Hey", George said to him at one point, "I am sensing you are not a person who is easily satisfied in your life, yes?"

However, after we'd left the club and began making our way home, The Hugless Stone was far from the crowbar in the spokes of our journey that George might have expected. We'd been walking for close to an hour, during which time we'd had a running race that resulted in The Disgusting Hippo straining a muscle in his groin. When we realised that we'd passed the same spot several times, and with The Hippo in discernible pain, we were forced to admit we were lost. The Hippo lost it, laying into The Marmott (who had been leading the way). I interjected, suggesting that perhaps we should have taken an alternate road at one point, and was rewarded with a full-force verbal assult from The Marmott. "Maybe you should be leading us then!", the tirade began, quickly descending into an unloading of every minute twitch of anger he'd bottled up towards me over the previous 7 days. "Frankly, you don't do anything! You need too much sleep, you're lazy, you don't help out, you're a leech! You have no worth on this trip, and frankly you're argument yesterday was ridiculous! Of course nothing had happened to them, we're not going to get robbed, it just will not happen!" he continued, blasting me with everything he had an a whole barrel more. "You're naive if you think that," I responded, "and I won't feel safe travelling with you until you get your head in the same space as mine about this". Quick as a flash, he fired back.. "Well then maybe you need to re-think whether you should stay with us at all in future.

Thanks, Marmott.

The next morning I awoke still burning with a furious anger. It was Day 8, and we'd planned to take a day-trip to Bratislava (the capital of Slovakia), leaving as early as we could in the morning in order to fully enjoy the city which had been recommended to us by The Hugless Stone's mother as a "post-communist industrial sprawl". Inspiring. I rolled over in bed and saw The Pristine Marmott still asleep next to me. I got the hell away, heading for the shower.

The day went as badly as could be imagined. I maintained the same cold freeze-out towards The Marmott that I had towards The Stone only one day earlier. Bratislava fulfilled expectations.. it was dirt-cheap and shit-boring. Still fixed in our tourist ways and at the enforcement of The Marmott, we paid a visit to the world's least attractive castle. Even the other three guys who didn't share my down-in-the-dumps spirits concluded that the place was a dump, and we headed back to Vienna by mid-afternoon in order to save the evening.

On the train ride back I blasted my iPod loud and considered my situation. Now, I know I promised not to talk about thoughts and feelings and especially not my deepest emotions in this blog, but I will say I sorely considered if this was the right trip for me to be taking. Company, location, duration.. nothing was off-limits. I was seriously thinking about junking the whole trip and coming home early, but decided to give it a few more days.

At long last, after insincere apologies and check-ups all day, The Marmott finally cornered me alone back at the apartment and said a real sorry. This time I felt it was real, and we were alright again.

Now, thank god that gay-ass wimpy shit is out of the way. This blog can finally get back on track. The night began for real, as all four of us sat down to an epic game of Texas Hold'Em poker, playing with peanuts for chips. "Hungry?" The Hugless Stone asked the table at large. "You want to eat, you eat your money". Four hours later The Marmott emerged victorious, although you might say we were all winners, having been witness to The Disgusting Hippo drinking a pint of beer through his t-shirt. Ahh, sweet semi-permeable goodness..

From then onwards, our time in Vienna was a non-stop laugh-fest. A trip to the local internet cafe the next morning saw me accosted by the two African guys who ran the place, who asked me in no uncertain terms to help them fix their printer. I obliged, but was somewhat hampered by the unheard of quantity of trans-sexual pornography all over the screen. "Oh, err, whoops.." said one of the guys over my shoulder, "what is that doing there?"

Thanks, crazy internet dudes.

We took a trip to Vienna's famous 'Big Wheel', featured in the Orson Welles film "The Third Man". The Hugless Stone, our resident nerd, insisted I film him re-enacting said movie's pinnacle scene at the base of the iconic construction. Finally, in preparation for our impending early morning dash to the train station the following day, we headed back to the apartment for food and poker. Both were incredible, and entirely rewarding. This time having played for "real money", by the end of the game I'd made off with a cool 18 cents profit.

It was 6AM, cold and dark the following Vienna morning, as I sat bolt upright in bed with alarm bells ringing in my ears. Confusion. Panic. What was going on? I turned my head and saw a half-naked man asleep next to me. "Are you sure your clock's in sync with the environment?!", I asked, with more than a little urgency.

"Sam, go back to sleep..", The Pristine Marmott told me, for he was my night-time companion. "I'll have the first shower".

Yes, Day 10 rolled around with all the expected madness that ought to come with our leaving Vienna to journey to Prague, although we made it to the train station with ultimate time to spare and I got to experience first hand just how annoying having an old-lady porter in a public toilet can be. I've done this stuff for 18 years, ma'am. No offence, but I know how to open a stall door and I can certainly take my own toilet paper. I'm all for job-creation schemes, but at a certain point and place, intrusion just becomes downright inappropriate and the world of the WC is definitely one such place.

Oh, but as regular readers will know, I could discuss the woes of public toilets until the cows come home. This blog has been far too long as it is, and I should definitely leave myself something to write about next time. All in all, Vienna gets two thumbs up, and as we headed for the train I caught myself thinking it might turn out to be the best city of the whole trip. All that would change when we got to Prague, but to read about our adventures in said Czech capital, you'll have to stay tuned..

Cheerio, readers!