Chapter 10: A week in Vienna

They say pride goes before a fall.

As with any writing project, I've been kicking possible ideas around in my head for a couple of posts in advance. A couple of weeks ago I'd been all set to pat myself on the back for this piece about being in Vienna, which takes me up to the milestone day 50 of the trip. I was all set to write a post where I expressed amazement that not only am I still writing - I really didn't think I'd keep it going this long - but also that I'd gotten this far without anything going badly wrong. Without making any big mistakes. Then I lost my testing kit, which was bad. And then I lost my insulin kit, which was worse. A lot, lot worse. A very big mistake.

I had prepared for this. I came with two sets of two pens (because I take two types of insulin) each: one stays in the shoulder bag I take with me everywhere, and the other is in my backpack. Except when I am moving from hostel to hostel, then, I always have injecting kits in two different locations. It's really only the moves from location to location where I feel vulnerable or exposed on this trip: the nightmare scenario is being mugged and having both bags stolen, for which there's really no possible mitigation strategy other than being alert and avoiding dark alleys.

Having the spare set is what enables me to go out and enjoy my day without constantly looking over my shoulder. I can lose my wallet, my phone and even my passport and I can get things back on track after a couple of days and a few hundred dollars. But lose my insulin and I'm in immediate, very complicated trouble. It's not simply a case of buying new pens at a pharmacy: I use a rare type that can only be purchased directly from Novo Nordisk, and they're an old model so I wasn't even sure they could be replaced. So when I went to inject my lunchtime insulin in Vienna and found that my primary set was missing, it wasn't quite a catastrophe, but it was certainly a disaster. I could still take my insulin, but my safety blanket was gone. 

I assume all the colour drained from my face. I hadn't actually checked into the hostel yet, but I'd used the luggage room and the showers, and I frantically raced to reception and pleaded to have the keys to each room back so I could retrace my steps. Nothing. I'd gone to the supermarket around the corner an hour earlier, and dashed back there, tearing up and down the aisles hoping they had fallen out of my bag there. Nothing, and while the staff didn't know what I was talking about we established that they hadn't collected any lost property. I must have left them on the train. 

I couldn't believe I was so stupid. With help from the hostel staff we contacted the Austrian train company and asked them to check the train - I was able to tell them the exact spot I'd been sleeping in - but they said no, sorry, it wasn't possible. Lost property is updated once each morning. No, they would not contact the staff working on that train directly. I would have to try tomorrow.

So that was at least 24 hours of anxiety and self-recrimination I could look forward to, then. And assuming they didn't turn up my chances of actually enjoying being in Vienna were shot to pieces. I divided the remaining kit into two - that is, I separated the two surviving pens, thinking I would simply have to switch between using the different cartridges whenever I was out of the hostel. I couldn't risk having none left, if something happened to the spare set, so one would have to stay with my backpack. It was going to be a pain in the proverbial, but it'd just have to do. And I emailed Novo to ask about getting more.

Suffice to say, my appetite for going out and exploring was gone. Once they let me check in I went to the room, curled up in the bed and tried to not hate myself for making everything so complicated. I just kept running through it over and over in my head, both because I couldn't believe I'd been so stupid, and because I couldn't believe I'd been so stupid. I started mentally replaying the entire day. 

This was on day 44 of the trip, and that's long enough for habits to form. And one of them is that I never get on or off a train without checking that I have my supply of insulin cartridges, wallet, phone, passport and injecting kit. My testing kit was part of the checklist too, since the mishap in Italy (it really should have been all along). The evidence might have suggested I'd left it on the train, but I *knew* I hadn't left it on the train.

There'd been five of us in the compartment. Myself, three Slovakian women who said the best thing about being in Florence was that their husbands and kids were in Slovakia, and a retired Austrian teacher named Peter. We'd eaten breakfast together in the compartment, and I'd obviously injected my insulin then. And I couldn't have left the insulin on the bed after that, because the train staff had come in and converted it back into a row of seats for the last hour of the trip. I had gathered up all my stuff, and even if I hadn't the staff member would have picked it up and asked whose it was.

My insulin wasn't on the train.

Peter the ex-teacher is a lovely fellow and wanted to help me find my feet in Vienna. He ignored my mild protests that he should go home and get some rest while I sorted myself out (and maybe sat for ten minutes on the station wifi and caught up with the world, too), and so I duly followed him to the information desk and on to the tobacco shop where I could apparently buy the ticket. I had my credit card ready, but they only took cash so I had to rummage through my bag for my wallet to find a €20 note, taking out a couple of items and sitting them on the counter while I found it. As the shopkeeper was issuing my change I turned towards Peter, but he was already heading off so I quickly raced after him, to thank him for his help and -

Ah. There was a good chance I knew where my insulin was. 

I half-walked, half-ran back to the tram station and headed back towards the central railway station. It was past 4PM and I didn't know when the tobacco shop would close, and I was a touch breathless in my haste when I found my way back there. The man who served me was gone, replaced by two women. Had anybody left any lost property behind that morning? A black pouch with two insulin pens in it? Something that looked vaguely medical and important?

The older of the two women didn't answer, but turned and said something in German to her colleague. She didn't say anything either, but crossed the room, ducked below the counter and, sensing the drama of the moment and enjoying every second of it, slowly raised my insulin up in front of her.

I could have kissed her, but that would have been wildly inappropriate. I could have kissed the insulin, but that would have been just plain weird. So I just held the insulin in front of my face and smiled at it for a few seconds. With hindsight I must have been doing my best impression of Rafael Nadal, holding the Wimbledon trophy aloft. Nobody judges *him* as being weird for kissing his prize.

****

So Vienna got off to a rough start. And there were more setbacks to come. But my walk around the centre of town that evening, with my insulin safely back in my bag, was probably the most triumphant march through Vienna since the Soviets arrived in 1945. Speaking of which, this monument to that very event must infuriate the Austrian right:

The Austrian flag is of course red and white, and the world's best colour combination pops up everywhere, literally out of the ground:

When I turned for home I used the train system for the first time and was prompted to validate my ticket. If I didn't mind. Only if it was no trouble. No pressure.

I'd wonder how they ever actually sell a ticket, since I saw no ticket inspectors all week, but this is one of those countries, like Japan, where people wait at pedestrian lights even when no cars, let alone police are in sight. I don't think breaking the law ever occurs to your average Austrian. 

Back at the hostel, I found myself in rarefied intellectual company. The six bed dorm had two PhD students - Christina from Czechia and I-forget-his-name from Lithuania who were in Vienna for the same climate change conference. Becca from Hawaii and Ivan from Bulgaria are both Masters of International Relations students in Moscow. The fifth dorm mate, Ja Shin, was from Taiwan. I'm not sure what her academic history is like, but she speaks five languages so it hardly matters. I got along wonderfully with Becca and Ivan, and we've made tentative plans to catch up again in Moscow. I had the pleasure of introducing them both to Tim Minchin, but they seemed a little lost when I was describing footy and asked them to imagine a cross between rugby and basketball, in which you get a consolation point for trying but failing to kick a goal.

The next day I headed out to the Schonbrunn Palace, somewhat hesitantly after my miserable experience at Versailles. It was the summer residence of the Habsburg emperors of Austria, though you have to wonder why they bothered moving at all: it's only 5.6km away from their main residence. It's a similar size to Versailles, but less gaudy - the Habsburgs had a more subdued, dare I say more tasteful, style than Louis XIV - and it has approximately six billion fewer people trying to visit on any given day. The visit was a relaxed, well managed delight. The only disappointment was not being allowed to take any photos inside. 

I had my second setback on day three. It was another cold and rainy day - my delusions of having skipped winter for a year are long gone - and I spent much of the morning vacillating over whether to go to the zoo. What I hadn't realised at the time I had planned the week in Vienna was that May Day is a public holiday, which meant bigger crowds for whatever was open over the long weekend, but also that a lot would be closed. So my choice for the zoo was dreary weather on a quiet day, or clearer skies but too many pram jams.

Having decided on the rain, I ducked into the supermarket near the hostel for some supplies. An elderly gentleman with a trolley stood back to allow me to go through the entrance gate first, and, as a pointless gesture of thanks I turned to hold the gate open for him behind me. A painful mistake. Unprepared for my pointless gesture of thanks, he was using the trolley to push the gates open, and he was being forceful about it. The result: one badly smashed dominant left hand.

The pain worsened rapidly as I rushed around the shop, trying to buy enough snacks for what might have become a long wait in a hospital ER. By the time I was at the checkout I was struggling so much that the lady working there - she was accustomed by now to my Viennese travails, having assisted with the frantic attempt to find the insulin two days earlier - felt sorry for me and gave me one of those Lindt Easter bunnies to cheer me up. It didn't reduce the pain at all, but it turns makes grown men feel that little bit better, not just small children.

For a while I feared at least one finger was broken, which would have caused all manner of problems from having to find a doctor and wrangle my travel insurance, to not being able to fill out immigration and customs forms at borders, to the most pressing of all: not being able to inject my insulin. But after consulting my learned friend Gemma via a hasty Messenger video call (thanks again, Gem), we established that it was very swollen but *probably* not broken, and I'd best get some medical tape and painkillers. By the time that was done and I could think through the pain enough to want to do something with the day it was 2PM. The zoo would have to wait. 

Wanting to salvage something of the day, I turned instead to the Vienna Museum of Natural History, an old-school museum full of meteorites, fossils and thousands of stuffed animals, and from there to the Haus des Meeres. It's the weirdest aquarium I've ever been to, because it's built inside a World War II anti-aircraft tower. It's ten stories high, but because the building is so narrow each floor only had a couple of small exhibits. I read some signs detailing the history of the building, and it said they had put the aquarium there in the 1950s after deciding the tower couldn't be demolished safely, so they wanted to use it for something 'peaceful' to counter its violent origins. The signs referred to 'the forces of fascism' as opposed to 'Nazi Germany' or anything else that might be mistaken as a synonym for 'Austria'. Perhaps just a little bit of distancing from uncomfortable history is going on.

As much as I wanted to sleep that night, my over-sized purple hand had other ideas, and so Friday became a light day. I wandered about the Naschmarkt - essentially a small Queen Vic Market - and discovered that the world's best falafel balls are sold there and that they only cost 20c each. I was coming to the conclusion that I would very happily live in Vienna, if only it would stop beating me up and hiding my insulin.

The real point of the day, though, was the Vienna State Opera. A seat would have run to about €60, but if you're willing to wait for a couple of hours every single performance here has standing room tickets, open for sale that day, for just €4. Because I was there early and got into the front row, this was my €4 vantage point for The Marriage of Figaro:

A better view than most of the stalls, and no frippery tuxedo required. The show was wonderful, but I was so tired - and so lost, given I could understand nothing of the story - that I left at intermission, feeling I'd gotten my €4 worth.

My weekly ritual humiliation - this time against Carlton - was scheduled for 6:10AM the next morning. Having had virtually no sleep, I broke with the habit of a lifetime and didn't set my alarm. The AFL app has a feature where you can switch off the scores, so I figured I could watch our horrible loss unfold from the beginning without spoilers to tempt me not to watch. Unfortunately I still woke up at 6:15, and while sleeping through a game is one thing, going *back* to sleep when you know your team is flailing hopelessly across the MCG is another. Sleep would have to wait for another day. 

I finally made it to the zoo later that day. It's in the grounds of the Schonbrunn Palace and dates back to 1752, making it the world's oldest continually operating zoo. And unlike the one in Paris, Vienna has managed to combine its legacy of historical architecture with some genuinely cutting edge design, making it one of the best zoos in the world. And I may have my poor purple finger to thank for how much I enjoyed it, too. Several of the best parts of the zoo had been closed for weeks before my visit to control an outbreak of bird flu, and after contacting the zoo for details about when they would re-open, I'd largely given up hope. They would test the birds in 'late April', I was told, and they could reopen only if the results all came back as negative. But when I arrived all of the quarantined sections were back operating, and I suspect the delay caused by my crushed finger might have made the difference. In a week where little seemed to be going right, this was a welcome change of luck.

I made one more zoo stop the next day, but this one involved popping over to the next country. Bratislava - the capital of Slovakia - is only 70km from Vienna, so it's an easy day trip. As soon as you get off the train you can see you're somewhere with a very different history and experience to Vienna: roofs that would be tiled there are instead covered with corrugated iron here. Concrete replaces bricks, and the buses are at least ten years older on average. 


I'll have a lot more to say on encountering the legacy of Communism in my next post, but this was a helpful early introduction to post-Communist Europe, where I will be spending much of the next three months. I'd planned to visit the zoo and from there head for a walk around the old town, but the zoo took longer than expected and I couldn't make much sense of the bus network, which isn't yet covered by Google Maps. Deciding not to get lost in Bratislava after dark, I issued a mental IOU to Slovakia, which probably deserves more than four hours of my time, and retreated back to Vienna. The zoo, by the way, has an admirable level of dedication to scientific rigour in its work. Either that or they are really concerned about a rush of complaints that it took 21 steps to get to the baboons:

My last day in Vienna was May Day, and with little expectation that anything would be open I just caught a train into town to see what I could find. I ate some chocolate cake from a bag, in homage to John and Yoko (doubt I'll be spending a week in bed at the Amsterdam Hilton, alas). Then I walked past the imperial crypt, which was open, and the people in front of me were a group of nine who had mistakenly bought ten tickets, so would I like to join them for free? The Habsburgs must have had a sideline in piracy, because many of the tombs had skull and crossbones carved into them.

Once done with dead royals, I followed the sound of a loudspeaker to a May Day rally. Not the sort that I could summon much solidarity for, alas. These guys aren't even your garden variety, middle class-guilt-ridden Trots. That's Lenin, Stalin *and* Mao on the banner. 

I mean, Trotsky's war crimes aren't particularly well known and there was the unfortunate incident with the ice pick, so I can at least imagine how naive wannabe revolutionaries might be drawn towards him. And Mao had a bestselling book of clever quotes. But Stalin? 

Later that afternoon, walking through a garden, I was interrupted by a New York accent saying 'excuse me, sir?' I turned around to see a man walking towards me, away from his wife and a gaggle of small children. At first I thought I'd dropped something, but there was nothing on the ground, and he kept approaching. I asked if there was something wrong, but he just kept coming closer and so my left hand darted into my pocket, ready to grab my phone, and I put my right arm across my bag as he got too close for comfort.

"Hey, buddy", he leaned in and whispered, "do you know whereabouts you can buy some weed here?" He seemed a bit put out when I burst out laughing. You grow one little beard and everybody thinks you're a stoner.