We emerged from the gleaming Hauptbahnhof into the cool autumn sunlight and made our way over to the bright red tram. Thus began a proper introduction to the marvelously efficient, scarily punctual Austrian transportation system.
Over at my cousin’s lovely and light-filled flat, we shared a second breakfast and a long, comfortable chat – the kind you can only have with relatives you’re immensely fond of – before making our way to the palatial Schloss Belvedere, whose Klimt collection we would not have missed for all the imperial pastries in Vienna.
Picture a lovely little palace, sitting primly amidst its perfectly symmetrical gardens with not a column or balustrade out of place. Think of its bright hallways festooned with art, its galleries adorned with familiar masterpieces that make the heart leap in recognition.
Outside I sit on the steps and watch the pigeons until it is time to go home to our flat on Apostelgasse – yet another lovely, spacious home – and prepare for an evening at the Volksoper.
The state ballet is performing Die Schneekonigin, a frosty fairytale imbued with great warmth by the magic of dance.
I am not so enchanted, however, that I lose my bearings afterwards, for I safely navigate us back home – more a testament to design and engineering than my own directional capabilities.
And so ended our first day, spent in a charming, typically Viennese fashion – sugar and culture aplenty.
The rest of our stay would be just as delightful. There would be sacher torte, of course, at the Hotel Sacher itself, there would be a traditional dinner at a traditional Austrian restaurant, there would be strolls along the Ringstrasse, there would be handsome Lipizzaners in their ivory winter stable, there would even be a meal at an Argentine restaurant – Buen provecho, I said, remembering that Buenos Aires maldito from a lifetime ago.
There would be a day trip to Salzburg in a bus that played Strauss and Mozart. Thirteen degrees and a steady downpour and we still mustered the energy to sing along to the Sound of Music. Schloss Mirabell was the Von Trapp mansion of my childhood and I swear I would have twirled along that famous fountain in my bright blue dress singing Do Re Mi if I hadn’t been afraid of slipping on the rain-slicked marble, and I also successfully resisted the urge to sing in the abbey (there were no nuns to register disapproval, anyway).
Our last full day was, simply put, beautiful.
It began in the stately Schloss Schonbrunn. In the rain, it was a glittering silvery edifice; the warm autumn sunbeams that later broke through the clouds suffused it and its regal gardens with an imperial glow, and when viewed from atop the Gloriette, left us with inadequate words to express our wonder.
Then the rain started pouring in earnest as we made our way to the Palais Hansen Kempinski for a dainty afternoon high tea.
It was a very special treat, courtesy of my big boss back home (and I think he’s still upset I did not devote too much time to visiting his native Germany); the service was gracious and impeccable, beyond the cool European efficiency I anticipated; and the general manager himself kindly made an appearance.
As if our hearts could not get any fuller, the day ended with a homemade dinner at the cousins’, washed down with bitter lemon.
Then it was back to our flat for a night’s slumber filled with fairy tale dreams before we set off for another fairy tale city: Prague.
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