I couldn't wait to leave China. It's a country that requires its foreign residents to take regular breaks for their sanity. I was excited to leave, but Beijing had one final setback for me. As per usual, every time I travel in or out of Peking airport my flight is delayed, and this occasion was no different. When I arrived in Kiev I had very little time to make my transfer, but with my notorious super speed I made it with minutes to spare. I can now add Kiev airport to Kuala Lumpur and Doha of airports that I've sprinted through due to Beijing delays. While I was lucky enough to make my flight, my luggage was not. It remained in chilly Kiev.
I awoke at 8am and the reception desk of my hostel confirmed that my case hadn't been delivered. I had been in the same clothes for about 48 hours at this point, so after breakfast I just had to go shopping. I started walking towards the shopping promenade listening to the latest On The Continent football podcast when a rather inebriated man approached me. He was nice enough so I talked to him as we walked in the same direction. His name was Toby, from Munich, and he and his friends were in Vienna for the weekend to party. It was about 10am and he was alone, so I assumed he was on his way home. I explained my drama with the missing suitcase and told him that I was going shopping.
It was rather interesting to be inside the home and office of the father of psychoanalysis. Freud was the mastermind of the interpretation of dreams, jokes, and pleasures. Freud believed that events in our childhood have a great influence on our adult lives. I had originally only come to the museum as I'm a fan of the sitcom Frasier, in which Frasier and his brother Niles comically reference him.
In the evening, I thought I'd go to the world famous Vienna State Opera. It may surprise you, but I have never been to the opera before. I didn't particularly pack the wardrobe for it, but the website said that in the cheaper standing area you could dress more casual. I tried my best, but ultimately I was still wearing a sweater, jeans, and trainers. I paid the reasonable sum of 3 euros and got myself a glass of wine as beer would have been far too white trash for such an event.
Most were dressed to the nines in their finest black tie and gown wear whereas I was rocking a look that would be more suited to a Wetherspoons. I'd have been the best dressed in the Spoons though, don't get it twisted. 10 minutes before the show was due to start I got another large red wine to take into the theatre with me. As I tried to enter a stuck up Austrian fella stopped me, looked me up and down, pointed to the wine and remarked "zis is not acceptable". I understood and replied "no worries, geezer. Wind your neck in." I downed the wine and found a good spot for the performance.
The show was rather incredible, but it's fair to say that I was a walking faux pas amongst the Viennese elite.
When the show started I didn't even know what I was due to watch. It was called Falstaff. I read the blurb of the show 30 seconds before it kicked off.
The opera house does an excellent job of accomodating the tourists by offering each seat with a screen showing the subtitles. The only trouble is that when you're standing you have to look at a 90 degree angle downwards in order to read them. This means that you can either watch the show and understand bugger all or look down at the subtitles and miss the performance. I tried my best to do both, but by Act 2 I was totally lost.
I started to watch the orchestra and they were phenomenal. It took me back to when I used to have violin lessons as a child. I started taking lessons in Year 3, which meant that I was two years behind Joe Roberts, David Cheng, and Suzy Wimborne. I tried to keep up with them, but the difference was obvious. When we were in Year 4 the four of us joined a county wide orchestral performance and I struggled to keep up. After the first few songs my violin instructor approached me and commended me on how well I was doing. At that moment I felt like a million dollars, but looking back on it now, as a teacher, she was just supporting a struggling child. I don't think I've picked up a violin since those days, but whenever I'm on a first date I always pull out the "I can play the violin" card. It's a safe bet because it makes me sound like an interesting person with many abilites and the liklihood of me having to prove it is low. I've yet to be called on it. By Year 5 I'd given up on the violin as anyone who played instruments instead of football was a dweeb. It's one of the many things in my life that I've regretted giving up.
Afterwards, my attention turned towards the actors and it's fair to say that they're all pretty hefty. Opera is the solution for singers who aren't beutiful enough to be a pop star but can hold a note. Just imagine an entire cast of men and women who look like Brian Blessed.
Would I go to the opera again? Only if it was in English. That sounds a bit Brexit. I suppose I want an English stage performance without the pretentiousness of an opera, which kind of sounds like a panto. Basically, opera is Italian panto with a better soundtrack.
In such a predicament I was overjoyed that Austrians have such a good grasp of English. I'm such an ignorant traveller as I can only speak English. My ability in other languages extend to ordering coffee in Chinese and chatting up girls in Korean - two very useful skills in my existence. I could attempt to learn another language, but I'm 29 now, which is middle-aged considering my alcohol and pork intake.
I meandered around town and marvelled at the architecture.
I awoke at 8am and the reception desk of my hostel confirmed that my case hadn't been delivered. I had been in the same clothes for about 48 hours at this point, so after breakfast I just had to go shopping. I started walking towards the shopping promenade listening to the latest On The Continent football podcast when a rather inebriated man approached me. He was nice enough so I talked to him as we walked in the same direction. His name was Toby, from Munich, and he and his friends were in Vienna for the weekend to party. It was about 10am and he was alone, so I assumed he was on his way home. I explained my drama with the missing suitcase and told him that I was going shopping.
He said "it's Sunday, there are no shops open today!" I paused while I took another disappointing blow. He then continued "well, as you're not going shopping, do you want to go to a club instead?"
"Aren't you going home?" I enquired.
"No, I got kicked out of the last club because the bouncer caught me doing a massive line in the toilets".
I wasn't aware that clubs were open so late, but when a coked up German asked you to go to a club at 10am the answer is always yes, in my book. I should probably get a new book. So, with a continental breakfast, and two coffees in my belly, off we went to Club Sass.
I soon realised that I was the only sober person to ever step foot in Club Sass. There were people off their heads on pills and cocaine, people were fighting, gay guys were kissing all around, and a girl with large breasts wearing a low-cut silk top and no bra was revealing a lot of nipple. It was probably the earliest time of the day that I'd ever seen a pair of tits. Toby and I got a few beers, he went to dance and I positioned myself opposite the girl with the tits accordingly.
Toby must have had a bladder issue as he was in and out of the bathroom quite a lot.
I stayed for a few beers, but eventually left. I made my way to the shopping street only to find out that Toby was right, every shop was closed. It says a lot about Austria that you can be off your tits on God knows what, but you can't buy a pair of underpants on Sunday mornings. Now, the only clothes I had smelled of cigarettes and alcohol. I made the most of the morning and headed to the Sigmund Freud Museum.
It was rather interesting to be inside the home and office of the father of psychoanalysis. Freud was the mastermind of the interpretation of dreams, jokes, and pleasures. Freud believed that events in our childhood have a great influence on our adult lives. I had originally only come to the museum as I'm a fan of the sitcom Frasier, in which Frasier and his brother Niles comically reference him.
"I should warn you that while Frasier is a Freudian, I am a Jungian. So there'll be no blaming Mother today!"
Niles Crane
When it comes to dream interpretation, I'm more inclined to agree with psychological manipulator, Dennis Reynolds.
"I hate listening to people's dreams. It is like flipping through a stack of photographs. If I'm not in any of them and nobody is having sex, I just don't care."
Dennis Reynolds
Upon reflection of my morning antics, I'd say that my decision to go to the club at 10am was controlled by my Id.
 |
| Sigmund Freud's waiting room. You can just imagine the nuts who've sat on this couch. |
Most were dressed to the nines in their finest black tie and gown wear whereas I was rocking a look that would be more suited to a Wetherspoons. I'd have been the best dressed in the Spoons though, don't get it twisted. 10 minutes before the show was due to start I got another large red wine to take into the theatre with me. As I tried to enter a stuck up Austrian fella stopped me, looked me up and down, pointed to the wine and remarked "zis is not acceptable". I understood and replied "no worries, geezer. Wind your neck in." I downed the wine and found a good spot for the performance.
The show was rather incredible, but it's fair to say that I was a walking faux pas amongst the Viennese elite.
When the show started I didn't even know what I was due to watch. It was called Falstaff. I read the blurb of the show 30 seconds before it kicked off.
The opera house does an excellent job of accomodating the tourists by offering each seat with a screen showing the subtitles. The only trouble is that when you're standing you have to look at a 90 degree angle downwards in order to read them. This means that you can either watch the show and understand bugger all or look down at the subtitles and miss the performance. I tried my best to do both, but by Act 2 I was totally lost.
I started to watch the orchestra and they were phenomenal. It took me back to when I used to have violin lessons as a child. I started taking lessons in Year 3, which meant that I was two years behind Joe Roberts, David Cheng, and Suzy Wimborne. I tried to keep up with them, but the difference was obvious. When we were in Year 4 the four of us joined a county wide orchestral performance and I struggled to keep up. After the first few songs my violin instructor approached me and commended me on how well I was doing. At that moment I felt like a million dollars, but looking back on it now, as a teacher, she was just supporting a struggling child. I don't think I've picked up a violin since those days, but whenever I'm on a first date I always pull out the "I can play the violin" card. It's a safe bet because it makes me sound like an interesting person with many abilites and the liklihood of me having to prove it is low. I've yet to be called on it. By Year 5 I'd given up on the violin as anyone who played instruments instead of football was a dweeb. It's one of the many things in my life that I've regretted giving up.
Afterwards, my attention turned towards the actors and it's fair to say that they're all pretty hefty. Opera is the solution for singers who aren't beutiful enough to be a pop star but can hold a note. Just imagine an entire cast of men and women who look like Brian Blessed.
Would I go to the opera again? Only if it was in English. That sounds a bit Brexit. I suppose I want an English stage performance without the pretentiousness of an opera, which kind of sounds like a panto. Basically, opera is Italian panto with a better soundtrack.
"I don't like the opera. What are they singing for? Who sings? You got something to say, say it!"
Jerry Seinfeld
On my final day I went to the Albertina Art Museum where they displayed pieces by famous artists such as Monet and Picasso. I looked around the contempory art section which just made me angry. Walter Schmogner had an exhibition of his work which included painted pigs bladders. Another was showcasing the work of Erwin Wurm who had childlike doodles mostly of men with their cocks out. That's the sort of work I was doing when I was bored in maths class at 14 years old.
I had a gander at the pieces by Picasso, he must have been a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Imagine Picasso offered to paint a picture of you, a professional artist bear in mind, and this is what he produced.
You'd encourage him to give up the painting and seek psychiatric help. Almost all the artists had the same story, homeless and penniless when they died. Well, yeah, I don't suppose there's much money in paiting offal and pictures of spunking knobs.
Anyway, that's Vienna done!
