‘Early Morning Run in... Vienna'

The alumni and culture and history of this city are incredible. Where to start; Johann Strauss, Adolf Hitler, Mozart, Beethoven (“applaud my friends, the comedy is over”), Franz Ferdinand (“look at the view from this bridge”), Arnold Schwarzenegger (“the best activities for your health are pumping and humping”), Schubert, Ultravox (“OOOhhhhh Vienna”), Haydn, Sigmund Freud (“sometimes a cigar is just a cigar”), Marie Antoinette (“let them eat sausage rolls”), and many others who’ve help shape the world.

We are in Vienna in December, on the banks of the Danube. A 2-day conference. First impression, what a beautiful city. 

As I’m stretching, and reflecting back over a typical boozy conference dinner at the Schönbrunn Palace last evening, I admit to feeling a little groggy. Let’s return to that meal a little later...

0645 hrs. One degree C. C for chilly. Let’s have a quick waltz around this Viennese delight.

Vienna was via Bamako in a roundabout sort of way. 

Bamako. 

I’m overseeing a fire drill during a hotel security audit. The hotel is reluctant to cause any panic. Understandable, given the events in this hotel 3 years ago.

Hang on, we have to hold off. Looks like a VIP has turned up in a 4 vehicle convoy at the hotel entrance. He has a strange haircut, like a knotted platted orange rope along the centre of his black shaven head. 

Someone (maybe his agent) is busy organising the Malian paparazzi. The fellow with the comical hair sits proudly on a hastily produced white garden plastic chair. The camouflage vehicle on which he poses, with a mounted machine gun, is commonly called a ‘technical’ in Africa.

The armed soldiers, wearing full-face black balaclavas, pose either side of the celebrity, making gestures with fingers and arms, the sort of thing modern youth do, most of the time for no apparent reason. 

Come on; a white plastic chair in the back of a camouflaged technical, soldiers with AK47s making hip-hop moves, local paps taking photos, a celebrity with an orange rope on his head...

I mean, they look ridiculous. Fancy wearing balaclavas in this heat?

The fire drill is stalled as people gather in the reception area. Some preempting the exercise, some wondering about the fellow with the strange orange barnet. My mind goes back to an episode of Fawlty Towers.

The red lights flash. The piercing alarm sounds. A hotel worker parades around the lobby like a peacock with fanned feathers carrying a loudhailer telling everyone; “this a drill, please do not evacuate, don’t panic.”

I want to tell the peacock there are only 2 things which make West Africans panic. Number one, and the most important is ‘LOW BATTERY’. Number two, either bullets or tear gas flying around.

Mr. VIP walks through the crowd. He looks athletic. A smart tailored blue jacket, a red and white polka dot pocket handkerchief, top button fastened, narrow red trousers, brown suede loafers with no socks. If I had to be critical, the pants seem 3 inches too short, the fashion with the late 20s/early 30s set in London these days, I believe? Oh, and the designer facial growth.

The fire crowd and the VIP posse mingle easily. No drama. There’s no tear gas. VIP comes past me and politely says, with a cheery smile, “Bonjour, sava?”

I’ve been trying to guess the identity of Mr. VIP for the past 10 minutes. My first thought was Jeremy Clarkson, but the accent is all wrong.

I discover he’s a Premiership footballer. He plays for Crystal Palace and previously Liverpool. I nod and mumble a restrained, “Bonjour, Bienvenue.”

The fire drill ends well, everyone shuffles back to their rooms. Mamadou Sakoh (thanks Google) moves to the lobby to give an interview. A surreal event in most places, here just another day in paradise; well, Bamako. Sh*t, a vibration, a gentle throbbing in my trousers. What? I need to charge my phone!

Vienna.

Here’s the base. The Ritz Carlton. Very agreeable digs. Let’s jog towards the museum quarter.

I feel sluggish this morning, but the scenery is uplifting.

Over the road a Christmas market in a rather grand setting.

It’s an easy jog this morning to show you the sights. 35 mins gone. The last leg, I want us to finish at the river. Then we’ll walk back and have breakfast together. The famous ‘Not so Blue Danube’, well according to Strauss when he wrote the famous waltz in 1866.

We have about a 1 km to walk back to the hotel as a warm down. Let me tell you about last night at Schönbrunn Palace. It started great, a guided tour and a champagne reception afterwards. I stand next to the guide picking up titbits to share with you. 

The tour lasts an hour. I’m on message, even asking questions. The Habsburg’s who ruled Austria for centuries until 1914. The room of a 1,000 candles.

Vienna was heavily bombed in the latter part of the war. 26% of all buildings in Vienna were destroyed (thanks guide). 206 bombs were dropped in this area in one night. One scored a direct hit. The end ceiling was repaired post-war. The target was the Nazi SS barracks at the rear of the Palace (I was listening). Napoleon stories, Marie Antoinette tales. A great deal happened in this grand summer palace.

Post-tour, plenty of champagne quaffed at the upstairs reception, courtesy of a sponsor. Anyway, the preamble. Dinner is in a restaurant within the Palace grounds, featuring an all Austrian menu.

I’m sat at a lively table. The conversation and the wine flow smoothly. The restaurant has a theatrical feel to it.

Oh oh, the two heavy large red velvet curtains slowly open, behind which is a well-lit stage. This is a theatre dinner show. The props scream Danny La Rue/camp/Euro style.

Here’s the double act. A hammy comedian/piano player and a Marlene Dietrich type singer. Brits are generally non-plussed by this stuff, our European brothers lap it up. It’s camp, cheesy but strangely enjoyable. She’s running through those German oompah numbers with minimal audience participation. He’s telling some old jokes between numbers. Somehow it works.

She’s now knocking out, credit where credit is due she has a good set of pipes, an Edif Piaf number. I’m on an energetic table next to the stage, we’re engaged and enjoying ourselves. We’re singing the choruses, waving our arms. The sort of thing you do at Euro’tainment’.

I mean, how can you not; Non, rien de rein, non, je ne regrette rien...

Audience members on stage for the finale? A couple of suckers to be grabbed methinks. Edif is taken with our tables enthusiastic support… and close proximity to the stage. Before I can say, “je regrette everything”, she’s focused on moi. Merde, look awkward and dodge it, or laugh and pretend you love it? There’s about 150 of us at the dinner. She has the forearms of a docker and is locked on. Her white fluffy boa is around my neck. Option 1, or option 2? I should have seen this coming and given it a wider swerve than I give the Big Issue seller on Penrith High Street. 

When in Vienna... a red Christmas hat firmly in place and holding a brass bell for percussion. The other fellow kitted out the same. A German version of Jingle Bells, complete with kitsch dance steps follows.

I must admit, it all came a little too easily. The final picture (from the video) of the 5th and last post of 2018.

It only leaves me to say to you all; have a wonderful Christmas and a healthy and prosperous New Year. See you in 2019.

In closing, I have a favour to ask. If you’ve enjoyed the blog, please post a reply, and/or spread the word on your own social media. Thank you.

P.S. The last word goes to 'The Third Man'. Harry Lime: "Don't be so gloomy... After all, it's not that awful. Remember what the fellow said... in Italy for thirty years under the Borgias, they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed. They produced Michaelangelo, da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland, they had brotherly love - five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did they produce? The cuckoo clock. So long Holly."

A photo of the Riesenrad Giant Ferris wheel in Vienna (since 1897) was part of the plan...