Scenes of Vienna

Studio Moliere, a Sunday matinee at the Wiener Kindertheater. It’s the final performance of this year’s show, Der Talismann of Johann Nestroy – a comedy of jealousy and disguise and the ultimate triumph of honor over appearances.

The theater is abuzz with parents and children – at least half the audience is under 12, or so it seems, from the froth of giggles bubbling over the heads of the crowd. The lights go down; a hush settles over the room. Every seat is full.

A recent five-night stand by the quintessential Irish folk group The Dubliners answered the question of what to do when members from years past pass on: you keep playing with them anyway.

At the timeless old cabaret theater Metropol on the edge of the Gürtel, the Irishmen made another annual visit to Vienna in September to reminisce about former founding members Luke Kelly, Ronnie Drew and Ciaran Bourke, while keeping the music alive for future generations.

It had been almost 40 years to the day since Woodstock, that now-mythical concert that just “happened” on Max Yasgur’s farm in Bethel, New York and so set the standard for self-expression and social progress. Or, whatever it was.

Having missed that one by a couple of generations, I set out to experience as best I could the biggest “happening” of the mid 20th century, at least in my neighborhood. I bought an €8 ticket to watch Michael Wadleigh’s documentary Woodstock at the “Kino wie noch nie” in the Augarten.

An eight-day music festival? For those unfamiliar with the annual Sziget (pronounced see-get) festival in Budapest, the prospect of a week-long party may seem daunting. To the tens of thousands who go each August, the reality is heavenly.

There is no feeling quite so moving as experiencing history. To be in a place, in a moment, in a feeling, that had cradled a spark that has affected us all can be beyond measure.

In Vienna, some may venture to see where Freud did his research, where Mozart played his music, or see the places from which the Hapsburgs ruled their Empire. But, on a beautiful Saturday morning, I discovered a corner of Vienna unknown to many.

In one part of the grove of trees, a dozen people still sober enough to stand are dancing wildly around in a circle. Nearby, some other folks are gnashing on a Stelze from a spit. In the bushes, a man is trying to make a move on his female companion. Scenes from the annual Donauinselfest? No, but in a sense they might have been: These are little-known frescoes of a medieval Bacchanal from a Vienna of an earlier time, tucked away in the heart of the city’s 1st District.

But if you’ve been with me so far, you know that I am very clear that we British are different from the Continentals. I was brought up in Middle England, as I told you, under the strict rules of Purity, Piety and Hypocrisy (also half-arsed alliteration.) I was taught to treat anyone without a bowler hat and an umbrella with fear, suspicion and a sharpened bayonet.

In other words, England is England and the Continent is, well, something else entirely. To get to Europe, the British have to cross the Channel. And even then, we don’t know what Europe is really like, as our British sensibilities are still doing the perceiving.

Early in 1809, Napoleon advanced from Bavaria into Austria, hoping to capitalize on his victory at Raszyn.

But the Austrian commander, Archduke Karl, proved a worthy adversary and at the massive Battle of Aspern-Essling (May 22, 1809) dealt the French leader his first significant tactical defeat.

I pass the row of parked police cars and turn the corner, not expecting what I am about to see. Although the protest was only announced to begin in an hour’s time, there are already hundreds of people flocking before the Parliament, standing in groups on the sunny sidewalk, perched on the steps by the fountain, or huddled around the tall white pillars that buttress the Greek-style roof of the building. They are literally of all shapes and sizes, colors and demographic backgrounds, encompassing babies and pensioners, hippies with beer cans, students with backpacks and sophisticated young couples in linen pants and button-down shirts alike.

A Wednesday evening in mid April: The weather was unseasonably mild, warm enough even to sit out at Skopik and Lohn, the 2nd District bistro where I had reserved a table for a dinner interview with Australian poet John Mateer.

Walking up the Leopoldsgasse, the globe lamps along the façade shed a soft glow over the wooden café tables spread across the broad sidewalk in front of the restaurant.