The Danube Blues
All metropolitan cities have one thing in common — they are never finished. Vienna, as well as not being finished, is also a hell of a long way from the ocean.
Make do with the Danube, Steve says. He’s such a prick.
This far inland, I have no energy. All life sucked out of me. I care nothing about the River Danube, its history, the historic structures along its banks, and so I sit on a bench, hands twitching, my expression idiotic, keeping both friendly and unfriendly faces distanced.
Look, I’m sure great adventures happen on rivers of the world, passing mountains, snaking through jungles, cutting ravines, inspiring holy cities and providing work for men and women in suburbs and towns, but that very thought, that incessant creeping, that meandering through the countryside, well it brings upon me endless insomnia.
If I were afloat on the Danube, the Thames, or the Nile, my life would be over.
Today, I might have lost a couple of pounds in as many hours, not feeling hungry, not having eaten. I think I’m clinging tenaciously to life despite the proximity of never-ending venues for kaffee and kuchen, and all the sadder when I consider how there is no-one showing me extraordinary sympathy and gentleness. I could not, last night, despite all my efforts, keep back my tears, tears of sorrow doubtless, but whatever, I am unable to explain my reasons while in this non-creative slump.
After a day of walking the city, I have discerned that the legal houses of prostitution here rival that of Amsterdam in number, though I’m not so certain about the goods on offer. All cities have them, houses of ill-repute, of course, but most hide them so that only the neediest might find them. I don’t feel needy, but prostitutes are inspiring.
Vienna’s red-light district doesn’t have any red lights, only filth. Even the most righteous tourist will visit the houses of Amsterdam, clean, with good looking women giving off a certain appeal to onlookers, not just those seeking sex.
Vienna, not so much.
I only had to mention to the concierge at the hotel that I was interesting in finding such districts and right away he hoisted a couple of calling cards from his inside pocket. Then he gave me a slip of paper; it was a complimentary voucher for an added half hour if I bought an hour with a prostitute.
At my age, I can pee for longer than I can hold an erection.
Anyway, he assured me that the best ‘quickies’ were the street illegals in the 14th district. I felt complimented. He could look at me and right away assume I’d pay for a quickie. But, he went on, in his Germanic accent, if you’re looking for very cheap, you need to look in the Prater area, that’s where the asylum seekers hang out.
I did no damage. I behaved like a boy wearing a sky-blue cassock.
Coming up on midnight, back in my hotel room, I called home.
The conversation was loving, not stunted, not forced, loving. You see, the time has come in my life when I’m persuaded by the law of averages to consider its close, and while there are no overwhelming signs such an occurrence is imminent, I do think about regret — the agony of leaving such a wonderful life behind.
So, and those of you who get me will understand, I’m getting the hell out of this place.
Fuck Vienna.
I don’t have time for it.
I want to be with her, in a room bright with flowers, my home fire burning, knick-knacks abound, work in the stables, and leave all my wanderings deep in the past and yes, drink fucking chamomile tea before bed if it pleases her.
I’d send a postcard, but, trust me, I’ll be home before it arrives.
Oh boy, Steve is going to be pissed!
