At Tirolerhof today. It’s a marvelous cafe, though they regrettably haven’t installed wireless access yet. Walls cream-coloured; large windows arched in a vaguely Arabic manner, outlined in black; similarly shaped mirrors in between the windows; chandeliers suspended from a lofty ceiling; a few old-fashioned glass cabinets with several shelves of freshly made tortes and strudels; a varied clientele, generally lining the tables by the windows and walls (they have comfortable sofa-like booths), reading newspapers, chatting—one genially corpulent gentleman to my left is perusing the theater schedule. The cafes here are one of Vienna’s glories, and I spend rather a lot of time in them. Someone, I’ve forgotten who (was it Karl Krauss?), said that cafes were places where one could enjoy society while still doing one’s own thing. That’s about right, in a pleasant, civilized atmosphere. Tirolerhof is one of the better ones downtown; it’s spacious, attractive, the coffee is excellent, the waiters good-natured and humorous, and it’s near both the Albertina and the opera. Another favourite is Cafe Korb, closer to the Stephansdom: it’s a good deal smaller, but it has (in my opinion) the best coffee in town, it’s open till midnight, and the atmosphere is agreeably laid-back. In the winter months they host philosophy discussions every other Saturday moderated by members of the university in a large room downstairs. The quality of the discussion varies, but it’s usually interesting and it improves my German. Hawelka, off the Graben, is of course an institution, and Herr Hawelka still comes in to look after things. He’s there less often these days, particularly after his wonderful wife sadly passed away about two years ago. On one occasion I was there, scribbling in my journal in a rather dark corner, when she came over and exclaimed how inconvenient it must be for me to sit there, and insisted with a charming maternal concern that I move immediately to one of the tables near the windows, transferring my coat while affectionately chiding the incorrigible stupidity of the other waiters. Local lore says that she habitually used to seat young men near young women who were sitting alone, but I was never the beneficiary of this kind of attention. Cafe Frauenhuber is also a great place; rather more staid, more dignified than many other cafes; the waiters are friendly and courteous, invariably clad in tuxes; the low, arching ceilings and the comfortably worn felt of the booths contributing to an atmosphere of elegant informality, of pleasant intimacy, in venerable and ancient surroundings. A plaque near the front door states that in the first-floor salon of what used to be an aristocratic residence, just above the cafe, Mozart, Haydn and Beethoven used to give concerts. The best place for food, however, is Cafe Diglas on Wollzeile. It’s quite large, furnished and decorated with that distinctively Viennese mixture of elegance and informality. The old booths occupy the niches by the windows; large chandeliers adorned with droplets of crystal as well as little spoons, forks, knives—another including a score or so little Diglas espresso cups. Above the main counter by the door to the kitchen is a large flat-screen TV displaying clips of Diglas cooks intent on making the house specialties: Goulasch, Tafelspitz, Apfelstrudel, Kaiserschmarren, Buchteln, Esterhazy Schnitten, chocolate cakes, fruit cakes, cream cakes, cheese cakes…
Anyway, I went for a nice bike ride this morning. It’s a lovely day here in Vienna, and the bike paths that run along the Danube provide beautiful vistas on such days. On the outskirts of town there’s Klosterneuburg to the left, a large monastery nobly situated atop a hill surrounded by old trees; a little further there’s what looks like an ancient church perched on another hill, dark and with the appearance of neglect. Here and there the path leads through little towns of small houses with little gardens; the occasional riverside restaurant or little Beisl catering to the cyclists and weekend get-out-of-towners. Much of the path is flanked by trees, and at one point a gentle breeze had dislodged thousands of little clusters of white fluff from the branches, which descended lazily across the path. A beautiful sort of arboreal snowfall through which, in the slanting sunlight and dappled shadows on the path, one zoomed with the particles swooshing all around one. Quite beautiful. On the way back I crossed a bridge connecting the riverbank with the Donau Insel, the long island that stretches for several kilometers in the middle of the river. On the right one can see the motley tower topped with a large golden bell-like structure of the city’s incinerator (I believe), designed by the popular and idiosyncratic Hundertwasser. There are several buildings of his in town, principally the Hundertwasser Haus (in the 2nd district? 3rd?). These flamboyant structures are immediately recognizable: colourful and irregular, as though constructed with globular Legos a child has microwaved out of shape, or multi-coloured bricks borrowed from the landscape of Dali’s The Impermanence of Time. There are a good number of interesting paths around the city, but this one is my favourite at the moment.
