A Flaneur in Wien - Part 3

I didn't start out my journey on the D tram thinking I would get off at Schwarzenberg. Mysteriously, the ticket machine onboard the vehicle ceased to accept my Visa card, so I decided to shorten my ride by one stop. 

This deposited me within a stone's throw of Karlsplatz, where I had circled around St Charles' Church before. My mum had given me tips on the area in the meanwhile, so I knew the Karlsplatz Art Nouveau train station was somewhere around there. Before I knew what was happening, I chanced upon the Musikverein, a beige and red building which housed concerts, amongst other things. Admiring the stately structure with its inbuilt statues and curlicues (along with some Asian tourists), I noticed brightly coloured advertisements for 'Der Klein Prinz' (The Small Prince) and some other performance for children one building over. This led me to discover that the New State Opera was right there, attached to the much bigger Albertina Modern. I made a note to return. There were a few minutes until opening time anyway. 

Karlsplatz station was easy to locate, on the edge of the park across the road, and I let it work its magic on me... a bold combination of white, mint and gold, with floral themes and enigmatic symbols. The golden lines glowed in the sunlight, and looked charming where there was dappled shade. The micro museum inside the station opened while I was there, but I preferred to stay outside and let the visuals mesmerise me. 

After 30-45 minutes I decided to go back to the Schwarzenberg Café and enjoy a sweet treat. Live jazz inside had drawn a queue, so I chose a cherry strudel "to go" and snacked in the park, overlooking St Charles' Church and enjoying the fresh air. This strudel was a juicy red, bursting with flavour. (They don't make them like this in Australia, so I enjoyed every bite.)

The Albertina Modern blends right into Wien's wedding cake facades, but it has actually been a self-consciously avant-garde institution since the end of the second world war, when it shook off the censorship imposed by the Nazis. The space incorporated frequent international exhibitions into its repertoire, from India to Egypt, US to Bulgaria and more. 

I entered another flow state upon letting my eye rest on geometric patterns by Vasarely. Whether monochrome or in contrasting colours (like blue and red), there was enough variation amongst the repetition to reward a dancing eye. I also liked neon yellow and red signs declaring 'anything goes' and 'light up', a kind of decontextualised, comic-friendly and possibly commercialised splash of colour in a room of white. I was reminded of Robyn's song 'Light up,' which is about developing a heartfelt connection with someone. I thought about my friends and past relationships, some in Europe, others in Austraila, their light informing mine, and vice versa. 

Perhaps my favourite part of the Albertina Modern was the interior walls and ceilings in the centre of the structure. Cream and royal blue. Curved, triangle-esque additions to the corners, similar in shape to the Art History Museum's, but with curlicues and patterns mostly inspired by nature. Whether admired from the staff-less café on the ground floor, or on the mezzanine level, or perhaps while walking between them on the staircase, it was riveting. Smaller in scale than most all-encompassing architectural designs made in Wien, it lent itself to a more comfortable mental space. 

The gallery had a restaurant attached, where I had a chicken salad and called my Mum. Out in the open air, I was facing something called the Handelakademie, which Mum translated into "Trade Academy". Statues of Adam Smith and Christopher Columbus flanked the entrance. This building, also, was rewarding to the wandering eye, a rather large, sandy-coloured institution. The small street which divided it and the Albertina Modern was pedestrianised and a couple of tram routes traversed it. I admired my surroundings (the Karlsplatz station and park was visible in the background), and felt lucky that the day had unfolded so sweetly.

On the way back to my tram stop I noticed that a carousel of sizeable but elegant, baby pink horses had been set up in the yard of the New State Opera. The small outdoors area also contained a stage, and bench-like seating, where two men were sharing a word. Noticing an official-looking guard, I asked him what was happening, and apparently there would be two events designed for young children that day, at 3:30pm and 7pm. The kids could ride the carousel for a fee while listening to music by the official State Opera, play with each other or sit with their parents for free, and anyone could join. "They get them while they're young," I mused to myself, impressed with the respect for the youngest Wien citizens. They are lucky to be brought up in a city where music informs everyday culture so deeply. 

When Vienna became 'Wien', Part 2

Departing Julius Meinl am Graben, I followed my nose away from the crowds, noticing that the lyrical cadences of Italian often made their way into my ears on these streets. Ducking into an art gallery on a small but visually alluring lane, I was again greeted by the sounds of a middle-aged Italian couple enthusing with the owner. There was only one painting in the whole place that was worth my attention, but it made me smile: a single smooth, thick black brushstroke curving from the top to the bottom of a mid-sized canvas. It was called 'Cascade' and the artist's name sounded like a woman. I once started writing a poem on my blog called 'Cascade', and was reminded of its experimental qualities as I viewed the chiaroscuro.

Back into the dreamy lane of creams, yellows and light greens, I noticed a bakery which looked like it catered for locals, and noticed an architectural vision in pale pink, white and gold at the end ahead. This is how I made my way into Judenplatz ('Jewish square'), where I felt a discrepancy between the sombre signs (detailing antisemitic violence in the Middle Ages) and a sobering, boxy tribute to victims of the Holocaust in the centre, and the otherwise pretty, peaceful and potentially lively space it was today. It's true that I didn't go to the Jewish Museum there, as it was closed at the time. 

I never did find out much about the pastel pink building which appealed to me so much. A nearby waiter couldn't tell me anything about it, and I'm yet to google the sign on its side I took a picture of. I noticed two eagles, which I associate with Austrian imperialism and nationalism, so I hope that, whatever institution it houses, it's one that is responsive to the Jews. The whole square was full of picturesque architecture.

Unlike the busy Graben, Judenplatz was mostly quiet, with only a scattering of people, including a handful of tourists. The next day I would find an even smaller square, Schulhof, where a synagogue had stood before being burnt down, and I could rest for a while on a public bench. My view included grand gates flanked by two muscular, nude men, the back of a small church, the Clock Museum and horse-drawn carriages passing by on the cobblestones every 3 minutes. Signs of local life drifted by: older women walking their dogs, elderly couples dressed in their best, besuited men, and the chatter of young colleagues on their work break. 

I chose Ofenloch restaurant on my first day of the area, a typical Austrian establishment back in the cream, yellow and light green lane, which allowed me to prepare to see Vivaldi's Four Seasons in the nearby St Peter's Church. My mum had recommended this free organ concert, and I was seated behind an American-looking family which seemed hopeful, uplifted. The familiar music imbued the space with a cosiness and made my gaze playful as it drifted from angels to warriors, gold to pink, angle to curve. 

Retracing my steps to catch the D tram y the Opera House, I was thankful for Wien's convenient public transport, and my luck in securing the same hotel (near the Central Train Station) the third time round. This allowed me to develop a familiarity with my surroundings, and return to the locations mentioned with ease. 

*More to come*

When Vienna became 'Wien'

You see and hear it many times: the local name of the city in which you're travelling. It's easier to get the hang of some names ('Roma' for Rome) and more difficult with others ('Warsaw' is pronounced "Varshava"). "Veen" sounds different to the way most English speakers read 'Wien', and in my jet-lagged and disoriented state, late July, I couldn't cross over. Sometime around the 5th day (for I gave myself 4 full days in September) it seemed to suit my growing familiarity with the subject matter. 

I wanted to be a flâneur in Wien because the city is so walkable and there are over 900 UNESCO World Heritage buildings in it. Basically, if you deposit yourself in or around the Innere Stadt (one of the oldest neighbourhoods) and leisurely walk around, you're sure to bump into something interesting, historical, beautiful. So I let random discovery shape the day. 

I entered 'flow' states (where you get lost in the moment) while taking in the Karlsplatz train station (an Art Nouveau structure in white, spearmint and gold), viewing the Albertina Modern (Vasarely's optical illusions drew the eye and inspired a sense of play after a while), admiring a luxury supermarket called Julius Meinl am Graben (where I also had my first melange [the local type of coffee]), trying marzipan-coffee cake in the lesser-known, cosy Frauenhuber café, and, to some extent, enjoying the aesthetics of the Judenplatz (a square of significance to the Jewish community) and the areas immediately around it. 

On that first day in September I spotted a expansive canvas full of movement, with blues and reds particularly fetching on a background of white. Amongst the many shades of most of the rainbow's colours were highlights in yellow and pink. Some parts were stark, the others delicate. A charismatic blend of vivid shapes and delicate details. The art dealer handed me a compilation of the best of Sinasi Bozatli's works, which I eagerly devoured later in my hotel. He had been born in Istanbul before migrating to Vienna for education and career development. He had departed, for New York City, but still regularly exhibited in Europe. The art dealer mentioned his most recent show in Mallorca, Spain, and also revealed a price quite unaffordable: I forgot it instantly, that's how out of reach it happened to be.

I had just come out of Julius Meinl am Graben, the luxury supermarket, café, bar and restaurant that an immigrant from Germany recommended. (She recounted her year of living in Melbourne as leading to dissatisfaction with her hometown of 5,000 residents, and pursuing another liveable city closer to home, where she had found employment in hospitality. The pierced nose and friendly demeanour made her memorable.)

The presentation was exquisite, on the macro level as well as the micro. Blue walls, black and white square tile flooring, transparent glass elevators as well as a taupe spiral stairway, a bakery on the 2nd floor, and outdoors seating. And don't get me started on the products... the price tags also featured the flag of the country of produce, which is how I knew that the peach I savoured the next day came from Italy. I browsed marshmallows covered in salted caramel-flavoured chocolate from Belgium, sweet olive oil cakes from Seville, and the store's own blend of coffee with images of Queen Sisi and Mozart.

I had an enjoyable time of drinking my melange that first day, despite finding myself wanting for space and being a bit bemused by the combination of conservative glamour and discernable lip surgery gathered among the women around me. I took selfies and admired the blue and white coffee cup. The tray also came with a small glass of soda water, and a chunk of chocolate cake so delicious, I wanted to return on another day to relish a proper slice.

*Continued in Part 2*

The Day of the Deutschland Museum

I wrote my prior post on an early Wednesday morning, instinctively guarding the mental space of the day before. I don't have an absolute political affiliation. I vote for the Greens in Australia because they are the left-of-centre party with the most influence over Labour, in what is a relatively centrist country. Sometimes socialism makes sense to me, particularly in the light of potential global collaboration over climate change mitigation. But I know for sure that democratic socialism is alive and well in the Nordic countries, and that is a system I can rely on to work for most people, most of the time. Socialism (with free elections) in a rich country like Spain or Australia is as yet an unknown. 

Anyway, I finished my post and descended to the reception area before any other customer. The two workers on the night shift were both women, and were enjoying a cigarette break outside the hotel in the pitch dark of 5am. I worried about their safety, unsure whether the relative isolation of the hotel made things better of worse, but eventually they came back in and started playing the dance music I had been hoping they would. 

Breakfast was of the high standard I'd come to expect from an Ibis. I would be taking the S-bahn into Alexanderplatz and changing for Potsdamer Platz a couple of hours later. I was glad I took a stroll along the River Spree the day before, while the weather had been good, for today's forecast was mostly rain. Indeed: I found the café I was after, not far from the station, just as the drops made their appearance. 

Maxim's was a glitzy, modernist affair decked out in bright orange and more subdued browns. I had found a space I could simply 'be' in, in this busy, upmarket suburb, and while the people-watching was disappointing due to umbrellas blocking people's faces outside, and the more businessperson vibe of the place, I did enjoy a slice of Red Velvet cake while I waited for my designated time to enter the Deutschland Museum. 

Eventually I walked a block to the site, and found Berlin's Korean Cultural Centre almost right beside it. (In Vienna, too, I spotted the Austrian version: it was as if the Sydney site had alerted the European ones to my presence and made sure they would stand out to me. Something relatable and at the same time posing a new question: what sort of identity is forged between German-speaking Europe and Korea?)

Anyway, the museum involved fun and educational moments. I thought I knew plenty about Germany's history, but there was a lot of new information to absorb, sometimes presented with humour, always with interactive elements, and the many rooms we passed through were works of art in themselves. From cavernous, wooden, floor-to-ceiling décor evoking the Middle Ages, to the inside of an U-bahn carriage (the trains that connect Berlin proper) replete with videos playing where the windows should be, the Deutschland Museum earned the right to call itself immersive. 

I learnt the following:

- The earliest form of German writing was in the form of runes

- In addition to being the root language of Dutch, Danish, Swedish and Norwegian, it also provided the root for Frisian

- The Protestant ideas of Martin Luther coincided with the popularisation of the printing press - perhaps the first form of mass media. This allowed his work to be influential without precedent 

- In and around the Thirty Years' War between Catholics and Protestants, people belonging to what is today Sweden, Denmark and France entered the conflict. France fought for the Catholics, and the Nordic countries for the Protestants

- There was a lot of opposition, for a long time, to Germany becoming a distinct nation, as opposed to a collection of independent communities

- The three colours of the German flag, black, yellow and red, have no meaning

- Hitler's soldiers used crystal meth while fighting

- The average wait time for a new Trabant car in the DDR was 12 years

- In Medieval times, Jews were invited into the lands that comprise modern Germany only to be severely restricted in what jobs they could undertake. One of those jobs was moneylending, and the majority developed a hatred of them over a perception of their high interest rates. There was antisemitic violence in those days, too. 

Perhaps the most fun moment was when I constructed a song with lyrics chosen by multiple choice on their interactive computer. Apparently I was successful enough at thinking like a white, heterosexual man trying to woo a lady, for '[I did] not get a basket' - i.e. I was not rejected. Instead, a woman, high in a tower, pulled 'me' up through a basket attached to a rope, evidently swayed by my poetic efforts. Her animated hair was long and blonde. 

In a quiz on the Enlightenment period, though, I scored 2 out of 8, and the program told me 'the fire of the Enlightenment does not burn bright with you' - a bit harsh, perhaps, but at I appreciated the humour of its metaphor. 

I'm glad I had this time to enjoy a carefully thought through and meticulously designed museum, even if my time in Berlin felt rushed for the most part. 

I would gladly return to this city, where people watching is rewarding, and I'll never run out of things to do. 

A Matter of Framing

Depending on where you go, when, you can experience a very different Berlin. From the subculture hotspot of Kreuzberg to the moneyed classes in Kurfurstendamm, there are many neighbourhoods rewarding to the wanderer.

Yesterday I found myself, like so many a ferry, by the River Spree, navigating a popular tourist attraction named the DDR Museum. Holding a space for the former East German dictatorship (1945-1989), which once reshaped Berlin, I was prepared for controversial themes and strong emotions. I got these, but not quite in the way I expected.

For a start, the museum made little attempt to be objective. Any success of the DDR or progressive credential was undermined. When describing international recognition for its excellence in sports, the final word on this phenomenon was that we currently have no idea just how much the East Germans used performance enhancing drugs. 

There was a missed opportunity for learning from the social engineering of the ruling elites. Policies such as making the health benefits and morale raising of physical activity widely known, and making it easy for the regular citizen to join in, could be reinterpreted for today’s democratic nudges. I was impressed that you could access sporting teams through your workplace, though not so much about associating them with patriotism. (I don’t like patriotism.) As someone who has looked for free or low cost physical activity groups to join in Sydney and found little there, I think Australia could do with more accessible pathways in that direction, and certainly, if all of your friends and colleagues are participating in sport, you are more likely to do it too. But did it occur to the creators of the museum that this was something that actually transformed people for the better?

Another example of this black and white mindset, where capitalist democracy is good, and Communism is evil, was the attitude towards nude beaches. Even though public nudity was illegal, the government turned a blind eye to the many Baltic Sea beaches where people would indulge in it communally. (The Baltic Sea was a popular destination for affordable holidays.) This was more progressive than Western Germany, however the Museum claimed - to paraphrase - that this small freedom only drew attention to all the ways the people lacked *real* freedom. This kind of bias was not acknowledged as opinion, but represented as the truth, as only a piece of explanatory text in a museum can do. 

My view is that there were a lot of things in the DDR worth criticising, but there are also things worth incorporating into contemporary capitalist democracies such as Germany and Australia. We should be critical of attempts to discredit and dismiss worthwhile achievements. In the case of strides towards gender equality where Western Germany was behind, such as women’s participation in the workforce, and abortion rights, the museum had little to say.

So while I learnt interesting details about the former Communist government, I was open to learning in a way that wasn’t catered for. My German friend explained that the dominant ideology in Berlin is that capitalist democracy is ‘The Better Way and The Only Way’… this may not be clear to everyone who enters the DDR Museum with an open mind. I wish it were.

The globe according to Bremen

When we celebrate [romantic] love, it’s usually by consuming something - such was a link made by Bremen’s Universarium (a science museum) in its exhibition on love. The reach of capitalism into our most intimate relationships was placed under the microscope. However, I didn’t feel it went far enough in critiquing these norms, or suggesting alternatives. 

Something the exhibition did do was take children’s views of sexuality seriously, in a way that Australian curators might be too squeamish to do. Rather than pretend the young ones don’t have musings about this ubiquitous part of life, a display features real-world examples of kids’ jotted down thoughts, such as ‘Can a man have sex with another man?’ (There’s an image of two animated penguins, “Peter and Klaus,” represented as holding hands, above this question.)

Overall, I liked the concept of an exhibition on love more than this specific one. I’ve taken an interest in this topic for ages, particularly through the lens of gender inequality. The Universarium hinted that gender inequality was the structural barrier to healthy romantic relationships in Japan (given that most women are strongly discouraged from keeping up paid work after getting married, and other factors), but struggled to articulate it head-on. 

It was, however, fun to watch visually striking scientific experiments, which the viewer was encouraged to take a hands-on approach to. As someone who developed an interest in science later in life, it was fun to exercise my curiosity and view things (a rainbow-coloured shadow, glow-in-the-dark rockfaces, a tilted room, smoke clouds and whirlpools) from a different perspective.

While I was somewhat out of my comfort zone in the Universarium, the Overseas Museum saw us visit more familiar territory: Bremen’s portal into the Pacific Islands, Asia, Africa and the Americas.

I learnt that the nations of Oceania historically excelled at Wayfinding, a mixture of interpreting the waterways, wind and stars in an integrated style which could be called holistic. This knowledge was interrupted by colonialism (first from Germany, then from Japan and the US after WW2), but seems to be experiencing renewed interest from younger generations. It is said Wayfinding was one of the most sophisticated forms of navigating the ocean.

In the Africa section I learnt that only 40% of its land mass was liveable and/or able to be cultivated for agriculture, and that people are very creative with the resources and goods available to them. For example, an African ‘taxi driver’ needs only a basic mobile phone and a reliable motorcycle to receive calls from potential clients, meet them at their chosen location, and deliver them to wherever they want to go. It may not be the latest tech, but it works well enough to keep them in business, and give community members options for transport.

In the Asian section we saw an impressive, large-scale recreations of a Thai temple and a Japanese residential house (complete with garden and artificial pond), which took me back to my twenties, when I was exploring these countries. It’s fine to socialise in temples, and they can get quite lively, the sign informed us. This articulated something I had partially sensed, but couldn’t have fully grasped on my own. Sometimes you need cultural expertise to open up the world to you.

At the Overseas Museum, the exhibitions were spacious, user-friendly and immersive. They had both style and substance. They were appreciative of their subject matter. 

As I sipped on a hot chocolate at the Africa Café and analysed its artworks with my travel buddy, I felt lucky to be perched on a part of Germany few international travellers get the chance to interact with. I was experiencing the world according to Bremen.

Coffee and cake in Dresden

I am quite fond of the German tradition of ‘kaffee und kuchen’. The Germans mostly do this at 4pm, however the best time for my circadian rhythm is 8-10am, so I was pleased that Google AI recommended a café that opened at 9, an hour earlier than most of its fellow providers. I was looking for the best place in Dresden’s Old Town to try the local delicacy, Eierscheke. 

Finding the place with Google Maps, and having enjoyed the walk past the Women’s Church and the pastel-coloured facades around it, I was now in an unfamiliar situation: The German sign on the locked door instructed the customer to wait until a previous customer exited, since there were no free tables at the moment. A seeming contradiction were the two tables and four chairs directly in front of high, open windows. I assumed the open windows indicated signs of life, and Google’s business database was pretty reliable, so I assumed that I would do the inconvenient thing of waiting in the wilting sun for someone to leave the miniature establishment. 

After a few minutes I started to get restless. I tried the door again, and decided to call the café, but just as I was doing that a couple of Germans joined me in front of the door. It turned out they had also googled the best Eierscheke in town, but the white man of the two had an advantage over me: height. He could see people inside the cafe through the windows. We made small talk and mused over why nobody was sitting at the outdoor tables. The Black woman was rueful: “It looks like a scam.” The man opined that I had come from the “better” part of Germany when I shared I had come from Hannover. I was unwilling to disparage Dresden before having given it a chance, but this was not the first German to share such sentiments with me. I was, however, warming to them, and offered to share a table if a four-seating arrangement was available.

Just at that time a few people left the café, and soon we were seated (at two different tables). The wait staff was an elderly gentleman who treated each of us with attention. He gravitated to the new couple, with whom he could speak with in German, and I heard him recommend a restaurant I had already eaten at, known in town for its Saxon cuisine. 

When it was my turn to order I did so in German, and continued, with a mixture of German and English, to show interest in the city by explaining that I was there for 7 days. He recommended a funicular experience which had not been in the guidebook, and for this I was thankful, but I wanted to stay on my feet where I could… I’d have many calories to walk off after trying the various desserts Dresden had to offer.

When the wait staff was attending to other tables I took note of my surroundings. There was Hollywood film memorabilia from previous decades on the walls, and something about ‘be friendly, please’. Having only four tables probably contributed to this cosy atmosphere, and the man’s warm welcome to me and the mixed race couple inspired me to return the warmth. 

The cake? Delicious, but I was expecting that. The cappuccino was too bitter for me, so I added a little sugar. Eierscheke is a kind of cheesecake, the Eier meaning eggs, and this particular cake had three layers, one more sponge-like, and another more creamy. While I hadn’t had it before, I could tell that it was of exceptional quality. 

The white guy felt it too, and communicated his appreciation with a hand gesture as well as words. I commented on the cake’s freshness and superlative goodness in German, and got a smile from the senior. 

Like many German interiors, the walls were white, and the colour came in accents: red and white tablecloths, light green curtains. Little ornaments and life-affirming sayings came in dark brown with white text. I got the impression of a lot of attention to detail. 

Without my limited German, I would not have known to wait at the door, and may not have received the personalised recommendation. I’m thankful for the gift of language learning: appreciating that not everybody speaks English, or that even if they do, there is no language that feels like home more than one’s native tongue. 

Why I write

Writing synthesises contradictory impulses.

While I was wondering whether to pick yellow or blue, I realised silver was my colour.

Out of multiple paths, a single stream is forged. Out of a simple way forward, forks appear like blooms.

I chase after a suitable digression.

I reinvent integrity.

I regather confidence.

I maim the inner critic (for the time being).

I caress faded insights into newfound vivacity.

Why do you write?

I write to return to a state of not knowing.

Let old certainties fall away.

I can’t tell if I’m resting or active: 

Different parts of my world are animated.

Viennese Wanderings

Disembarking from the D tram and walking a little bit in the direction of the Hofburg, I noticed St Stephen’s Cathedral dominating the skyline to my right. The third day of Viennese explorations, I set out to receive what this landmark had to offer by way of meandering through the Innere Stadt.

There seem to be no two of those wedding cake buildings alike. I wove through construction workers and delivery men, gaze directed upwards, appreciating Baroque renderings of humans seemingly holding balconies in place, and other lyrical details. A smooth blend of angles and curves danced around each other. Eventually I emerged into a quiet thoroughfare, where a pretty mural representing people from the Middle East was vaguely reminiscent of Klimt, with gold overlays. I noticed that it housed a Swatch branch. 

Nearby, a delicate, medieval mural beckoned, with rich, solid colours such as lavender-hued blue and garnet bringing figures of women to life. A stately font declared something in German which eluded me. My perspective recalibrated to take in the full picture: I was standing in front of the Aida café, where Mum had suggested I enjoy something sweet in. Right around the corner: the Cathedral.

The distinctive geometric patterns of the Gothic structure appealed to me, the diamond shape recurring in several variations. With its high-contrast colours in black, white, emerald and gold, it invited pondering. Luckily, the best seat in Konditorei Aida was available, allowing me a good view of this roof, as well as passers-by. 

I asked for kaiserschmarmm, a Viennese specialty, and, while it wasn’t quite the same as that of the Kunsthistorisches Museum, it was tasty. It is a caramelised, shredded pancake with plum jam and ice cream. The ice cream was to die for.

After having sated my appetite, it was finally time for St Stephen’s to open to tourists, but I wasn’t appreciative of the monotonous dark browns of the interior, and, after noting some pleasing stained glass windows, and a wooden carving of a man in medieval attire which had atmosphere, it was time to depart.

One last glance at a cornflour blue clock built in to the wall of the cathedral’s exterior, and I set out to explore more of the Innere Stadt, this time with the Kunsthistorisches Museum (Art History Museum) in mind.

Along the way I noticed more famous brands - Swarovski, Hello Kitty, McDonald’s - and the invariably beautiful buildings that gave them a home.

This two-part journey represents most of the flaneur-ing I did in Vienna. 

Viennese Fragments and Trails

Where last year I stopped to admire the Austrian embassy in Valletta, this year I spotted a Maltese church in Vienna. The European nations are intricately interconnected.

One unexpected find from the Royal Apartments of the Habsburgs was that Empress Sisi installed circular grips, dangling from the ceiling of a personal room, so she could work out inside the palace. This horrified many in the court, but she refused to give it up. 

I recognised in Sisi the longing for freedom, and attempts to escape the confinement of the Hofburg (the palace). She seemed to have some insight into the fetishising of travel though, seemingly gained after ordering a holiday residence in Corfu, Greece, and then losing interest in it at some point down the line. On this topic, she reflects that travel was only exciting because it involved a collision with the unknown. If she stayed somewhere long enough, she got itchy feet once more.

*

The D tram would take me part of the way from my lodging to the Old Town, and the rest of the journey would be completed by foot. This had the effect of manifesting two places of interest I’d read about but hadn’t expected to get to: St Charles’ Church and Café Schwarzenberg. 

I recognised the Church at a distance, with its distinctive dome flanked by giant spires, and instinctively crossed streets to meet it at eye level. Unfortunately, the building was somehow too grand and imposing once I had an unobstructed view, so I didn’t linger in the square it was on too long. I circled the building, and found ornamentation on the building behind it which was more digestible in scale. With Christian crosses, angels and an ornate style, this scalable beauty invited slowing down and taking it in. Perched on a typical, wedding cake style Viennese facade, it was a vision in white, teal, black, red and gold. Distinctive elements, which would have on their own constituted a masterpiece, came together over a generous expanse of wall, to create a splendid whole.

Spotting Café Schwarzenberg, remembering it being recommended by a blogger, and nabbing a table by the window, I observed both locals and tourists making themselves at home in the brown interiors gilded with gold. In truth, I felt unsettled: it was too late in the day for a melange (the coffee preferred by the Viennese), and too early in the day for me to feel I’d earned rest. I left after half an hour, wary of the easy smiles of white, heterosexual-looking men who either chatted amongst each other or took advantage of the free newspapers. (Was it them who had supported the far right in the last election?)

That same day I had pre-purchased a ticket to the Albertina (the modern art museum), and I was eager to go in at its opening hour of 10am. I enjoyed the exhibitions, especially a painting of flowers by Matisse, and doting drawings of Rubens’ children. Enjoying a world-class museum is to be expected, however, which is why I’ve focused on the unplanned parts of my journey.

All in all, Vienna might not be the first city in Europe you associate me with, but if you look for radical and alternative cultures, you will find them. The setting is often one of great beauty, sprinkling many memorable moments along the way.

Some thoughts on travel plans for this year

It can be humbling to remember that, as a traveller who is making plans to see Bruges, Belgium, this year, I will be part of the problem of overtourism. I am well aware that Bruges is highly sought after amongst people travelling to Europe, yet I, too, dream of its picturesque Old Town, its Hanseatic history and its beautiful art. I will go to the effort of memorising some basics of Dutch and support local businesses where I can. I will also be mindful of the way I travel, and make it as sustainable as possible.

I will be spending a week in Dresden, Germany, to make up for it. Dresden is comparatively little known on the global stage, with less than 20% of its visitors being international. One Youtube influencer described it as 'The most beautiful city you've never heard of'. Of the German tourists, most of them come from neighbouring states, like Saxony or Bavaria. I suspect that a city of its kind of aesthetic and historic importance is overlooked in part because it is in the former DDR ('East Germany'). It could also be that, in a continent of Parises, Berlins and Pragues, it doesn't stand out in quite the same way. But Dresden has been on my radar for many a year. 

My entry point, Vienna, enchants me with its gleaming, walkable and ornate city centre. I am staying four nights here to recover from the long, cross-continental ride, see what I missed in the Kunsthistorisches Museum the first time round, visit the Albertina (its premier modern art museum) for the first time, and get some of those palaces in. 

I don't know if I'll be able to incorporate a stay in Berlin this year, but there's easily a week's worth of sights I'm keen on seeing, including the Neues Museum, the Deutschland (History) Museum and the Futurium. 

Cross-Continental at the Sydney Film Festival

I managed to see 10 films in 12 days at this year's Sydney Film Festival. Here are my thoughts on 2 of them:

The Cycle of Love - directed by Orlando von Einsiedel:

The external circumstance of meeting a soul you feel deeply connected to leads to a journey of tapping into rich reserves of inner love. The protagonist, PK, born in an India which boxes him into the 'Untouchable' caste (Dalit in the Hindu tradition), overcomes negating social conditioning to advocate for himself and others. This is partially achieved by cycling from Delhi to Sweden and learning from Indian, Afghan and Iranian hospitality of the 1970s. Along the way PK encounters the kindness of strangers, which keep him going in his darkest moments. Enchanted by the bloom of romance with Borås-based Lotta, which is punctuated by many memorable co-incidences, easily interpretable as fate, he must find his way to her without a physical map, when they are separated by geography. It's clear that there is serious potential for a lasting relationship waiting for him, with Lotta describing her time in India as "magic" in retrospect. Love propels PK into the unknown, and a willingness to sit with and absorb the wisdom of everyday people - over the painting of their portrait or the sharing of food and drink - further opens up possibilities to healing and proactivity. This is an invitation to keep your heart open. 

The World of Love - directed by Yoon Ga-eun:

This is not a happy story, but one with lots of twists and turns, compelling viewing about the vicious cycle of abuse. The director, a South Korean woman, shows how a single act of abuse can be, and often is, reproduced by the victim. As an example of the moral ambiguity and unpredictability of each character, I will trace the narrative arc of one non-central character, the main character's mother. Introduced as having a problem with alcohol, she is able to be receptive to and soothing towards her daughter's processing of difficult events. She then provides additional support by encouraging her ex-husband (and the father of her teen) to be more attentive to said teen's need to have more of him in her life. However, she is not able to escape a cycle of physical violence. Witnessing someone pinch a young girl hard on the neck leads to her acting out internalised suffering by pinching someone else in turn, at a moment in which we expect tenderness. She is a character of complexity, and cannot be neatly categorised. This insightful film occupies many people like her, who both earn our sympathy and disquiet us. Incisive and marvellously acted, it asks the viewer to constantly re-evaluate what's going on in light of new information. It will leave you questioning power dynamics, both in South Korea and every society on earth.

Canada in the Imagination - Part 2

This year I read intriguing texts from a Canadian academic with a Czech background, Ivan Kalmar. He looks at what I regard as the under-studied reality of discrimination against Eastern Europeans. The title of his 2022 book, White but not quite: Central Europe’s Illiberal Revolt, introduces the concept of the ambiguity of Eastern European people in the Global North: they are treated as superior to People of Colour, but inferior to people who are ‘the right kind of white’.

Kalmar argues that Eastern Europeans are associated with non-democratic regimes such as the region-wide Communism that fell in 1989, or the fascism of a modern-day Russia or Hungary. Nevermind that Italy, Austria and Sweden have far-right governments at the moment, or that Germany’s Neo-Nazis are expected to lead the country in one of the next elections. When Western Europe or the United States upholds ‘illiberal tendencies’ nobody accuses them of having insufficient moral integrity. However, the Global North accuses Eastern Europeans as having a flawed character, some sort of inherent inadequacy, and this racism has a real impact on the rights, opportunities and Life Chances of this group.

Ivan Kalmar’s groundbreaking and formative work has been affirming to me, and I have only discussed the aspects of his work which most resonate. I sometimes think about paying him a visit at the University of Toronto, or at least sending an email of solidarity.

Another Toronto-based writer who has influenced me is Margaret Atwood. I shared some thoughts on her book of essays, Burning Questions, a while ago, on my blog. I still haven’t read The Handmaid’s Tale, but a recent interview on Dua Lipa’s Service95 Book Club educated me on the extreme structural misogyny of Romanian Communism. (Content Warning for the paragraph below: Forced Pregnancy, humiliating gynaecological examinations, degrading conditions of orphanages.)

The Handmaid’s Tale made a point of only drawing inspiration from already existing injustices around the world. Margaret Atwood turned her eye to Ceausescu’s regime, where married women were required to have four children. This law was enforced by monthly gynaecological ‘examinations’ - under the supervision of the police. There is a popular Romanian saying, something about “the women were undressed in public.” Quite aside from the psychological damage to the women affected, which I imagine is a generational trauma, the economic burden of bringing up four kids was commonly experienced as unbearable. Mothers turned to their doctors in distress, and were told that if they put their offspring in an orphanage, they would be well looked after. This was well-meaning but far from the truth: the orphanages had so many children and so little funding that the conditions were unsanitary and not enough attention could be given to the individuals by the staff.

(Romania and Bulgaria share a border, and are often mentioned in the same breath by nationals of immigrant-receiving countries in Europe. My travels have not included this Northern neighbour, but in the future it’s possible I could visit. It would be in part a gesture of pan-European solidarity, and more specifically a mission to discover what the Balkan region has to offer. I want to know more and see the beauty I imagine waits for me there.)

Anyway, the clear advantage of the world’s most successful multicultural country is that its people tend to be informed about what happens beyond its borders. Canada is not geographically isolated in the way that Australia is, with shorter flights to Europe and Asia, similar time zones to Latin America (which makes visiting more attractive on a practical level), and that long land border with the United States. Kalmar and Atwood are the beneficiaries of this interconnectedness, and have, in turn, expanded my international imagination for the better.

Canada in the Imagination - Part 1

If I hadn't attended a Sydney Writers' Festival discussion on nationalism in Canada, I wouldn't have realised that our Northern cousins were 10% more Christian than us Australians.

Waleed Aly and Scott Stephens of 'The Minefield' - a radio show which looks at contemporary issues through a philosophical lens - interviewed Ottawa-based influencer David Moscrop, whom I had looked up prior to the show. There was something about the way in which David presented himself which evoked flavours of Christianity I hadn't been expecting. 

I have been curious about Canada for some time, noting its current status as the most successful multicultural country in the world (sorry, Malcolm Turnbull, but we come in second). The lived reality of such social integration is something I long to be a part of, even if it's for a short time. (I have dreams of slow travelling Toronto, Montreal and/or Vancouver). 

I must have assumed that their openness to and acceptance of People of Colour springs in part from the reduced role of religious doctrine. I was wrong, for while in the 2021 Census Australians self-reported being 43.9% Christian and 38.9% Non-religious, Canadians claimed to be 53.3% Christian and 34.6% Non-religious that same year. 

I had always suspected that the surface similarities my 2001 stop-over in Vancouver announced would give way to something more nuanced and divergent from my base in Sydney. I noticed higher numbers of People of Colour walking the streets, the LGBTIQ-friendliness in the air, the fresh air of a waterside city, the manageable levels of pollution (comparable to Sydney). My first real hint of the cultural difference was the politeness of customer service staff. (Australians skip the formalities.) And yet, I could see that the socially levelling philosophy sometimes referred to as Tall Poppy Syndrome was in place, and I'd read the national sense of humour was similar to Australia's, along with a shared love-hate relationship to the United States. 

This likeness of Canadian culture to Australia's inspires a kind of familiarity and comfort - we may be geographically removed from each other, but those multiple shared values and recurring themes build a sense of affinity. I know I'm not alone in feeling this, amongst citizens of the world who have made the connection between the two. 

And so, I add a new piece of information to my Canadian imagination, and hope that I will have the chance to go back for a closer look in upcoming years. 

Thoughts on 'The Mutation' (with spoilers)

Last Thursday was a richly layered day of international cinema and South Korean experiences... I'm still thinking about it... I had been anticipating 'The Mutation', a film by a woman director called Shin Su-won, and it exceeded my expectations. It became apparent soon after the start that this film rewarded careful attention to detail from the viewer. The raising of an eyebrow or the curl of a corner of the mouth - these subtle movements prompted emotional journeys, and dialogue was only a bit player. 

Two people on the fringes of society - a Black man and a same-sex attracted woman - bond over a shared sense of exclusion. The music is gentle, playful, reflective. There are sequences which are dreams, and the light and colourful palette recast ordinary settings into places of beauty. The glow of the mise-en-scene, whether it's the interior of a luxury mall or a charming landscape with mountains in the background, is constant. 

"Even in the darkness, it glows," the woman says of a black goat with a unique and lovely pattern. This symbolises her appreciation of Se-oh (the leading man) as they get to know each other over a couple of days. The actor Han Hyun-min draws upon his own experience of other-isation and the sadness that can follow. He described, in-person after the screening, perpetually being mistaken for being a temporary visitor to South Korea, instead of the fully-fledged citizen he is. One of the first scenes in Shin's film shows him asking a doctor to stop speaking in English and switch to Se-oh's native Hangul. In other early scenes, he is seen as hypersexual by the women around him, including Sara (the leading woman). Sara quickly finds out that he is only interested in friendship, and Se-oh stays free of romantic and/or sexual relationships in this film - his narrative is all about embracing the inner self. 

Sad though it is to navigate the country as an outsider, there is comfort to be found as Se-oh and Sara's mutual understanding grows. The characters start off alone in their grief (for a loved one has been lost to each), but are able to heal and move on. Ultimately, this film offers relief by showing the power of a friendship. 

"She was the only person I met without a mask - and now she's gone," Sara reflects on her ill-fated romance. Flashbacks show their first meeting in the lush countryside, where Sara's shoelace is undone, and the young woman who is willing to kneel down and tie it for her. Her words are direct and her face is open. Se-oh, too, masks his identity by working in a white tiger costume at a local amusement park. White tigers are considered a genetic mutation, and he comes to see himself as a mutant in the absence of acceptance from family, friends and his workplace. 

It is powerful, then, to hear him yell out, in one of the film's closing scenes, his full name, to Sara and anyone who could be listening. Along with recovering his identity, he recovers a zest for life. When it's time for the two to say goodbye, they affirm verbally and non-verbally that this is the beginning of a long-term connection. Something new and supportive has been built. 

Generosity

Your interpretation of the world

Evokes ongoing curiosity

Movements deft and self-aware

You are attuned to possibility

I love how much you care

It brings me to the light in me

Listening to Intersex People

As luck would have it, I learnt something new from a radio show called 'The I in Us' today. The generosity of the hosts Cody Smith and Paul Byrne-Moroney, as well as their TEDx speaker guest Jenny Atkinson, moved me. 

They discussed how to make spaces more inclusive, with Jenny being a fan of posters (and stickers, etc) bringing attention to specific groups being welcome, such as people with stims and ticks (repetitive behaviours found in those on the autism spectrum), neurodivergent people, Indigenous people, trans and gender diverse people, and, naturally, people with innate variations of sex characteristics (the intersex). 

The depth of the inclusion aimed for resonated with me, and I was particularly humbled by Cody's view that there is no valuing of Australia without valuing Indigenous people. Cody talked about how Indigenous Australians lived in peace and harmony with the environment for 60,000 years, and everybody who came in the last two centuries would do well to meet that standard. 

In addition, Jenny encouraged listeners to ask the question, when gathering, 'Who is in this space, and who is absent?' She noted that Australia if it's all white people, that is not good - Australia is multicultural. She described this as a practical question. 

I am asking a question of myself today, which is 'What is one action I can take to support the intersex community?'

If you're interested in listening to Joy FM's show by and for intersex people, which is consciously 'for all of us', you can tune in at 5am on Wednesday mornings, or listen to their podcast. I found much kindness and care there. 

Part 2 - When Shinto Meets Shakespeare

I noticed that Hiroko Yoda’s animism had an uplifting energy, a hearty insistence upon the elevation of the spirit(s)… it showed up in the body, a kind of repeated upwards motion.

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Unfortunate from the perspective of following through, I no longer feel like discussing Daniel Hahn and his translator's imagination. If you're curious about what happens to Shakespearean stanzas when transformed into the relatively long words of Finnish, you can read his latest book.

[Draft Piece]

Friday, 1st May 2026 -

When you wake up before everybody else does, your coffee options are limited. Walking down the main drag of Katoomba, I found myself with nary a soul to peer at through the glass windows of the cafés... they were all shut. But thankfully, the woman stationed at the entrance to the train stop provided me with my first double shot of caffeine for the day, and guided me to a nearby hotel open at this hour. Here I lounged about on Victorian style furniture, sipped a flat white, and made conversation with the woman on the morning shift. 

We had just concluded that Katoomba was fabulous, when she inquired, "Have you been to Blackheath?"

I had never even heard of it, but now I was all ears. "No?"

In her high pitched voice, (for the culture in the Blue Mountains seems to be that the voices are higher for women, and lower for men… compared to Sydney, that is,) she shared that this village was awash with beautiful autumn foliage, and had a vibe of its own. It was just two train stops away. I made the impulsive decision to get onboard the train when peak hour was over, and see what I could find. 

But before that, it was time for a coffee, and I knew just the place. 

The Yellow Deli was just waking up at 7:30am-ish, but before I reached it I was approached by a couple of Jehovah's Witnesses, who turned out to be based in Blackheath itself. What a co-incidence! Or, perhaps, evidence of the small world of the Blue Mountains. They volunteered that Wentworth Street was the place to go for the sensational natural phenomenon, and added their home street was also lovely. I made notes. A plan was taking shape. 

Over my final double shot, I was gifted with a small map of Blackheath by the waiter I told about my plans. He seemed to be 

When Shinto Meets Shakespeare

I had the pleasure of attending two sessions of the Sydney Writers' Festival in the last five days.

The first session was an interview with Daniel Hahn, who wrote 'If this be magic: the unlikely art of Shakespeare in translation', and the second was a panel involving Hiroko Yoda, who wrote '8 million ways to happiness', Paul Callaghan, who wrote 'Leading from the dreaming' and Brigid Delaney, who wrote 'The seeker and the sage'.

The most resonant moment of the festival was listening to Paul talk about the Indigenous Australian concept of The Flow. Instead of being caught up in abstracted and ineffectual reasoning, such as deliberating over possible options for travel this year (if you're me), tuning into The Flow necessitates listening to your body and tuning in to your gut instinct. This was wisdom I could directly apply to my life: I was in dire need of someone telling me not to take my endless mental chatter so seriously and take a look at what is intuitively apparent. 

In 2026 I mused over potential travel experiences to the point of frustration. I was confused. I was annoyed. But I will begin afresh, with the question: "Where do I want to be right now?" Today I feel like being in my apartment in Sydney. There's no need for escape. I have everything I need. 

There might come a time when the answer to the question, "Where do I want to be today?" will change, and then, and only then, will I do something about it. 3.5 weeks ago, I felt like going to the Blue Mountains for a week or less, and I acted upon that wish, with great results. A short break, only 2 hours away, had sufficient restorative impact. 

*

The pantheist ways of Japanese spirituality were conveyed by Hiroko Yoda, whose reawakening to Shinto following the unfortunate loss of her parents inspired her to be thankful for the life around her. According to the religion, everything that can be conceived of, whether it's the sun, a tree, or a toothache, has a spirit. She finds spiritual meaning throughout her day, in moments mundane or dramatic. I imagine Hiroko would say that even the consumption of lunch can be a source of wonder. It's about energy, or the presence of life force, in every bite. For her, the number of '8 million' (ways to happiness) is just an example of how it's possible to conceptualise of them: in reality the spirits (kami in Japanese) are infinite. 

There is another dimension to pantheism in Shinto, namely the mutually approving relationship between it and Japan's other dominant religion, Buddhism. Practitioners of the two regularly visit each other's temples or shrines to pray. The only belief you need to hold to pay your respects in a temple or shrine is respect for the host religion. The foundation of respect allows you to recognise the emotional resonance and philosophical relevance of another religion in your life. 

Now, I am not religious, but I do think there is a generosity there which non-Japanese can learn from. 

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[I think I'll discuss Daniel Hahn and his book in a Part 2.]