Slow Down, You're Doing Fine.

Does Vienna really wait for you?

“Why are you doing this again?” was the question I faced countless times when I announced I was venturing on my second solo trip, this time—Vienna (Austria).

Why, you ask? Because it was cheap, I have a deep appreciation for Grüner Veltliner and an undeniable addiction to schnitzel (of all kinds).

That, and—

“I can’t let Sweden be my only solo trip experience.”

“But what if it’s just as bad?”

“It won’t be!”… right?

I began the trip with a triumph, of sorts: late to leave work (as always), watched a horror movie in the cinema, and killed time before my 2 a.m. airport bus with a new boyfriend (we’re not here to talk about him).

The night passed quickly, and I soon found myself at Gatwick. Once I’d performed the security rituals and sat down at the gate, I was feeling relatively calm—until the inevitable realisation hit me like a train. Soon I’d be on a plane, in a new time zone, with no idea what I was doing, again.

“What if it is just as bad?”

I slept through the entire flight—safety talk and all—and arrived in a freezing Vienna. And to my delight, it was snowing. I don’t care who you are, if it’s snowing a place instantly becomes 100 times more exciting. It’s a rule.

It took me two hours to do the thirty-minute walk to my hostel, winding through the city, eyeing up cafes and galleries to visit. I checked in, pleasantly surprised to find I wasn’t the youngest or the oldest there—just the right kind of in-between. For the first time in a while, I felt like I was in good company.

I headed to my room—no one was in yet—so I washed the plane journey off and went out in search of food. First stop: Naschmarkt.

I didn’t know yet that it was the oldest market in the city, dating back to 1774. All I knew was that it was busy, buzzing, and full of restaurants I wanted to try all at once. The one I picked made me instantly aware of how uncool I was—when a DJ started a set at 7 p.m. and everyone else sipped pale green wine, looking completely unbothered. I was the only one eating. I left swiftly, almost apologising on my way out for bringing the cool average down.

Then I stumbled into a tiny cottage-like place just off the market. Small, white-walled, and timeless. I ordered the strudel.

“Waiting for someone?”

“No, just me.”

That question had never really bothered me before, but something about this trip felt different. I’d just started seeing someone, and for the first time in a while, I wished I wasn’t alone.

But we’re not here to talk about that. We’re here to talk about Vienna.

Later that night I returned to the bar—not for karaoke, but just to read somewhere other than my bunk. Hostel bunk lights never work properly. When someone took the mic and started butchering ABBA’s Waterloo, I was packing up to leave when—

“Excuse me… would you like to play chess?”

I can’t play chess. I’m rubbish at it. But tonight, what the hell—“Sure.”

His name was Derek—a therapist from the US, gallery hopping around Europe and in town for the weekend. We played game after game. Slowly, others joined us. Late 20s, early 30s, all of us a little bit lost, all of us just happy to be in this weird (loud) space together. We drank cheap hostel wine (shockingly good), and before we knew it, we were the only ones left in the bar. Even the staff sat down to play. We agreed to go on a walking tour the next day.

The morning came, and with it, the mother of all hangovers. I dragged myself to the lobby and met up with a few of the “chess club” members.

Derek declined, already having explored the city, and most others bailed. I was the only one who showed up.

A note about the wine:

It’s called Wiener Gemischter Satz—a field blend made from all sorts of grapes mixed together in one vineyard. Each batch is slightly different, and it’s affordable, everywhere, and goes down far too easily.

Our guide was a loud, quirky woman who knew everything about Vienna. She marched us into the cold streets, stopping first at—of course—Naschmarkt. This time, the exciting smells had the opposite effect. I learned a lot—how locals protested its possible closure, how apartment rent is regulated to remain affordable—but I’ll be honest, I wasn’t fully retaining it. You can read about it here.

We stopped outside the strudel house I’d eaten at the night before. Turns out, it’s the oldest guest house in Vienna. Known by locals as the place with the best strudel in the city.

Did I feel like I’d won the trip already? Yes. Was I too hungover to enjoy the memory of that strudel with vanilla cream? Also yes.

Vienna is vast, but walkable. Gothic buildings sit beside parks and glass-fronted modern museums. The sheer mix of architecture is almost disorienting—but stunning. I was especially struck by how openly Vienna confronts its history. Eighty years since the end of WWII, and the city doesn’t shy away from its past. Ruins left unrepaired, statues, plaques—there’s memory here, and a commitment to honesty.

By early afternoon, we were starving. On our guide’s recommendation, we joined the long queue outside a place called BESIL (which I now know is just the Austrian word for “bistro”). Inside, it was narrow and loud, in the best way. While the others had schnitzels, I had a sweet potato feta dish, sipped wine, and basked in the atmosphere. After that, we were inseparable.

The next two days blurred into a loop of food, wine, art, wandering. We visited museums, galleries, monuments - we even went to a ballet. I loved having people around me, but eventually, I felt like I was betraying the whole point—I came to be on my own.

On Sunday afternoon, I peeled off and went to the Belvedere. My aunt had insisted I see The Kiss by Klimt. And despite the crowd, it was stunning.

Then, unexpectedly, I found something I hadn’t known was there: The Embrace by Egon Schiele. Just through the doorway, turn around, and it’s there. No crowd. No cameras, and it quickly became my favourite open secret of the trip.

Afterwards, I got lost. And I hate being lost. My phone died, my feet hurt, and the city blurred into a maze you’d find on the back of the kid’s menu. So I did what I always do when things feel too much—I found cake (specifically, Sachertorte) , & read a book, and when I grew tired of that, thought about the things I’d been trying not to.

It’s time to talk about him.

I booked the trip before we became official. We met in spring, while I was working a show. He was newly single. I was an over-talkative tech who clocked that he was nervous and filled the silence with nonsense.

I booked it to get away from work, from my brain, from the growing panic that comes when something starts to feel real.

My last relationship ended two years ago, just before Christmas. Since then, every date has had an obvious expiration date. A get-out clause. The endpoint.

A word on the endpoint —

It’s the moment you realise this person isn’t it. They’re moving. They don’t want anything serious. You can see the end before you’ve even started. And for the past two years, I’ve clung to that safety.

But with him, I didn’t see it. And that scared me more than anything.

But there I was in one of the most romantic cities in Europe, completely alone, and I missed a boy. How wildly predictable. How tragic. How typical of me not to say anything.

I finished my cake. I asked for directions. I made it back to the hostel and crept upstairs, avoiding chess club reunion questions.

I debated staying in and reading, but instead went down to the bar.

They spotted me immediately. “Where the hell have you been?” I felt like I’d walked into Cheers.

We realised, all at once, that we were going home soon—and hadn’t even talked about real life. What we did. Where we lived. What was next?

Then someone asked the question I’d been dreading: “What are you doing here?”

I shrugged. “I have no f***ing clue, guys.”

“Same here,” someone said. “You’re doing fine.”

Suddenly it was a waterfall of confessions. “I’m not where I want to be.” “I hate my job.” “I got overwhelmed back home.” “I’m moving to South America because—why the f*** not?”

I’d had versions of this conversation before, but there was something about hearing it at 3 a.m. in a Vienna hostel bar, surrounded by strangers who didn’t feel like strangers, that made something click.

Maybe there doesn’t need to be an endpoint. Maybe just being here is enough.

I texted him and admitted for the first time in the trip:
I miss you. He read it immediately.

Read already?! What are you doing? X
You got me, I scrolled up on our texts. I miss you too x

Suddenly, it didn’t feel so scary anymore.

Maybe it’s okay not to have it all figured out. Maybe you don’t need a neat ending. Maybe slowing down is enough.

And maybe, just maybe—you’re doing fine.

A note on the cake—

Sachertorte was crafted in 1832. Three layers of chocolate sponge, thick apricot jam, all wrapped in chocolate icing. Ridiculously good.

I tell him about it as we walk back from the bus depot to his house.

I tell him about the art, the wine, the people. I tell him I didn’t visit the library because I knew he’d love it, and I couldn’t bear the idea of going without him.

“Hm,” he says. “Maybe we go sometime?”

Me: I’d like that.