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 Gruner 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 then killing time before my 2 am 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 had performed the security rituals, and sat down at the gate - I was feeling relatively calm when the inevitable realisation of what I was doing hit me like a train. Soon I’ll be on a plane, in a new time zone with no idea what I’m doing, again.

“What if it is just as bad?”

After sleeping through the entire flight (safety talk and all), I arrived into the freezing Austrian city - 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.

I take two hours to do the thirty-minute walk to my hostel, circling and swirling through the city, eyeing up cafes and galleries to visit over the weekend. I wandered through the city and check in - to my surprise, I wasn’t the youngest there, nor the oldest - I was exactly the same age as everyone else; for the first time in a while, I felt like I was in good company.

How many days are you here?

Three.

Lovely. Welcome to Vienna, there’s Karaoke in the bar tonight.

Not my scene really

I head up to my room; no one is there, so I wash the plane journey off of me and leisurely unpack. I leave the hostel in search of food. My first stop? Naschmarkt.

It’s the oldest market in the city, dating back to 1774 - but I don’t know that yet. All I know is there is an array of bustling, busy, dimly lit restaurants that I am dying to try all at once. The one I pick makes me instantly (and painfully) aware of how uncool I am when a DJ starts a set at 7 pm. I am the only one eating at the bar, everyone else sips pale green wine from large glasses and looks unphased and uninterested in their conversation. I leave swiftly after my meal, almost apologising as I go for bringing the cool-average down.

I immediately find a tiny cottage-like place, just off the centre of the market. I walked in, and it was the kind of small, bare-white-walled place that felt like it belonged to another time and ordered the strudel.

Waiting for someone?

No, just me.

I never usually minded these questions before, but leaving home this time felt different. I’d just started seeing someone and for the first time in a while, I wished I had brought them along.

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

Gasthaus Zur Eisernen Zeit - Strudel House

I head back to the hostel bar around eight, the karaoke hadn’t started just yet and I wanted to sit and read my book somewhere other than my hostel bunk - where reading lights never seem to work correctly. When the first person took the mic and attempted to butcher ABBA’s Waterloo, I was packing up to leave, when -

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

I can’t play chess - I am rubbish at it. I have no real interest in chess, but tonight, what the hell - “Sure”.

His name was Derek - a therapist on vacation from the US, gallery hopping around Europe and only in town for the weekend. We played game after game after game and slowly, but surely, others joined us.

Late 20s, early 30s all of us just a little bit lost, all of us just happy to be in this weird (loud) space together.

We drank cheap hostel wine (which was surprisingly good), and before we knew it, we were the only ones left in the bar - all the youths had peeled off and the bar staff were also sitting with us, playing chess. We agreed to go on a walking tour together the next day.

The morning came, and with it, so did the mother of all hangovers.

My teeth felt fury and my eyes looked like I had just survived a boxing match, but I rallied, dragging myself to the lobby and met up with my new “chess club” members.

Derek declined, as he had already explored the city and others decided to bail, but I was there, and I meant business.

A note about the wine - although cheaper than I’m used to (and therefore suspicious of its merit), there’s something very cool about it. The city boasts ‘urban vineyards’, meaning the city produces its own wine. The one we drank the most is called ‘Wiener Gemischter Satz’ (field blend), meaning grapes from all varieties and types are combined to create a unique fresh blend. It means it changes (slightly) every batch you try, it goes down easily, and it’s widely available and affordable.

We met our guide in the lobby, a loud quirky woman who knew pretty much everything (and I mean everything) about Vienna. Loudly she lead us out of the hostel and into the cold streets.

Our first stop …Naschmarkt.

We wandered through, the exciting smells now having the opposite effect they had last night. I learnt a lot, about how the people of Austria protested the market’s possible closure to the way that apartments in the city are affordable and there are laws in place to make sure they stay that way. I wish I could tell you more on this, and would have listened more …but my head was pounding. You can read about it here.

We stopped outside the Strudel House, which turned out to be the oldest guest house in Vienna. It also boasts what locals call “The Best Strudel in Vienna”.

And I had found it by accident.

Did I feel like I had won the trip already? Absolutely. Was I too hungover to even think about the sweet apple strudel I had enjoyed the night before with lashings of vanilla cream? Yes, yes I was.

The city is walkable but vast and wildly contrasting. From the gothic Royal Opera House to the picturesque parks, we wandered across cobbled streets, passing old houses, huge churches and modern glass-fronted buildings - it’s incredible how many styles of architecture there are side by side here.

The thing I found most interesting and respected the most about the city of Vienna is its ability not to shy away from its past and speak openly about it with authenticity and sensitivity.

This year marks 80 years since the end of WW2, and the tour concluded with a talk about the role the city had in the conflict. From fallen buildings which were never rebuilt to statues and artwork - it isn’t just a tribute to the past but a real commitment to ensuring the stories of those lost are remembered.

The country remains neutral to this day.

By the time the tour concluded, it was the early afternoon - and my new tour group friends and I were ravenous. On the recommendation of our guide, we found ourselves outside a small place with a large sign displaying BESIL; this isn’t the name of the place, this is the Austrian word for Bistro - (the more you know, ‘eh?).

The queue outside is longer than the facade of the restaurant itself - but once we got inside? It made up for it tenfold.

Whilst the lads enjoyed Schnitzels, I enjoyed a sweet potato feta creation, sipped wine and enjoyed the midday dinner party. After that, we were inseparable.

The next few days were spent in a constant cycle of eating, drinking and exploring with a group of people I barely knew. We ticked off modern art museums, statues and monuments - I even attended a ballet with them.

Whilst I enjoyed having a network of people around me I liked, I began to feel like I was betraying the real reason I was here — to be on my own.

On Sunday afternoon I made my excuses and took myself off to the Belvedere as I was told by my Aunt (who’d visited last year) that I had to see The Kiss by Klimt. And despite the throngs of people who were all desperately trying to snap a photo without someone else in the frame, it really was beautiful.

But then, I stumbled on another treasure - I didn’t realise it was even there.

If you go right through the doorway and immediately turn around, you’ll see another masterpiece: The Embrace by Egon Schiele. It ticks all my boxes: it’s beautiful, it’s stunningly crafted, and no one is crowding around it to take pictures of it - it’s my favourite open secret I’ve stumbled upon so far.

The Embrace - Egon Schiele (1917)

After the museum, I got lost - and I hate being lost. After an hour, my feet started to hurt. Another hour, my phone died.

So, I did what I always do in these situations when the world feels too much. I find cake. I read a book and I think about the things I’ve been trying to ignore.

It’s time to talk about him.

I’d booked the trip before we became official - we’d met in spring whilst I was working; he was newly single, and I was an over-talkative tech at a theatre who clocked he was nervous and reeled off nonsense trying to calm him down.

I booked it because I needed a distraction from my job and from facing the reality of committing to someone again.

My last relationship ended disastrously two years prior just before Christmas, all the dates I had been on up until this point were people I could see the endpoint looming.

A word on the endpoint - the endpoint is when you know the person you’re seeing is not going to work out, and within three to six months, you know deep down you will never speak to them again.

It was something I used to fear above all else, usually craving the reciprocation and desire for commitment, but for the past two years, it’s been a safe haven - my get-out-of-jail-free card. Reasons for starting the endpoint clock include - they’re about to emigrate, they are not ready for anything serious and the classic - they’re just as terrified as you.

But with him, I didn’t see the endpoint, and it shocked me.

What shocked me more was even though I had got what I wanted, I was alone, I had conquered another solo flight - I was in one of the most romantic cities in Europe, and I missed a boy.

How tragic, how wildly predictable, how stubborn I was not to tell him I did when I felt it. I sat and pondered.

After an hour (and another slice of cake) I finally plucked up the courage to ask for directions back to the hostel and made it back in one piece. I snuck upstairs, trying not to be noticed by any Chess Club members.

I debated just sitting in my room with a book. I decided against that and went down to the bar.

I’m met with a group of pleased, slightly concerned, boisterous boys who ask, “Where the hell [I’ve] been all evening"?” I feel like I’m in Cheers.

The reality that we’re all going home soon started to hit, and the realisation that we hadn’t actually spoken about our lives back home.

We quizzed each other on what we did, where we lived - what our plans were. The focus turned to me, and the question I dreaded being asked materialised -

What are you doing here?

I have no f*****g clue, guys.

Same here. It’s okay - you’re doing fine.

Our conversation spiralled into a whirlwind of confessions - “I’m not where I want to be”, “I hate my job!”, “I’m travelling for two years because I got too overwhelmed back home” - “I’m about to teach in South America, because” (and I quote them on this) “why the f*** not?”

I’ve had conversations like this a thousand times before, but there’s something about hearing it at 3 am in a bar with good company and cheap wine that made it finally click. So there I was, a cluster of chaos on a master's degree hiding out in a bar in Vienna because “why not?”. The fact I was doing it was enough - there was no expectation of an endpoint.

I text him to tell him I miss him for the first time on this trip and he immediately reads it.

Read already?! What are you doing? X

You got me, I scrolled up on our text feed. I miss you too x

God, he’s too nice… & I liked it. Suddenly, it wasn’t that scary anymore.

Maybe it’s okay. Maybe you don’t need to have it all figured out. Maybe you don’t need to have the endpoint mapped out.

Maybe it is okay to remember to slow down (and remember) you’re doing fine.

A note on the cake -

Sachertorte is a cake crafted in 1832. It consists of 3 layers of chocolate sponge cake with thickly spread apricot jam in between and on top which is then covered in chocolate icing.

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

I tell him about the art galleries. I tell him about the people I met. I tell him about the wine we drank. 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.

Him: Hm…maybe we go sometime?

Me: I’d like that.