From Africa To Russia

I wake up feeling worse than the night before, I can barely get out of bed. I lay there until about noon, and then painfully drag myself through a shower and out into the street. I am hurting, but I’ll be damned if I am going to let this cold derail me. First I find some fresh squeezed orange juice in a market, then get a chicken sandwich, which I am basically unable to eat because I am nauseous. Hop on the metro and into the city. Vienna is like a breath of fresh air, everything is so clean and efficient and pleasant. There is a drastic, marked change in the attitude of the people. They don’t look away as you pass, they say hello and where are you from, and I feel in a way like I have surfaced from being underwater for weeks. I realize that the hassles down south have been getting me down, and I am glad to be moving north. Vienna has parks and tree-lined paths and statues and monuments and breathtaking architecture galore; there is something almost musical about it, something sublime, and I find myself actually singing out loud as I stroll down the Ringstrasse. I go to the Hapsburg castle, there is a trio of musicians performing classical music on a mandolin, an accordion and a lute-like acoustic bass of some kind. They are amazing – I stop and stare. The mandolin player is OUT OF HIS MIND, his hands fly all over the fretboard at light speed and twist in grotesque contorted fingerings, and I feel like Kerouac’s buddy sitting in front of the jazz trumpeter, “blow, blow…” The guy just knocks my head off. The little crowd looks interested, but I wonder if they really know just how good this is. When they are done, I walk away, dazed. I walk through a gorgeous garden filled with roses of all shapes and sizes, and gaze in wonder at the Renaissance triumph that is the Parliament building. I spot a raven standing beneath a tree. Vienna is truly a magical place. I pass a metro station and a crazed dirty man stumbles around a corner. He starts to scream, a long cry of rage and despair. His mouth grows and grows in size until it envelopes his entire face, he has the largest mouth in the world, his wild eyes bug-eyed on the margins. “Ayayayayaya!” I guess even a city this beautiful will never work for everyone. I stop in a park, my cold has overwhelmed me, and I collapse under a tree near a pond. Pigeons and duck frolic, girls sunbathe. There are three homeless fellows there that are a bit the worse for wear but at the same time dignified and almost regal, one of them wears a sports coat and a cap and his beard is groomed and combed. They sit about, chatting like philosophers. I get up after a nap by the pond, and head for the touristy area close to the river where all the cafes and bars are. I stop in and watch a little World Cup (Ecuador beats Costa Rica). When these football players make contact with each other, they collapse as if they have been shot with a rifle, like burn victims, writhing and thrashing in mortal agony. In two minutes they usually make remarkable recoveries and are running around again. I head back on the metro, go to my room and chat with my roommate Alex from Brazil, who flies helicopters for a living with the military and has recently been to Romania. I eat an apricot, then have a nap. Later on I go down to the bar, have my free drink and talk with some people. Just that one drink leaves me feeling faint from the cold, so I go to bed. I lay up half the night, feverish and disoriented, sweating like a man in the jungle, “good lord I feel like I’m dyin’.”

In the morning, take the boat once again, sit top deck, enjoy the beautiful sunshine and the breeze. Gaze out across the water into the mist. Somewhere out there is Algeria and Libya and the whole mysterious mammoth girth of Africa. I hike through the alleys of Venice with my pack on my back. No matter how carefully I follow my map, I wind up in dead ends, or going in circles. A bit maddening without signs. I wind up at the extreme west end of the island, having overshot the train station. I backtrack a bit, twist and turn and eventually find it. I take my pack off and rest in a park for a spell. My shirt is soaked through with sweat. The mosquitos enjoy this. Stop in at a little cafe near the train station, hoping to save some money. I pick out a bacon and brie sandwich, 3.50 euros. I have a coke with it, and then a beer. The bill comes: sandwich: 4.50 euros, coke: 4.00 euros, beer: 6 euros. Highway robbery, no two ways about it. The train to Vienna is mostly empty, but there are two Californians sitting with me, Chris and Alitha. The train ride is long, but the conversation is good and time passes quickly. We ride through mountains and valleys, some of the peaks sprinkled with snow. There are cottages here and there, and everything looks like something out of a dream, truly magnificent country. I realize on the train that what I thought were allergies in Venice were actually the beginnings of a cold, which proceeds to get into full swing in a very short space of time. We get to Vienna around ten, grab the metro and I find my hostel. As I am walking on the street towards it, Germany scores in the World Cup with only five minutes left, and I hear eruptions in just about all the apartments in Vienna all at the same time. The reception guy at the hostel is ecstatic, he has been watching the game and can barely contain himself. He giddily showers me with gifts: a free towel, a handful of drink coupons. The hostel I am staying in is called Wombats and is really top notch, a lot of attention to detail, a highly recommended stop in Vienna. I am feeling like crap because of the cold and collapse in bed immediately.