I have a theory that every touristy city is the ‘Disneyland’ of something.
Paris = Art Disneyland
Rome = History Disneyland
London = Royal Disneyland
Mexico City = Frida Disneyland
The touristy parts of the cities find some way to make their grandest attractions seem tacky and unappealing (Mona Lisa ashtrays, Colosseum Kleenex boxes, Frida Kahlo bobbleheads).
Nothing really kills the romance of Paris quite like a kiosk full of red-lipstick-kiss paraphernalia, and the rows of shops in NYC that only seem to carry different sizes of plastic Statue of Liberty figurines make me dizzy.
So of course, even refined, elegant, white-gloved Vienna isn’t immune from the amusement park treatment, doubly so: It’s Music Disneyland, AND Psychology Disneyland.
Fortunately for me, I like those two subjects so much that I didn’t care. I actually found the ‘Mostly Mozart’ souvenir chain with its composer finger puppets to be endearing, and all the Freud tchotchkes gave me a chuckle. (To the friends of mine receiving Freud postcards: Don’t read into it.)
Beyond the psychotherapy kitsch, the spirit of intense self-reflection was palpable in the streets—the same streets where Freud, Klimt, and Kafka strolled at the same time.
And I could see why so much beautiful music was written in a city that inspires order, precision, contemplation, and opulence.
Much of classical music is to my ear what I imagine the soapy cilantro people taste, but I tried reeeeally hard to appreciate every note of the concerts we attended.
Before I left for Vienna, my classical-guitar-playing friend Carlos told me, “If you start to doze off during a concert, please stay awake, just for me! Know that I would be like *this* the entire time,” as he pantomimed wide-open eyes and his jaw hanging down.
So, whenever I thought the piece could have been, oh, ten minutes shorter, I would close my eyes and try to imagine that this was my first time hearing live music, or that I was a very old woman hearing a tune that reminded her of youth, or that I was in this scenario:
I would also look around at others who were appreciating the music more than I did.
For example, at a concert IN MOZART’S HOUSE, the trio played some bangers from various composers:
During Ave Maria, I scanned the room to find a person-of-focus (something I always do while public speaking, too!), someone who is so engaged that they inspire me toward deeper engagement.
To my sweet surprise, I found a young man nodding to the music, eyes closed, swallowing tears every few moments. When the cellist bowed at the end, he wiped his face with his sweatshirt sleeve. I don’t know what he was feeling, but I’m so grateful I got to witness it.
I did love every second of the Vivaldi concert at this massive church, despite being very freezing (massive churches aren’t really known for their pleasant temps):
I suppose Vienna could also pose a triple threat as another Art Disneyland, as Klimt’s “The Kiss” is sloppily printed on everything from chocolates to mouse pads.
But my favorites of his were unrecognizable as Klimt, like a peppy wildflower scene that I’d mistake for a Monet. The description on the museum label read, “It is late summer. The leaves and flowers seem positively to shimmer. Solid shapes are nowhere to be seen—everything is color.”
When I read that, I thought, “Ah! The opposite of Vienna in the winter. Solid shapes are EVERYWHERE to be seen!”
I started noticing the angles and contrasts even more. Everything is clearer under an overcast sky, and every shape is sharper without the deceptive shimmer of summer.
I was glad for this; I feel that I saw the city in its plainness, its reality—like when you glance at a “CELEBRITIES WITHOUT MAKEUP!” cover of a tabloid in the grocery store line and it’s supposed to be shocking but they’re all beautiful. More-so, usually.
When we decided to go to Vienna for our honeymoon (competing with Tunisia, but we’ll get there some day!), I envisioned Baroque streetscapes, gilded grandeur dripping from the ceilings of opera houses and imperial palaces, and majestic cafes with impeccable cakes behind jewelry-store glass cabinets paired with overflowing cappuccinos in porcelain teacups.
So, naturally, I bought silk hair bows, long opera gloves, and a black velvet coat with dramatic lace cuffs (actually my mom bought this for me, insisting that I needed it for Vienna, and I absolutely did!!!).
It was all that. It was grandeur and majesty and velvet and gold, and stamped slivers of chocolate tucked into whipped mousse.
And it was also construction sites, and bleak basement fitness centers, and fast-casual noodle chains, and high-rises that look like bruises upon the skyline, and Brutalist apartment buildings with bare trees on the rooftops.
Aside from Sacher torte and wiener schnitzel, there were lots of falafel sandwiches and chicken muamba.
But unlike so many stunning cities in the world, Vienna doesn’t aggressively hide its less-touristy vignettes. That’s why it was a comfortable city to be in; I never felt like I was forced to buy into an ideal (but false) image.
Maybe that has to do with quiet self-confidence. I get that same comfortable feeling in Berlin, and I have it in New York. I feel both enlivened and soothed—like my nervous system hits equilibrium—when I don’t feel like a city is telling me exactly how it feel about it.
I think it also speaks to humility—a lack of national pride, without being uncertain about itself. This is an unusual characteristic for a city.
When I’ve traveled throughout my favorite continent, South America, I sense a communal pride that is hard-won. I love it, but I can’t relate to it.
I come from a filthy rich, powerful country where patriotism (or lack thereof) implies dissent from the other half of the nation.
But in Latin America, national pride means true solidarity. A flag on the cab driver’s dashboard means All of Us vs. The Government, The World, or Whoever Is Beating Us At Soccer. It’s not humble, and I understand why it’s not.
Then, in so many parts of Western Europe, pride has a different flavor: it can be arrogant, and exclusive.
It doesn’t feel great to spend a day marveling at some of the world’s finest art or best-preserved history, only to exit through rows of immigrants selling plastic replicas of the marvels I just saw. It’s as though some of these cities are propping up a romantic façade (Weekend at Bernie’s, much??) but the behind-the-scenes are all too visible.
While the towns of Lucca and Verona in Italy banned all “foreign” food shops and restaurants…I’ll let you guess who’s taking the low-paying kitchen jobs at trattorias and pizzerias.
And I’ve yet to see any public acknowledgment—monument, plaza, or even plaque—of the countless lives lost during the Crusades, Inquisition, or colonization.
I don’t want to villainize or romanticize any particular country; we are all made of humans and we all have our problems!! I often wonder why some places resonate more easily than others.
Perhaps when we gravitate toward cities, we’re discerning our values, and Berlin and Vienna are two European cities who I’ve seen do a halfway decent job at some challenges I particularly value: integrating immigrants, creating ample public housing, owning their worst history with beaucoup monuments, and welcoming tourists with a graciousness that I would like to extend back in New York.
Despite a mid-honeymoon virus that kept us cooped up in the hotel calling Room Service for more plain rice, we were still enamored of a city that gave us so much in a relatively short amount of time: art, music, an even greater appreciation of psychotherapy, a model of humility, and apple strudel.
Now, for some outfit photos!