among the bourgeoisie

On the train to Vienna, I sat up front, still riding on my Eurail Pass ticket.  Pavlos had to buy a second class ticket, since he didn’t want to pay the difference to ride in comfort and I didn’t want to condescend myself to ride with him amongst the peasants.  After the ticket checker passed, I went back to the second class to inform him.  I passed all the proletarians, smelling of old clothes and sweat, factory and field labor, glad that I didn’t have to lower myself to be among them, even though I knew that soon I would be back amongst their toilsome presence, once my Eurail Pass ran out in two trips. 

“Hey Pavlos,” I said, pinching his arm to wake him up.  He was in a cabin with six seats, occupied only by a wide eyed, dark haired lady and her two screaming children, who were throwing feces at each other like monkeys.  Having become accustomed to being among the bourgeoisie, I felt increasingly out of place surrounded by the dirt and muck of poor people, wondering why they didn’t work as hard as my unemployed self worked and didn’t therefore live such a luxurious life as mine.  “The ticket checker has passed and there’s an extra seat in my booth.” 

Pavlos came back to join us, leaving his stuff with the lady and her two monkeys.  In my compartment was a handsome young gentleman wearing a suit and had a bit of scruff on his face – not in a sloppy manner but in a stylish manner – and an old Italian woman who was wearing a nicely pressed pink dress, looking somewhat like Queen Elizabeth II out for lunch.  The waiter brought us beers and welcomed our new guest, asking if he’d like a beer as well.  I leaned back, sipping on my carbonated alcoholic beverage, feeling that it was right and proper to be of a higher class and glad that the lesser people were happy with their shit tossing ape mongrels. 

The young man was from Brno, one of the larger towns in the Czech Republic.  He was an operations manager for a dog food company and constantly traveled between Brno and Prague.  He had a wife and a newborn baby of six months, so after a week away he was itching to get back to his country villa and see them again.  “She’s so precious,” he said, smiling.  It was clear that it’d be impossible for the child to become a wild mannered fecal philanderer like most lower class ill begotten children.  This was an upper class breed and incapable of receiving such retardation.  We are told in America that successful people are such because of their own hard work and that God loves them more than poor people, who are poor because they are stupid and don’t work hard, and perhaps this is also the reason God does not love them quite as much.  These things were clear to me now, seeing such sharp differences as those that exist between first class rides and second class rides on trains throughout Europe.  And I’ll tell you another thing: you don’t see gypsies riding the first class either!  Though, I think perhaps the waiter may have had some gypsy blood.     

Our first hostess in Vienna was a young student named Karen.  She lived in a flat above her parents, on the outskirts of town.  She was skinny, short and had dreadlocks and a very quiet disposition, mostly just listening to what others were saying.  She did not even object that night, when we were sitting around smoking and drinking, to Pavlos reading out loud from her Biology book, during which time I myself was glad to have my computer to distract me.  She went on to say, “Mmhmm, yup,” for some time as Pavlos continued to read each chapter, exclaiming, “This is really interesting!” even though was only looking at pictures and couldn’t read anything in the German script. 

She had taken us to a sushi restaurant in downtown Vienna.  Ever since some passenger had mentioned that an all you can eat sushi restaurant existed somewhere in Vienna, Pavlos became obsessed with it.  “There’s an all you can eat sushi restaurant here,” he told Karen. 

“Where is it?”

“It’s, I don’t know, where is it Shawn?”

“Over near sss- ssss – ssssomething that starts with a ssss and ends in an ing.  It’s across town.  First train stop.  Ssss – ssssomething.” 

“Simmering?” Karen asked, after a few looks with a raised eyebrow and a few more of my hissing sounds. 

“Yeah, that’s it.  Three metro stops on some metro line from there.”

“I don’t know.”  I knew she wouldn’t know.  It struck me as slightly humorous that Pavlos was holding onto this sushi restaurant told to him by some random guy in the train, concerning this restaurant.  I was wanting wienerschnitzel myself.  I was dreaming of it, thinking of it more than I think of women’s breasts, which is a lot of times in the day.  Ever since I realized that my path would in fact, take me through Vienna, I knew that I had to have a wienerschnitzel, unadulterated by the creamy mushroom sauce that I so often savored on a schnitzel, but having it in pure wiener style.  That is, Veinnese – Vienner - Wiener style.  “But I’d rather wienerschnitzel.  I’ve been – really wanting some.”  Best to hold back my near-sexual salivations from immediate expression.

But my dreams were crushed.

“I’m a vegetarian,” the girl said. 

“I knew you would be,” I said.  “Your dreadlocks give your kind away.” 

We went to eat sushi.  It wasn’t all you can eat, but near enough, as I ate my fill for around 12 euros.  12 euros not spent on wienerschnitzel, but we can’t have everything our way.  We walked around the Museumquartier district of Vienna, filled with streets lined with bright lights, glimmering advertisements bars and, true to its namesake, museums.  Inside the courtyards of the museums, there were bar tents set up.  Viennese – Vieners – Wieners were doing what they liked to do most, standing around and soaking their tubes.  They were drinking beers and hot wines, wrapped in heavy wool clothes, standing outside.  It was an inexplicable anomaly that I wouldn’t be able to fathom for some time. 

“Are there no bars here?”

“Yes, of course,” Karen said. 

“I mean, why are they standing outside?”

“They are drinking.”

“Couldn’t they go to a bar and drink?”

“They are drinking here,” Karen said. 

“I see that, but I mean – nevermind.”  Like many things of other cultures, like vegetarianism, it was just  a part of other people’s lives I would have to accept and try for myself.  So as Pavlos asked us if we wanted some hot wine, I consented.  I stood around with them, in the cold, feeling icicles form on my beard, while drinking my red, hot mulled wine.  I didn’t learn why the Wieners were standing around outside, but I did learn that red, hot mulled wine was delicious.