Vienna, Melk & the Temptation of Dirty Concrete
We cruised through the night, gliding into a lock at some ungodly hour. I woke up just enough to push the curtains aside and found myself staring at a concrete wall approximately seven inches from my face. During the mandatory safety briefing, our captain had warned us, “Don’t touch the lock walls. I know it’s tempting, but it’s just dirty concrete.”
Which, of course, instantly made us want to touch the dirty concrete. Human nature: tell us no and suddenly we’re toddlers again, ready to lick an electrical socket.
By morning we were snugged up in Vienna, tied side-by-side with a whole flotilla of other river ships like we were parallel parking in a very tight neighborhood. Disembarkation was a breezy little scavenger hunt for the correct tour bus. We chose the bike tour—a gamble, since everyone we know swears December biking in Vienna usually includes snow, ice, and inevitable regret.
But the gods of mid-December threw us a bone: gray skies, mid-40s, fully survivable. It was the four of us and one lone guy who had clearly volunteered as tribute to escape his wife and mother for a few hours.
We met our guide, Marco—overeducated, slightly sarcastic, and exactly the kind of person you want leading a gaggle of strangers on bikes through a foreign capital. As always, biking is the best way to see a city, even if your three middle toes go numb.
Marco took us through the city park, past the shiny new Economic University, along the Danubes (plural—Vienna apparently ordered extras— the Danube, New Danube, Old Danube, and the Danube Canal), to a Christmas market, and finally into the heart of the city. He was a fountain of information, but my favorite bit was his explanation of Austria’s post–World War II deal: the Soviets and Allies agreed to leave as long as Austria stayed neutral. No army, no sides, everybody out —BUT—and here’s the fun part—everyone was allowed to leave behind their intelligence agencies. So Vienna became a magnet for spies. A whole city built on coffee, music, and mild espionage. If you are ever the subject of a prisoner swap, odds are you too will get to see Vienna.
Marco also explained that Viennese culture operates on a 50-year delay. Whatever the rest of the world is doing, Vienna will get around to eventually—but with attitude. He said if you go into a traditional coffeehouse, expect:
- A minimum of one hour to be seated
- Mediocre coffee
- A grumpy waiter
Marco said, “Vienna was the city that had it all and lost it all. That sensible losses in our cultural bones.” — From what I could see is it is building back.
Back on the ship for lunch, then a shuttle to a Christmas market that—according to Marco—was the best one because everything was genuinely handmade. He was right. I found two printmakers, both manning their own stalls. I bought a beautiful fish print from one young woman and hand-printed bags from another. My “support the arts” budget is now somewhere between “responsible adult” and “do I need to explain this charge to my bank?”
We wandered into the main church at Resselpark, an ornate Baroque style church preparing for a concert. A man was practicing with the organ, and we stood there listening, completely unplanned and completely magical.
Then back to the boat, a quick change, and off again for a night at the House of Strauss. Think: waltzes, multiple generations of the Strauss family empire, a light show, video, live musicians—high culture with just the right amount of entertainment value to keep you awake. Mostly. You’re allowed one micro-nap. They’ve built it into the program.
The museum beforehand was excellent, too. If you’ve ever wanted to stand inside the brain of classical music’s first true business moguls, this is your moment.
After the show, Brian and I bee-lined (okay, sprinted) to the 11 p.m. Vienna sausage buffet, because that is how you end a day properly. Forget dessert. Bring on the sausage. Mind you, these are not the can of stand-up weenies we are accustomed to in the US, but they hit the spot.
The engines hummed us to sleep as we motored upstream—honestly one of the most soothing sounds I didn’t know I needed in my life.
We woke up pulling into Melk, where the abbey sits on a hill like a giant golden palace. Melk Abbey dates to the 11th century, though the Baroque glow-up happened in the 1700s when the monks apparently had excellent fundraising skills and were 100 strong.
Under blue skies I imagine it looks celestial. Under gray winter skies, it looks like it’s trying its best—and still manages to impress.
Our guide was delightful and walked us through the complex. Only 21 monks live there now, but the abbey also runs a school with over 800 middle and high school students. Imagine going to class every day inside what looks like a movie set for “Scholarly Wizards of Baroque Europe.”
After the tour we walked down through the town and stopped at the Christmas market, where I got my traditional holiday punch—this time nonalcoholic—and it was surprisingly tasty. Your purchase comes with a mug deposit, and you can return the mug for €2.
Except I was traveling with Chad and Kim, who do not stop and wait for such things, so now I own a Melk punch mug. Honestly, not mad about it.
