Vienna
I arrived at the central train station and began my City Assimilation Process (CAP). Every time you arrive in a new city, there is a checklist to go through. Find the information kiosk, get a map, locate the hostel, buy a transportation pass, convert to local currency, route your trip to hostel and go. My CAP has dramatically improved since I first arrived in Europe. Where it used to take me upwards of 30 minutes to get going, now I am usually en route to my hostel within 10. The skills you never thought you'd master.
I was reluctant to make the trip outside the city to the Schoenbrunn Palace. Palaces are great, but I've seen so many and this one can't be so different. I was wrong. This palace has a garden the size of a small city with lush green expanses, precious flower sculptures and a maze! I didn't even go inside the palace I had so much fun exploring the labyrinth of my childhood imagination.
The city center is conveniently outlined by the Ringstrasse, a circular road that contains many of Vienna's architectural achievements, most of which were built before 1860. You can walk by the Museum Quarters, the Parliament Building, and the Vienna State Opera.
Not far from the Rinstrasse is St. Stephen's Cathedral, the mother church of the Archdiocese of Vienna. It's multi-colored tile roof seems to contrast with its towering central Gothic spire, giving it a somewhat contradictory feel of warm and imposing.
Just a few blocks further is the original apartment of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the prolific classical composer who prodigiously started composing at the age of 5. Unlike many great artists, Mozart was wildly popular throughout his life and he reveled in his fame. He threw many parties, was an avid gambler, attended the best balls in town and generally enjoyed the company of Viennese high society. His death at 36 remains a mystery and some speculate that he was poisoned with Mercury by rival composer Antonio Salieri.
Vienna is in many ways like a museum: nice to look at, but not very exciting. Maybe it's still recovering from the Bubonic Plague, which struck the city in 1679 and killed a third of its population. I might have felt differently if I had attended one of the 200 annual balls the city is most famous for, but I'm not at that stage of life just yet.
Bratislava
I first heard of Bratislava when I saw the movie Hostel, where several backpackers who visit the Slovakian capital are abducted by wealthy sadists who purchase victims to torture. It seemed like a lovely city. Like most European cities, there are plenty of architectural achievements, idyllic plazas and a hilltop castle with an expansive view. I didn't see any of them. Instead, I opted for something truly Slovakian – an Ice Hockey match. I donned my light blues, bought a Slovan scarf and inserted myself in the middle of the raucous, megaphone blaring, drum beating die-hard fan section. I cheered hard, sang the battle songs and jumped for joy when our mighty Slovans defeated the perennial favorite HC Košice in overtime.
I met a great group of guys that night and we partied well into the night. Some of us had a better night than others, but all of us loved Bratislava.
Budapest
You know that feeling when you meet somebody who you are immediately attracted to, so you start paying extra attention to them, then you find out they are also intelligent and fun and they are all you can think about? That's how I feel about Budapest. The city is aesthetically gorgeous, with stately boulevards, proud monolithic structures, and a graceful river that divides Buda from Pest. It has a rich history, progressive museum exhibits and a lively night life that is easy to explore.
The view from the top of the St. Stephens Basilica is breathtaking. Totally breathtaking. After 328 stairs, I was panting and heaving. From its circular balcony you can view the 2nd largest parliament building in Europe, the Danube river, which brushes past Budapest castle, and the distant city park that houses some of the best Turkish Hot Springs. Note: Add Turkish Hot Springs to the To Do List.
I was expecting more of an old town, windy street feel to Budapest, but this city is a modern metropolis. A stroll down the iconic Andrassy street with its fine cafes, theatres, designer boutiques and fusion restaurants confirms this. The boulevard stretches from the Danube river to the panoramic Heroes Square and can take up an entire day's worth of site-seeing.
In small letters on my map were the words “House of Terror”. I'm a sucker for words like that. I circled the location then made my way. I didn't know what to expect when I entered the House of Terror, and I really didn't know what to think when I left. The first thing I see when I walk in is a giant WWII era Tank in a pool of oil, the sleek black substance oozing off the edges in long thin strands. There is no “start tour” sign so I approach one of the unassuming grey doors and try the handle. It's locked. I hear voices behind it. I walk to the second door and try that one. It opens.
I'm clearly in the middle of an exhibit. I can go left or right. There is a TV playing a black and white video of an old woman being interviewed. She is speaking in Russian. Eerie violin music emanates from an old, cone-shaped speaker. I choose left. The next room is plain and dark, with a red light that fades, then surges. In the center is a black curtain and behind it, when the red light surges, I make out a black, 1940's coach car with red velvet interior.
The next room is shaped like a tunnel and contains just one item, a giant, 20 foot cross emblazoned across the floor. A recording of a man giving a speech is playing and I can hear the faint hymns of a church chorus. I walk around the cross. A pit it my stomach starts to grow. It could be the coffee I had before I came here. Or the bizarre nature of what I now recognize as a memorial to the victims of Soviet Communism.
A soft blue light emanates from the room at the end of the tunnel. I enter the room and see a mound of rocks dumped in the center. The room is a dullish grey. Above the mound of rocks is a large metal grate and the sound of a wrench clanging against pipes can be heard from within. The pit in my stomach grows. Either a maintenance guy is fiddling around up there, or this exhibit is brilliantly unnerving me with subtle visual and audio cues. I am utterly confused and totally unsettled.
The next room is bright and colorful and at first I think it's the gift shop. Every inch of the walls and ceiling are covered with posters of the American dream - stable white families holding a bottle of coke or leaning against a Ford, laughing and smiling. I have no idea what the hell is going on. Next to the poster room is a simple, boxy room containing nothing but 20 old, black rotary phones sitting on pedestals. For fun, I pick one up. A voice starts shouting at me in a foreign tongue and I quickly slam the receiver down.
Room after room my senses are bludgeoned and my confusion grows. The pit in my stomach is fully aggravated now and I think it must be the coffee. Or maybe it really is a visceral reaction to the exhibit. At the end of the final room there is an elevator with the door open. I enter the elevator and hit the only button, marked "Basement". The lift starts to descend and the lights flicker off. A screen appears behind me and the black and white footage of an old man being interviewed begins to play. Slowly, methodically, he explains his time working at the Soviet headquarters on Andrassy street where political prisoners where tortured and murdered. So that's where we are – the former headquarters of the Soviet Communist party during WWII. Things start to click. The old man describes in great detail how prisoners were led to the basement, tied to a post, lifted off the ground and hanged. The video shuts off and the elevator door opens.
I'm in a basement. It's grimy and cold. I can hear water dripping to the right. I peer into a room, actually it's a cell. It's all cement, with a rusted, filthy toilet in the corner, the source of the drips. The walls are wet with mold. The next room over is a small, standing room only cell. The door is cracked. I push it open and it creeks. I walk in and shudder. This place is so real. It's as if they left everything untouched. In one room, clearly an office, there is a faded manuscript with scribbled writing all over it. I flip through some pages. All are full. There is a black wool coat hanging on a rack. The desk lamp is on. Everything can be touched.
A man walks in and noticeably jumps back when he sees me. I laugh because I realize that every person here is tense to the bone. This exhibit is so authentic, so tactile and so confusing. It assaults the senses and plants seeds of discomfort and unease. Up top we were bombarded with colorful symbolism, but down here in the basement there is nothing but cold, hard reality. Just the truth. Then I see the hanging post.
On my way out I write in the guest book "utterly confusing, mesmerizing, harrowing, and terrifying. An experience like no other. 8/10/10” I rejoin Andressian boulevard, headed towards the Turkish Baths. 30 minutes later I'm sitting in a hot spring, still uneasy from the strange exhibit, but quickly relaxing. What a trip.
See the rest of my Vienna, Bratislava, and Budapest pictures here.
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