Wednesday, 7 October 2009
Train From Linz To Vienna
I’m getting the train from Linz to Vienna on a Thursday morning. Getting on I am surprised to find that the train is split into small compartments. Which strikes me as being something that is particularly old fashioned, and not the layout of a regular train. This throws me some, and I’m unsure about how I tell what is free and what isn’t, where I can sit and where I can’t. The corridor here is narrow, there are other people blocking it with their bags, making calls, making my life difficult as I try to get past with my own bag. As such I admit I find the first mostly empty compartment and go in, I lurch in, hefting my bag up onto the high level shelf. There are two people in the carriage – man and a woman. He has obviously been on the train for a while; she is like me, settling in having boarded in Linz. He sits by the window; I sit on the same side, with a seat between us. She sits opposite him, with him sprawled across the tiny table emerging from the wall. She fumbles with the seat, frowns, and seems that there is something wrong with it, so she switches to the middle seat on that side. There is a bit of a conversation, and while I don’t speak German I get enough of an impression that they are discussing whether these seats are reserved or not. The conclusion would appear to be that they are ok, so I settle down with my book and MP3 player for the journey ahead.
The guy is a character. He clutches a can of lager and reads a magazine, which looks to be heavy metal and tattoos, and the like. His eyes have that heavy disposition which suggests he is reasonably drunk. He makes comments to us every so often, mostly giving the impression of trying to be helpful. Though I mostly have little idea what he is talking about, and remain as non-committal as I can. He wears a base ball cap, turned round, baseball shoes, baggy trousers, and a towel around his neck. As the journey goes on, he sprawls across the table, half asleep, fading in and out. As he nods off, his hat falls off, clatters to the floor of the carriage. Each time this happens he wakes up again, lifts the cap and puts it back on. The fact that this means it will fall off again in five minutes is obviously beyond his power of rational thought at this point in time. So indeed, five minutes later, the cap falls off and he does it all again. The woman looks at him with distaste on a number of these occasions as he fishes his hat from her feet.
She is fumbling with her bag when I arrive. One for the shelf, one beside her, fishing out a magazine which she reads for most of the journey. Her hair is brown, perhaps with a shade of red mixed in from a bottle. Its short, but big, sticking out from her head in a flaring crown. She wears a sleeveless white blouse, with high wasted black trousers. She wears complicated black shoes, which lace up on top, while having open toes and heels, the heel is a couple inches, striped black and white. She has a green velvet smart jacket, which she has folded beside her black hand bag, out of which I can see an umbrella handle – a clear plastic duck at the end of the grip.
Part way another woman comes in with her pug dog. She takes the seat the other woman abandoned, by the window, across from the other guy. The dog sprawls out across the floor, sandy coloured, happy to be there. She digs make up out of her bag, applying it while using a pocket mirror. She layers on heavy foundation, in that unfortunate fashion where she leaves a clear line of delineation along her jaw, pale and white below that line. Once she has done this, she plumps up her heavy brown hand bag, rests her head on her arm on top of the bag and dozes off until we reach Vienna.
Upon reaching Vienna the guy and the blonde are out of the carriage at the outskirts, getting off before the train terminates at Wein Westbahnhof. As we pull into the last station the first woman sits, poised, on the edge of her seat, ready to get off, waiting for the train to stop. She says something to me, I have to make my apologies, sorry, can’t understand you. She smiles, switches to English, nods, in a never mind fashion. Then she decides to ask where I am from, and we discuss visiting Linz, where she is from, and visiting Vienna. I tell her I am only here for the weekend, and she tells me that isn’t really enough, but its ok when I tell her this is my second trip here. She is here for the shopping, she says, there are some better shops in Vienna and she likes to come for the shopping. She indicates the bigger bag, which she intends to fill. She is going on holiday as well, a trip to Indonesia is imminent. The train arrives, we grab our bags and she tells me to enjoy myself, and I say similar to her.
The guy is a character. He clutches a can of lager and reads a magazine, which looks to be heavy metal and tattoos, and the like. His eyes have that heavy disposition which suggests he is reasonably drunk. He makes comments to us every so often, mostly giving the impression of trying to be helpful. Though I mostly have little idea what he is talking about, and remain as non-committal as I can. He wears a base ball cap, turned round, baseball shoes, baggy trousers, and a towel around his neck. As the journey goes on, he sprawls across the table, half asleep, fading in and out. As he nods off, his hat falls off, clatters to the floor of the carriage. Each time this happens he wakes up again, lifts the cap and puts it back on. The fact that this means it will fall off again in five minutes is obviously beyond his power of rational thought at this point in time. So indeed, five minutes later, the cap falls off and he does it all again. The woman looks at him with distaste on a number of these occasions as he fishes his hat from her feet.
She is fumbling with her bag when I arrive. One for the shelf, one beside her, fishing out a magazine which she reads for most of the journey. Her hair is brown, perhaps with a shade of red mixed in from a bottle. Its short, but big, sticking out from her head in a flaring crown. She wears a sleeveless white blouse, with high wasted black trousers. She wears complicated black shoes, which lace up on top, while having open toes and heels, the heel is a couple inches, striped black and white. She has a green velvet smart jacket, which she has folded beside her black hand bag, out of which I can see an umbrella handle – a clear plastic duck at the end of the grip.
Part way another woman comes in with her pug dog. She takes the seat the other woman abandoned, by the window, across from the other guy. The dog sprawls out across the floor, sandy coloured, happy to be there. She digs make up out of her bag, applying it while using a pocket mirror. She layers on heavy foundation, in that unfortunate fashion where she leaves a clear line of delineation along her jaw, pale and white below that line. Once she has done this, she plumps up her heavy brown hand bag, rests her head on her arm on top of the bag and dozes off until we reach Vienna.
Upon reaching Vienna the guy and the blonde are out of the carriage at the outskirts, getting off before the train terminates at Wein Westbahnhof. As we pull into the last station the first woman sits, poised, on the edge of her seat, ready to get off, waiting for the train to stop. She says something to me, I have to make my apologies, sorry, can’t understand you. She smiles, switches to English, nods, in a never mind fashion. Then she decides to ask where I am from, and we discuss visiting Linz, where she is from, and visiting Vienna. I tell her I am only here for the weekend, and she tells me that isn’t really enough, but its ok when I tell her this is my second trip here. She is here for the shopping, she says, there are some better shops in Vienna and she likes to come for the shopping. She indicates the bigger bag, which she intends to fill. She is going on holiday as well, a trip to Indonesia is imminent. The train arrives, we grab our bags and she tells me to enjoy myself, and I say similar to her.
Labels: inter city, linz, train, vienna
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
Tiger Idyll in the Zoo
The great big tiger has his great fuzzy head backed up right against the glass wall. There is a mere nothing, a few centimeters of invisible glass separating his chewing maw from the tourists, and the tourists, big and small, are full of excitement.
The great big tiger ignores them. He is chewing at a haunch of some kind, there is only a small leap of imagination separating it from a human leg. He rips unfussily through the tendons and the yellowish skin. Stringy gobs of meat dangle from it like a dancer's fringe and twitch impetuously. The great big tiger has great fuzzy ears and dinner plate sized paws to give you a dinner plate sized smack across your gob and knock your teeth out. His great big body stretches lazily along the glass wall. His paws are round and tender and strong as they dig into their prey.
The tourists have only very tiny silver cameras infront of their faces and flash red lights into his face, but the tiger isn't bothered. He tosses and teases his haunch coquettishly and his tail lies curled up and peaceful on the ground.
The tiger's tiger friend comes over to look at the haunch but the tiger ignores him too. Then the tiger friend throws himself on his back and rolls around on the ground like a purring cat to distract him. The tiger raises his head in disdain and chews.
In the back, two tiger kids pause their play to prick their ears to a sound. One shakes his hear earlier and seeing his friend still preoccupied, lunges forward and bites him in the foot. This is cat humour, and there is a look of predictable cat smugness about him as his friend jumps and dashes away. The usurper thrones on the clearing like a prince. In the bushes, a smarty pawed avenger plots his return.
The great big tiger chews his haunch. Bloodied strings of meat dangle serenely from his jaws.
The great big tiger ignores them. He is chewing at a haunch of some kind, there is only a small leap of imagination separating it from a human leg. He rips unfussily through the tendons and the yellowish skin. Stringy gobs of meat dangle from it like a dancer's fringe and twitch impetuously. The great big tiger has great fuzzy ears and dinner plate sized paws to give you a dinner plate sized smack across your gob and knock your teeth out. His great big body stretches lazily along the glass wall. His paws are round and tender and strong as they dig into their prey.
The tourists have only very tiny silver cameras infront of their faces and flash red lights into his face, but the tiger isn't bothered. He tosses and teases his haunch coquettishly and his tail lies curled up and peaceful on the ground.
The tiger's tiger friend comes over to look at the haunch but the tiger ignores him too. Then the tiger friend throws himself on his back and rolls around on the ground like a purring cat to distract him. The tiger raises his head in disdain and chews.
In the back, two tiger kids pause their play to prick their ears to a sound. One shakes his hear earlier and seeing his friend still preoccupied, lunges forward and bites him in the foot. This is cat humour, and there is a look of predictable cat smugness about him as his friend jumps and dashes away. The usurper thrones on the clearing like a prince. In the bushes, a smarty pawed avenger plots his return.
The great big tiger chews his haunch. Bloodied strings of meat dangle serenely from his jaws.
Sunday, 10 May 2009
Cell Phone
It's ten in the morning in the tramway and you know how birds sometimes explode into song? On public transport, they explode into phone. In several different languages. There's a woman arguing her mother, a man explaining he is going to be late for work, a Croatian girl in a disco get up talking about who knows what and right opposite me are the two Russians. The thin, slumped one has a Greensleaves ringtone and I know the melody is going to eat up my ears for the rest of the day. Short fragments of Greensleaves pour out of his speakers, then stop while he stares at his display in desperation. He makes no effort to move.
His friend, equally scruffy but bulkier, with a baseball cap and a chin that says "it's a beard when I stop shaving for five days" is taking a series of phone calls. With each call his irritation mounts. Soon, he is yelling angry Russian syllables into his handheld, face glowering upwards to the roof, hands gesticulating expressively. It sounds like a business matter, and it sounds like they are under pressure. Beardface clicks the call away, slams the phone down on his thigh.
Seamlessly, of course, the other phone begins to ring. Greensleaves fragments spill into the air. Thinslump, thinner still and slumping even more, stares at the display in his lap, hopelessness in his eyes. The complaints of his friend, in fat Slavic syllables, drift towards the ceiling and mingle there with the ragged ringtone residues.
His friend, equally scruffy but bulkier, with a baseball cap and a chin that says "it's a beard when I stop shaving for five days" is taking a series of phone calls. With each call his irritation mounts. Soon, he is yelling angry Russian syllables into his handheld, face glowering upwards to the roof, hands gesticulating expressively. It sounds like a business matter, and it sounds like they are under pressure. Beardface clicks the call away, slams the phone down on his thigh.
Seamlessly, of course, the other phone begins to ring. Greensleaves fragments spill into the air. Thinslump, thinner still and slumping even more, stares at the display in his lap, hopelessness in his eyes. The complaints of his friend, in fat Slavic syllables, drift towards the ceiling and mingle there with the ragged ringtone residues.
Thursday, 7 May 2009
The Sleeping Parade
From all over the provinces they rumbled in on their tractors, blocking the roads: Red plastic cows tied onto the back, homemade cardboard signs saying "Sorry folks, we're on our way to town."
Like dinosaurs, they shouldn't be here. Like things torn from the insides of bodies, of the fruitful farming body of the nation, worn down and weary and terrible with the power of fossilised giants, they have made their way to the capital. There they stand and wait. You sense that only a great evil, a desperate wrong could force this to happen, this ghost parade. This gives the air a crisp tautness.
The Ring Road is full of the damn things, police have cordoned it off and now it is more quiet than it should ever be. Just a long line of silent tractors, facing parliament.
Within minutes the tourists swarm out, snatching tiny cameras to their faces again and again in amateur concentration. They dart, like bees. Old men in thick sweaters wander among the machines, appreciative connoisseurs pointing at this one or that, engine names and years drop from their lips effortlessly like honey. At the end of the road, far away from the chants of the demonstrators, the air becomes joyful and tingling.
The old men whisper reverently: How impressive these machines are, how strong. How invincible the metal underneath the scratched paint, how rough and thick the tire profiles with their tan cakes of mud. How real they are! And oh how long since they have been seen here, since anything this real has been seen here.
And there am I among the tourists, darting back and forth until I trip and I am caught from behind. I feel the rough wool scratch of a pullover, and the wonderful smell of milk and cows. He is young, he wear a sign on his chest saying "fair milk". He has these sharp, ironic, distanced eyes they have, that still manage to smile, the ones that warn you not to take liberties. I say, "sorry!" And he says "no problem", and when he smiles it is maybe a smile and maybe it isn't. And he is strolling on with his buddies anyway, picking his way through the maze of sleeping tractors, talking to them perhaps with anger about these strange strange towns.
Labels: cows, farmers, parade, protest, vienna
The Troublemaker
"When I was a kid", says the man, standing in the empty gym, "I told myself that one day I would buy a school and fire all the teachers." He grins and shows a gap tooth, tipping a nonchalant hand at the surrounding bars and walls. "I didn't fire them, because they were long gone, but I *did* buy this school."
He was 40, then. Now he is fifty. The gym is the only thing that still points to the building's prior use. Now it is a shiny new technology center where they develop software for warehouses.
He wears grey slacks and a jacket, and a bright red polo shirt. His glasses are the tasteful rimless kind you see on the noses of architects and technical managers. His parents were farmers; he became the boss of a million Euro enterprise to spite them, at first, and then because it was fun.
It is still there, that willful, cheeky, reckoning glint in his eyes. His job description is "Founder and CEO" but if you ask him what his role in the company is, he spits out promptly: "Troublemaker".
He was 40, then. Now he is fifty. The gym is the only thing that still points to the building's prior use. Now it is a shiny new technology center where they develop software for warehouses.
He wears grey slacks and a jacket, and a bright red polo shirt. His glasses are the tasteful rimless kind you see on the noses of architects and technical managers. His parents were farmers; he became the boss of a million Euro enterprise to spite them, at first, and then because it was fun.
It is still there, that willful, cheeky, reckoning glint in his eyes. His job description is "Founder and CEO" but if you ask him what his role in the company is, he spits out promptly: "Troublemaker".
Labels: ceo, technology, trouble, vienna
Friday, 1 May 2009
Between the Trees
Hidden kids scream as we hike round the corner of the little grove.
"There's someone coming, quick, quick!"
Five children, ages eight to ten, squatting in a circle between the trees. The one with his back to us has his brown shirt over his head and is blinded by it: He is in the process of pulling it off, or on, and now he can't decide which it is to be and fumbles at it hastily, while his friends yell. "Quick! Quick!"
We catch a glimpse of his lean young back and the open mouths of his friends before passing by. Then, in the trees behind us, we hear the girl's gleeful squeal, "They LOOKED at you!"
"There's someone coming, quick, quick!"
Five children, ages eight to ten, squatting in a circle between the trees. The one with his back to us has his brown shirt over his head and is blinded by it: He is in the process of pulling it off, or on, and now he can't decide which it is to be and fumbles at it hastily, while his friends yell. "Quick! Quick!"
We catch a glimpse of his lean young back and the open mouths of his friends before passing by. Then, in the trees behind us, we hear the girl's gleeful squeal, "They LOOKED at you!"
Labels: game, kids, scream, trees, vienna
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]