Everyone's said it at one time or another: "I wish I had some time ALONE!" During the week before the start of Spring term I was traveling through Austria solo, in search of this elusive state of contented solitude we all seem to chase and cherish. The overwhelming bustle of my Hanover homecoming enticed me a few days ago to flip through the tattered pages of my trusty journal, and I chanced upon the large chunk penned over those glorious five days. I was surprised by the things I learned about myself. Up to this point my yearning for "quiet time" had become a quasi-obsession. Time alone, in my own view, had become a sort of Golden Fleece; this spring break, flying by the seat of my pants (without toothpaste!) unaccompanied through decaying Old World cities evinced itself as a romantic ideal within my grasp. Here was my chance, at long last, to focus solely and positively on self-discovery. I would devote the space in my journal for these few days to a "better understanding of self." Or so I thought.
Day One: Picture Vienna, a lovely Saturday morning, filled with sights and sounds, street musicians and a cosmopolitan crowd filling an open-air marketplace. There I stood, gawking with the rest of them and scarfing down my thirtieth Doner Kebab. I was enthralled with the beauty of the surrounding metropolis (an environment I was convinced I knew like a native, even after having just stepped off the train). The local color (read: filthy-haired hippies and transients) begging for Schillings earlier in Westbahnhof hadn't left me the least bit daunted. I bought a 72-hour transit pass (my smartest move) and hopped on a streetcar to Skodagasse 26, the place I called home for the next two nights. I checked in and was happily rewarded with a private bedroom and bathroom. All appeared well.
That afternoon I parked it on a bench above the gardens of Schonbrunn. That's where it first happened. My hand reached for a pen in order to scribble uncontrollably in my little book. So began my internal odyssey on the page. It didn't help that Schonbrunn was the 73rd baroque palace I had seen after two months in Germany. It also didn't help that Schonbrunn is the most putrid shade of mustard imaginable. From what I can decipher, I was writing about the annoyance of small children, obviously influenced by Empress Maria Theresa's poor taste in color scheme. Such was the first thing I learned on this exhilarating quest for self-discovery: I am a magnet for screaming kids.
My hypothesis was further tested as I parked it some more in a coffeehouse in the early evening. I changed tables three times. All three times, the young and the slobbering appeared, in one form or another, with ineffective parents in tow. I smiled at one of the little devil-spawns. I was met with an airborne coffee cup. Note to self: Wait to have kids. Wait a very, very, very long time.
Day Two: The initial thrill had faded somewhat. My ingenious plan to spend the day in various parks in the sunshine with a good book was doubly hampered -- the sky was threatening and I had finished the last book I had with me while staving off the approaches of the wild animals most call Junior or Sweetie-Pie the previous night. I spent most of the day in museums, in between coffee breaks. In one particularly memorable cafe my pant leg was tugged by one of the little 18-month monsters, and I promptly received a generous portion of Schlagsahne in my lap, to the little rat's amusement, and, apparently, to the amusement of his undeniably sadistic parents. I still kept my cool. I smiled at the parents, wiped off my pants, and then wrote a few polite and innocent parting words to them on a napkin before rushing out the door to avoid seeing their reaction. Judging from my prose, I was a bit miffed that day. Revelation: maybe my friends are right, I DO complain an awful lot! But come on -- screaming kids are grounds for complaint.
Day Three. I stare blankly out my bedroom window. It is springtime in Vienna, and the trees are green. Yet it is blizzarding. Not just any blizzard -- if you got hit with one of those snowflakes, I thought to myself, you'd get flattened to the pavement for sure. (Hmm, maybe it will flatten some of those screaming kids.) At this point, I kissed my transit pass and decided that the best way to experience the city today (on zero cash) would be to ride every streetcar route possible (there are more than 50). With socks soaked and luggage in tow, I was more than sure that I wanted the hell out of Vienna, and fast. After killing time until 10:30 p.m., I hopped a train to Bregenz and slept on the overnight ride, interspersing sleeping time with writing time. The city was so scenic, I thought, but just not scenic enough to put up with such lousy weather. My discovery: as much as I love Hanover, I am a native Floridian and I therefore need eternal summer. I will probably become one of the Snowbirds in later life (those of you from the South understand what that means).
Day Four: Bregenz is quiet, beautiful, sunny, and quiet. So quiet, in fact, that the youth hostel was closed up. And no screaming kids. I walked along and swam in the Bodensee. I got on a train to Salzburg that night. There was no revelation, according to my journal. I had discovered that I was fed up a bit with, besides screaming kids, the whole "alone thing" in general. However, in retrospect, I learned that I tire way too easily.
Day Five: It rained in Salzburg. It hailed. It sleeted. All of this means that I spent most of the day in coffeehouses, reading every bit of German and English print they offered before going to the next one and ordering another cup of coffee, which I proceeded to nurse for hours, or until the service staff started to clean around me as I sat. I was suddenly conscious of just how much I had been writing in my journal. As I neared page twenty for the date of March 19, I started to laugh. The other patrons (and their screaming kids) didn't take any notice; to them I might have been just another piece of the furniture. I quote from page seventeen: "You know you've been in a restaurant a damn long time when they've already played 'Unchained Melody' three times and you're still sitting there."
It was then that I had my greatest revelation.
"Okay, I know what it's like to be alone. Now I need some other people to talk to about it!"
