Travel day and, as usual, I had a rough night. Had a very disturbing nightmare starring my ex-wife. I’ll spare the details and just say that there was no going back to sleep after that one. Did some 3AM writing and some thinking and some 4AM writing and did manage to finally doze off but only for an hour or so and once I was out of bed it was a full sphincter press to plan and execute this special day.

The night of this day is the night I take the night train to Venice. Sounds romantic right? Well it is I guess. I feel a little like James Bond, taking the night train to, well anywhere, he had an expense account after all. On the practical side, it’s a long way to Venice from Vienna so rather than spend a full day on the train I’ll spend a night. It’s actually cheaper than a hotel.

The day began with some writing. (Hey, if I’m gonna live in Paris I have to write…right?) Then one more delicious hotel breakfast. Big ups to the Imlauer hotel in Wien for an outstanding hotel breakfast. I decide to check out early and finish writing in the lobby. I give my rolling bag to the front desk woman and she graciously agrees to hold it for me till I return. She is the person who checked me in and she seems to have been watching me closely. Then, as I’m about to hit the streets, everything goes on hold because it starts raining goats and monkeys out there. So I continue writing and when the rain abates I make a dash for the U4 metro line that will take me to the museum quarter.

In the museum quarter all I’m thinking about is Egon Schiele and Gustav Klimt. Lucky me, there’s a Giacometti exhibit opening that day as well. I take in all three, slowly, stopping to write, to think, to appreciate. I know I have a 20:56 train so I have time to really soak it in. The Giacometti exhibit was powerful and disturbing. It was like seeing artifacts from an alien culture spawned on a different planet in a different Universe. Those long skinny big-footed bronzes carried so much import. I felt like what Howard Carter must have felt when he opened the tomb of King Tut. Powerful stuff.

Egon Schiele was just flat out shameless and dirty sexy, except for the self portraits which had this sort of ravaged Poe/Beaudelaire thing going. Very dark. There was a big canvas called “Lovers”, of a nude woman and man, hanging between earth and sky, limbs intertwined, in full tilt coitus. Her face is passive, her expression disengaged, and his eyes have a haunted look like he is not sure if this encounter is not just a nightmare. In contrast to Schiele, Klimt was healthy sexy. He was a romantic, he just didn’t paint like a “romantic”. “The Kiss” didn’t disappoint. That image has been in the collective consciousness for so long that I was afraid it might be a let down. There is something about that woman’s slim ankles, and the adornments she wears on them that just drives me nuts. I so much want to be the guy kissing her on the cheek. I’m sure her skin, and hair and the covers we’re kissing under would be infused with the scent of patchouli.

The last Museum I hit was the Wien Museum of Modern Art. After having looked at these amazing painters earlier in the day, I was left a little cold by this current class of moderns. The museum’s focus at the moment is on art installations using multi-media and manipulations of space. I guess you could call it experiential art. It was all very clever yes. A little too cerebral, a few to many “in” jokes, and a little too little personal investment in the work though to really move me. I appreciate what they are doing. But it just doesn’t get me hard, you know?

It was a long leisurely afternoon in the museum quarter, walking, sitting, writing, looking, making images with my little camera. So when it was done, like any good Wiener, I retired to a coffee house. In this case the Hotel Sacher for a hot chocolate and some Sacher torte. I have got to tell you that, Sacher Torte is a home run for me every time I taste it. It is what human beings dream about whenever they dream of chocolate cake. People on the other side of the world who have never tasted chocolate cake, when told about its existence will conjure up a flavor fantasy that will be Sacher Torte, because Sacher Torte is perfect. I’m 57 years old, and an artist. Perfection, for me, has always been an ideal to strive for. And now, on this trip, I’ve found something perfect. As I was enjoying the torte I realized that I was about to leave Wien without having any Apple Strudel. I ordered a portion and had it with the remainder of my hot chocolate. The strudel was delicious. But in the back of my mind was a little voice telling me, “you should have ordered another piece of Sacher Torte.” I felt naughty and good all at once.

Refreshed, I hopped the metro back to the hotel, Collected my rolling bag, did some writing and some email In the lobby, under the watchful eye of the woman at the front desk, and then I hopped back on the metro to Wien Westbahnhof to catch my night train to Venice. Sounds sexy doesn’t it, “night train to Venice?”

I got to the station via metro, no sweat! Found a liquor store in the station. Sooo cool. Bought a bottle of Austrian red wine and boarded the train. My sleeper compartment was ready for me and I settled in. And for all you other romantics out there, I shit you not, in my sleeper compartment above the seat, is hung a reproduction of Gustav Klimpt’s “The Kiss”. I cracked open the wine, poured a plastic cupful and toasted myself, yes I toasted myself for coming a long, long way from where I had been.

See you in Venice. Bouna Notte!