Flaktürme and Hundertwasser

I'm back home in London now, sleeping in my own bed and happy about it. I was unconscious for about seven hours last night, and I feel almost like a new person. I slept well at Bill's, I thought, but I guess being in our own bed gave my body permission to relax more deeply.

Bill and I packed a lot into my final morning in Vienna. First we went to the post office, where Bill had to pick up a package, and it was as clean and pleasant and polite an experience as one would expect. Along the way I saw the graffiti above, which reminded me of the Haus des Meeres the day before.

We decided, despite a light rain, to visit a park where two more of Vienna's six flaktürme are standing. The flaktürme somehow became the theme of this trip. (I've learned that flakturm is singular and flaktürme is plural.)

We took the underground to a neighborhood where we stumbled onto this amazing fountain -- circled with cherubs and various robed figures, along with frogs and lizards and eagles and antelope. It's a monument to St. Charles Borromeo, for whom the square is named. The fountain opened in 1909 and there's more about it here.

I can't imagine being Viennese and living around such beautiful, ornate, artistic creations all the time. I mean, London has its share of beauty, but it's more practical. Life in Vienna is like being served a new wedding cake every evening for dessert.

Except for the flaktürme, that is -- the biggest, ugliest things you could ever want to see. The Viennese must have been horrified when the Nazis built them. Can you imagine looking out the window of your elegant Art Nouveau apartment building and having that in the park across the street? But as Bill said, they weren't really in a position to complain.

This one has the words "Smashed to Pieces (In the Still of the Night)" written at the top. Apparently an artist wrote that phrase atop the one that eventually became the Haus des Meeres, and although that mural was covered up by a subsequent expansion of the aquarium, perhaps he wrote it atop this one too. Or maybe someone added it here in tribute to the other piece.

Anyway, I can now say I've seen all six of Vienna's flaktürme, for what it's worth.

The rain had subsided by this time, so we decided to walk to the canal and back toward Bill's apartment. Along the way we passed this curious structure, with whimsical, colorful pillars. This is part of the Hundertwasser Promenade, a walkway named for free-thinking architect Friedensreich Hundertwasser, who created both the pavilion above and the madcap recycling station we saw a few days ago, among other buildings.

As the path along the canal became more urban, we saw more and more truly incredible graffiti and street art. Bill is not a fan, but I argued that without the murals, these walls would all be drab and gray and I'm not sure that's an improvement. Give me the color any day.

Plus the art is always good for a laugh!
 

I wanted a sausage for lunch -- I was in Vienna, after all, the reason that "wieners" have the name they do in English. We stopped at this little stand on Schwedenplatz and I got a bratwurst in a bun with a Gösser beer.

It came nested inside an unsliced roll, like a little child tucked into bed. I have no idea how the guy got the sausage into that cocoon of bread -- he did it so fast as I was talking to Bill that I missed the process. It came with mustard and nothing else and it was fabulous.

Then, alas, it was time for my trip to come to an end. We walked to the flat, where I picked up my bag, said goodbye to Bill (who is probably happy to have his house back) and headed for the train station and then the airport. I was home in London by 7 p.m.