Trans Europa Express #3: Vienna

In which we're amazed by toilets, confronted by a rude gnome and see no kangaroos...

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Monday 14th July

* Our train has a restaurant car, so naturally we sit enjoying table service while Austria's drenched forests, fields and upland farms rush by, imagining we're in an Agatha Christie novel. But then we're easily impressed - both of us return from trips to the toilet marvelling about the soap, which you grind from a dispenser by hand into little shavings like parmesan.



* Ah, Vienna. Henceforth all talk of Midge Ure is banned.

* Wien Westbahnhof turns out to be the Easyjet airport of European train stations, being an awkward distance from the city centre. Nevertheless, with the help of the U-Bahn we successfully (if hesitantly) make our way to our hotel. It's another slice of sumptuous 4* heaven courtesy of LateRooms, and would be deserving of the description "palatial" if it wasn't for the fact that the real things are right next door. There's an ecritoire (well, OK, a desk) and a comprehensive selection of complimentary toiletries, and it's a measure of our unfamiliarity with the trappings of luxury that we initially mistake the safe in our wardrobe for a microwave. No Corby trouser press or tea and coffee making facilities again, though - Europeans clearly don't appreciate the value of a good brew or neatly pressed pair of slacks.



* When it comes to initiatives to combat obesity, though, we could definitely take a leaf out of our continental cousins' book. The sign in the lift reads: "If you have sporty ambition, please use our speedy stairwell"...

* Having realised we have the means of keeping jacket potatoes from being stolen but not of cooking them, we venture out for a late-night scavenge. Pizza is passed up in favour of going native with deliciously rich goulash and pork schnitzel washed down with Schneiderweisse in what (I guess) passes for a gastropub here.

Tuesday 15th July

* Lathered up in suncream (last night's rain is long gone), our first port of call - naturally - is the Belvedere palace complex, consisting of the Unteres Belvedere (nearest Rennweg) and the larger and grander Oberes Belvedere up the hill, from which much of the city can be seen.





* As if static kiosks serving lunchtime kebabs to hungry office workers wasn't good enough, they also serve a great range of lagers. I opt for a spicy Bratwurst, though, marvelling at the tactic of hollowing out the bread roll on a spike before inserting sausage and mustard, which minimises spillage and mess. Why haven't we thought of that?

* Any thoughts that Mostly Mozart might be a chain of emporia purveying quality goods are soon dispelled by the window displays of ropey-looking chocolates, embroidered oven gloves and T-shirts carrying the slogan "No kangaroos in Austria" (I think that's some Austrian humour right there). Roll over Beethoven, while Wolfgang Amadeus turns in his grave.

* Sat outside the imposing Stephansdom right in the heart of the city, we wonder whether it's a prerequisite for all the horse-drawn tourist-laden carriages that all the gee-gees have to have earwarmers and all the drivers have to have huge handlebar moustaches? Or is it the homogenising effects of fashion?





* Finding ourselves on Gutenbergstrasse - always nice to come across streets named in honour of the star of the 'Police Academy' films and all those other hit movies that followed - we pause for refreshment in a bar decorated with bill posters advertising gigs by everyone from Radiohead and Sigur Ros to Kris Kristofferson and a punk exhibition at the Kunsthalle across town. Time to take stock of what we could be doing if we had more time: the erotic walking tour of the city, perhaps, or maybe a visit to the Funeral Museum - though, rather sinisterly, these are by appointment only.

* After the spartan impressiveness of the Stephansdom, the High Baroque Jesuitenkirche on Dr-Ignaz-Seipel-Platz is quite a contrast, a richly ornate confection of marble and gold so gaudy that Jenni suggests it might have been designed by a WAG. Cue Loyd Grossman voiceover: "Who lives in a house like this? Yes, it's Gary Neville!"







* Gnomes are supposed to be friendly and well-mannered, aren't they - not offensive and self-satisfied with it?



* Briefly losing our bearings, we come across another impressive yet apparently nameless church on Passauer Platz - it's not on our map or signposted, and also stands totally empty. Clearly they're ten-a-penny round here.



* Enjoyed from the perspective of a table outside a pub on the cobbles, Judenplatz is wonderfully tranquil. The sky is now almost cloudless, Rachel Whiteread's austerely white and blockish Holocaust Memorial at the other end of the square casting the only shadow. And then suddenly everything goes a bit surreal: first a guided tour rolls in on Segways, and then a dog wearing a shoe walks by. Nothing to do with the dark, malty beer in my hand, honest.



* Time for the obligatory Kaffee und Kuchen. Cafe Central is supposedly one of the city's most upmarket coffee houses and was a regular haunt of the Vienna Circle, but the opulence of its interior is counteracted by the fact that coffee in a can is on the menu. Bewildered by choice, we jab our fingers randomly at the confections behind the glass. Mine's chocolatey and nutty (walnut, perhaps?), and while it's undoubtedly good, we're both left thinking our Cardiff friends would give them a run for their money in a bake-off.





* We rejoin the tourist throng of grumbling married-too-long American couples and Japanese students posing for the camera with peace signs at the ready, wandering through the enormous Hofburg complex past the National Library to the art history and natural history museums which face each other as though engaged in some kind of tense stand-off.









* Karlsplatz Cafe is an odd place, right next door to a very busy road and above a U-Bahn station. Not enjoying being subjected to Phil Collins any more than I did at the rooftop bar of the Library in New York, either. Still, at least the company's good: "Have you always dreamed of going out with someone who says 'Can you help me finish my beer?'?" Well, now you come to mention it...

* Salon Brau, a stone's throw from the Hotel Belvedere, is more like it. The leafy courtyard is heaving with people, the only empty tables reserved. Several of the tasty-looking dishes are served in miniature frying pans (saves on the washing-up, I guess), while Jenni comes back from the toilet wide-eyed with wonder at the revolving self-cleaning loo seat. A Viennese whirl indeed, and our own is sadly at an end.

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Next time: Billy Idol, rude biscuits and the most expensive glass of wine I've ever bought.

The story so far: Paris, Munich