Nightline Confessions

Now listening to: Sara Montiel, Quizas, quizas, quizas. (For those of you who know how I am about accent marks, you know that it kills me to leave out the accents on "quizas." But unfortunately I'm on a school computer, and these Germanic keyboards aren't too worried about none of that Iberian shit. Can we use our imaginations?) Some of you may know this excellent tune by virtue of Doris Day and her English version, entitled Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps. If you haven't seen Pedro Almodovar's (another missing accent. My god, I'm going to develop a nervous tic as a result of frustration) wonderful film Mala educacion (and another.*eye-twitch*) then do youself a favor and pick it up at your friendly neighborhood video store. You'll see Gael Garcia (tic) Bernal perform this song, complete with a Spanish (as in Spain) lisp. In drag. Class-A cinema.

The city of Vienna, among its many other great attributes, is possessed of a fantastic public transportation system. Five underground lines and countless bus, tram, and streetcar routes take a body all over the city for a song. A textbook example of German-style efficiency. Makes taking the 101 seem absolutely primitive in comparison.

Most Viennese institutions, public transportation included, do not recognize the existence of the hours between 22:00 and 06:00. However, for those of us nightcrawlers who prefer a post-midnight romp, we are catered to six ways to Sunday by the Nightline. The Nightline takes responsibility for the city's transportation needs beginning at 00:30 and lasting until 06:00. So, fret ye not, o partiers. Though the U-Bahn may close at 00:30, the Nightline will take you wherever you wish to go for a mere €1.50. Often, if one enters the bus at the rear, this fee can be avoided. SO! Point? This incredible system is used by a staggering number of Viennese and tourists alike, which makes for some enlightening Klatsch. The Nightline routes are fairly simple: starting from the outer districts, the bus weaves its way through the town, finally stopping at the Staatsoper in the center of the city. It then turns around and begins anew. Because of my proximity to the Oper, and because many of my preferred haunts dot the outer districts, I usually have a fairly long ride, and thus ample opportunity to meet-and-greet with my fellow riders. Since I often enjoy the Nightline services while inebriated, the following anecdotes will be titled by corresponding cocktail names. Hey--you want classy, you got classy.


The White Russian
After a Trink-filled night of dance and song, I hopped on the bus at my favorite stop, Meidlingerhaupstrasse. (As this name is a mine field while sober, one can easily understand how, when I am not as sober, it becomes my favorite stop). Only three of us riding at the moment. Two stops further, on steps perhaps the most unfortunately ugly Russian woman I've ever seen. I'm being very serious... stand back Janet Reno (or Rip Torn, for that matter) because here comes the product of a couple of Petersburg cousins and too much Stolichnaya. I noticed her climbing on because she was about 4’5” yet managed to test the limits of Austrian bus tires as she negotiated her 300 pounds through the double doors. Her outfit might have been titled Easter Basket Explosion! as she sported a large baby blue blouse (which enabled her to boast some generous cleavage), and purple Nikes. The theme continued as I saw that the ensemble was held together by a suit (i.e. pants and sportcoat) of matching forest green corduroy. Forest green isn’t accurate. It was more like the Spinaci alla caprese© crayons that we used to put on the tables at Macaroni Grill. Her costume jewelry from Claire’s nicely finished off the Easter basket theme. They were like the little foil-wrapped chocolates in sea of green grass and two large robin’s eggs. She wore orange eye shadow. The other two passengers were, in typical Nightline fashion, passed out at the front of the bus. Seeing that I was awake, she smiled at me (unwittingly letting me in on the secret that, based on the state of her tooth, she hadn’t enjoyed solid foods for some time) and sat down to my right. Now, up to this point she had not given me cause for the physical diatribe you’ve just read. Here’s where I feel justified:

[Let’s call her Oksana]
Oksana: я иду к магазину?
Me: Oh, um, entschuldigung. Ich spreche kein russisch. Sprechen Sie deutsch?
Oksana: [Pointing out the window] я иду к магазину??
Me: [wondering where to go from here] Um, do you speak English? I don’t speak Russian, I’m sorry.
Oksana: [Rolling her eyes, speaking slowly and deliberately, at great volume] я иду к магазину!
Me: I’m sorry, but I don’t understand you.
At this point, Oksana furrows her brow. Not a good idea cosmetically speaking, seeing as her former unibrow has now become an oval of angry fur on her forehead. She stares me down for about 20 seconds. She then rises and moves to another part of the bus, which is giving a real college try to supporting her migration.
Oksana: [Frustrated, under her breath] я буду… большой… собакой.
She approaches one of the formerly sleeping passengers, and sits at his side. Once seated, she turns to her new victim, and points to me.
Oksana: [Loudly and with righteous indignation] он. Будет. Малым. Котом.

She proceeded to harass that poor soul until, worn out, she fell asleep, her heavily made-up forehead resting against the seat in front of her. As we approached my stop, she awoke to find me alighting. She scowled as I left, and, slightly tipsy as I was, I returned the scowl as the bus pulled away. Now I know how everyone feels when Americans shout English at them. There's not much you can do when someone feels really strongly that if they speak a language you don't understand, you'll be ok as long as they treat you as a deaf person.


Cosmopolitan
02:45. A man boards the Nightline at Kettenbrückengasse, not more than 4-5 stops from my own. He is impossibly drunk. Like, right up there with Bugs Bunny or Elmer Fudd in their best moments. A once-ironed dress shirt was draped over his sickly-thin body, partly untucked, and his rooster gobble was cradled by an abused collar, half-up and half-down. One hand held breakfast in a small brown paper bag [I’ve never understood that one, by the way… we all know it’s not fruit juice you have in that bag. Really, embrace the alcoholism, you’ll feel better]. The other hand was buried in his pants (not his pockets, I mean. Both hands held a bag of sorts). As if he thought he’d pulled a fast one with the paper bag, he thought he’d be as swift by hiding the fondling hand with a dirty blazer hanging on his shoulder. Swinging lazily at his side, this failed to do the trick. He hiccoughed after each word (or at a rate of about 25/min, during those times when he chose to reflect silently). These were high pitched and powerful, violently shaking his frail body. After each hiccough came a satisfied sigh, and one worried whether these were due to the release of gas orally or anally. Originally he sat down a comfortable distance away (about 4 rows), but decided that after 2 stops he couldn’t hold it in any longer. This man needed some nicotine, and something had convinced him that I would be the one to supply it for him.

He stumbled over to me, receiving a boost from the jerky bus. While approaching, he looked me over carefully, as though he were shopping sofas. Apparently, I didn’t seem threatening, as he eventually sat himself across from me and leaned in as if to tell me a penetrating secret. One eye was half-closed and the other was horribly bloodshot. The one pupil I could see wouldn’t be focusing on anything for at least another 6-8 hours. Without warning, his body was ravaged by another hiccough, and in that moment I was given a thorough run-down of all that had passed through his mouth that evening. He sighed contentedly.
Now I know where elephants go to die.

I would have moved at that point, acquiescing to my human need for oxygen, but his sad eye narrowed, and with great effort he expressed to me his greatest desire.
“Hast du eine Zigarette?” I didn’t, and I shook my head.
“Nein, tut mir leid,” I apologized politely. He showed no expression for about 10 seconds, and then slowly leaned back into his chair, as if succumbing to the harsh reality of a smokeless bus ride. He leaned his neck back, rolling his head back and forth. Eventually settling on his left shoulder, his gaping mouth told me that we were well past his bedtime.
“Great,” I thought, “he’s passed out.” And indeed he had. Another hiccough jolted him, but he merely switched shoulders. Two more stops to go, and I couldn’t wait to get off the bus—the man himself was fine, but I just couldn’t reconcile my need to breathe with the rancid smell which was the product of his liver’s battle with half a bottle of Jack Daniels.

Suddenly, he shook awake. Not from a hiccough this time, and now both eyes were wide open. His mouth still hung wide, but not from the drunkenness. It was total shock I saw on his face—total shock or some kind of dramatic moment of great knowledge. Before I could decide if he’d found Jesus or the meaning of life, he ripped his hand from his pants and drove it into his blazer pocket. He searched for a few seconds, and emerged victorious, as if he’d won the rigged crane game they have at arcades. His wrinkled and sweaty hand clutched at a package of Gauloises, a favorite Viennese cigarette brand. It seems that in his stupor he had forgotten the 8 or so cigs he still had left. He greedily tore one from the package and drove it into his mouth. The hand went spelunking once again in the bottomless pocket of his blazer, and this time its prize was a small plastic lighter. In his excitement, he was overcome with a fit of hiccoughs. He fumbled furiously with his lighter, but couldn’t force his hand to remain still for enough time to ignite the Stick of Life that hung between his lips. Feeling badly, I reached out a hand to take the lighter and give him his light.
“Oh, um, ich kann…” I said, beginning one of those sentences that one doesn’t intend to finish. He wasn’t having it.
“Nein! As isss ei, u has keine Zigare’e!” he cried, although none too succinctly—the liquor had given his speech the consistency of warm peanut butter. Vowels were manageable, but only to a point, and consonants just weren’t within the realm of possibility.
“Ok,” I said with more than a hint of righteous indignation. I had tolerated his emissions, I would not tolerate his rudeness—especially when I had tried to help. He continued to struggle with his lighter. One stop to go. After a short while, he stopped flicking the starter; he seemed to have given up his quest. He looked at me, not pleadingly, but as if I were just out of his reach. My help was so close, yet so far away. He got an idea.

“Öch’ess’ du [hiccough] ei’e Zigare’e?” he asked, offering me the package of smokes. I moved to decline, but then he offered me the lighter as well. “Ja, ja!” he said, and pushed the box just under my nose. Suddenly I understood his motives: his inebriated logic dictated that I couldn’t very well light his cigarette unless I had one of my own. Far and away the most polite drunken Viennese smoker I’d ever encountered. I shrugged, accepted the stick with its flashing red Gauloise insignia, and put it between my lips. He pushed the lighter closer to me, altogether forgetting his own uncontrollable craving for nicotine. Never having lit a cigarette, I held the flame awkwardly until satisfied that the paper was indeed on fire, and took a short drag. I didn’t swallow the smoke, knowing it would make me cough, and blew it out of my mouth slowly. Satisfied, he repositioned his own smoke and leaned his face in toward mine. I lit his cigarette, and held out his lighter. Wanting first to enjoy the wonderful lubrication of tar in his throat, he ignored my hand. He sighed again as he blew the smoke out of his mouth and nose, and took his lighter.

“Ringstrasse, Staatsoper,” the automated and smoothly pleasant voice of the Vienna Transportation Lines announced. My stop. I moved to get off, and my drunken smoker friend smiled. “Danke!” he yelled, although I was no more than 2 feet from him. “Bitte,” I said, and got off the bus. As the bus pulled away, I went to put out the cigarette, but he smiled and waved at me, holding up his own cigarette. I smiled back and waited until the bus was gone to put the thing out. I felt slightly odd walking back to my apartment—I suppose I’d done a nice thing, even if it was to light his cancer stick and accept (and waste) another of his precious bounty. The most prevalent feeling, however, was confusion at his wonderfully intricate logic. Drunk people are a hoot.


Vodka & Red Bull
A word re: the title of this passage: Red Bull© is a uniquely Austrian creation. It was invented in Austria and the Red Bull manufacturing and shipping plant for the whole of Europe is in Vienna. This drink is wildly popular…usually, if one isn’t drinking a beer, one is pulling down a Vodka & Red Bull. It’s also the drink of choice for people in the 18-25 demographic. Since Red Bull has an orange-red color, Vodka & Red Bull has the look of extremely weak iced tea or the urine of a geriatric connoisseur of V8 Juice.

As you may have guessed, the combination of a strong depressant and an equally strong stimulant makes for an interesting effect.

Another ride on the Nightbus, this time from fairly far away, an area of town called Floridsdorf. This ride takes close to 30 minutes. Because it passes by a number of hot nighttime locales and follows a route whose stops are sparsely used, this bus can get very full indeed.

When I got on the bus it was fairly empty, but after about 3 stops there was hardly a seat left, save for the ones in the back where I like to sit. The bus stopped for a fourth time, and on came 15 or so thoroughly boozed Americans. A few of them, including this segment’s subject, sat in the seats near me. She was in her mid twenties, awfully pretty and pissed out of her gourd. She wore a miniskirt and a camisole decorated with rhinestones, which read, “Will Fuck for Coke.” I don’t believe she meant the refreshing beverage. She was introduced to me as Tanya [well, her friend clued me in when she jostled our subject and said, “Tanya, holy shit you’re fucking cheezing out.”].

Tanya was friendly. She turned to me and said, “Oh my God are you Austrian?” I took this as a compliment, but had to deny it. “No, I’m from California.” Fifteen Americans notwithstanding, Tanya was ecstatic to have met one of her countrymen. She screamed joyfully:
“I’m from Wisconsin and the men here are hot!” I nodded in agreement, and began to ask her about her visit to Vienna.
“Are you studying here?” I asked. She proceeded to tell me about the incredible vacation that she and her friends were having: touring all of Spain, southern France, Italy, and Austria. She talked animatedly for a good 5 minutes, and then asked me the same question.
“So, like, are you studying here? Cuzseriouslyohmygodthatwouldbesocool!” she perried.
“Yes,” I said, “I’m studying here until December. I’m studying music and German.” I turned to her, so as to better hear her answer. She had fallen asleep, and was out enough to have small bit of drool forming in the corners of her mouth.

Not particularly entranced by our conversation, and fairly worn out myself, I accepted her passing out rather gratefully. I looked out of the windows and watched as we came closer to the center of the city. Three minutes passed.

“Oh holy fuck oh my god I’m sorry what were you saying? Did I like totally pass out just now?” She stirreth. A little shocked but never one to be made to feel awkward, I began again. She listened intently and had at least one or two questions for every one of my sentences. We were having, in short, a really nice conversation. I asked her if she’d been having a fun night.
“Oh holy shit you wouldn’t believe how much VodkaRedBull I drank.” I told her I probably could, because I’ve seen lots of people get very drunk on that stuff. I laughed, and looked at her. He head was hanging in her lap and she was very nearly falling out of her chair. If it weren’t for all of the people on the bus blocking her way, there would have been some seriously wasted Tanya to pick up off the floor.

And so went the rest of the trip—Tanya waking to apologize and ask me questions, Tanya falling asleep… one big cycle of excess. I hope she got home ok. If not, I hope she got her wish and found some nose candy.


Listening to: Césaria Évora, Sodade. She’s an Angolan singer, and you’ve probably heard her on a number of movie soundtracks. A rich, burnished sound and all the romance of the Portuguese language make for some sexy music. The song title, Sodade, is an untranslatable Portuguese word which basically means “the blues.” Here’s a slight difference I’ve noticed in cultures… When Werther or a Wagner hero get the blues, they off themselves. When Césaria Évora gets ‘em, she turns it into passion. I mean, intellectualism is hot, but sometimes a body just needs unbridled coital energy.

By the by, here’s a link to some of the pics my friends and I have been taking here in Österreich. Hopes you likes ‘em.

http://ckanowsky.photosite.com/viennadventures