Author and Artist
The Ring Road
A fictional travelogue; three minute read.
Yesterday, I took a stroll—an ambling three-mile walking circuit—on Vienna’s Ring Road. I wonder if anyone else thinks the Ring Road should be renamed Wedding Ring Road.
Historic Vienna is like a bakery with supersized wedding cakes. Government buildings, mansions, museums, offices and department stores are crafted with detailed, delicate beauty. The Neo-Renaissance Opera House, the Gothic City Hall, the imperial Baroque theater, the Renaissance Revival museums are adorned with iron balconies, turrets on point like ballerinas and filigree piping.
I detoured down small side streets, paused to peer at the Wien River, poked into venerated antique auction houses with jewelry that my wife would have swooned over. I could have happily continued my walk forever, weaving my way through the city center.
The sky was sparkling and translucent. Like my wife’s soft skin. The breeze was refreshing. The sun warming, restorative.
The unfolding Ring Road, like my marriage, is endlessly surprising, safely renewing, always intriguing. I love the history of it—and us.
Lingering to rest my feet in Stadtpark, the statuary, gurgling fountains, flower beds in reds and yellows, the clean smell of mowed grass surrounded me. A romantic cliché played in my head. In the rustling leaves of the chestnut trees lining the footpaths, I thought I heard a Strauss waltz.
Returning to my urban wanderings, with my guidebook in hand, I gawked at the gaudy tourist shops. Klimt’s ‘The Kiss’ was imprinted on mugs, tee shirts, umbrellas, scarves, even socks. On my dullest day, I would have gotten the hint. Vienna loves lovers.
I had similar thoughts smelling her scent as we stood side-by-side in line last night outside St. Charles Church before a Vivaldi concert. After the concert, on the evening walk home, we held hands. By night, Vienna is sensuous, inviting, flirty. Sexual.
This morning in our hotel room, I suggested relaxing at a coffee house. “My feet are killing me,” I admitted. “Besides, seeing all those shiny white buildings and white stucco statuary yesterday kept reminding me of whipped cream.”
Viennese coffee houses—famous for gifting customers unhurried time to savor their food, read a newspaper and hide from the day—also give couples the leisure to just sit with each other. And to share large apple strudel confections kissing mountains of whipped cream.
Laughing, she spoons a dollop of Chantilly cream into her mouth, saying “It seems we ordered whipped cream with a side of apple strudel.”
“Viennese pastries should have been the party favors at our wedding,” I laugh with her. “Sweet memories for our guests to bring home.”
I sense an opening. No more stalling. I have something to tell her.
Under the table our legs are touching, just a little. As we nurse our lattes, my heartbeat gathers speed.
My breathing flutters.
“Uh, I’ve been thinking. This city is so romantic,” I begin.
Her head lifts slightly. Her eyes focus on me. She puts down her second forkful of strudel.
“I had this idea while walking on the Ring Road.” No stopping now.
“What would you think about a celebration to renew our marriage vows?”
She smiles her silly grin. I smile back, waiting.
Answering me, she says, “Have the last bite of strudel.”
