I have a friend. Her name is Iseult. It has been just over a year knowing her, and she has made me see Vienna with new eyes. Mind you, she came to the city a little after I did. So I could claim to have a headstart on her about all things Vienna. But her eye to derive joy and meaning from city spaces remains streets ahead of mine. She senses opportunities where others, like me, would not. We have shared new adventures together using a formula that has worked wonderfully for us. She chooses the activity, I have the rather easy task of figuring out its details. We do typical things. We have schnitzels at travel guide-recommended outlets. We are calm. We play chess in parks and cafes. We are also devotees of ‘warum nicht’ living. We drink at rundown, smoky bars.
This is about one of these opportunities. The shutdown has meant that there are no tourists on the streets of Vienna anymore in May. Not too many are expected this summer. This is a golden opportunity to experience the city from a tourist’s eyes. We choose a traditional Viennese coffeehouse on one of those frequented city trails, Cafe Havelka. Multiple travel guides would tell you it is one of the most famous coffeehouses in the city, for its illustrious history of being frequented by the great artists and writers of yesteryear.
We click our formula into action. She floats the idea on the Wednesday while we are having beers in a park, we find ourselves there on a moody Sunday afternoon. I meet her outside in the sun while walking around airily across one of Vienna’s main squares, Stephansplatz. Because my eyes are fixated rather nowhere, I am startled by her sudden appearance. We are soon joined by her friend, Sarah. Together, we approach Havelka.
Stereotypical Viennese grumpiness welcomes us. We hear a faint comment directed towards us by one of its patrons as we open its big sliding doors to enter. That Viennese dialect passes me by. But since it is accompanied by a stare, I figure it is because of something we have not done. Oh, we are not wearing masks.
The cafe’s interiors are striking. It is much darker inside than out. There are booths next to the window, currently occupied by people leisurely reading newspapers on one of those funny wooden newspaper-holders which allow barely a crease on the paper. Small espresso cups and half-eaten cakes lie before them on the table. In the middle, there are small circular tables, where even a couple of cups and plates would have to fight for their own space. At the far end, there is a bar and a couple more secluded booths. On the right, there is a bust of Leopold Havelka, who owes the cafe its name, looking back at us. Right now, the room is thinly-populated, just as much as we had probably imagined.
The server, mandated to wear a mask at all times, asks us about our seating preference. Outside we say, as the sun is still bright. We ask for a menu, he says none such thing exists. Tourists! You can’t see the smirk through the mask. I play safe, and ask for a melange. Iseult, an espresso and Sarah, a strudel. It’s soon here. The strudel looks delightful, vegetables neatly packed in a thin patty, accompanied by a yoghurt-based dip. The coffee, on the other hand, is unremarkable. It is served, as it usually is, with a small glass of water on the side with two sugar cubes neatly placed on a steel tray. This arrangement is another one of those peculiarities I have experienced in this side of the world.
Soon we are made to shift inside because it starts pouring. We get one of those window booths and order another round. Iseult and Sarah get a slice each of a Sachertorte and I get a beer because, well, afternoon drinking. Loud and cheery, we come across as patrons that Havelka’s walls must surely be missing. Drawing on this success, we make plans for another exploration of the city.