Vienna Waits for You
The summer of my sixth year of life, my parents whisked me and my brothers to a place that had not existed beforehand in my mind; a country so large and foreign to my eyes, filled with people speaking gibberish and eating strange concoctions and walking on unfamiliar cobblestone streets. We had arrived in Vienna, Austria; a place where I would fulfill all my childhood whims and fancies for three years. I too, as all people who visit the beautiful city, soon became entranced with the ravishing splendour the city had to offer.
Of all the seasons and months in this enchanted land, winter was by far the most magical; with the delicate snowflakes creating plush layers of white on the roofs of the houses as precisely as Van Gogh himself, and all the eye could see in the horizon was the smoke from the chimneys leaving curling traces in the gray sky. The children, wrapped up in layers of fleece and goose-feathers, scarves billowing in the bitter wind, and boots leaving hollow footsteps easily followed in the snow, would walk to school in the wee hours of the morning, when the sun would yawn and stretch its glowing arms reaching the row upon row of bare vineyards on either side of the road.
On weekends, the great circular road called Ringstraße would be filled with people trying to finish their last-minute Christmas shopping, and the streets would be garnished with twinkling lights in the shape of chandeliers strung from lamppost to lamppost. The sweet melodies of street-performers playing on their melancholy violins and cellos could be heard from miles around, and the smell of roasted chestnuts and warm frankfurters would quickly fill the air.
As the dark blanket enveloped Vienna, and the cold became too much to bear, the people would hurry to the nearest restaurant; filled with vivacious laughter and loud German, blonde women in traditional costume refilling beers, sizzling Wiener Schnitzels served with a slice of lemon on top, warm apfel strudels fresh out of the oven, and the crackling fireplace asking to be fed more logs. After we would eat our fill of German delicacies, we would venture out into the still decreasing temperatures of outside once more, and tread the snowy streets in a sense of uncontrollable giddiness. The Christmas music would play, and I remember being absolutely spellbound by the majestic scene before me.
The famous Vienna Christmas Market was spread out before me in a spectacle straight out of a storybook; with a towering Christmas tree bedecked with starry lights and precious ornaments, and the beautiful Rathaus all lit up from within and of course the numerous stalls selling everything you could ever need, from German gingerbread to hand-made ornaments, and vendors exchanging greetings of “Fröliche Weihnachten!”.
The adults would warm themselves up with their savory Glühwein while the children would have snowball fights between stalls. With twelve booming gongs, the giant clock above would strike midnight, and we would finally head back home, where our beds would welcome us with soft blankets and quiet dreams, as tender and precious as childhood itself.