unguided tour

Granada, Spain. A group of tourists trying to locate the remnants of a mosque. “It must be right here … somewhere… This looks exactly like on the photograph, doesn’t it? ” (more…)

Many things are verboten in Germany. For example, publicly displaying symbols of Nazi organizations. The latest case of violation of this law has been reported from Nuremberg where a golden garden gnome performing the Heil Hitler salute was exhibited in the window of an art gallery. The gnome was created by German artist Ottmar Hörl who is now under investigation from the office of the public prosecutor. It’s art, Hörl defends himself. It’s verboten, the representatives of the law insist. (more…)

“Vienna” is a travelogue in 10 parts. This is the final installment. Read part 1 here.

“The city does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand.”
(Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities)

Sometimes the city receives a past. My past, my memory. Does the memory stay when I leave the city?

The directions say, “Walk down Taubstummengasse (deaf-mute way).” Inside my head the name of the street hurts like an unexpected pinprick. A sharp, short pain. I don’t know why. When I came across Blindengasse (blind way) a few days ago, it didn’t bother me at all. Why  does Taubstummengasse? Is it because the street sign combines two disabilities, and that makes me uncomfortable? Is it because people with hearing and speech impairments can read the sign whereas a blind person walking down Blindengasse will be left unencumbered by the sign? These are reasons why someone, anyone, may be struck by this particular street sign but when a long forgotten memory suddenly arises from my unconscious, I know they are not mine. The memory takes me back to my early teenage years in Germany in the 1970s. (more…)

What part does guilt play in an election?
In Austria, where elections to the European Parliament are held on June 7, I see two kinds of guilt: historical guilt referring to the Holocaust + pleasurable guilt that seeks punishment. The two kinds are intertwined but they’re not identical.
Election posters allow for the negotiation of both kinds of guilt. As voters scribble their comments on them, the posters become bulletin boards that draw attention to Austria’s repressed guilt for National Socialism. But the omnipresent oversized headshots of the candidates also invite mutilation, even effacement by perpetrators who know they won’t be prosecuted. (more…)

The other day I appeared on Austria’s national public radio, ORF. I was invited to talk about Austria’s increasingly stereotypical + despiteful perception of foreigners, especially those from muslim countries. I stated the obvious: in the current political climate ‘the foreigner’ + ‘the orient’ are projections of our difficulties to come to terms with changes in our own societies. Once we understand that we are strangers to ourselves, once we comprehend that the foreign dwells within ourselves, we will be able to create a platform for a dialogue with immigrants from muslim (and other foreign) countries. (more…)

Those of you who read German I urge to read this book: Martin Leidenfrost: Die Tote im Fluss (The Dead in the River).

A careful and highly sensitive report on the atrocities caused by Western European eastploitation; an admirable gesture of compassion and responsibility. (more…)

I love Schnitzel. I grew up with Schnitzel, on Schnitzel. My mother makes an excellent Wiener Schnitzel.

Traveling to Vienna from the U.S. I crave simple food. Slow food. Most of all I crave Wiener Schnitzel. I have one every other day. My Viennese friends make fun of me. It would never occur to them to order the Wiener Schnitzel on the menu.

Wiener Schnitzel is undeniably simple (though, like all simple dishes, difficult to prepare): veal, breading, lemon, cucumbers, potatoes sprinkled with parsley, a glass of Grüner Veltliner.

In its simplicity the Wiener Schnitzel is the antithesis of the often over-spiced food served in American restaurants.

Or is it? (more…)

What is the difference between a rug and a map?

I confess the question never entered my mind until two weeks ago when I saw Mona Hatoum’s outstanding sculpture “Bukhara” in a group show at the Belvedere (Die Macht des Ornaments, through May 21, 2009).

“Bukhara” is a handwoven Turkmen-style carpet with the ancient Bukhara pattern, a geometric, octagonal ‘elephant’s foot’ print erroneously attributed to the Uzbek city of the same name. (For 2500 years — until the end of the 19th century when borders were redrawn — Bukhara, was a center of scholarship and the arts in Central Asia. From BukharaTurkmen rugs found their way to the West.) (more…)

Last weekend at a memorial service for former slave workers (Jews, Communists) at Nazi extermination camp at Ebensee, a sub-camp of Mauthausen. Two delegations arrive , one from Italy, the other one from France. A group of young men, all of them masked, attack the Italians screaming “Heil Hitler” and “Hier geht’s zum Gas!” (This way for the gas!) Next, the men fire rubber bullets at a group of French survivors and severely injure two of them.

On the same weekend in Tyrol (Western Austria) the owner of a hotel & restaurant rejects a group of orthodox Jewish men & women. “I don’t serve Jews anymore. Why don’t you stay at a Jewish hotel?” (more…)

“a realization of a direction
laid down in the deepest layer of the existence
of what is destroyed.”
(Georg Simmel)

“Memories”, Burggasse 47, Vienna

Walking down Neubaugasse (7. Bezirk) a young man with a black suitcase approaches me. “Excuse me, do you speak a little bit of English?” He’s poor. Several of his teeth are missing.
“Yes, I do.”
“I’m from Hungary,” he says. “I need to go back to see my family but my train ticket was stolen. Do you think you could help me?”
I hand him a 50-Euro bill and hurry away. I don’t want to hear him thank me. (more…)

I am in Vienna. The loft I’m renting is on the top floor of a 7-storey apartment building in the 7th Bezirk (district). Climbing the stairs I imagine that each floor tells a different story of the city. I decide to organize my writing from Vienna into seven chapters + a ground-level preface.

In Vienna life is slow. Very slow. People seem happy here. They have time, a lot of time. They don’t feel compelled to busy themselves making + spending money all day long. (more…)

Sunday, April 26. I’m on an airplane to Washington D.C., leaving the Town With No Imagination. If it weren’t for the kindness of a stranger — I shall call him Max — I would not be leaving. Not today and not tomorrow either.

Earlier that morning, at the tiny local airport in Central Pennsylvania. Only small planes land here. I’m checking my bags for a flight to Vienna via Washington D.C. This is the beginning of a voyage. Six weeks in Vienna, the summer in Cambridge (MA), the fall God knows where. I’m not returning to the Town With No Imagination. I’m giving up the life I didn’t have.

Anybody who leaves has baggage issues.

“Ma’am, would you please take a look at the scales? Eighty-four pounds. You have to bring down the weight to 50 pounds. Otherwise your bags cannot go, and you can’t go either.”

“Can’t I just pay a fee? I’m leaving the country, you know.”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. You need to reduce the weight. This is a small plane. We cannot accept luggage heavier than 50 pounds. It’s not safe.”

“You don’t understand, I’m leaving, I’m leaving the country. I don’t live here anymore.”

“Ma’am, I can’t check you in unless you bring down the weight. I told you, it’s a weight & balance issue. It’s about safety. Please step aside.”

“Please. Please. You can’t do this to me. Please, let me check my bags. There must be a way. How else am I supposed to leave this … town?”

Behind me a gentle voice in a British accent says: “My car is right outside. I can offer to put some of your things in my trunk. I will pack them up and mail them to you — wherever you will be.”

“Really? You would do that?”

“Yes, of course. Shall we go to my car? This way.”

I follow him. He is tall and slender. In his late sixties. he treads gently. He’s wearing suede loafers.
My red suitcase on the ground beside his car as I unpack and repack at the parking lot. He is unbelievably supportive and patient.

“There’s no need to rush. Take a minute. What things are most important to you? What can’t yo do without? What is absolutely necessary? Think carefully. We have plenty of time.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure your things will get to you as soon as possible. I even have a friend in Vienna. She’s the director of the Museum of Natural History. I’ll give you her phone number and address.”

I leave about half of my belongings in Max’s car: books, socks, shoes, jackets, towels, a coat, my laptop, ink, DVDs of films I wanted to write about in Vienna. The strange thing is that I don’t mind. I’m relieved, calm. This is my chance to abandon the script I wrote for myself. An angry script. A script filled with resentment and self-pity. Every item I so carefully arranged in my red suitcase is a statement against the Town of No Imagination. Thanks to Max’s kindness I’m able to let go. I pause, smiling. I feel liberated. Excited. Full of anticipation. Max offers to store my things in his basement until I return to America.

“No problem. We have a big house. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind holding on to all those undeclared statements of mine for safekeeping?”

I just hope the anger won’t bother him.

49.4 pounds. My imagination running wild.

Our relations with cities are like our relations with people.
We love them, hate them, or are indifferent towards them.
On our first day in a city that is new to us, we go looking for
the city. We go down this street, around that corner. We are
aware of the faces of passers by. But the city eludes us, and
we become uncertain whether we are looking for a city, or for
a person.
Victor Burgin, Some Cities

Perhaps our relations with cities are like our relations with the past. We admire it, hate it, are in denial. When a city is new to me, it eludes me and I become uncertain whether I am looking for a city, or for a past, or for a memory. My past, my memory. (more…)