Let’s be honest—hardly anyone dreams of working in a factory. These days, people gravitate more towards law, finance, or commerce. Word on the street is that organized crime’s pretty trendy too: lavish living, high-end thrills, non-stop laughs. Just… not for long.
Dream Job, Factory Reset
Back in my university days, I fancied myself a future translator of foreign video games for the Russian market. The grand plan was start localizing quests, then level up to full-blown game writer, crafting vast universes from scratch. But life, with its signature chaotic flair and utter disregard for your plans, tossed me headfirst into… a factory job.
Once the initial shock wore off, it turned out that regular paychecks and scheduled vacations had their perks. With a pinch of discipline and a dash of frugality, I could actually save up and plan my escapes. One year, while the whole country was downing bowls of Olivier salad and toasting burnt paper dreams with flat Soviet champagne, I was clocking in for the holidays—and the payout was a heartwarming lump sum. Combined with my earlier savings, it was just enough to bankroll a week-long getaway somewhere in Europe. But where?
It was 2014. At that point, my only brush with international travel had been a three-month stint in the States. Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris didn’t count—I was just sprinting through it like a deranged lemming on the way from Moscow to New York. When you've got 40 minutes to switch flights, there's no time to gracefully stroll.
Then it hit me—my good friend Ksenia had moved to Austria for good and settled in Vienna. I had promised to visit someday. Well, “someday” was starting to look suspiciously like “now.” Thirty minutes of Wikipedia later, I realized the average Russian heart doesn’t really resonate with the word “Vienna.” It doesn’t conjure up much—and echoes back even less. But Vienna had plenty to offer: the world-renowned State Opera House, Schönbrunn (that sun-drenched imperial summer pad), the grand Belvedere Palace complex (upper and lower!), a few whimsical Hundertwasser buildings, and St. Stephen’s Cathedral—an icon in its own right. And that’s just the headline acts.
Toss in culinary adventures like schnitzels, strudels, and waffles. A zoo the size of a mid-sized principality. The looming presence of the UN’s international HQ. Long story short: there was stuff to see, do, and eat.
Borderline Anxiety
Visa-wise, I was covered. I still had a valid Schengen visa from a canceled business trip to Italy. But there was a catch—since I hadn’t actually used the visa to enter Italy, some friends decided to share horror stories: a cousin’s godmother’s nephew tried to enter another Schengen country with a visa from elsewhere. The border guards allegedly laughed in his face and sent him packing. Result: vacation ruined, nerves shredded, geopolitical tension intensified.
Naturally, that charming anecdote was buzzing in my skull like a hornet trapped in a jar as I approached passport control. The officer asked me to remove my glasses, flipped to the visa page, and began the sacred ritual of Face Matching™—his eyes darting between my paper mugshot and my actual one. Then he said, “Hmm, Italian visa…” (my heart stopped), “Not bad” (my heart resumed), “Welcome to Austria!” (and we’re back in business!).
Drunk on relief, I floated into the arrival hall—the place where travelers ask themselves: taxi or train? Do I throw money at a ride, or embrace the noble path of public transport? But Fate, that mischievous lady, had already made up her mind. During the flight, I’d struck up a conversation with two Russian guys en route to an agricultural conference in Vienna. Unlike me, they were on business, and their ride to the city was already booked. One of them found me at baggage claim and offered a lift to the city center. “The company’s footing the bill,” he added with a wink. Their hotel wasn’t exactly next to my hostel—but it was way closer than the airport.
We jumped into a waiting Mercedes and glided across the autobahn—so impeccably maintained it probably had its own grooming regimen. It was early May, but the sun was already blazing like midsummer, and we were beyond grateful for the blessed climate control system with zone options for both head and... posterior. We arrived quickly, parted ways with smiles and good vibes, and I was finally alone - free to plaster a cocky grin on my face and take my first fully independent step through the heart of Austria.
Mapquest and the Blazer Angel
Truth be told, the Viennese vortex of life threw me off balance at first. I mean, picture it: completely alone, in a foreign country, for the first time, without speaking a word of the local language. Not exactly a textbook start. But slowly, the panic began to loosen its grip.
The metro turned out to be a surprisingly gentle introduction to the city. Imagine, if you will, the entire Moscow subway reduced to just the brown Circle Line and the handful of stations inside it—that’s more or less the layout of Vienna’s U-Bahn. Simple. Elegant. Confusingly calm.
Then came one of those charmingly European quirks: no turnstiles. No inspectors. Nothing. Just you, a ticket machine, and the warm, unspoken trust of a civilization that assumes you’ll do the right thing. You drop €2.14 into the machine (a not-so-modest sum), grab your ticket, and glide down the escalator like a dignified citizen of the world. For the first few days, I didn’t even pay—I honestly thought public transport in Vienna was free. It wasn’t until near the end of my trip that Ksenia clued me in: plainclothes inspectors occasionally sweep through the train cars, randomly checking for tickets. If you’re caught without one, the fine is €150. So, sure—you might save €20–30 over a week. Or you might end up making an unsolicited donation to the Austrian treasury.
When the train spat me out at my destination, I didn’t immediately find the right exit. Enterprising Viennese minds had built a whole shopping mall directly above the station, and to reach the actual street, you had to resist the siren song of storefronts and salespeople who radiated the gentlest commercial menace.
Finally breaking free from this cathedral of capitalism, I unfolded a paper map to get my bearings. My skills in analog navigation were still in development, but I could read maps well enough to not look entirely lost. It would take another four years—and the labyrinthine alleys of Venice—to finally force me into the loving arms of offline apps (MAPS.ME, by the way - highly recommended!). But right then, standing at a crossroad with suitcase, backpack, map in hand, and confusion written all over my face, I was every inch the classic tourist.
Which is probably why a sharply dressed man in his fifties zeroed in on me with uncanny precision and launched into a cheerful monologue—presumably in German, though it might’ve been the infamous Viennese dialect, which is just a few grammar tweaks away from being an entirely separate language. For me, though, it was all the same cryptic melody, and I replied with a humble “Entschuldigung, but meine Deutsch ist kaputt.”
Unfazed, the man switched gears smoothly and continued in flawless English, asking if I was a tourist and whether he could help. Relieved to hear something resembling my native tongue, I asked for directions to my hostel. Turns out my map skills hadn’t failed me—I was already heading in the right direction. All I had to do was cross the bridge and turn down a side street.
Grateful for this unexpected angel in a blazer, I set off again. Ten minutes of leisurely walking later, I was checking into my room, officially kicking off my solo Viennese adventure.
It was still early, and the mere thought of sleep felt laughable. After a quick shower and a hasty scribble on my map marking Schönbrunn Palace, I set off to wander the streets of Vienna. Quiet, immaculate streets. The kind of quiet that makes you feel like even the cars are trying to whisper—with tires that barely dare to kiss the asphalt, as if not to disturb the velvety peace that floats in the air.
My first impression of the city had a certain... Washingtonian vibe to it. That same calm rhythm—not something you’d normally associate with a capital, but very much present here.
Fifteen minutes of leisurely strolling later, I found myself at the gates of Schönbrunn. And that's when I realized: the palace was just the appetizer. Beyond it stretched a vast park to meander through, a leafy hedge maze to lose oneself in (a favorite pastime of many Habsburgs, apparently), and even a zoo—which, fun fact, happens to be the oldest continuously operating zoo in the world. The first animals moved in way back in 1752. Not to mention the climb up to the Gloriette, a hilltop colonnaded pavilion built to commemorate an Austrian victory over Frederick the Great of Prussia near Kolín.
Ah, to be a monarch. To erect a grand granite building with panoramic windows and use it... as a dining room. Simply because the view is nice. Why not?
The Zoo Files: Creatures and Karma
I decided to begin with the zoo. Had to wait about 40 minutes for it to open, but honestly, time flies when you're waiting with a freshly brewed coffee and some breakfast that would make even a Viennese pastry chef nod in approval.
What can I say about European zoos? They're next level. Now I fully understand why my former Italian boss’s daughter fell into a full-blown existential crisis after visiting the zoo in Lipetsk—heartbroken by the stark contrast in how animals are kept.
Take the lions and tigers, for example. The cages we call "habitats" back home don't even come close to the sheer scale of the ones here. In Vienna, the lions luxuriate in an enclosure complete with tiered stone platforms for lazing about, tree trunks to scratch, tall grass to slink through, and even discreet plexiglass walls so they can gaze disdainfully at the visitors—or perhaps silently judge their outfits.
They even have their own little waterfall. Presumably for drinking and the occasional spa day.
The brown bear, meanwhile, lives like a rugged forest philosopher. His den sits beside what looks like a real mountain stream. Water trickles down a multi-level cascade right outside his door, where he can perch and contemplate the universe—or the treachery of little girls who break into houses, eat porridge, and break chairs. Visitors can observe him from various vantage points, including a small glass hut half-submerged in the water, offering the perfect view if the bear decides to take a swim.
Some devil must’ve nudged me into that dimly lit insect pavilion…
After that, I developed a whole new appreciation for our climate—a climate that, blessedly, is completely devoid of the nightmare-fuel creepy-crawlies displayed within. Now pay attention here. Don’t rush to Google. There’s a moth called Creatonotos gangis. Not long ago, it caused a ripple of collective revulsion and panic across the internet. This infernal creature resides primarily in Indonesia and—naturally—in Australia, homeland of all things creepy, venomous, and aggressively unnatural. Although, to be fair, Chris Hemsworth turned out pretty alright.
Anyway, seeing several of these emissaries from the underworld simultaneously skittering and flitting about is enough to break the composure of even the most steel-nerved individual—and me? I never stood a chance. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
In fairness, not all the pavilion’s residents were the stuff of nightmares. Some were... strangely beautiful. I remember stepping up to a particular glass enclosure filled with branches and dried leaves. The sign said it housed a population of Phyllocrania paradoxa, also known as ghost mantises. I squinted, peered, tilted my head—but saw absolutely nothing. Just dead foliage.
And naturally, I couldn’t help myself—I imagined what this kind of “ghost mantis” might do: rattle chains in abandoned castles, move furniture without asking, tap cryptic Morse code messages from beyond the veil, all while claiming to be Napoleon or Cleopatra in a thick ectoplasmic accent.
But just as I was mentally patting myself on the back for that little bit of spectral wit, one of the dead "leaves" suddenly shuddered... and glared at me with a disapproving compound eye. It was like magic. What moments ago had seemed like the gentle curl of dry plant matter suddenly shifted—becoming a delicate body, spindly limbs, and the unmistakable stare of a mantis.
Now that I knew what to look for, I started spotting them everywhere. At least a dozen more of those nearly invisible “leaf scraps” were perched nonchalantly, going about their ghostly business. Not exactly pretty, per se—but captivating in their otherworldly design.
I’d never imagined there could be such a variety of mantises. And that some of them could look so... exotic. The orchid mantis, for example—that one’s a total knockout. If insects had prom nights, this one would definitely be wearing the crown.
Suitably awestruck, I stepped back out into the zoo proper. As I watched a gang of orangutans shamelessly taunting the visitors, it occurred to me: Spielberg and Ridley Scott have been wasting their time dreaming up exotic alien species. All they really need to do is take a few Earth insects, scale them up to six feet, toss in a wacky doctrine and a grudge against humanity—and boom, instant extraterrestrial menace.
Still mulling over Hollywood cinema, I leaned on the railing and watched the polar wolves, who had thrown themselves into a joyful, snowy dogpile inside their enclosure.
Suddenly, something tickled my hand. Glancing down, I saw a squirrel sniffing me rather insistently. I opened my palm and held it out to her. The little creature placed her front paws on it and gave it the most thorough, borderline forensic sniffing you can imagine.
Once it became clear I wasn’t hiding any snacks, she looked up at me with an expression I can only describe as the utmost contempt and righteous indignation. It was written all over her face: she had a lot to say about stingy tourists and the true meaning of loving nature, and she was ready to say it. Luckily for me, help arrived just in time in the form of an adorable blonde Austrian girl, maybe six or seven years old.
The blue-eyed little angel reached out to the offended forager with a generous handful of nuts and dried fruit. The squirrel, after casting me one last glance brimming with disdain, hopped onto the girl’s arm and began her well-earned feast.
The Honey Conspiracy
As I reflected on the squirrel’s transactional worldview, the zoo path gradually sloped upward, and before I knew it, I found myself standing in front of a curious structure. It was a fairly large wooden building split into two parts.
To the left, behind yet another plexiglass pane, was nothing less than a cross-section of a beehive! And not a model, either—a real, living hive, where anyone could observe the industrious goings-on of its tiny residents. How the bees themselves felt about this peculiar form of voyeurism, I couldn’t say—but the crowd of onlookers was clearly fascinated.
I gave it an honest try, trying to spot the queen. But Her Majesty was either off in another wing of the palace or busy conducting a surprise inspection in the far reaches of the hive.
The right side of the building held a large glass cylinder, where jars of honey rotated slowly on little trays like contestants on a game show carousel. According to the signs, this honey had been harvested by those very same bees from the hive next door. How exactly the bees got their paws on glass jars or printed labels was not disclosed. But what was stated was that, for the symbolic price of €2, one could purchase a jar and have a taste.
All proceeds, promised the bee-management, would go toward further development of the hive and social benefits for retired pollen carriers.
They were most probably lying.
When I left the zoo, the first thing I did was check the time. Not bad: instead of the one hour I had planned, I’d spent nearly five. But to regret it would’ve been a waste of time, so I kept walking. I climbed up to the Gloriette, wandered every corner of the park, crisscrossed it like a well-trained scout. My legs were begging for mercy, my stomach was howling for fats, proteins, and carbs, and my head was threatening to explode under the weight of so much new information.
Tech Me to Church
After calming the rebels at a nearby café, I figured I’d had enough impressions for one day and headed toward the hostel. But not even halfway there, my eye caught a sign: Vienna Technical Museum. Now, I’ve never been a die-hard museum fan, but I decided to pop in for a quick peek...
Six hours later, when my consciousness finally rebooted, I tried to retrace the sequence of events and figure out where all that time had gone.
I remember turning immediately into the hall with the locomotives and steelmaking furnaces. These weren’t models or replicas, but the real deal—just retired from service. You could touch everything, climb inside, read how it all worked, pull on the levers. At that moment, I wasn’t 25—I was five.
Next came rooms with scale models of nuclear and hydroelectric power plants, dams, floodgates, and various other mysterious contraptions. Everything was interactive: you could press buttons, pour real water onto a miniature hydro-turbine, and watch it generate electricity in real time. Then, with all the grace of a drunk octopus, you could use two control sticks to simulate the removal of spent graphite rods from a nuclear reactor.
In short, the typical museum rule of “Do Not Touch” had been thoroughly overthrown—here, touching wasn’t just allowed, it was encouraged.
Shock and Aww
In the next hall, a huge display drove home what happens when people think electricity is just a fun little toy. Under glass were a pair of charred work boots belonging to an electrician, a jacket riddled with burn holes (possibly from the same unlucky fellow), tree trunks that had been struck by lightning, and more.
The highlight? A taxidermized ferret who had, for reasons known only to him, climbed onto a high-voltage power line. Maybe the little guy was looking for a spark in life. Or maybe he just felt especially powerless that day. Whatever the case, he bridged the gap between two wires and was instantly summoned to a personal audience with the Almighty Ferret. Now his crispy little body, complete with a scorched bald patch where he made contact, rests under glass as a cautionary tale for Homo sapiens everywhere.
A whole section of the museum was dedicated to prosthetics and how they work. The most impressive demo for me was a prosthetic human hand. You’d strap this gadget onto your arm, roughly halfway between your wrist and elbow. Then, following instructions, you’d flex your wrist up and down—so that it moved at a 90-degree angle to your forearm.
Behind the glass, you’d see a full prosthetic hand with a ball resting in its palm. When you moved your wrist down, the device “read” the muscle signals and caused the artificial fingers to close. When you moved your wrist up, different muscles fired, and the fingers opened again. In this way, people without hands could still grip objects and use the prosthetic nearly like a real one. I was mesmerized. Stuck there for a good 30 minutes.
Then came a hall devoted to the unsung heroes of plumbing and sanitation. Suits, tools, and photos of the working conditions—they all told the tale of brave souls diving headfirst into murky brown abysses that defied both reason and description. My favorite part? The “recon robot.” It looked like a remote-controlled toy jeep but had three cameras on its nose: one regular, one night-vision, and one infrared. Not exactly something you’d use at home, but perfect for inspecting a major sewage pipeline.
In the household appliance section, I probably spent another two hours. The ancestors of modern irons were especially impressive—hulking cast iron beasts that you’d fill with hot coals and press clothes while building biceps. I read and re-read the plaque about the first portable vacuum cleaner, which, yes, had a manual crank!
The vacuum itself was about 30 centimeters long (maybe 25 but come on—guys do love to round up). Inside was a small motor, and its V-shaped handle doubled as a hand exerciser. To start cleaning, you had to pump the handle like a stress ball to get the motor going. They say after a few years of using it, your fingers could crush diamonds.
As I was leaving the hall, I caught sight of the first-ever washing machine. It was magnificent—a true monument to minimalist engineering. And not front-loaded, as we’re used to, but top-loaded. Picture a wooden barrel on legs. Inside: an echoing void. The top lid swung open like any proper top-loader. Attached to it was a platform with three blades that looked like a cross between paddles and oars. When closed, the blades dipped into the water inside. A handle on top let you spin the mechanism—like a witch stirring her brew in a cauldron. Sure, I wouldn’t trust it with a cashmere sweater, but if the alternative is scrubbing dirt out of your jeans with a rock down by the river... it’ll do just fine.
A Baptism by Jäger
By the time I reached the hostel, I was practically crawling. My legs were threatening to fall off by morning and never walk again. I limped to the right address, planning to grab something alcoholic from the bar on the ground floor and collapse into bed. But as I was sitting at the counter, I ended up chatting with one of the hostel’s promoters—René. French by blood, Austrian by life.
One beer led to another, and soon we were playing pool. He absolutely destroyed me, just for show, and I was ready to call it a night… until the real madness began.
Let me just say: since that night, I swore never to drink with Turkish girls again. Maybe not all of them are like that, but these two were built with stomachs and livers forged from high-alloyed steel. First, they had beers with us. Then they went hard on whiskey. Then vodka. And all the while, they were chirping away like caffeinated parrots.
Eventually, the ladies got bored of just drinking—they wanted fun.
The bartender lined up four tall glasses on the counter, half-filled with Red Bull. Next to them, he placed a single empty glass upside down. Then came the pièce de résistance: four icy-cold shot glasses, brimming with that devious nectar—Jägermeister. He carefully balanced each shot glass across the rims of two neighboring Red Bulls, setting up a delicate domino tower of chaos.
I was watching, thoroughly intrigued.
Then, from under the bar, the bartender pulled out a water gun.
Yep. A water gun. One of those wild-looking, candy-colored toy blasters you’d see at a dollar store. Fill it up with water, pump to build pressure, and it’s ready to unleash watery havoc. Some models can even shoot across a small field. And something like that was now handed over to the Turkish girls, who were practically vibrating with excitement.
The bartender marked the distance they had to shoot from and barked a command: “Fire!”
(Though really, “Water!” might’ve been more on point.)
After soaking the entire counter and narrowly avoiding a lawsuit from the bar's sound system, one of the sharpshooters finally hit her mark. The first Jäger shot collapsed into its Red Bull bath with a splash, setting off a chain reaction—each shot tipping into the next until all four dropped in with a triumphant plunk.
The bar erupted in laughter, cheers, and applause.
The girls, ever the entertainers, took a theatrical bow, grabbed two glasses each, and downed the whole thing in one go. Another round of applause.
To be clear: they repeated this six times.
That’s twelve Jäger-bombs per person.
Twelve.
Then, with barely a wobble, they announced they were heading to a club—because, and I quote, “You only live once, and we’re taking everything life has to offer.”
Wishing them luck in taking “everything and a little bit more,” I somehow autopiloted to my room and collapsed into bed—falling asleep mid-air.
Bones, Baroque, and Bureaucracy
The next morning, my legs made their presence known with a quiet hum—like power lines under tension. But it wasn’t the dull ache of my limbs that yanked me out of sleep. No, that honor went to the newly arrived Brazilians, who had immediately declared war on silence. Cursing the carnival crew under my breath, I washed up, threw on some clothes, and after a brief negotiation with myself, decided I was ready for new adventures.
It was time to see what Vienna had to offer in terms of architecture—and, as it turns out, the Danube capital didn’t disappoint here either.
St. Stephen’s Cathedral commanded respect with its venerable age and steadfast devotion to tradition—its appearance has barely changed since 1511. And down in its catacombs, fans of all things Gothic and grim can admire entire stacks of bones and skulls. Over 11,000 departed Viennese found their final rest in that eerie underground ossuary.
Not far from the Ringstraße, reflected elegantly in the still waters of an artificial pond, stood the Karlskirche. This baroque beauty was built by two generations of architects at the request of Emperor Charles VI as a heavenly thank-you note for saving the city from the plague of 1712. The church itself is relatively small and cozy, with stunning interior decor—reminding me quite a bit of the churches I’d seen in Italy. For a modest fee, you can climb all the way to the top and enjoy a panoramic view of Vienna.
Continuing my casual stroll along the Ringstraße, I inevitably stumbled upon the “Rathaus,” as the locals fondly call it. Lovers of neo-Gothic architecture would instantly understand the appeal. But even in dry numbers, it holds its own: a total area of 113,000 square meters, 152 meters long, 127 meters wide. Inside? 1,575 rooms and 2,035 windows. I suppose that’s the kind of space you need to host around 800 events a year. Exhibitions, concerts, balls—you name it, there’s something happening inside those walls for every taste.
As for me, I didn’t make it inside.
The whole square in front of the Rathaus was buzzing with activity—like a beehive on double espresso. It looked like they were setting up for a concert or some big public performance. I lingered a bit, took in the organized chaos, then moved on. After all, Vienna wasn’t done with me yet.
Of Arias and Andalusians: Vienna's Dramatic Side
The Opernhaus. Or more formally, the Vienna State Opera. Just a short walk from the Rathaus and bearing a few modest titles—like Austria’s largest opera house and one of the most important opera centers in the world. You know, no big deal.
Even from a distance, it was clear that Viennese hearts beat in sync with the music of the opera. A line wrapped nearly all the way around the building, coiling like a scene from some obsessive fan convention, only with more pearls and bowties. Curious about the commotion, I circled the opera house more than once, playing tourist detective. Only after catching snippets of passing conversations did the mystery unravel—Mozart’s Don Giovanni was on the program that evening.
Suddenly, everything made sense.
Apparently, the local bohemians and classical music aficionados had decided to reach across the centuries and touch opera history itself. After all, Don Giovanni was the very piece performed on May 25th, 1896, when the opera house first opened its doors to the world—an event graced by none other than the imperial couple themselves.
Naturally, the idea of snagging a ticket was laughable. Every single poster bore a bold, blood-red SOLD OUT stamp like a slap to the face of spontaneity. But if I couldn’t indulge in the sweeping drama of the opera, I still found a way to treat my eyes to a different kind of aesthetic indulgence—one in motion.
By sheer dumb luck, I found myself standing in front of the Spanish Riding School just 15 minutes before the morning training of the famous Lipizzaners. These noble white stallions—descended from Arab, Spanish, Danish, German, Egyptian (and probably a few mythical) bloodlines—are like ballet dancers on hooves. A ticket to their full performance costs somewhere around €100, but you can watch their training for just €7. A steal.
Now, if you’re a horse lover, you’re probably familiar with terms like levade, piaffe, courbette, and capriole. To me, they sounded like exotic pastries. But in truth, these are the names of advanced dressage movements, forming the highest level of training in classical riding—the so-called "Haute École" or “High School” of equestrian art. Not every horse (or rider) makes it that far, but watching them try? Absolutely mesmerizing.
I would have loved to film the whole thing—start to finish—but the security guards were vigilant, prowling like trained Dobermans in tailored suits. All I managed were a few blurry, flashless photos. Still, even those couldn’t erase the elegance and energy of those creatures—almost weightless in their precision, almost mythical in their grace.
Butterflies and Bookmark People
Still caught in a trance from the horses’ elegance, I made my way toward my next stop—a meeting with Ksenia. We’d agreed to meet by the Schmetterlinghaus, Vienna’s Butterfly House. As usual, she was running late. Classic. So, I figured I’d kill some time by checking out how the butterflies were living it up in the Austrian capital.
A sign greeted me at the entrance, politely asking visitors to avoid sudden movements and flailing arms—so as not to concuss the delicate residents inside. I was skeptical. Butterflies just… floating around freely? Nah, couldn’t be. And yet—how wrong I was.
Beyond a heavy plastic curtain, an actual oasis revealed itself. Humid, tropical, lush. The air thick with warmth and chlorophyll. And butterflies—everywhere. Big and small, monochrome and kaleidoscopic, fluttering solo or in buzzing, colorful squadrons. It was obvious: this was their house. Humans were the intruders.
The butterflies had zero fear of personal space. They perched confidently on heads, arms, bags, and even the occasional exposed bit of sandwich. Once landed, they elegantly folded and unfolded their wings, practically demanding to be admired. I stood near a manmade waterfall, covered in butterflies like some jungle shaman, contemplating how utterly creepy these things actually are.
I mean, sure—seen from afar, focusing only on the wing patterns—they’re stunning. Some of the color combinations could go head-to-head with famous paintings. But up close? It’s another story: bug-eyed, with twitching antennae, a gross little proboscis that curls and wriggles like it’s trying to find a brain to suck, and a segmented belly supported by spindly little legs. Honestly, if you zoom in far enough, every butterfly becomes a Lovecraftian nightmare.
While I was deep in this weird internal debate—half poet, half entomophobe—my phone buzzed with a message from Ksenia: “Where are you, you goat?” Classic her. I stepped outside and spotted her instantly. First thing I said was, “Takes one to know one. And you’re the one who was late.” I followed it up with a bulletproof argument: “Baa-baa-baa.”
She stuck out her tongue. We burst into laughter and wrapped each other in a bear hug. It had been three years since we’d last met.
Once upon a time—another life, really—we’d dated. But that chapter had long closed. What was left between us was something gentler: genuine fondness, deep respect, and warmth that didn’t need labels.
What always amazed me about people like Ksenia was how, after months or even years apart, you could meet up and pick up the conversation like no time had passed. As if someone had slipped a bookmark into your story, and both of you instinctively knew exactly where to resume.
With so much to catch up on, we plopped right down on the lawn surrounding the Butterfly House and talked until the city lights came on and the sky turned indigo.
The Gospel According to Ivan
Between the two of us, I was the carefree wanderer while she—Ksenia—was the diligent student of the Vienna University of Technology. Around midnight, I walked her home and then made my way back to the hostel.
As I settled into my now familiar perch at the bar, I was caught off guard by the voice of the man sitting to my right. He was speaking—no, projecting—in Russian. With dramatic hand gestures and unwavering confidence, he was clearly under the classic illusion many Russians carry abroad: if you just speak slowly and loudly enough, eventually the foreigner will understand you.
The bar’s victim, a good-natured bartender, stood stoically in the line of fire, smiling politely, and repeating, with saint-like patience, that he neither fershteht nor understands.
Channeling the noble spirit of the Ancient Order of Philologists, in full grammatical armor, I stepped in to restore order and called out to the agitated fellow in Russian. Now, they say the fastest human reaction time is to a burn—about 0.15 to 0.2 seconds. But the time it takes a Russian abroad to lock onto a fellow countryman’s voice? No more than 0.001 seconds.
We chatted briefly, and I translated his desires to the bartender. Ivan—let’s call him that—slammed a €500 bill on the counter and declared, in the proudest tavern tradition: “Let my glass never go empty!”
Ah, but here comes the clash of cultures.
Even though this was a hostel bar with a party reputation, Austrian (read: borderline Germanic) order still reigned. Buy a drink, pay for it, get your exact change down to the last euro cent. Then decide if you’ll continue your carousing. The concept of bar deposits didn’t exist here.
Ivan grumbled about the cold, unfeeling Germanic spirit (it was, in fact, Austrian, but he waved that off), then proceeded to buy rounds for everyone. Multiple times. And then—without a word, and with a look of troubled determination—he stood up, walked out into the rain, and disappeared. Left his change behind.
Being the only other visible representative of the enigmatic Russian soul, I was immediately bombarded with questions from the international crowd: Why would he do that? Where did he go? Is this normal?
By then, well-lubricated with drink and riding a wave of liquid inspiration, I mounted my metaphorical soapbox and explained:
"Sometimes," I said with somber gravity, "a wave of existential concern for the Motherland wells up in a Russian man’s soul. So strong, so overwhelming, that he can no longer indulge in earthly pleasures. He must walk. He must think. He must suffer. Preferably abroad—it’s more authentic that way."
Someone asked, “But why aren’t you suffering then?”
I looked them dead in the eye and said, “When I was a child, I was left alone in a video rental store stocked only with American action movies. For seven days and nights I survived solely on Coca-Cola, Turbo chewing gum, and back-to-back marathons of Schwarzenegger, Stallone, and Van Damme. By the time they found me, the part of my brain responsible for patriotic longing had completely atrophied. It shriveled up and fell off. I’ve been deaf to the homeland’s call ever since. Completely.”
A heavy silence followed. Then someone raised their glass. “Well, that’s as good a reason as any to drink,” they said.
Laughter returned. Jokes were told. Someone did a bad Van Damme impression. Life resumed.
Later, the bartender approached me with a serious face. “What should we do with the leftover money?” he asked. “There’s still €270. That’s not a small amount.”
I told him honestly—Ivan wasn’t coming back. He should just toss it in the tip jar.
The bartender froze. “I can’t just… take it,” he said, visibly disturbed by the sheer Slavic audacity of it all. After a hushed council with his coworkers, he came back and solemnly declared: “We have decided to donate the unclaimed funds to the animal protection society. Let this wild currency serve a noble cause.”
Naturally, this too needed to be celebrated.
The Kiss, the Crumbs, and the Caffeine
The next morning, it wasn’t just the weather that was gloomy.
Sipping orange juice like it owed me money and actually enjoying the misty drizzle, I made my slow pilgrimage toward the Belvedere. It wasn’t until I got there that I realized the place wasn’t just a museum—it was a full-blown palace complex, complete with Upper and Lower Belvederes. Not wanting to play cultural ping-pong later, I bought a ticket to both and set off to enrich my soul.
The Lower Belvedere hosted an exhibit by a contemporary artist titled “The Horrors of War.” Grim. Depressing. Perfectly matched my post-party worldview.
The Upper Belvedere, however, was a balm. The decor alone felt like an over-the-top apology from 18th-century royalty, and the art—oh, the art—redeemed everything. There it was at last: Klimt’s famous The Kiss. I’d only seen it in books and posters before, but here it was in full golden glory. They say Klimt was inspired to create it after traveling through Italy and seeing mosaics in Venice and Ravenna. I get that. I really do. Italy tends to do that to a person.
And you know, I’ve long believed that spiritual nourishment always triggers actual hunger. Art feeds the soul, sure—but it also nudges the stomach. Next thing I knew, I’d wandered back near Schönbrunn Palace.
My hungry gaze latched onto one word like a hawk on a mouse: Strudel.
I followed the signs like a man possessed and soon found myself in a basement room packed with tourists, all murmuring in anticipation. Apparently, several times a day, the palace’s confectioners host a “Strudel Show” where they reveal the secrets of the craft: how to distinguish a merely good strudel from a work of genius, how the dough should stretch thin enough to read a love letter through, how apples and cinnamon can be layered like a romantic subplot. They prepared one live, narrated every step, passed out samples, and—of course—encouraged everyone to spend more money.
Let me be honest: 15 euros for a full hour of flour-based theater, a slab of freshly baked, lovingly crafted strudel dripping in creamy vanilla sauce, and a generous cup of Viennese coffee?
A bargain.
Burping contentedly, I waddled off in search of the next landmark. A little heavier, a little wiser, and definitely more caffeinated.
Waves, Wine, and the War on Straight Lines
The works of Friedensreich Hundertwasser (née Friedrich Stowasser) can throw any perfectionist or fan of straight lines into an existential crisis.
Everything he built is asymmetrical to the point of rebellion—a defiant ode to individuality and glorious inconsistency. But what else would you expect from a man who firmly believed that people shouldn’t be living in soulless box-homes and should absolutely have the right to alter everything about their dwelling, up to and including its façade and geometry?
This tireless creator didn’t stop at Vienna. He made it all the way to New Zealand, where he built his own version of an Ideal House—a “safe burrow with many window-eyes, topped with grass.”
The Hundertwasser creations I saw in Vienna looked like gingerbread houses—but made, perhaps, in total darkness by a drunken team of impressionist architects. No two windows alike, not in size, not in shape, not in color. To the chaos, he added balconies and niches growing full-sized trees. Long before eco-consciousness was cool, Hundertwasser was already shouting from his paint-splattered rooftops: plant trees on the houses, not just next to them. It’s the least we can do to make up for what we’re doing to the planet.
So, if you’re wandering through Vienna and suddenly come across a building that looks like it’s melting in technicolor and having a fever dream—congratulations, you’ve found another Hundertwasser.
Looking at the map of Vienna, it’s hard not to notice that patch of green to the northwest labeled Grinzing. A couple of years after this visit, I’d return there for some serious “research” in white wines and sparkling varieties, but this time, I was just ambling through the quirky neighborhood, which slowly transformed into something resembling a hiking trail as the terrain tilted ever upward.
At one point, the trees parted like curtains, revealing hills planted with mathematical precision—vineyards rolling down like green graph paper. As I stood there, appreciating the orderly contrast to Hundertwasser’s chaos, an elderly couple approached and asked if I could take their picture with the slopes in the background. Click. Done.
We got to talking. They were from Poland. When the woman learned I was from Russia, she made a valiant effort to share a bit of her story in Russian. Mangling the grammar adorably, she said something like, “Live long time Vienna. Work here. Heart—Poland.”
We wished each other well, and they made their way back down the hill while I kept climbing, step by stubborn step. The road wound in maddening zigzags, as if the people who built it were paid by the curve. A short walk on the map turned into a nearly two-hour uphill marathon.
There wasn’t a soul around. To keep myself sane—or at least theatrically insane—I started singing marching songs, reenacting movie dialogues, posing rhetorical questions, and otherwise putting on a one-man variety show for the squirrels and birds.
Eventually, exhausted and ready to trade existential musings for espresso, I emerged from the roadside shrubbery like a triumphant yet slightly deranged pilgrim. At the summit: a small plateau with a chapel, a bus stop, and a café whose terrace offered a panoramic view of vineyards, the Danube, and all of Vienna sprawled out below like a reward for my madness.
Downhill Dialogues and Spray-Painted Truths
The mere thought of walking back down that hill filled me with dread, so I did the sensible thing: bought a bus ticket.
All the schedules and route explanations were, naturally, written in full-on Austrian. When the driver noticed my look of mild panic, he rattled off something friendly sounding in his native tongue. I could only shrug in helpless admission—I didn’t understand a word. To bridge our linguistic gap, I pointed at the bus with maximum question mark energy and asked, “Grinzing?”
He smiled and nodded with the kind of warmth that gives you hope in humanity.
An elderly lady seated nearby gently took me by the arm and, judging by the tone and cadence, began listing every single stop along the route. She spoke flawless German. I understood none of it. But I nodded along politely, caught the word “Grinzing” at the end, and gave her my most grateful “Dankeschön.” She lit up and replied with a beaming “Bitteschön.”
As I sank into my seat, I figured the worst that could happen was I’d end up in some entirely different part of Vienna. But after previous strolls along dusty American highways, I’d learned to keep my anxiety budget reserved for bigger crises.
On the way back to the hostel, I took a detour along the city’s canals to admire the graffiti covering the walls. Now this was art. Not some crude swear word, not an anatomically dubious sketch of body parts, and certainly not a half-baked attempt at stylized lettering. I mean real paintings—murals in every imaginable style, from art brut to hyperrealism.
Some tackled social issues. Others promoted environmental awareness. And a few were deliciously provocative. My favorite? A stern finger pointing directly at the viewer, captioned: “I can smell your unhappiness from here, human.”
Cazzo, Celentano & “Eugene the Eternal”
Back at the hostel, I had barely perched myself at the bar and placed an order when my ear caught a word particularly dear to my heart: “Cazzo.” With a bit of creative flexibility, you could call it the Italian equivalent of “fuck.”
Half-jokingly, I wagged a finger at the group of Italian guys and, in their native tongue, asked if they weren’t ashamed to kiss their mothers with the same mouths that had just dropped such filth. They burst out laughing and immediately invited me to drink with them. And so, it began.
A few rounds in, we were belting out songs by Celentano, Ricchi e Poveri, and—somehow—the Beatles. At some point, two American girls and a pair of German siblings (brother and sister) joined the party. Names were absolutely out of the question, so everyone just raised their glasses and said, “Drink?” in whatever language happened to fall out of their mouths at the moment. It worked.
When I finally stumbled into my room, my only plan was to collapse face-down onto the bed, fully clothed. But from the darkness came a polite: “Good evening…”
I nearly jumped out of my skin.
The voice belonged to a shadowy figure who stepped into the dim light, flashed a brilliant white smile, and offered his hand. His name was Louis, from Zanzibar, currently studying in Moscow at RUDN University. How he immediately pegged me as Russian remains a mystery. Perhaps the fog of alcohol had pulled my Slavic soul out from under the surface where it flailed visibly.
Louis, it turned out, had once learned all of Eugene Onegin—on a dare.
Before I could fully form my awe into words, he launched into it. From memory. Loudly.
It took me twenty minutes to make him stop.
As if that weren’t enough literary trauma for one night, his bed was right beneath mine. Just as I was slipping into sleep, he broke into Pushkin again. From below me.
You try falling asleep to a disembodied voice reciting:
“Zametiv, chto Vladimir skrylsya,
Onegin, skukoy vnov’ gonim,
Bliz Ol’gi v dumu pogruzilsya,
Dovol’nyi mshcheniem svoim…”
Somehow, eventually, I did drift off. But the dreamworld had gone completely mad. Lensky flew over Schönbrunn on a broomstick, cackling like a demon. Onegin was uprooting entire vineyards, muttering, “We all studied something. Anything, anyhow.” And Tatiana, during the grand ball, squatted by the wall, spray-painting graffiti and swearing—oddly, in German.
Hangovers, High Rides & Techno Marxism
I woke up with a splitting headache and a very strong urge to start an ethnic conflict based on literary grievances. But the crafty literature-loving maniac from Zanzibar had already vanished from the room, so my fury had nowhere to go and died quietly in the corner of my brain.
It was nearly noon, which meant I had just over two hours before my rendezvous with Ksenia. This time, we’d agreed to meet at Prater, and I still had to get there. The vendetta could wait—it was time to get moving.
The Prater is a vast wonderland—a public park and recreational mecca rolled into one. It’s got a stadium, velodrome, countless sports fields, a horse racetrack, endless fairs, and the iconic Wurstelprater amusement park.
It was there I first saw a ride warning that urged visitors to empty their pockets, remove glasses, flip-flops, backpacks, and basically all their earthly possessions before getting on. The message was clear: unless you hand your stuff to a friend, it’s all going to be scattered across half the park while you dangle mid-air, screaming like a b…banshee.
If it weren’t for the monstrous lines, I would’ve tried every ride. Ksenia admitted she’d never dared ride even one of them—she was convinced that after one spin she’d be left stuttering at best or hospitalized at worst. After some persuasive charm (and thinly veiled blackmail), I coaxed her onto the famous Ferris wheel.
Built in 1896 by British engineer Walter Bassett, it was nothing like the ones I’d seen before—huge red cabins, each capable of holding up to twenty people, rose slowly to a height of 60 meters, unveiling an epic panorama of Vienna and its surroundings. For 80€, you can even rent a special cabin for a two-hour, slow-spinning romantic dinner with a view. Now that’s some next-level date material.
Late in the evening, I returned to the hostel, determined to nurse a drink in solitude and sigh deeply like a man leaving forever. Whether or not it was forever remained to be seen—but I was leaving in the morning. A wild night was not in my plans.
So of course, just before midnight, René burst into the bar like a man on a mission, grabbed me by the arm and said, “No time to explain—let’s go.”
In the taxi, he finally confessed: some hyper-new, ultra-underground, wildly avant-garde club was opening tonight, and he had to introduce me to the scene.
My mood at that moment was best expressed by a classic Soviet film character—Shurik, from Kidnapping, Caucasian Style. When he finds himself in a police station after a drunken rampage, his guide explains to the officer that Shurik is a tourist… here to collect legends, stories… and toasts. Upon hearing “toasts,” the officer perks up and starts digging in his drawer. Shurik, resigned to his fate, grabs the nearest glass and sighs heavily, preparing for inevitable booze.
By the time we arrived, the club was thick with smoke and pulsing with desperate techno. René dragged me over to a massive group of local rave-bohemians and introduced me.
I don’t remember exactly how it happened, but at some point, I found myself in an armchair, facing a guy from the Netherlands who chain-smoked roll-ups and with whom I was now arguing—loudly—about capitalism and socialism.
We both only gave negative examples.
How it started and how it ended—only the club walls remember.
Last Call in the Land of Waltz
To catch my train to the airport, I had to sprint—first by taxi to the hostel, then to the station. The crew didn’t want to let me go. “We’ll crash at someone’s place,” they said. “You can stay with us ‘til October.”
Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d said yes to that bold little adventure.
But at that moment, I sat with a blissfully content grin in the seat of the local airport express, drunkenly smiling at the Austrian morning.
This Danubian capital—so often described in guidebooks as a “quiet patriarchal nook”—left me with nothing but warmth. It welcomed me with open arms. The "injection" my America trip had administered found its worthy sequel.
And I already knew it wouldn't be long before, in the quiet rustle of the native birch trees, I’d once again hear the call of my suitcase—delicately hinting that it’s high time to spend some money…
…to get a little richer.
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