Finding My Feet with Felix -- Vienna, Austria

I'm starting this post from my new host's kitchen on the tenth floor of an apartment building in the 14th district of Vienna. Some manner of spicy dance music plays in the background (I can never properly identify genres, but this music makes even me want to move my homeschool hips) and my host prepares some manner of phenomenally fragrant Indonesian meal.

With peanuts.

Because he knew that I liked them.

There are three pots on the stove, smoking, steaming, bubbling over.

There are so many smells that my nose doesn't know what to do with all of them.

It's kind of freaking out a little. 

Something sweet. Something nutty. Oil. Lots and lots of oil. Coconut. Citrus? Is he using lime leaves? God. This is why I'm not a professional wine taster. Or food taster, for that matter. This is why I simply eat things that seem nice and moan in happiness without really understanding why I'm moaning.

Sometimes it's okay to moan without knowing why. 

Rich, spicy food makes me moan. Properly prepared Asian food is nearly on par with pig fat and ice cream for its ability to make me moan.

My host seems more than proficient at preparing proper Asian food.

Most of the time, I enjoy lending a hand in the vegetable chopping department and I'm accomplished at stirring things (Giuseppe can attest to this), but when people prepare such complex dishes with so much palpable pleasure, I like to just be in the same room. Doing whatever it is I'm doing (writing and drinking the cousin of a mojito) while they flit about from cupboard to cupboard, dancing and drinking and having an excellent time.

My host also seems more Italian than Austrian when it comes to the amount of food.

The three pots on the stove are making my already pleasantly full belly (this afternoon's poppy seed and blueberry/sour cream ice cream sequestered the space) nervous. My poor belly knows that when food smells this good, his feelings aren't taken into consideration when it comes to piling portions on my plate.

How in the world did I manage to get this lucky?

As of late, I've been consistently meeting people who take such good care of me.

Perhaps they can feel that I need help right now. Maybe that's one of the benefits of being so open and honest and vulnerable. The easier it is to see the hurt, the easier it is to heal. 

Anyway. 

The last two days have been so restorative for me. Felix (my current host) read my blog post wherein I spilled all sorts of beans about uncertainties and insecurities related to my future. So he invited me to stay with him in Vienna until I find my feet.

"You write that you want to start figuring out where to go from here when you get to Vienna. Do that. And take your time. Relax and recover a bit, take a bit of a break to collect your thoughts and feelings. Vienna is a good place for that. It's safe, it's calm and it's comfortable. There are lots of things to do in summer. Go swimming on the Danube Island or at one of our little lakes or just hang out at the riverside or in one of the parks and do your yoga there or just read a book (I'll lend you my hammock!). Join me for a chill afternoon at one of the markets or at one of the "beach bars" at the Danube Canal. Go up to the hills surrounding the city and visit one of the wineries there and enjoy a cool glass of white with a great view. There are also always some festivals and free parties going on the city in summer. Just have yourself a bit of a holiday."

The kindness of strangers is something on which I rely, but something I never expect or take for granted. Especially when it's something as magnanimous as opening your home (and offering your hammock) to an exhausted, aching vagabond who's recently discovered that she needs a brand new trajectory in life.

I left Bratislava at 12:00 on Thursday. My Portuguese host sent me off with a small tin of tea, a giant bar of chocolate and all manner of happy wishes in our awkward backpack hug.

This is a Couchsurfer I think I'll meet again. 

It felt odd to walk to the bus station and look for a ticket booth instead of walking out of town whilst looking for some not-so-manky cardboard and a place for cars to pull over. Part of me felt like I was cheating myself out of truly experiencing a journey, but another part of me just told that part to shut up and chill out.

Kiwi style.

Felix had sent me detailed instructions on how to get to his place, so I felt completely comfortable and competent getting from the bus station to the 14th district. U3 to U4 to the exit without the elevator. Take a right at the pedestrian bridge and walk behind the gas station.

Voila.

I arrived exactly on time with nary a mishap. It was reassuring to rediscover that I do not, in fact, need a travel buddy to get from place to place. I can manage the wilderness just fine on my own, thank-you very much.

Traveling alone is actually much less stressful for me. Even though Tessa is the most easy-going human being on the planet (tied with everyone else in New Zealand), there's still a certain amount of responsibility that comes when traveling in company. It's easy to make decisions that influence MY trajectory (as far as I can see, anyway). It's difficult to make decisions that affect someone else. From which cafe to relax at to which wine to buy to which city to visit to which park to picnic in to which host to contact -- decisions for me became decisions for us and that caused a lot of stress. 

I'm never getting married. I feel too guilty when the cafe I pick has crappy coffee. 

Felix introduced me to his apartment and showed me to my room.


My room. MY room. I haven't had my own room since... Umm... since... well, since I stayed with Charlotte in Buckinghamshire last April. 

It felt incredible to have a space I could call mine. If only for a few days.

I can get up at four thirty and not bother anyone. I can Skype my family and not wake anyone up. I can practice yoga in private and do my meditative paintings. I can write without distraction and -- 

"Do you want some lunch?" he asked after I'd settled in.

"That would be amazing."

And it was. Felix had even managed to find a gluten-free bakery and had purchased some bread and pastries for my first day in Vienna.

"I'm not sure I even know what to do with this," I laughed as he handed me a slice of bread to eat with a gorgeous lentil soup accompanied by a Spanish omelet, cheese and hummus and olives the size of my toes (exceptionally fat).

(I believe I may have moaned a little bit then, as well)

We spent the afternoon biking around the city, practicing yoga by the Danube, strolling through markets --

 
picnicking on Viennese cheese --

and watching an open air documentary in the city center.

This is the perfect place to find my feet. What was that mantra again? Oof. Life gives me what I need when I need it.

I'm coming up with all manner of anecdotal evidence to prove that this mantra is true. In my current journey, at least.