My excitement about being in Vienna knows no bounds. I remember as a very small boy waking up in the morning, opening my eyes just a tiny bit to see if by any chance I was in Knysna with my grandparents. If I could focus peeping through my eyelashes and there were the white and red stripes of the curtains in the spare bedroom of my grandparents’ home, I would jump out of bed and dive into bed with my grandmother. (The stories of Knysna are in other blogs already.) I feel the same way here – I wake up every morning from a wonderful deep sleep, and in those first moments of waking (always reluctantly for me – I am not a morning person), I open my eyes to the most exciting discovery – I am in Vienna! I somehow cannot get used to the fact that this incredible privilege can be all mine.

Today I met with a Ukranian academic who now lives in Vienna after a lifetime of working in field of ageing, mostly at the United Nations. We meet at one of the very typical Viennese Cafés, Café Prückel, to many considered their second livingroom in Vienna. Established in 1903 it makes on understand that UNESCO honoured Viennese Coffee Shop Culture as Intangible Cultural Heritage in 2011. Yes, that is how important Coffee Shop culture is in Vienna. Stylish, understated in 1950’s (what could be considered Swedish) decor, it oozes sophistication. No one dares just walking in and finding a table. The air of tradition keeps one glued to the doormat, like an obiedient dog that has been trained to not set foot off that mat. Waiters and runners (the former in uniform of black waistcoat, the latter in plain white shirts) make no effort to meet you at the door the minute you walk in. Trying to make eye contact is impossible, the art of ignoring this is highly evolved.

My host booked a table for us – the waiter eventually appears and in my best German I am proud to announce that we have a reservation for two people. Showing no appreciation for what I consider to be perfect German, he shows me to a table to sit in the meantime, as I am ten minutes early for the booked appointment time. Unforgivable, I see how my esteem is diminished. The undressing ritual starts – coat off, definitely cap off and hung on the very full coat stand. (I am not sure about the scarf etiquette, however, I decide to make my own rule as I love my bright orange pashmina.) Dead on 11h00 my host arrives and is shown to the reserved table which is now free. Of course.

Our waiter is a man of middle age (meaning he is a bit older than me). Stern. In spite of my impeccable German (in my opinion, which I rehearsed on the way to the Café), he has to repeat our order with a frown just to make sure we understand that our German is still that of a foreigner. Coffee is served on a small, oval silver tray with a demi glass of water on the side. Always the water. Then enters the period of being completely ignored – you have your coffee, now shut up. We want to order two croissants. Catching his eye is impossible. I eventually do the most uncouth thing possible – raise my hand as he walks past. A sideways sneer with a hiss of “gleich” comes my way, followed by another few minutes of being ignored. Exasperated, he comes back; we order our croissants, feeling like schoolchildren who have been scolded for talking out of turn.

When the time comes to get the bill, I am too scared to even look at him. Yet, we manage to catch his eye and pay the bill. As he is about to take away the two little silver trays, he notices that neither of us had drunk our water. He puts the trays back, looks at us and says in perfect English “drink your water, it is good for you!” Like our school hostel matron when I was a child waiting for us to take our medicine, he stands watching us empty our two glasses of water. Very politely he smiles and thanks us for visiting. The next guests are already waiting for our table.