Back in this city that I have visited so many times since 1985 when I first set foot here as a young, confused, aspiring, and lost soul. Not that I had any idea what I was aspiring to. Wandering the streets, I felt so poor and from the wrong side of the tracks – which of course I was! I bought a standing ticket for Tosca at the Vienna State Opera. It was torture. I could hardly see anything on stage, and by the time the soldiers stormed the church, my feet were killing me.

Now I am back, fourty years later. My feet are still killing me, but at least I can now afford (well, just…) a proper seat at the Opera. Most certainly not a good seat, but at least I should see the performers on stage and not stare into a marble column for two hours. And buy a glass of champagne at interval. And check in my coat.

What is it about this city that draws me to her over and over again. I have seen all the monumental buildings, took a thousand photographs of all the architectural masterpieces, visited the museums, walked the markets, drank the Glühwein. And yet I want to come back again and again. Nostalgia? Being transported to a long forgotten era of elegance and sophistication? The ultimate escape into a wonderworld? I have no idea, but here I am (again).

I did a two day trip to Budapest to visit friends who live there. The contrast is remarkable. The two cities can most definitely compete with their architecture, the one more ostentatious than the other. Interesting that in Budapest their government restored many old style communist buildings by adding the ornate facades, columns and trimmings to hide the ugliness of their origins. Yet, the underlying sombre atmosphere of communism shines through. Perhaps not in the buildings, but most certainly in the people. There is a dark, heavy undercurrent that at this time of year is almost tangible. With the thick layer of fog eminating from the Donau hanging like a wet blanket over the city, the atmosphere cannot be more depressing. Very few people make eye contact, hurrying along to hide behind the shutters of their stark apartment buildings. Men with upturned collars look like WW1 era spies, women in grey scurry to get out their way.

Vienna, in absolute sparkling contrast, is light, almost the point of being frivolous. Is it perhaps the musical contrast? After all, Hungary produced Bartok while Austria came up with Strauss (a few of them) and Mozart, more ridiculously frivolous is not possible. From Blue Beard’s Castle to One night in Venice or the tarty operettas of Léhar – The Merry Widow. Neighbours, once one country, yet the contrast cannot be stronger. Women in Vienna float by in fur coats that seem weightless, matching hats bobbing across the streets in step with what can only be the Radetzky March. The men are equally light and elegant, gloved and scarved in stylish elegance.

It is hard to fathom how one country can become two such distinctly different worlds, considering it only happened in 1918, resulting in the Treaty of Saint-Germain (for Austria) and the Treaty of Trianon (for Hungary) in 1919 and 1920. I do not confess to knowing why these countries evolved so differently, other than the massive impact of communism.