last leaves

but the past is just a single star motel / it's nowhere you should dwell / a room to rest a while

like gold

That September day was golden. Like so many late summer days in this town.

Last week I finished the biggest project that I've worked on so far. Since then I've been to the National Gallery to look at Italian art from the 16th century, and spent another perfect weekend in East Sussex, where we did precisely nothing. I went to Erlend Oye's gig in London, which was absolutely fantastic, and I flew to Vienna, where I'm currently curled up in bed, getting ready to walk through those same streets that you can see above, bathed in grey almost wintery light instead of the golden glow of a late summer.

Was this really just two weeks ago?

A Friday evening on the hill overlooking our city: it was warm, someone had brought two tiny puppies.  It was a good week, that first week of September. Later that evening I would go over to my friend and watch the Loki supermix because I'm a Serious Adult. Earlier that day I had had breakfast (twice) and seen a photography exhibition I really liked. I was so happy that I didn't even feel gloomy about my impending return to London. 

reading and holidaying

Pictures of a perfect June weekend in Vienna, packed with sun, football, Edmund de Waal's perfect installation in the Theseus temple, and so many loved ones.

Since my return to London I have been reading like I used to read as a teenager, reading to distract myself: The Paris Review (interviews with Alan Hollinghurst and Jeffrey Eugenides; short stories by Clarice Lispector; poetry); Eleanor Catton (The Rehearsal and The Luminaries); Asko Sahlberg's The Brothers ; Lukas Bärfuss' Koala; The Iliad; The Rime of the Modern Mariner by Nick Hayes.

I have started to read differently. Of the books listed above, Catton was the first New Zealand author (other than Katherine Mansfield, whom I always think of as British) I'd read; Sahlberg possibly the first Finnish author; Bärfuss the first Swiss author in years and years (and what a fantastic book it is - here's hoping it'll be translated into English); and The Rime of the Modern Mariner is only my second graphic novel, and, like the first, was given to me as a gift.

All new to me because in my heart of hearts I'm always secretly looking for the next Middlemarch. There are few things that I like more than a truly absorbing 600-page Victorian novel - no surprise then that I loved, loved, loved The Luminaries! I've been stuck in my ways for a long, long time. I've absorbed much of the English-language canon; I've read more in English than I have in German. Ironically, my job has made me much more aware of how difficult it is for German-language authors to get translated into English; how closed off and conservative the book market can be; how much we're missing out on. I am now determined to change my own reading patterns, to improve my foreign language skills, to seek out literature in translation.

And to seek out literature in languages that I can actually read (sort of), but never really practice. On this note: I'm off to Paris and Copenhagen for my first non-Austrian, non-UK holiday in over a year. Send any tips and recommendations my way (book-related or café-related or something else entirely). I'm mostly looking forward to tall apartment buildings, cafés that specialise in porridge, and long walks.

Two lives: Vienna

More than anything, I now notice how quiet it is when I go home to Vienna. I had noted this before, before I first moved away even: the all-encompassing tranquility in its streets. I walked the streets at night, leisurely, slowly. I sat in parks during the day. I really do the same things wherever I am (walking, parks, bookshops, cafés, bakeries, cinemas, galleries and museums, observing other passengers on public transport, tea shops and COS), but it feels more natural in some cities than in others.
In Vienna, I went to the cinema three, four times. The cinemas are cheap and small and old and I don't think too hard about whether a film is 'worth' spending money on; on Saturday nights and Thursday afternoons there are middle-aged ladies talking right up until the film begins, students, elderly men, couples. I saw 'Her' (excellent, to my great surprise), Yves Saint Laurent (rubbish), The Dark Valley (a Western set in the Alps, highly recommended!). I had some time to kill in between seeing best friends and popped into the architecture museum to see an exhibition about socially responsible architecture. I felt anxious and sought refuge in a bookshop, where I bought my first Robert Walser novel. I sat in my brother's car and he played Haim, he played Mozart's Requiem, he played Britney Spears, all in one seamless playlist.
The city was filled with posters advertising the EU election, advertising the different parties. The radio, the papers all cover the EU election extensively. The parliament is covered in a giant banner: Our Europe, Your Choice. I feel emotionally and intellectually invested in Europe, in the EU; the indifference and stupidity of the general discourse about the EU in the UK never ceases to amaze me, and the basic lack of information or interest makes me sad.
I write this sitting in my kitchen in Walthamstow, E17, London, and Vienna seems like a dream. Yesterday the Austrian performer won Eurovision (not Austria, never Austria: if it had been up to 'Austria', the performer would never have been picked - because Austria is still a conservative, small-minded country, and as a commentator pointed out that no, it wasn't Austria that won but someone who supported the idea of tolerance and 'die Vielfalt von Lebensentwürfen'). Today I'm listening to Simon & Garfunkel, this song in particular. 

to the hills

A week ago my brother texted me a picture, picture number one up there, along with the words, 'Vienna is waiting for you!' I was on my way home from a gig I had left early and I sat on the overground staring at the photo, filled with longing.
 Today we climbed the tower from which the photo was taken, a familiar and favourite haunt. It's easy to put things in perspective when you're looking down on a city (a city that doesn't go on and on in an endless sprawl, a city that is surrounded by rolling hills and forests, by fields and water). Vienna is in bloom, green and fragrant and very quiet over Easter. Its woods are filled with tiny caterpillars that we picked out of each others' jumpers. Deep breaths, recuperation.

inbetween days

We have guest rooms at work for artists who work with us. A couple of weeks ago I spent a few nights in one of those rooms myself. It was strange to spend an evening in Knightsbridge; to take the bus to High Street Kensington and go to the cinema there; to be at work early. It's a different world.

I found myself at Heathrow at six in the morning, too tired to read, too excited about spending some quality time with my family. So I started watching Borgen instead. I probably watch about one TV show a year, and Borgen has fulfilled my requirement of an intelligent, female-led political drama.

I went home, and when I came back I read On Not Going Home, and it's very good.

On not going home

 

 I came back to London in a daze. It was six o’clock, still dark out, but the airport was packed with people. Going home. Leaving home. 

 In Vienna, we went to the Kunsthistorisches Museum and looked at the Old Masters, the Bruegel room, the Greek and Roman treasures. We went to the Jewish Museum and saw an exhibition about Richard Wagner (whom I dislike). We went to the cinema and saw Inside Llewyn Davies (good, especially the cat), The Hobbit (bad), and Computer Chess (undecided, but probably good). We ate out. We ate in. Wandered around. 

We spent New Year’s in an old farmhouse, eating raclette. I cuddled the cat. Peter cuddled the cat. We played board games. I stopped thinking about London, about my job, about being an adult. I slept for hours and hours. My only regret is not eating more bread. 

 Back in London, life continues much the same. It has taken months for me to settle into a routine, and to stop comparing life in London with life in Vienna, or Durham, or what life might be like in Edinburgh, Oslo or Bologna. I get up early, I go to bed early. My windows face east, and as I shuffle through my morning habits of Radio 3, cups of tea, wet hair and struggling with the daily absence of carrot bread, the sun rises slowly over the park. 

I leave the house at eight. I cycle to Walthamstow Central which is already busy with commuters, but not as busy as it will be ten minutes later. Unless I’m unlucky (or late), I get a seat on the tube. For the next forty or so minutes I read. My headphones block out most sound apart from the rumbling of the train and the apologies of the driver for the invariable delays. What I read: novels; books on history, occasionally on religion and philosophy; the LRB; the TLS; the Profil. Right now: Suetonius' history of the Twelve Caesars, which I love. What I listen to: Schubert; Elliott Smith; Sufjan Stevens; quiet stuff that will keep me calm when stuck in a tunnel. 

And then I’m in Knightsbridge. Eight, nine, twelve hours later I repeat my journey. I crawl into bed and read some more. I haven’t figured my evenings out yet – more often than not I miss my brothers, their easy familiarity and their pasta dishes. 

On weekends, I leave town. 

 Homesickness is odd. You can feel fine for days, weeks, and then all of a sudden it hits you and you will find yourself walking the aisles of a Spar supermarket, simply because the branding is familiar. 

 * Title from this talk at the British Museum. Ironically, I won't be able to go because I'll be in Vienna.