Vienna is refined.
Although I know that the tulip is of Turkish origin, I feel that it is an excellent flower to embody the nature of Vienna. It is a flower first and foremost of a careful, sturdy structure. It has a long, thick stem and a large leaf that wraps around it for sensible protection. The petals of the tulip primly cover the flower's center as if aware of the human decorum in covering all things related to reproduction. These petals only fall off when the flower is ready for this process and not before; one must peer closely into it in order to see further. Yet what can be seen from the outside is a perfection of nature. The petals blush yellow, pink, red, white, or whichever tone strikes the tulip's fancy. The blush is a deep, glorious blaze as beautiful as the fiercely commanding monarchs who once ruled from the palaces to which such tulips have long belonged. Each petal, each leaf, each stem is smooth. Bewitching. Elegant. Imperious.
The Viennese speak Austrian German with a graceful acknowledgment of it as a superior language. After all, is their city not the historic seat of one of the greatest Empires of all time? The clear, strong syllables that can be heard over the intercom throughout the meticulously organized system of metros and trams convey a confidence and a clarity of structure that is remarkable to experience. It takes a matter of minutes to get from one side of Vienna to the next. It has neither the vastness nor the population of Istanbul, but I think that even if it did, it would take far less time to navigate. Never before have I seen so efficient an organization.
I actually find myself experience more culture shock coming to Vienna from Istanbul than I felt coming from America to Turkey. I suppose that coming from America, I expected nothing to be as I had known it. I embraced the difference. Yet Vienna caught me completely off guard. The shock of people following traffic rules, not speaking Turkish, and stopping their vehicles in order to let me cross the street has been a little unnerving. The occasional snatches of Turkish that I hear from passing immigrants warms my heart and fills me with longing for the familiar. I wonder what it will be like to return to Tennessee...
Yet for all of that, Vienna is a remarkably romantic city. Its efficiency detracts not at all from its emotions. The elegance of the buildings around me displays a spirit of creativity inherent Vienna. Creativity of philosophy, mathematics, the sciences, the arts...all are there. Yet the most powerful spirit that I feel as I suck in the frozen January air of the city by the Danube is the spirit of MUSIC. It is played, it is written, it is felt. The Viennese hold balls throughout the year for its finest to attend in their most elegant and dance the night away to MUSIC. MUSIC is played in the massive Opera. In the midst of the city it is, I feel, by far the most dominating of all of Vienna's structures. Hours could be spent in admiring its outer structure alone. As I walk around it, gazing in awe, I feel the potential for romance...the tickle down my spine at the thought of another hand in mine, the prickling of my skin at the idea of another person's arm about my waist as we look in mutual wonder at this monument to the Muses. The music of love sings and waltzes through our veins.
I am sure that Vienna was made for lovers. Its very refinement demands the most refined of feelings. And what could be more refined than love?
Perhaps Vienna is not a tulip after all...perhaps it is a Viennese waltz between sweethearts...
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