Vienna. One of the worlds artistic capitals, home of some of the greatest artists, and virtually all of the greatest composers, and endless great architecture, and the Wiener Schnitzel, and much else besides.

And we have one day.

I feel obligated to add that if, reader, you are not interested in art or classical music, you had ought to skip this blog entry directly. You should also consider our friendship or other relationship terminated.

So we rise early, rub the sleep away and hit the streets directly. First stop, St. Stephens cathedral in the center of town. A classically gilded and wildly colorful cathedral of the time we have come to almost (insanely) take for granted. It dominates a central square. From there we walk to the Belvedere Palace, an astonishing white masterpiece of architecture set in a long geometric, snow-covered garden. Outside are statues of centaurs and angels, but within it becomes truly astonishing. The art is some of the best we have ever seen, and the space is spectacular, truly a spectacle in itself, including a room of mirrors and a room of gold. The highlights are a series by Max Oppenheimer on classical music, especially his stunning canvas "The Philharmonic" which depicts Gustav Mahler, the great composer and conductor, as he conducts the Vienna Philharmonic at the KonzertHaus in turn of the century Vienna. It is a vast painting glowing pulsating with life and music. A true masterpiece, as are many of Oppenheimers. There is also a series of busts called "The Character Heads," a set of incredible pieces by Franz Xaver Messershmidt. These include incredible faces grimacing, glaring, smiling, and expressing every incarnation of human emotion. They are hilarious and riveting and impressive. Finally we reached the centerpiece of this particular museum. A collection of pieces by Gustav Klimt, about whom Casey is an expert and who was a founder of the Art Noveau movement in Vienna. His paintings are incredible, and the finest work (including the famous "Judith" and "The Kiss") is all on display at the Belvedere so it was a farely memorable experience. Finally there was a wonderful exhibition on Rodin, my personal current obsession. The whole thing amounted to one of the greatest museum experiences of my life to date. And it was free, seeing as we were no longer in a city (Amsterdam) that insisted on charging 20 euros for anything remotely similar to a museum, or a city (Budapest) that would only acknowledge that you were younger than 30 if you had 12 forms of ID. Vienna was rapidly becoming one of our favorite places.

For lunch we had Kase Krainer, a type of frankfurter sausage served at a stand on the main boulevard. Afterwards, we went to the Haus of Musik, a very eclectic mix of great historical exhibits (Vienna is the center of the classical music world, home and place of major works and premiers for Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Shubert, Strauss the younger, Strauss the Elder, Arnold Shoenberg, and my personal favorite, Gustav Mahler) on all of Vienna's favorite classical music superstars, as well as some very bizarre technological psychological exhibits attempting to incoherently explain and imitate music's impact on the brain. It was all very incomprehensible and badly laid out, but very amusing. One highlight was a podium where you could climb up, take a little metal wand, and conduct the Vienna Philharmonic on a screen, controlling the tempo and spirit of Strauss' Blue Danube waltz with remarkable accuracy and technological brilliance. Brilliant compositions played in the background for the entire exploration of the museum.

As the afternoon wore on, our spirit and enthusiasm did not fade, and we went on to Mozart's Haus, an incredible place were some of the most famous, memorable, influential, technically astounding, emotionally exuberant, ground-breaking, model-forming, life changing music ever created was composed. It was very strange to walk to floors in the footsteps of someone who, to me, is far more than a famous name, but a huge inspiration and idol. The museum itself was uninspiring, but the location was iconic. Mozart's cluttered, drunken, immature, genius-filled, debt-stricken existence was actually palpable in the woodwork, and I could imagine him running back and forth, one moment a genius working on a phrase that he could within minutes turn into a symphony, the next moment a drunken swine with a capricious wife capable of nothing more complex than drinking wine and telling poop jokes (this is actually historical fact, Mozart had a strange comical fascination with feces and defecation). I imagine him singing, yelling wildly, demanding and young and headstrong and narcissistic knowing that he is the most famous and beloved person in the city, and the musical world. The favorite of not only the public, but icons like Marie Antoinette and the Austro-Hungarian Emperors. Being in the house was vivid, to say the least.

Now evening was drawing on, but our exploration of Vienna would not be complete save for a few crucial things. We swung by the Opera House, (where Figaro, Fidelio, Giovanni, and Die Zauberflote, among countless others, were premiered) and dropped into a Vienna Coffeehouse (another iconic location) for a touch of culture. We drank hot chocolate and ate Mozartkugeln (beautiful chocolates with mozarts face on gold foil and a pistachio center...mmmmm), resting legs and minds after what had been a long and wonderfully exhausting day. Then we were back on the streets, and around the corner found ourselves in front of the Musikvieren, an impressive building on the exterior and even more so on the interior. Like the Budapest Opera House or the Royal Albert Hall, but smaller, and more intense, more focused. Instead of a sea of red velvet or vast murals flowing above, it was a small, intense rectangular room with endless layers of gold and blue and glittering chandeliers refracting bright light all over the room. Again we were surrounded by the beautiful and glamorous artistic-minded sophisticated Elite, and this time we had not even had a chance to make a pretense at dressing up. Needless to say, we were treated like swine by various ushers etc. We took it in stride however, and soon found ourselves standing at the back of the concert hall (5euro tickets for standing room, not bad at all) with a flawless view of the Vienna Philharmonic, one of the worlds greatest orchestras, performing in the venue that housed some of the greatest musical minds in history, home to a dozen famous premiers, about to watch a piece (Mahler's Seventh Symphony, "The Tragique") in a class by it's own. All there is to know about Mahler (who, incidentally, conducted this philharmonic in this hall less than a century ago, and was painted doing so by Max Oppenheimer) is that, when it comes to symphonic construction, he is the best. Hands down. And when it comes to music that moves you, that controls and lifts you up and crushes you, that changes you and opens parts of your mind you didn't know existed, that comes closer than perhaps any other music to expressing a complete notion of what it means to be human and to emote and to feel, he is the one and only. The best. He only wrote 7 symphonies, and they are in a class all by themselves. They are characterised by size and force (one is called the symphony for a thousand because it requires literally 1000 musicians and singers to perform it) that make Beethoven look like he was writing nursery rhymes in his 9th symphony. They are also characterised by supreme delicacy and beauty that at moments, can rival the most touching music of the romantic era. And they are further defined by innovation in, and understanding of, the technical form and ability of a symphony that makes anyone with the barest notion of classical music or composition's head spin. If you are interested in the technical details, his work is also characterised by a large number of lower-range stringed instruments which provide a heavy baseline, some very strange percussion instruments, lots of kettle drums, lots of very beautiful and not remotely comical pizzicato, soaring violin and flute combinations that stretch the eardrums, sliding notes instead of scales, and a complete inability to stick with any theme more than about 2 minutes. He also does not give the violins the preferential treatment that composers usually give, but treats them as simply on of his many orchestrational tools. He writes long works, ususally at least 2 hours (compared to a 15 minute Mozart or Haydn symphony) and demands utter focus and involvement from his audience. It is very, Very difficult to fall asleep listening to Mahler.

And so it begins. With vast, earth-shaking rhythmic chords and blasting horns and massive marching melody that sends the audience reeling back in their seats. But within moments, the first movement has developed into something softer and more romantic, flowing and lovely, but this does not last long, because by the end of the first movement we are back to truly huge and moving chords that shake the little room and everyone in it. The next movement is heart-wrenching, soft and mournful and tragic. It ends, as his slow movement often do, with a slide down to a quiet and final-sounding pizzicato from the cellos. The third movement is like a story all of its own, with various harmonic and melodic storylines twisting and turning and forming a vast book, a tapestry of music that does more than inspire awe. And the final movement deftly and masterfully brings the whole thing crashing together, with snatched melodic fragments from each of the preceding movements and a sense of completion that is like impending doom. Like the end of the world. Or the beginning of a new age. Watching this incredible piece in this incredible setting, my eyes go out of focus and suddenly I am in fact looking at Max Oppenheimer's incredible painting, all gold and light and brilliance, and the conductor is Mahler himself, pouring emotion into his control of the instruments that pulsate with the life and the torment and the vast imagination of a man long dead but utterly immortal. The sense of symmetry that strikes then, the who and the where and the painting and the piece and Mahler and all of it is almost overbearing. But then, as my muscles relax in the flowing chords and descending scale of the last few moments, (I have been tense in my rivetted attention for over two hours now, I swear my attention has not wandered for a moment), I am finally given a glimpse. A fleeting glimpse, it lasts only a moment, of what Mahler was writing about. Because his music is not simply a vague image of the human condition, nor is it a weak and self pitying monologue about the tragedy of human existence. No, this music, this statement, this art, is about strength. Human strength. Human Brilliance. The size, the scale, the force, the noise, the volume, the beauty, the delicacy, the unity, all are simply metaphors, simply windows through which to view the strength that was his theme and eternal aim. Life, death, humanity, and strength. And in those moments, in that glimpse, of human strength, and what it is or can be, I am allowed to know what I am capable of. Me, personally, my future, my life. It is all here, it is all within these sweeping chords and epic melodies. It is strength. Strength to do what is right, what is good, what I need, what I want, what I know. I feel understood, and understanding. And the epiphany of this moment, beyond the poor attempt I have thus far made, is otherwise indescribable. In the golden light of that room and those musicians and that piece and that moment, the road before me is miraculously unfurled, and my future is handed into my waiting arms to embrace and leap for.

And slowly, ever so slowly, the chords fade away from their massive force until they are merely a whisper, merely a few of the 200 musicians are still playing a final note that must be marked painississississimo in the score. And finally, there is silence. But the silence is too intense, to focused to signal an end. Because it is not the end, the silence and the entire room is torn asunder then by a chord that blasts with a strength that even the preceding two hours could not rival. The sound is vast and powerful and huge, so huge. And it is focused and pointed, and it looks each listener in the eye and tells them, "You have heard. Do not forget. Go forth."
And then it is done.

Little more need be written about that night. It was one of the pinnacle experiences, musical and otherwise, of my life so far. It will never, ever be forgotten.

Beethoven, another Viennese icon, is quoted as saying something that I live by and that seems appropriate here:
"Music is the one incorporeal entrance to a higher world of understanding which comprehends mankind, but which mankind cannot comprehends."
So if my writing here sounds preachy or condescending or confused, that is because I do not comprehend, necessarily, this experience or all of its components. But in that symphony hall, in that moment, I was comprehended, as I never have been before.