It was the night of the Vienna Mozart Orchestra Concert, a night I had been looking forward to ever since we booked our trip and, having been disappointed with dining choices to date, we had decided to try a Middle Eastern restaurant in easy walking of the venue. The weather forecast had been warning us all day that a storm was coming and would hit the city around 3pm and last for an hour. All day the storm clouds gathered but nothing happened and eventually the clouds dissipated. We made the mistake of thinking the storm had simply bypassed Vienna.
At first it was just a few splashes on the tarpaulin which we ignored. As it got a bit heavier and began to splash onto the edge of our table, we shunted further beneath the canopy and continued to eat. Within five minutes it was raining hard, we had shunted our table as far into the centre of the covered terrace as we could and were now practically sharing tables with two other diners. Then a blinding flash of lightening, followed instantly by a deafening crack of thunder that rolled across the firmament with such intensity I swear I ducked lest the sky fall on our heads. The next instant, there was a whoosh sound and water cascaded off the edges of the canopy, splashing legs, arms, and feet.
We picked up as many dishes as we could carry and ran for the shelter of the restaurant while the waiters ran after us with the rest of the dishes and our glasses. We sat at a table in the window and watched as the storm raged and the rain lashed the streets. I was wearing sandals and a summer dress; we had no coats and no umbrella, and the concert venue was a 15-minute walk away. We hoped it would stop.
It didn’t.
“We need an umbrella.” I was always good at stating the obvious. “Ask the waiter if anywhere close sells them.”
Reluctantly, Jack consulted one of the waiters.
“He says the guy next door might sell them.”
I waited while Jack ran out of the door. Within minutes he was back, carrying an umbrella. I kissed him. I could have kissed the waiter too but thought better of it. Beneath the dainty striped canopy of our umbrella, we picked our way through the rain-sodden streets to the Musikverein where hordes of people were thronging in their finery while taxis disgorged a steady stream of customers to swell the crowds further.
The Golden Hall
The Golden Hall of the Musikverein is the permanent home of the Vienna Philharmonics and the main stage of the Vienna Mozart Orchestra. Inaugurated by Emperor Franz Joseph in 1870, as well as being resplendent, it is celebrated as an acoustic masterpiece and is considered one of the finest concert halls in the world. It seats an audience of 1,744 with standing room for a further 300.
Our tickets were for the second row of the balcony, facing forward, and right in the centre. We elbowed our way through crowds queueing for tickets and the cloakroom and headed to the stairs.
“You cannot take a bag to your seats; you must check it into the cloakroom.”
She was stationed at the foot of the stairs and was pointing to Jack’s small backpack which contained his camera, wallet, and bottle of water.
“It has my wallet and my water in it. I will need both.”
She sighed and waved us past. We climbed the first set of stairs, then the second, then the third. By this time, I was reminded of climbing Pen-y-Fan in Brecon Beacons. There were many people stopping to get their breath back before continuing. Finally, we emerged at the balcony entrance, sweat beginning to gather on our brows.
“What’s in the bag?”
It was guard number two. Jack showed him the contents.
“No cameras allowed.”
“I won’t use it.”
“No cameras allowed. You must check the bag into the cloak room”
“It’s got my wallet and my water in it; I need both.”
“No cameras allowed. You must check the bag into the cloak room.”
“Everybody’s got cameras! Mobile phones are cameras!”
“No cameras allowed. You must check the bag into the cloak room.”
This automaton was not for turning. I checked the time. The concert was starting in less than 10 minutes.
The Concert
Jack had no choice but to head back down the stairs, queue at the cloakroom, and then run back up. To say he was not in a good mood is an understatement. With Jack still breathing heavily and complaining loudly about the stupidity of the rules and discrimination against real cameras, we took our seats while a succession of young Asian women wearing designer frocks squeezed down the aisle to the front of the balcony to take selfies of each other. Talk about rubbing salt into the wound. I had to shush Jack’s ranting multiple times.
I stared around at the sumptuous architecture as the Vienna Mozart Orchestra in full Mozart costume walked onto the stage amid tumultuous applause, and I felt so sad that after looking forward to it for so long, we would not enjoy the concert. But as the first chords sang around the hall and every face fell silent and rapt, my fears drifted away.
Through overtures, arias and duets from Don Giovanni, The Marriage of Figaro and the Magic Flute, to symphonies and a rousing finale of the Radetzky March, we were mesmerized. It was everything I had hoped it would be. And even Jack managed to suppress his indignation at the surreptitious recordings we could see people making with their mobiles and had a brilliant evening.
When we emerged into the night the streets were bone-dry, and it was still a sultry 25C. It was as if the storm had never happened.
