Earlier today I went to the Prater, Vienna’s largest green space. Here’s what I wrote about it whilst walking the 4.3km back through it.
“All I know of heaven and all I know of death is in this park: an elegant universe in ceaseless motion, teeming with ruined ruins and screaming children.”
– The Fault in Our Stars, John Green
While I wouldn’t go as far as to say that the Prater provides an all-encompassing representation of heaven and death, a comprehensive microcosm of society or even just of Viennese society, it does present a wonderful kaleidoscope of the people of Vienna at leisure. Here there are all manner of cyclists, some sporting lycra and riding bicycles with thin frames and even thinner tyres, their heads down as they pedal harder and harder. There are some in uniforms, the sort of thing you’d find being worn by workers in a café or at a tourist attraction, cycling in pairs on their way home after the lunchtime shift. There are some travellers, people with foam roll mats and large rucksacks or packed saddle bags, as they make their way from one stop to the next. There are families, groups of people of all ages riding bikes of all cyclists. Some seem very small and young, especially when riding along next to their octogenarian counterparts, but young and old alike cycle straight and without the need for stabilisers. Occasionally a family or friend group cycles past in one of the four wheeled versions: think pedalo but like a bike and on land. Unlike many of the individual cyclists, they pedal past serenely, taking time to enjoy the view around them, safe in the knowledge that there are others pedalling and steering to prevent an accident. Now and then a larger group will glide past in one, usually a family where the smallest child has opted for the basket at the front rather than sitting in the back and swinging their legs towards the pedals with the futile hope of being able to reach them.
And like the cyclists, there are different runners too, although the activity is clearly a more selective one, as the age range is greatly decreased and so is the variety of people. Nevertheless, there are many different configurations: the solo runners, some of whom have earphones and some who listen instead to their regular footfalls and the sounds of the world as they pass by. The are duos, pairs of friends going on a run together and chatting away as they go past, and there are people who have gone with their personal trainers, the noticeably more energetic of the pair who calls out words of encouragement and does their best to make the experience seem like less of an ordeal.
The Hauptallee, paved with smooth if slightly humped tarmac, and as straight as a Roman road. At around 4km in length, you would be able to see from one end to the other if only the human eye could render images that are 4km away in the same crystalline high definition that it manages at 4m. Along its length there is the occasional intersection, where a road from the rest of the city cuts its way through the green urban paradise, bringing with it a string of overhead lamps. It takes a stretch of the imagination to associate these floating steel blocks by the woods with the black slender lamppost of C.S. Lewis’ Narnia.
Aside from these interruptions, the sights are generally more rural: the dappled sunlight through the light green leaves of the horse chestnut trees that line the avenues and the knotted trunks of the forested patches on either side. Woods that are just thick enough that only the occasional glimpse of bright colour indicates that you’re still surrounded by the city.
And the smells, oh the smells! Areas of newly-laid tarmac that have become hot in the mid-afternoon sun, the damp freshness of the trees the day after rainfall emanating from the more densely forested areas to either side, and the more suburban smell of petrachor wafting from the dusty paths. The rare puff of tobacco smoke from someone poised on a bench, having made the decision to walk a considerable distance to find that perfect spot for a cigarette break.
The crescendo of the traffic as you near the motorway bridge that runs overhead, bringing with it sounds of revving motorbikes and the continuous cacophony of cars, only for it to become suddenly subdued as you walk underneath its eaves. Instead of the thunderous noise you were expecting above you, you’re granted an unexpected moment of calm, where the constant traffic sounds like rain and you find yourself in the eye of the storm.
And you keep walking, and the sounds of motorised vehicles behind you fade away, falling back into the acoustic backdrop of your surroundings. Were it not for the faint rumble of traffic sounding from all directions and the occasional piercing squeal of a siren, I could almost believe I were somewhere more rural. As I keep walking, the sounds of the traffic become replaced by the chirpings of bird and crickets in the trees, the whirring of bicycle chains as people cycle past, and the satisfying thump of a tennis ball hit well.
To the side, tennis balls are littered over the court like the conkers on the path: both small, round and roughly the same shade of green. The main difference is that the trees weren’t practising how and where to place them like the tennis players. They have no coach to support and guide them, but they don’t need it. Humans have a good habit of aiding their distribution, from accidentally treading on them and stumbling forwards only to regain their balance and composure seconds later, to pairs of runners throwing the natural obstacles into each other’s path.
Amidst the typical soundscape of wheels and footfalls, there’s the occasional reminder from various animals that the space here is theirs too. A pair of dogs barking at each other as they cross paths when on an afternoon stroll with their owners, or the eager panting of a dog enjoying the happy freedom of sitting in a bicycle’s front basket, watching the world flash by at speeds previously unknown to the canine mind. The sound of hoofs and a neigh serve as a reminder of the white and blue signs that reappear every so often, informing visitors to the park that these paths are in fact bridle paths too.
The unexpected accelerating puffs from the small steam engine bring back recollections of the park’s history, now condensed into a children’s ride giving a tour of the wooded areas for a mere €3 whilst the parents wait patiently at the station and wave their little darlings off and hover around the area until they return safe and sound. The far off whistle of the train gives a clue as to the current location, and a warning to those about to tread in its path.
A rare sight: a car drives past. The blue and red stripes down the sides and the word POLIZEI emblazoned across the doors stating clearly the reason for this breach of the peace. And then it’s gone again, its shape dwindling as it progresses further away down the long road.
What at a distance sounds like the steam train coming back again turns out to be a much larger piece of machinery: a slightly more modern train running on a different set of tracks, pulling along a fleet of carriages of people eager to see some of the park’s beauty without the long walk and physical exertion it entails.
In a clearing on the left, many of the trees seem to have been populated at the base by students and people working, their backs up against the trunk with a laptop resting on their folded legs and a collection of books and papers scattered amongst the roots. The bike resting up against the back of the tree gives a clue as to what brought these people to an area that would otherwise requirement a higher level of commitment and perseverance to reach if only in the hope of finding a quiet corner to sit, and to read, and to think, and to write.
A small child nagging its parents to turn and “look at that cute dog” brings me back to my immediate surroundings. What once would’ve have seemed completely normal now feels out of the ordinary. In this European metropolis, it’s a rare day when I hear only the language I came here to study. I’m usually surrounded by a mixture of Western and Eastern European languages, as well as ones from further afield. I don’t always notice at first which one is being spoken when it’s a language I speak enough of to understand the speaker, but here it’s different. Here it’s a Sunday and people are relaxed, away from the world of work and High German, and instead I try to avoid staring as I hear an unfamiliar combination of the language I’ve been studying for nearly half my life and something that I can just recognise as its long lost sibling, the language veiled in a shroud of local colloquialisms and altered pronunciation.
The sound of a belted pop anthem with a thumping dance beat echoes out from the nearby baseball stadium, reminding me of similar events and experiences on the far side of the nearest ocean. And I remember that although this area feels secluded, like a hidden cave behind the waterfall of urban Vienna or a bubble barely clinging to the city’s surface, it’s still very much a part of the rest of the world.
The paths become more populated as I make my way back towards the northern end of the park, back towards the city and the amusement park for which the Prater is known. Here the distinctions between the paths fall by the wayside: the previous system of a path for cyclists, a path for horses and a path for walkers and joggers is no longer maintained.
The clangs of bells, the rumble of exhausts and the screams of excited adrenaline junkies to the right bring my attention back to the amusement park and its rides, its sugar-fuelled children and their fatigued parents. Above all of this, the big grey wheel slowly turns, gazing down upon its younger more colourful cousins with their flashing lights and ringing bells. The wheel turns. It doesn’t need the same dynamic appearance to draw people in. The grey iron frame is a staple of the Viennese skyline, the first silhouette that comes to mind for many tourists who come here. And while the wheel now has a new competitor, a white floral wheel rising up out of the thicket of ground level rollercoasters and spinning sombreros, there are still 2 tourists who want to experience the old attraction for every one who chooses the new. But the crowds that come to park on sunny weekends in summer mean that there are plenty of paying customers to go around, as they line up in front of the colossal structures as they wait for their turn to see the world from above.
As I keep walking back along the long road to where I first entered the park, I turn back and see the great grey wheel. Just like every other tourist in a world of digital cameras and smartphones, I stop and take a photo, yet knowing that the image will no sooner fade from my mind’s eye than it will from my computer’s hard drive. But more than that, I’ll remember the sounds, the sensations, the smelly: the kind of thing that you can’t preserve quite so easily through the lens of a camera.
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