Like a veil of heaviness, lifted overnight.

"With feet like roots, and acorn boots".

I have landed in Vienna, Austria once and for all; the very country that threatened to tear my dear parents apart almost three decades ago. Thankfully, my Dad's brilliant display of rapid cutlery buying antics was their saving grace. Good on you, Pops, way to woo Mum back to Manitoba and into your arms with cutlery.

Upon arrival two nights ago, I dropped the achor that is my backpack with disdain and saw the clothes traipse out of my bag on imaginary limbs and waltz across the floor like the plague. There is a common thread in each city we arrive in, we drop our meagre belongings to the floor in back-breaking relief and make ourselves at home in the blink of an eye. We have to, or the unfamiliarity and upheaval that comes with every move, with every new transition, would swallow us whole.

We came to Vienna from Prague, a city that was held at an arms length for the duration of my visit. The city itself was so beautiful and clean, majestic and colourful on the surface; but after a few days of close observance of angry locals (yes, I know that is a sweeping generalization, but in Prague, the stereotype proved itself to be true: Eastern Europeans are a dissatisfied lot) the surface beauty wore itself through and I saw the city with fresh eyes. Well kept and clean does not always translate to lovely. It was almost as if Prague was this giant, freshly painted, one hundred year old, shining facade but behind it the people were rude and unfriendly, and the buildings crumbling messes. Eye contact alone was as scarce as mineral water and hot showers.

Bitterness and disappointment aside, Prague did rear it's majestic face more often than not. One day while at a Salvador Dali exhibit in Old Square, I was more taken by the mixture of light and busyness going on four stories below me, than by the artwork itself. The light in the Square was so eery and ghostlike, it captured me entirely. I grabbed a pen and wrote on a piece of scrap paper furiously, not wanting to forget what a observed that day through the gallery window. The beehivesque activity below was stunning. Babies in hip strollers, babe parents, cafes dappling the ground and kids walking around with wurst on sticks. So much activity caught up in the strange light coming from all directions around square made up of antique facades of towering cathedrals, galleries and apartments. It was like looking at an inverted, million year old kaleidascope. That sounds stupid, but I have no other way of wording it. I will never forget it.

We spent our days in Prague battling the predicted demons of the three week mark and eating well. I spent a day photographing other tourists, their habits and obvious awe was delightful. My usual targets were clusters of umbrella-clad Asians and old geezers in rainbow bright tams leaning over the St.Charles bridge. We sat in Illy cafes in cool neighborhoods, drank copious amounts of coffee (I thought of Alfie) and rode the tram around town (for free, obviously). On our last night in Prague, we got lost and ended up stumbling into the most brilliant local pub, underground. Music of the Alanis Morrissette variety welcomed us in like an athem and I took it as a good omen. Our english accents set us apart immediately and we were flooded with offers for drinks and dances by some dude named Andre.

I gave Andre the benefit of the doubt and we danced feverishly to Spicegirls' "Wannabe" while Rab and Kit looked on in stitches of laughter. Screw you guys. We left the anciet city on a high (and somewhat foggy) note; I learnt my "never-mix-800-variations-of-alcohol lesson (thank you Andre...) the hard way on the five hour train ride that followed our departure from Prague.

Now we are in Vienna and the somber viel that once covered us in Prague has lifted like an overnight fog. Life is good, full and well. I wrote to JJ this morning that I have never felt lighter, happier, slower, fuller, or more satisfied. This trip was called for, that much I know. Yesterday this notion was proved time and again while at the Leopold gallery. I stood an inch away from my favorite piece by E. Schiele and a calm flooded over me like the tide. To stand in the presence of art that was once only accesible in a glossy book in University is truly the greatest thing in the world.

Land ho. I am happy and actually slow paced for once in my life.
Be well,

Frances.

ps: Art, architecture, food and happiness aside, I am still awaiting the Christmas season with a vengeance. My mum and I have made a pact to park it in the airport terminal for all of December after my return to the motherland and await the arrival of our dear ones with the aid of Folk Festival chairs, beer helmuts, and breath that is baited. Brilliant.