For the past two weeks, I have been sitting in "my" room, "my" being a very wide term to describe this room where I sing, play the piano, write blogs, knit, make teddies, read and do a plethora of other activities in, usually on my own or sometimes with hubby in the armchair next to me, always with his laptop atop his lap, mouse in hand, without any curtains. This may seem like a strange state of affairs but the basic fact of the matter is that I'm just too plain lazy to put the curtains up. As is the custom in these here parts, I washed them just before Christmas (as I did most of the nooks and crannies in the house) but haven't had the strength to get up on a step ladder and stick approximately 50 pins through 50 holes and put them up. Now I've gotten more than used to being "curtainless".
I particularly like being "curtainless" while I'm singing. See, I have a view of the backyard and the field behind our house from the window. And although the trees are bereft of their leaves and the grass has turned a sickly yellow and the plants are languid at the moment, it nonetheless fills my heart with joy to see this view. Particularly the day before yesterday when some birds came to listen to my singing on a tree about a metre and half from the window. My first "real" audience, I thought, cool, this is nice.
My curtainless room also reminds me of my current state of mind. I too feel curtainless. Namely, because I finally sat down today and wrote that email to that radioman, the email I have been planning to write since I came back from France in September but have been too chicken to do so. But I feel the time is right, despite the fact that my stomach is in a knot and my heart feels as though it's going to jump out of my chest and I feel completely and utterly exposed - to ridicule, laughter, criticism. But I said to myself, Songbird, it's Christmas, it's a time for making wishes and for making them come true. JUST DO IT! And I did. So wish me luck. I'll definitely keep you posted on the outcome - if there is any, that is! But even if there isn't, I won't give up. I'm too Taurean to do that!
And here's the song that inspired the title of this post. Sing it almost every day. Won't make it on the CD unfortunately, doesn't fit in with the concept swimming round my head, but I love the song anyways.
Before I write a word of my post, let me first wish you all a Happy and Holy Christmas! Hope you had a wonderful day with your loved ones.
I'm not gonna write too much today, feeling a bit tired and stressed out to be honest. It's been quite a long day for me. I don't know what the situation's in your houses, but in this house, Christmas preparations usually fall on the matriach's back, that back being mine, and it's sort of close to busting at the moment.
So to cut a long story short, the family and I were out driving to the city tonight to see the "live" nativity at the cathedral (even had a "live" baby out there in freezing cold, poor thing!). And while we were driving a song came on the radio that really captured my attention. The singer was familiar but I couldn't quite put my finger on her name until half way through the song. It was Shania Twain, someone who I am not really a big fan of. Not a fan of at all. Way too commercial for my taste. But the lyrics of this song genuinely caught me, made me sit up and take notice.
And the song seemed such an appropriate one for tonight, when I thought about the little child Jesus being born on a cold night in a stable in Bethlehem, no one wanting to make an effort and take in a husband and his very pregnant wife. Times haven't changed much when you think about it, have they? Would any of us out there, should a man and his very pregnant wife come to our door, let them in and give them shelter from the cold? I'm not really sure...hand on heart, I'm not sure that even I would, having been brought up in often cynical Australia...
And after having seen the nativity and thought about the circumstances of Jesus' birth, and the birth of many a child in the world, I thought about how lucky I am. I may whinge and whine and wish this and that, but at the end of the day, I am truly thankful to God for all he has given me and my kids. Because there's so much pain and suffering in this world when you think about it.
God bless the child who suffers, God bless us all.
Hallelujah, hallelujah, God bless the child who suffers Hallelujah, hallelujah, God bless the young without mothers
This child is homeless, That child's on crack One plays with a gun, while the other takes a bullet in his back
This boy's a beggar, That girl sells her soul They both work the same street, The same hell hole
Hallelujah, hallelujah, God bless the child who suffers Hallelujah, hallelujah, Let every man help his brother
Some are born addicted and some are just thrown away Some have daddies who make them Play games they don't want to play
But with hope and faith We must understand All God's children need is love And us to hold their little hands
This boy is hungry, He ain't got enought to eat That girl's cold And she ain't got no shoes on her feet
When a child's spirit's broken And feels all hope is gone God help them find The strength to carry on
But with hope and faith Yea, we can understand All God's children need is love And us to hold their little hands
Hallelujah, hallelujah Let us all love one another Hallelujah, hallelujah Make all our hearts bilnd to color Hallelujah, hallelujah God bless the child who suffers
It seems that nothing has been going right today. For the first time in my life, I overslept my alarm and my eldest son was half an hour late for school. Then I cooked some rice for lunch. First the water overboiled and went all over the stovetop. Then when I topped it up, I left it for too long and it burnt. Then I had my driving lesson - reverse parking - which was completely frustrating and a total and utter disaster. It's also been a year to the day that I had an operation on my leg.
Funny how an illness can effect you. I have to say that the operation on my leg literally turned my life around. It all started in October 2007 when I noticed that the lump that had been slowly but surely burgeoning to the size of a golf ball on my leg began to hurt. So I asked my doctor mother-in-law (after I had asked my doctor father-in-law numerous times but to deaf ears) whether she would check it out. She did and suggested I get it checked out at the hospital. So I did. First an ordinary x-ray in early November. Then another in mid November. Then an MRI in late November. Then a culture sample in early December. It was the culture sample that suggested that all might not be as well as it had seemed up to that point and it should be removed as soon as possible. Added to the fact that I may have cancer, the Christmas trip to Australia that I had been looking forward to for the past six months was put on hold for God knows how long. I was in a word, I was destroyed.
Thankfully, I didn't have to wait too long for the operation, about a week and a half. It was a strange feeling being in a hospital for an "illness". I had been in a hospital for an "illness" when I was 8 and had had an epileptic attack. Other than that and giving birth to 3 children, I'd never been hospitalised. First there was the paper work which, as you may have judged from one of my previous posts on bureaucracy, I am not a great fan of. I still don't understand why that kind of stuff can't be computerised in Croatia. We're not that far behind when it comes to technology - have all the latest gadgets. But when it comes to medicine and technology, I sometimes get the feeling that we're still living in the dark ages - folders, typewriters, handwritten notes and the like are still the norm in Croatian hospitals! So I had to tell them all about my epilepsy, my three births, what my dad had died of, what my mum had suffered of, bla, bla, bla. Love it - not!
After that had passed, I had some time to myself. So what does the Knitting Songbird do when she's bored? She either knits or sings. Which is what I did. But nothing helped the time to pass faster or for me to fall asleep easier that night. After a discussion with the anaestheologist, it was decided that I would get a local anaesthetic so that everything from my spine down would be numbed but I would alive and kicking from the spine upwards. This was not a happy thought for me. Yes, it would mean that I would be able to breastfeed my little baby right after the operation no problemos. But to have to endure them slicing through me for an hour or so without being wiped out? No way. But it was for little babe's good and the babes always come first, so I conceded.
They "picked me up" from my room on the day of my operation at around 7:30 am. I was first in line which is a good thing. The surgeon's fresh, rearing and ready to go, less likely to make mistakes and all. I can tell ya, it's a strange feeling getting wheeled around on your back, looking at the ceilings rolling by and not much else. I kept thinking "If only I were looking at the sky. It wouldn't be so bad". But beggars can't be choosers so I put up with it all as best I could. Then we got to the operating room. I was lucky enough be have the procedure in the newest wing of the hospital. It looked like something out of "Grey's Anatomy" rather than "General Hospital" circa 1978 as most Croatian hospitals tend to look like. So they put me on the table. Butt naked except for my pants which is not very comforable unless it's warm and something pleasant follows. Which it wasn't and didn't. Hooked me up to the machines - blood pressure, drip, heart rate, bla, bla. Then the anaesthetic. Must have poked 5 or 6 times in my lower spine before they managed to find the proper vein, SOBs. I actually passed out in the meantime 'cause I hadn't had a bite to eat since 7 pm the previous evening. When they finally found the vein, the fun began.
Didn't feel a thing, of course. I only had the impression that my legs were like two huge zeppelins, floating over my head. A particularly bad memory about the whole disastrous event was that unfortunately, Madonna's "Erotic" was playing in the background for the whole operation. Talk about bad choice of music! The worst! But I have a very good "internal" stereo so I blocked that out with Eva Cassidy. Ah, Eva Cassidy. She always gets me through dire situations. I played "Wonderful World" time and time again in my head just so I didn't have to listen to atrocious Madonna.
The operation was over in about an hour or so. Then back to my room. Couldn't get out of my bed at all for the first two days. Now, I know this isn't very pleasant to talk about, but besides having a bed pan brought to me every hour or so, I also got my period that day. Talk about good luck! Don't know what else could have gone out of my favour...yes I do, but I won't go into that...
But a lovely experience that did happen in hospital is that someone from the "other world" came to visit me. Many of you may laugh or say that I've lost the plot but truly, a hand touched my shoulder the day after the operation as if to say "Songbird, don't worry, everything is gonna be allright". Was it my dad? My mum's friend Bill? A guardian angel? Someone else? I can't say, but I felt such peace at that moment, peace the like of I had never felt before.
And so, I stayed in hospital for five days and came home four days before Christmas. I was grateful to come home before Christmas. The doctor wanted to keep in hospital for longer but I wouldn't hear of it. Hospital holidays? No thanks. And even though I wasn't able to cook up the storm I usually cook up for Christmas and that hubby and my eldest son were in Australia (I had to force them to go because I know that our eldest son would never have gotten over the disappointment of not going) and that the house was in a mess (well, it usually is anyway, but I try to tidy it up for Christmas), it was one of the most poignant Christmases I had ever had.
I was grateful to still be among the living. I still didn't know whether the lump was benign or malignant (found that out after New Year's - it was, thank God, benign, but had it grown further and fixed itself to my muscle, might have been the other way around) but I was thankful to God that I was home and in relatively one piece.
And it was after that Christmas that I slowly, but surely, changed into the Knitting Songbird you now know. I was always a sensitive type, never violent or pushy or aggressive. Always cared about people, animals and the environment. But I cared more about stuff, was very materialistic, not very much of a "skin deep" person. My list of hobbies were shopping, shoes, scarves, handbags and fashion. Oh yes, and music and knitting. But not much else. Give me a shopping mall and I was in heaven.
Shopping malls? Actually get a bit motion sick in them. Book stores are more the norm these days. And walks around the city or parks or even the countryside when I can. Shoes? Don't remember the last time I bought a pair of those. Would rather spend my money on a trip to Austria or Italy (with the price of shoes these days, you can actually travel abroad for the price of a pair of shoes!). Scarves? All my Hermes scarves are collecting dust at the back of my wardrobe. Did take one to France with me last September. And that's it. Would rather wear one of my creations. Bags? Have a Swiss Army backpack that is my pride and joy. No Guccis or Vuittons or Chanels in sight. Fashion? Have a 2 metre pile of back issues of British Vogues that I have to give to a charity or thrift shop one of these days. They're just taking up space that could be used for my books. Fashion. I mean, what is fashion? When I think about it nowadays, I think of sweat shops, dyes polluting rivers, schizophrenic, egotistical designers who think they rule the world. Just give me a white shirt, a pair of 501s and me Converses.
In any case, the essential is invisible to the eyes. Just that not many people realise it. Until they've had an operation on their leg...
I dedicate this post to all my dear friends and family whose prayers and hopes were with me during those trying times. And to Eva, who got me through the God damn ordeal, ears intact.
Well, it wasn't quite like that last Sunday when our choir had its annual performance at the opening of the International Women's Club Christmas Bazaar at the Avenue Mall shopping centre - but almost. 'Cause even though we're far from being a professional choir, we have a lot of heart and soul and that's ultimately what gives you your wings, doesn't it!
The IWC Christmas Bazaar is an annual event where members prepare goodies from their home countries, from t-shirts to food to souvenirs, and donate all proceedings to some Croatian charity or other. It's the third time that we've opened the Bazzar, each time belting out three songs that our Kappellmeister chooses (we've decided to give them a bit of a "show" next year as a lot of the people in the audience sort of waited around expecting more). This year we sang "Angelus ad virginem", a Rennaissance song, "Ding, dong, merrily on high", another Rennaissance song and "O, Pastiri", a Croatian song composed by Ivan pl. Zajc, someone more famous for his operas than Christmas carols.
Our first performance started way on back when one of the members of our choir was the then President of the IWC and asked us if we would mind singing at the Bazaar. Of course not, we shouted in one voice. And even though my stomach was in a knot and I felt on several occasions like going to the lady's and expelling my breakfast (which, I'd like to add, I ate at 5 am), I quite enjoyed the experience, as we all did. Like our Kappellmeister says, getting over stage fright simply takes practise - the more you perform in front of an audience, the less the fear factor gets. So much so, he says, that you start craving performing in front of people, sometimes to the chagrin of the audience...
Well, we're gonna get some more practise when we sing at a convalescent home next Saturday. Appropriate, since the money raised from this year's Bazaar is going to two convalescent homes in Slavonia. And I'm sure the old folks won't mind if we sing out of tune or too loud at times - from what I understand, your hearing declines with age...
Anyways, here are a few photos from this year's Bazaar:
A little (well, not so little) Dutch girl on the wrong side of Amsterdam
Was too chicken to ask him what was under his kilt...
What else would the Americans promote but - le McDo? An obliging German in lederhosen. Great legs, eh!
The Chinese stand
The Polish stand
Some German goodies
Some Eastern goodies
PS hubby recorded the whole event but I can't find the USB jack to connect the camrecorder to my laptop so I can't show you how our choir sings for the moment. Soon, soon, I promise...
This is something that the great Beethoven himself said. I have to say, I beg to differ.
When my son and I were in Vienna, we paid a visit to Musikhaus or Music House (if you remember, it was on our way to Musikhaus where we encountered the castrato). Musikhaus was, after Demel, definitely my son's favourite place in Vienna. It's a magical place where you can record your own CD, play bizaare electronic instruments, listen to the sound of a window being cleaned or a clock ticking or laughter, and also get to know most of the important Austrian (or quasi-Austrian) composers up close. It was here that my son and I got better acquainted with Beethoven.
Even though I studied music, unlike most, I was never a great fan of Beethoven. Was always too "heavy" for my just-out-of-adolescence ears. As such, I was never curious to find out more about the man and his music. In the years since I've completed uni, I have grown to appreciate him more and more. And even more so after our visit to Musikhaus.
I had absolutely no idea what a passionate man he was. This was a man who was wont to end a recital if the audience bothered him, had an affair with a married woman, fell in love with a 17 year old pupil, stopped at nothing to gain custody of his nephew, to the point of blackening his mother's name and demanding that the woman pay for his education once he gained custody. It was this passion that inspired him to write what the museum described as the most beautiful love letter in the German language. When I listened to it on the audio guide, I was almost drawn to tears. The letter was found in his desk upon his death and is not officially "addressed" to anyone. It is assumed that the letter was meant for his married lover but there is not enough proof to confirm this. In any case, what a letter. And what a lucky girl! What would I give for someone to address me like this...
July 6, in the morning
My angel, my all, my very self - Only a few words today and at that with pencil (with yours) - Not till tomorrow will my lodgings be definitely determined upon - what a useless waste of time - Why this deep sorrow when necessity speaks - can our love endure except through sacrifices, through not demanding everything from one another; can you change the fact that you are not wholly mine, I not wholly thine - Oh God, look out into the beauties of nature and comfort your heart with that which must be - Love demands everything and that very justly - thus it is to me with you, and to your with me. But you forget so easily that I must live for me and for you; if we were wholly united you would feel the pain of it as little as I...Now a quick change to things internal from things external. We shall surely see each other soon; moreover, today I cannot share with you the thoughts I have had during these last few days touching my own life - If our hearts were always close together, I would have none of these. My heart is full of so many things to say to you - ah - there are moments when I feel that speech amounts to nothing at all - Cheer up - remain my true, my only treasure, my all as I am yours. The gods must send us the rest, what for us must and shall be -
Your faithful LUDWIG.
I'll leave ya with a little ditty Ludwig wrote for that pupil he fell in love with...wonder what he would have said about the remix. Probably would have chucked a fit!
My son and I were walking along the streets of Vienna on the Saturday evening of our visit, on our way to the Musikhaus, when suddenly, the most exquisite streams of music came from somewhere on the street ahead of us. We were in Kaertnerstrasse and my ears were in bliss from the melody gushing towards us. It was the most heavenly female voice singing Mozart's "Ave verum corpus" - one of my favourite songs - and we rushed ahead to see who it was that was singing. Imagine my astonishment when, horror of horrors, it wasn't a female singing but a bona fide male. A male singing much better than many females I've heard, waaaay better than I can or ever will be able to sing! And it was then and there that I decided - when I grow up, I wanna sing like this castrato:
I have always been fascinated by castrato singers - even read a couple of novels with castrato singers in them, both set in Venice. But honestly, how many men would be willing to sacrifice their manhood for their art? Nowadays, probably none, although this was not always the case, albeit the young male had little or no say in the matter. But look at what wiki says about the effects of castration and decide for yourselves whether the advantages outweigh the disadvantages:
Castration before puberty (or in its early stages) prevents a boy's larynx from being transformed by the normal physiological events of puberty. As a result, the vocal range of prepubescence (shared by both sexes) is largely retained, and the voice develops into adulthood in a unique way. As the castrato's body grew, his lack of testosterone meant that his epiphyses (bone-joints) did not harden in the normal manner. Thus the limbs of the castrati often grew unusually long, as did the bones of their ribs. This, combined with intensive training, gave them unrivalled lung-power and breath capacity. Operating through small, child-sized vocal cords, their were also extraordinarily flexible, and quite different from the equivalent adult female voice, as well as higher vocal ranges of the uncastrated adult male. Listening to the only surviving recordings of a castrato, one can hear that the lower part of the voice sounds like a "super-high" tenor, with a more falsetto-like upper register above that.
I I were a guy, I'm not sure if I would be willing to give up my sexual identity for my art. But upon reading the wiki article - the vocal range of prepubescence is largely retained, unrivalled lung-power and breath capacity, voices that were extraordinarily flexible - I would consider for just a millisecond of a millisecond of going under the knife. Of course, I would never do it, but imagine the possibilities that would lie ahead? If nothing else, I would make quite a killing busking the streets of Vienna, 'cause I can tell ya, the Viennese castrato had quite a booty in that little hat of his...nonetheless, at the end of the day, I would prefer that my booty remain intact between my legs instead of having it lying on a street somewhere...
I finished reading my book about Gershwin on the way to Vienna I'm sad to say. Sad because that's how I always feel when I've finished reading a really good book. That's how I felt when I finished "Love in the time of cholera" or "The Lord of the Rings" or Frida Kahlo's biography or all the other wonderful books I've read so far - you just don't want the book to end, you want it to go on and on and on...
Despite the fact that I already knew a bit about George before I started reading the book, I have to say that it was quite an eye-opener. He was quite a dichotonous fellow, our George was. I guess we all are when you think about it. On the one hand, he was full of confidence, flashy, over the top and yet, he was never able to find his niche in the flashiest of towns, Hollywood. A complete and utter workaholic, able to write the "Rhapsody in Blue" in a mere five weeks and yet addicted to partying night after night with the glitteratti. A man of the world and yet, naive enough to be able to say the words of the title of this post to Arthur Schoenberg while playing a game of tennis. I think Arthur almost gagged.
Interestingly enough, even though they are at two opposite poles when it comes to music and composing, there are a number of similarities between Gershwin and Mozart. First of all, they both began to show an interest in music because of an older sibling - Mozart at the age of three when he attended sister Anna Maria's or Nannerl's piano lessons which her father gave her when she was seven, while George was fascinated by his brother's piano playing when he was ten. Both, of course, surpassed their siblings enormously.
Another similarity is that both George and Mozart were "song pluggers" well before their compositional talents were recognised. Mozart was, as we all know, a child prodigy and toured around Europe with Nannerl and dad demonstrating their many musical talents. And of course, while on tour was influenced by the greatest composers of the time. Gershwin, even though not officially a child prodigy, was from age 15 a song plugger at Remick's, one of Tin Pan Alley's foremost publishers of popular music. It was here that Gershwin, during the almost three years he worked there doing a minimum of 10 hour a day shifts, learnt to transpose music in all 12 keys at the drop of a hat, as well as playing, and listening to, all the leading Tin Pan Alley compositions of the time.
And of course, both left this world much, much too early, just like many other great composers such as Schubert, Chopin, Scriabin, Pergolesi - Mozart at the age of 35, Gerswhin at 37. Gershwin never did get around to composing the "simple" Mozart string quartet he talked to Schoenberg about so we'll never know how he would have interpreted Mozart's "simplicity".
But isn't it funny how Mozart's compositions are seemingly "simple" to the ear? And yet, at closer hearing or when you take a sheet of his music, you see that it is very, very far from simple - in fact, there's very little that's simple about his intricate harmonies and melodies.
I have to admit that I hadn't been to a concert in ages and wanted to have a closer "hearing" of Mozart while I was in Vienna. So I treated my son and I to one while in Vienna as a birthday gift to him 'cause he's an absolute nut about Mozart - to the point that my friend Irina and I had to make him a Mozart costume for Carnevale two years ago! We did such a good job that he even won first prize at school for it!
Now, I wasn't expecting much of the concert, something more touristy than high art to be honest. I searched the internet to see what was available and came across a concert taking place on the Friday while we were there in one of the thirteen houses that Mozart lived in while in Vienna. The place is called, surprise surprise, Mozarthaus and is located just off Vienna's main square. And even less than the concert itself, I wasn't expecting much of the location.
Well, what a surprise my son and I were in for. Because I honestly could not have pictured a more beautiful setting for listening to Mozart, Haydn and Bach (I thought there'd be Schubert as well, the only disappointment I suffered that evening). I had pictured a large hall or auditorium with umpteen seats but was pleasantly surprised to walk into a smallish room - it could not have measured more than 40 square metres - with 10 times 5 rows of seats. And when we walked into the room, both our jaws simultaneously dropped to the floor and we uttered a loud "Ah!". I later saw that everyone did this upon walking in. This is how the programme describes it:
The "Concerts in the Mozart house" take place in the oldest concert hall in Vienna where Mozart used to work and play for Bishop Colloredo in 1781. Mozart lived in this house in the year 1781 from 16th March to 2nd May.
The Sala Terrena with its beautiful vault is situated on the ground floor next to the church and the sacristy. It was designed and painted in the second half of the 18th century in late Renaissance Venetian style...The grotesque scenes, the scenes of baroque sensuality, the floral paintings and the animal scenes give evidence of the purpose of this hall, as a place of pleasure for body and soul. The famous Viennese popular figure "der liebe Augustin" is also depicted here.
In the course of the renovation of this hall, it became evident that this is the oldest part of the building. Fragments of gothic frescos were found and this seems to confirm the tradition that even before the Holy Cross had existed there.
Now, the film that I took of the room isn't that great - the resolution is quite terrible - but I think it'll give you a general idea of it:
As I said, I didn't expect much of the music. But just like the setting, I was pleasantly surprised. Now don't get me wrong - they weren't the Juilliard Quartet, far from it. But it was so lovely listening to the wonderful music coming from those strings, vibrating throughout the room, how the instruments interacted, these inanimate objects coming to life and conversing with one another, and watching how the players communicated with eachother through the raising of an eyebrow or the nod of the head or a smile. Not one CD or YouTube video can capture magic like that.
And see, no matter how good or bad a live performance is, the beauty of it is that it will always capture a time, an emotion and encapsulate it in that moment. And even though the moment comes and goes, sometimes too quickly, it stays with us for a long time to come. Just like Gershwin. Just like Mozart.
It's strange how cities or countries can rever some of their fellow citizens and yet revolt against others. On every street, on every street corner, in every store you'll find something or other with Sissi's likeness on it. From chocolates to mugs to plates to china dolls, there's some item or other with her face or figure printed on it. And yet, you can't find a thing with her fellow country woman, Marie Antoinette on it, despite the fact that, funnily enough, she was more "Austrian" than Sissi. In fact, Sissi was not Austrian at all, except by marriage. Rather, she was a German Bavarian. And yet, no female figure is more prominent in the Austrian capital than Sissi.
Funny thing history, isn't it? As George Santayan said "History is always written wrong, and so always needs to be rewritten." It now seems that MA wasn't as bad or silly a woman as many historians have made her out to be. For example, the phrase that she apparently coined "let them eat cake" was in fact meant to be benevolent - she just perhaps didn't put it quite the way she should have. The site www.phrases.org.uk says the following:
The original French is 'Qu'ils mangent de la brioche'. It has been suggested that the speaker's intention wasn't as cynical as is generally supposed. French law required bakers to sell loaves at fixed prices and fancy loaves had to be sold at the same price as basic breads. This was aimed at preventing bakers from selling just the more profitable expensive products. The let them eat brioche (a form of cake made of flour, butter and eggs) would have been a sensible suggestion in the face of a flour shortage as it would have allowed the poor to eat what would otherwise have been unaffordable. It's rather a mouthful, so to speak, but if the phrase had been reported as 'let them buy cake at the same price as bread' we might now think better of the French nobility.
Now wouldn't it be nice if "cake" was cheaper than bread nowadays? I wouldn't have spent a small fortune in Demel were that the case. Mind you, a small fortune that I was and am happy to have parted with. As the author of the book "Kaffeehaus", Rick Rodgers, says "to pastry lovers, it is impossible to visit Vienna without a pilgrimage to Demel, the doyenne of Vienna's Kaffeehauser." And being a pastry lover (well, more cake than pastry. Not too fond of puff or filo pastry unless I make it myself. A totally different taste experience), I have to agree.
Founded in 1786 by Ludwig Dehne, it is a Viennese landmark situated just across the road from the entrance to the Hofburg. This wasn't always the case. It was first located on Michaelerplatz, about 50 metres away. When Dehne died, his widow moved just down the road and made sure that the kaffeehaus became the "Imperial Sugar Bakery", or Hofsuckerbakerei (try saying that after a couple of beers!) which is logical seeing its location. But my favourite Demel story is that for a time, the renowned baker Franz Sacher worked there. When he moved on, the recipe for his world famous cake stayed behind. And it took more than 100 years for the courts to settle who was the owner of the brand "The Original Sacher Torte". Unfortunately, it was not Demel but Hotel Sacher.
But who cares? A name is just a name. It's what's on the inside that counts, isn't it, you know, l'essentiel and all? I'm lucky enough to have a son who enjoys eating as much as I do. So while while we were in Vienna, we made daily pilgrammages to Demel. Even though my favourite cake is bischottentorte (I think that's how you write it...), I promised myself to try a different cake every day. So on the first day, I HAD to have a slice of bischottentorte, the next I had russichepunschtorte (almost the same as the bischottentorte to be honest...and just as difficult to write...) and on the last some himbeertorte. And every single morsel of every single cake was absolutely divine and worth every Euro cent.
And that's the thing - even though high quality does have a price, it's a price that I'm willing to pay. I like the French philosophy - have a little bit of something good than a lot of something bad. Even though the kaffeehaus "Aida" is a bit cheaper, I'd rather just one slice of Demel than a whole Aida cake.
I do go on, don't I? Well, enough from me, let the pictures do the talking:
The store sign. You can see the entrance to the Hofburg in the background
The display window adjacent to the kitchen.
The Demel store. Or heaven on earth.
This photo, as you can see, is a bit shaky. Guess I was too excited at the prospect of digging into my bischottentorte...
"Cream coloured ponies and crisp apple strudels...these are a few of my favourite things"
Wouldn't mind a few of these pressies under my Christmas tree...
You could hear a pin drop in the kitchen...look at that concentration...
A little (well, not so little) Dutch girl on the wrong side of Amsterdam
What else would the Americans promote but - le McDo? 
An obliging German in lederhosen. Great legs, eh!
The Polish stand
Some German goodies
Some Eastern goodies
