Have you ever been targeted by the kiosk salespeople at the mall? “Miss!—“ (or, equally likely in my case, “Ma’am!—“) they say, trying for eye contact. “Can I ask you a question?” Some of them open with a compliment, such as “Hey, I love your glasses!”
I’ve never found a comfortable way to say no, so I go into avoidance mode. I increase my walking speed to a trot, stare straight ahead, shake my head vigorously, even occasionally say “No!” much too loudly.
I feel terrible about doing this, but not as terrible as I would if I had to explain my purchase of Dead Sea face wash or a psychedelic yard ornament to my husband Dave.
I found Vienna’s version of the kiosk salesperson quite disarming. Maybe it’s because the tourist thing can be a little lonely. For most of the week Dave and I have sat and stood and walked from point to point, on planes and trains, next to people who are trying politely to ignore one other. Our social interactions have been with each other and with people who are trying to meet our tourist needs in a pleasant, but efficient, way so that they can move on to the next customer.
Every kiosk man (there are probably kiosk women and kiosk nonbinary people, but I don’t know if I saw any) has a brightly colored rolling suitcase that opens out to become a little counter. These counters are especially pervasive near the opera house and the palaces.
Our kiosk guy spent quite a bit of time trying to reassure us that his concert was going to be a spectacular event. Dave and I hung on every word. Picture it, he said: A historic hall in a historic theater, everything glittering! The orchestra dressed in 18th century-style breeches and colorful coats (I’d look up the name but I am pressed for time today—I am racing through this blog while Dave is taking a nap before dinner). The musicians would have buckles on their shoes and wigs on their heads, something like the wig our poor kiosk man is wearing himself. That wig had gone a little limp in the current heatwave, over 90 degrees every day so far, but it’s still a nice touch. He took us through the program, humming a theme from each piece.
He told us that it had just so happened that there were a few seats left, all good, some extraordinary, super-first class, with others still very good, just with a lesser view. All were a bargain for discerning patrons such as ourselves. We were footsore and happy to stand still for the pitch, and we bought a pair of the still-quite-good tickets.
The concert hall was warm, but impressive. Lots to keep my eyes occupied: columns and sculptures and paintings and our fellow concertgoers’ lovely outfits. The musicians were in place for a downbeat at 8:15 exactly. The period costumes looked uncomfortably toasty. I was reminded of an octet I played in years ago. We performed tunes from the 1600s and 1700s at various events while dressed in colonial garb: white breeches, red jackets (or maybe blue—this was was a long time ago), and black hats. The costumes always felt unsuited for the ambient temperature, too hot or too cold, and my hat was too big and would tip to non-period angles, annoying the leader.
The Viennese musicians were too professional to reveal any discomfort, and the concert turned out about as expected. Beautiful music, competently performed, no number longer than eight minutes. Opera singers popped in with arias from time to time, and the conductor had the audience clap along to the Radetzky March and some other pieces. The wigs stayed in place.
The First District streets were much quieter late at night. The kiosk men had departed. We made our way back to the hotel in silence.
the jeanSpace 