A LONG WAY FROM MANY PLACES

The Hotel Karntnerhof

I had two confluent thoughts as I brought our taxied luggage inside. We had walked into a story by renowned American writer T.S. Garp. Or maybe my childhood chum Harry Lime had booked our room. Ann’s first thought upon viewing the reception area and the neighbouring lounge which also served as the breakfast room was Fawlty Towers, also a family owned and operated independent establishment. Fiction. Ann and I are usually on the same page even if we are unsure of its number.

The Karntnerhof is tucked away at the end of a lane or gasse in Old Vienna or Innere Stadt. The ring road around the city’s First District traces the fortifications of Vindobona, a Roman military camp erected on the bank of the Danube, an edge of the empire, sometime between 1 and 100 AD. Archeology is a long way down: the excavated ruins preserved for exhibit outdoors on Michaelerplatz are deep enough to demand a zoom lens.

Our quirky six-storey hotel was completed around 1880. The residential building became a brothel during the Second World War. The madame’s name was Rosa. It was transformed into a hotel sometime after the Germans pulled out; the Allies’ occupation of Vienna ended in 1955. The 44-room Karntnerhof is of its place and a very different time. The maximum capacity of the tiny lift is 225 kilograms, a close space for three people or two with luggage. The shaft, wrapped in a whitewashed iron grille, takes guests as high as the fifth floor. Our room was on the sixth, up a wide winding flight of stairs.

Travel lodging is secondary to the destination, but by no means an afterthought. Nobody wants to dread or barely tolerate the night after a full day out exploring a strange place. When Ann and I were at the Karntnerhof, we were unlikely to be in our room. For us, the hotel’s prime amenity was the fifth floor dachterrasse, an outdoor patio. It was enclosed on three sides by the hotel itself and two abutting buildings. The view through a grid of pigeon netting was white chimneys balancing at the apex of steep red rooftops, their tiles faded to a rusted brick colour. Towering over the tilted television antennas a little to our right were two green copper spires, their gilt accents shining as gold will. There was a silver cylindrical ashtray attached to the wall by the door. Attached to it by a sturdy cord was a paintbrush. The Karntnerhof expects its smoking guests to be tidy.

Sunrise and sunset in Vienna mirrored the timing Ann and I are used to in Edmonton in November and December despite the eight-hour difference. The late autumn temperatures in Vienna were chilly enough to require layers of clothing but not unpleasant. Because our room had no appliances, I cached my tins of Stiegl Goldbrau and Pilsner Urquell behind the flower pots on the dachterrasse. Isolated and above it all (“Up on the Roof”) and no bigger than an interior room it must be some kind of oasis come summertime. I considered it unser Zigarette und Biergarten. Apparently those two improper nouns require capitalization.

Jorge, the man whom I assumed to be the Karnterhof’s general manager was incredibly patient with me. I pestered him with questions. He explained that German is a grammatically complicated language and fluency is no easy feat. After Jorge listed the various forms of articles (way more than French), I replied, “The.” I asked Jorge about a curious character I had noticed on subway and tourist maps and on certain street signs. To me it suggested a curlier capital B or a stacked lower case a and b, rendered in some dainty font I was unfamiliar with. I knew strasse meant street, but from time to time it was rendered as straBe. He said the eszett represented an even sharper s-sound than pronounced in strasse and to try and imagine strassse. Not to be outdone, I countered with thorn, the defunct Anglo-Saxon character which closely resembles the capital Y on your QWERTY keyboard. Thorn’s sound is th as in "the" and so Ye is not ye if ye know what I mean. Ann and I asked Jorge about anything we were curious about: this or that restaurant for supper; public transit; the Art Advent am Karlsplatz Christkindlmarkt and the big daddy Christmas market at Schloss Schonbrunn, which boasted a skating rink and curling sheet.

One Karntnerhof curiosity I did not ask Jorge about was a painting in the hotel’s bibliothek. This was the room Ann and I passed through a few times per day en route to our semi-private cigarette garden. There was a desk with a computer on it, Windows, black (I found a few of my books for sale on Amazon Deutsch). Red hardbound volumes of Nietzsche on the shelves, coffee table books celebrating the arts and architecture of Wien, and, of course, airplane fiction left behind by fellow travellers: Mozart and mish-mash.

Works of art hang throughout Hotel Karntnerhof, in the halls, the rooms, the reception area and the lounge. Some are charcoal nudes. Many are studies of birds which I presumed dated from a time when scientists were known as natural philosophers. An oil painting by the dachterrasse door in the bibliothek stood out, captivated me. Mystified me. A scene from an art museum. Most of the art lovers wear military uniforms. Every arm of the Nazi war machine is represented and most of them are contemplating a large painting in an ornate frame. An inside story is more familiar to me as a literary device. The painting within the painting depicts a vanquished villain or wounded hero of myth. Christian or Classical, I could not say. Whatever happened to him was grievous. I read the date on the canvas as 1959. Ann read it as 1969. Consequently, the artist’s name remains as much a cipher as their subject.

I asked Jorge about the highs and lows of his trade. He said February could be a quiet month, but the Karntnerhof was usually always full otherwise. There were just too many people in Vienna, he said. A gentle lament for one of the hidden costs of a vibrant tourism industry. Naturally, Ann and I were not part of the problem. Strangely, despite the unaccommodating lift and the nineteenth century charm of the lounge, Ann and I rarely encountered the hotel’s other guests except at breakfast. These other people from other parts of the globe were most annoying, sometimes delaying our access to the coffeemaker and buffet for minutes at a time.

There is no place like home. Ann and I agree on that and most other things. As a trip winds down switches in our heads flip. We begin repacking a day in advance of our departure. We have missed our life at the Crooked 9. Our holiday is the blank squares on the kitchen wall calendar. I am always glad and somewhat relieved to revisit the chore done weeks before in Edmonton. Me and my clothes are worse for wear. I conduct myself like a spy when we travel: observe, explore, learn, blend in – we tend to bypass those racks of tourist brochures found in every hotel and avoid curated or orchestrated activities. Extraction is always welcome. Faces: I was glad to come and I’ll be so sad to go/But while I was here I had me a real good time. Ann and I have bedded down in every type of hospitality establishment ranging from no stars to five. Utilitarian requirements always. Until now. My memories of Vienna will always commence with the Hotel Karnterhof: I did not want to check out.

Dispatches from the Crooked 9 has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything since 2013. Sunset Oasis Confidential is still out there languishing in multiple formats. Visit my companion site www.megeoff.com for links to your preferred retailer. Of Course You Did is still print. Collect the set!