A Love Letter to Vienna

Delusions of a grand romance with the elegant yet aloof Austrian empress~

Wien.

How to describe her.

Vienna is not the kind of woman who chases you down the street with passion in her eyes, regaling you with wild declarations of love and adoration. No… Vienna is not chasing you anywhere. She is sitting in the corner of a salon… immaculate posture, silk blouse, neatly-trimmed nails turning pages of a highly impressive book (the subject of which is surely weighty and existential). She isn’t particularly invested in the text, and her bored expression belies all that she also feels toward you in an all-encompassing zero eye-contact kinda way. But that doesn’t mean she won’t be mildly entertained while you make a fool of yourself trying to win her attention.

She won’t look up. Never meets your gaze. But rest assured, she sees you. Little boorish bug that you are.

And yet, somehow, you stay… Simply happy to sit at the (impeccably manicured) feet of this refined queen.

After all, Vienna is gorgeous. Not in the soft-edged, candlelit kind of way, but in a crisp, untouchable, regality. Her streets are wide and immaculate, her architecture (and all-around aesthetic) impeccable, arranged almost like sheet music. Classical, composed, and unforgiving of even the smallest off-key element. (This means you, messy one, are not making the score).

Vienna gives you culture like some cities serve you coffee. An endless supply, graciously given, without asking for anything in return. Her gifting in this is a true display of riches, from free museum days to open-air films projected on the façade of ancient palaces, and even summer concerts in the park where the grass seems to hum with creativity, and of course, civility. It all feels so… generous. Like she’s inviting you in with open arms, saying:

“Come. Learn. Refine yourself!”

For a moment, you believe her. You are smitten. Speech escapes you as you wander the manicured pathways of the Belvedere gardens, marvelling at the marble, the fountains, the curated elegance of a city that has edited itself to near pristine perfection for centuries.

You sit beneath the box trees in the Volksgarten, the scent of hundreds of roses wafting through the air as you watch elderly Viennese women dressed to the nines, suited up just-so for a casual walk, their chosen stroll wardrobe putting to shame your best job interview attire. Naturally, the grand dames glide past you without a glance. The air itself feels composed, like it too studied music theory, read Rilke in the original German, and speaks three languages fluently (none of which it will use to acknowledge you).

And while you’d assume that kind of veiled disdain might leave me bristling, or at least mildly offended, I find Vienna, in all her poised indifference, oddly calming. Almost medicinal in her mutedness, exuding a kind of distant grace that soothes, even as it excludes.

In the Prater, you are free to meander through the quiet, sunshine streaming through the trees in a gauze-like filter, making you feel like you're inside an old Hollywood film. Not much happens here, and that’s the point. The city has perfected the art of elegance without effort.

But just when you think you’ve found your place in her meticulously measured rhythm, you go to buy bread.

And Vienna reminds you exactly who she is (and who you are not).

She’s not rude, not really. She would never stoop to that baseness. But when the cashier doesn’t meet your eye, declines to acknowledge your hello, refuses to return your smile, and somehow manages to scan your groceries with a level of disdain that borders between a Prada-level snub and straight DMV fatigue, you remember.

Vienna doesn’t care about you.

Again, she does not reveal this in an active, hostile way. That would be too vulgar. Vienna isn’t mean. She’s simply… uninterested. She is not here to serve your narrative arc, or flatter your foreign curiosity. She has better things to do … music to study, complex theories to revise, cigarettes to smoke over long intellectual debates held in historical cafés that predate your entire country.

She’s not to be compared to Prague, either. Prague, with her manic moods and flashing eyes. Prague is the lover who throws you against the wall and then reads you poetry in warm, gentle whispers. Vienna isn’t even answering your texts. Vienna simply can’t be bothered.

And, maddeningly, this only adds to her intrigue.

There’s something about that unapologetic hauteur, the refusal to entertain your main-character delusions, that starts to feel… admirable? Even alluring. But don’t visit Vienna for affection. You may indeed come to her hoping for romance, but instead get refinement. Not the kind you put on like a pretty dress, but the kind that challenges you to do better, think deeper, stand straighter.

There is that famous song by Billy Joel, which dreamily says, “Vienna waits for you.” And maybe she does.

But manage your expectations. IF she does… She’ll be waiting in a Klimt-strewn salon, sipping espresso, reading Nietzsche, and not noticing your arrival.

There will be no red carpet rolled out. No parade is planned.

My, darling. You are not special.