I perch on the edge of the seating area outside a little bar by the main square and order an Aperol Spritz, which I down a little too quickly. Next to me, an old Viennese couple drink—prosecco, for her, and beer, for him. The man is smoking and gesticulating while the woman sits perfectly upright, her hair set, her Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses sporting the most enormous gold emblem on the side.
I smile at the woman, who smiles back warmly and tips her head.
I log on to the Wi-Fi and decide to quickly check my star sign.
There are times when you have no choice but to charge ahead, alone. This is particularly true of single Sagittarians or those working to complete a difficult project. Be kind to yourself. Not everything resolves in a timely manner.
“Clearly bloody not,” I mutter to myself.
When the waiter comes to ask if I’d like another, I shake my head. I need to eat. I suddenly find myself ravenous. I decide to head to Naschmarkt, a famous Viennese food market, for some dinner.
As I navigate the metro using my phone, finding my way easilyto the edge of the market, I stop and take stock of the moment. I’m traveling. On my own. And this time, I decided to do it. It was all me. I grin a ridiculous grin. The kind that people passing you on the street notice, and grin back at you.
I take a snap of myself standing outside the Viennese market and send it to the Election group chat.
Taking a break in sunny Vienna. Back Monday xxx
WFT? I HOPE YOU’RE NOT DOING SOMETHING SILLY. WILL DM YOU.And then eight side-eye emojis from Samira.
LYNN:Good for you, Mara.
RYAN:How is it?
I’m hot, sweaty and alone!I say, and then Ryan comes straight back with:
*Mara’s new Tinder bio.
I gift-wrapped that one for you, Ryan?, I reply.
I head down the little market, jostling for room as I pass a Turkish stall selling jeweled jellies and vibrant spices. I squeeze through bar-height tables where locals drink Grüner Veltliner and huge pints of lager. I duck and weave as I avoid stalls selling cheap tat, secondhand clothing, more food. Finally, I stop at a little restaurant, find a table outside, and settle in for some food and some people-watching.
I’m at the corner table, right on the market thoroughfare, practically in the line of the busy shoppers. A particularly bombastic trader across the walkway from me is desperately trying to get rid of some roasted nuts, and the lady selling children’s novelty lederhosen across from him occasionally shouts for him to shut up. At least I think that’s what she’s saying.
The waiter comes over and offers me the menu, and then does a whole spiel at me in German, to which I nod and smile along, and then I say, “Danke,” in my best German accent.
When he returns with something called a Hugo, which I must have accidently ordered, I point to the thing that says Rindsuppe on the menu and he writes it down and in a flash he’s off again.
I sip on the cocktail, which is bubbly and ice-cold and tastes of mint and sparkling wine and cucumber. It’s so refreshing in the heat. I take a photo of the tabletop with its red paper tablecloth fastened at the edges with metal clips to stop it from blowing in the breeze. But there is no breeze. The air is hot and thick and I find myself longing for that cooling breeze we get through the bay in Broadgate. And then I think of Ash and wonder where he is. If he came home last night. If he slept with Kate. My mood sinks and I squeeze my eyes shut tight.
I am here for Joe.
My dinner arrives, a clear beef soup with something like ribbons of pancakes floating in it. Still hungry, I finish with a plum dumpling with sweet vanilla cream dessert and another Hugo.
“You’re in Vienna alone?” the waiter says, now speaking to me in English, as he prints my bill out at the table.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Are you sure I can’t get you another Hugo?” he says, with what I think is a mild flirtation. I look up at him, tempted by another. Ican feel myself a little tipsy now and on the precipice of wanting to really cut loose.
“I’d better not,” I say, handing him my card.
I leave five euros on the table for him and head out onto the street to wave down a taxi back to my hotel. It is nearly 9 p.m., and despite sleeping all day, I am ready for the safety of my hotel room now.
Tomorrow I will see Joe.Tomorrow.I want to tell Charlie I’m here.
I’m in Vienna, call when I’m back. X
I feel momentarily proud of myself, and then I check Joe’s Instagram, again looking for clues as to where he might be, but still there have been no updates. I close my eyes and picture him and get this strong, visceral feeling that he is here somewhere. And we will come together.
