I climbed into my bunk just after sunset.

For the first hour, the train retraced the Rhine Valley I’d spent the previous days exploring by bicycle.

Vineyards and church steeples drifted past the window until darkness swallowed them one by one.

The steady rhythm of the tracks did the rest.

When I woke, Austria had replaced Germany.

A retired British couple occupied the bunks below mine.

“We do this trip every year, spending a few weeks at our apartment in Vienna. It’s quite lovely.”

While eating muffins and fruit from packed containers, they pointed out villages through the window and spoke warmly about the city’s cafés—its architecture, and its concert halls.

By the time the train rolled into Westbahnhof Station, I had a list of cafés to try and more museums than I could possibly visit.

~

Two days later, I was ready to leave.

Every palace I’d visited seemed to come with another ticket booth.

One admission covered the state apartments but not the treasury.

Another covered the kitchens but not the furniture.

Even Stephansdom, one of Europe’s great cathedrals, glowed beneath green and purple spotlights—as though centuries of architecture needed help from a lighting designer.

~

On the second evening, I bought four-euro standing-room tickets to Don Quixote at the state opera house.

Regulars marked their places along the railing with scarves and neckties before disappearing to the bar until the curtains parted.

I had neither, so I slipped into the last open corner against the railing.

When the audience returned, the woman beside me frowned at the space I occupied.

“You’re in my place.”

I looked at the narrow strip of railing.

“I thought this was open.”

She sighed.

I stood.

Four hours later, I remembered my feet far more than Don Quixote.

~

At the hostel, I mentioned the crowd to a group of travelers.

One leaned in.

“Yeah. It’s the most crowded place I’ve been.”

They spoke instead about Budapest.

“Much better.”

The others nodded.

That night, I spread a rail map across the common-room table.

Vienna. Prague.

Vienna. Budapest. Prague.

I traced one line with my finger, then another.

If I left Vienna a day early, I could squeeze it into my trip.

I checked the connections.

The prices.

The times.

Then I shook my head and folded the map back up.

~

On the third day, I skipped the museums.

I walked instead to a park along the river and sat in the sun with nowhere else to be.

Families spread blankets across the grass.

Walkers with poles moved quickly along the paths.

Children chased pigeons along the riverfront.

I fed the ducks until the last pieces of bread were gone.

I stayed a little longer anyway.

As the afternoon cooled, I walked back toward the tram and rode it to a wine house at the edge of the city.

Long wooden tables filled the courtyard beneath the trees.

I sat down beside two world Scrabble champions and a redheaded traveler from Santa Cruz.

I’d met them at the hostel only moments before.

Someone poured wine.

Plates of Austrian food appeared between us.

Blood sausage.

Creamy potatoes.

Hearty bread.

It tasted homemade.

The Scrabble champions argued over obscure words, then dissolved into laughter when neither could convince the other.

The woman from Santa Cruz and I talked about California, then religion, then travel.

Nobody mentioned train schedules.

Nobody suggested another city.

We finished the bottle as the light faded beneath the trees.