I decided to take a walk through the deserted fairground and along the length of Praterstrasse where I crossed the river (it might have been a canal). I'd been here before, back in June, on the bike, but I'd turned back after taking a photo of my two-wheeled steed resting against the railings on the bridge. This time I walked a little further, dipping into the odd bookshop for all of two minutes as none of the books were written in English. I walked down a few alleys, until finally I found a small and cosy Italian restaurant. Parma ham with melon must be as 'naff' in Italian circles as Black Forest gateau and prawn cocktail is in the steak house community, but I'm not proud. I followed up with Tagliatelle Caprese and a large bottle of Pellegrino sparkling mineral water and then, after declining dessert and paying the bill (EUR30.00) I retraced my steps and finally returned to Motel One where I retrieved my suitcase and chilled for a short while. I think I probably chilled too much because I soon realised that I might miss my flight if I didn't pack things away pronto and head for the airport.
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| It's weird walking through an empty fairground on a cold winter's afternoon |
Reluctantly, I hauled my luggage along the street towards Messe Prater station, bought a ticket from the vending machine (EUR2.20) and then got a little confused. First I missed the stop, then I just couldn't work out where to pick up the CAT train to the airport. I had to start asking people, which I hate doing, but eventually I made it and then remembered I was travelling business class and I could use the 'lounge'. Oooh! The lounge! Aren't I so posh! Am I bollocks! I hate this 'business class' thing. I popped my head around the door and there they all were, disgusting people who thought their shit didn't stink, taking up all the space. I walked around, bobble hat on, hair straggly, old, scuffed coat, jeans and trainers. I didn't look the part, I'm pleased to say, and then I left with free copies of the
Times and the
Sun (to read on the plane).
The flight itself was smooth. I sat in seat 4a and once seated the poncy pampering began. The steward referred to me as 'sir' and brought me tea in a proper mug, water in a proper glass, and then my favourite, a peppermint tea, also in a proper glass, not forgetting a kind of beef panini thingy on a porcelain plate along with steel cutlery wrapped in a cloth napkin. Behind me the proles were being told they'd have to pay for their M&S 'grub', their tea would arrive in paper cups and nobody was going to call them 'sir'. I felt like passing my dessert through the curtain to the needy people sitting behind me, but it was so nice I scoffed the lot without a thought for the proletariat, and then had a crack at the crossword.
