Monday, September 04, 2006

In July (#2)

We stop in Vienna to switch busses and take a 10 minutes break. I like the old imperial capitol, with its charming, narrow streets, crowded squares and kitschy sights from the days of the Hapsburgs. I like the observatory by the Danube. The shops on Maria Hilfer Strasse. The paunchy monk who never forgets to bless you when getting across the tram trails by the Burg’s garden. The Museums Quarter. The parties. The coffee shops and the restaurants. Most of them, even the authentic Japanese ones, are ran by Turkish immigrant families (1st generation), so you’d better be careful if you’re about to order something ‘exotic’, for example Greek food. “Wir haben keine gyros, nur dörners. Wählen Sie bitte, (du trottel Tourist, du!)”.

I like the city, but its bus stations are just like the ones in Hungary: another dirty place to relax and ‘stretch our legs’, as the driver said. Fortunately, this outstanding experience is a great possibility to gather some insider information about the favorite hobbies of inhabitants of the post-soviet republics; did you know that collecting stubs from the ashtrays in a park and investigating the containment of your fellow travelers luggage is a national sport in Ukraine? (…)

The general cherished nice memories of Vienna. After he finished the academy, the Agency sent him there to find and protect a scientist from the ‘East Block’. It was his first time in the line of fire; the usual story: the champ decided to change sides and make use of his knowledge in the States. He wanted to drive a Cadillac instead of a Pobeda, to drink bourbon instead of vodka, to gambol with American blondies instead of trying to still a kiss from female members of the communist party in the hidden corners of the Red Square, after a wild folk-dance get together. He had a secret little dream too: a bunch of cheerleaders singing the ‘Happy Birthday Mr. President’ for his dick on his 50th birthday.

The guy had some ambitions; but what can you expect from someone who has spent half of his life in a military lab, studying the reactions of some bacteria tribes in their natural, acidy environment. D.I’s mission was to contact and smuggle him to West Germany, across the Austrian border. And he did it well. More than that: he hunted down the top hitman of the soviet intelligence services. This was the commando that established his career. “Yes, Igor, ‘the Siberian Bear’ won’t pull the trigger again – said the general quietly, and for a brief moment he indulged in some sort of pleasant nostalgia –, but I still have some risky business to do in The City. ‘La Rome’ – what an unusual name for a terrorist-queen.” (…)

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