By Paul Topping

Day one in Vienna concludes with a soak in a large bath in my spacious Astoria Hotel bedroom. Ironically, I never have a bath at home. A private moment to consider my options for day two as Jezzabel, my wife, has already declared it "another shopping day".

A new compromise itinerary for the day consists of three major activities: The Spanish Riding School, the Military Museum, the Arsenal and the Vienna Central Cemetery. Jezzabel will only attend the horse event.

The smart, pleasant young man guides us to the upper floor of the arena to watch the horse and carriage show while also trying to sell us a brochure. We are seated at the allotted time of 10:30 am. Sadly, many people are not so punctual.

The main horse troupe is on summer holiday for six weeks. I wonder where they went? Hopefully, they took their bathing costumes. Instead, we watch the junior team or reserve horses. The highlight of the show is the mares and their foals. All the foals are born blackish, but later turn white. The show is a must-see, and I am glad we made the effort. Disciplined horses performing in a tight arena, combined with the playful frolicking of mares and their foals. Some stallions even roll onto their backs with their legs in the air. These animals come from a number of pedigree family trees and seem to enjoy performing.
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Next it’s the Arsenal and the Military Museum. What a building, two floors packed with Austria’s military history.

In the opening Hall of Fame, walls are enshrined with the names of soldiers, carved into marble from as early as the 1700s.

A grand staircase links galleries filled with exhibits that do more than just depict battles and wars. There are paintings capturing key events.

A standout feature is an old car. In small print, it tells the true story of Duke Archibald, who was shot in this very vehicle. The shooting that, some say, sparked the First World War. Where are the Second World War exhibits? There is just a stretch of wall about eight feet long, with no English text. No mention of Nazi Germany, the Jews or Austria’s role. Perhaps it is too great of an embarrassment, considering Austria’s past. Later, in the History Museum I find the account of World War Two itself.

Outside the museum, I find two halls of cannons about forty mounted ones lined up in a row alongside a jet fighter; strange!

An extended family of Americans chats nearby, and I eavesdrop. They discuss the museum exhibits, World Wars One and Two, until one of them remarks, "Well, there’s a lot less fighting and suffering now that we have weapons of mass destruction."

Worrying!

I've become confused about how to reach The Central Cemetery, founded in 1863. It looks central to nothing on the map. Some sources claim it is the largest cemetery in Europe. Technically, it depends on whether you measure by acreage or the number of burials. This one spans 130 hectares and holds about three million interred bodies. Initially, it was meant exclusively for Roman Catholics, but Jewish contributions to its funding resulted in a separate section for them within the cemetery.

The Museum of Funeral History is a first for me. I pay a five-euro entry fee to explore a couple of dimly lit rooms displaying funeral fashion across the decades. Ten minutes later, I exit and ask for a cemetery map; that’s another purchase.

It is 3pm and blisteringly hot, but plenty of visitors still roam the grounds, checking out famous and peculiar tombstones. I locate the classic composers’ area and wait in line to snap photos of Beethoven, Mozart, Schubert, and others.

The composers are decomposing.

A group of doctors are remembered in a half-circle monument, with their names displayed for all to see. A famous pianist has placed a cement piano over his grave, while someone else has a sculpture of a rude pink finger rising.

It is time to leave, and I receive some travel advice. Take Tram 77 back to the city. It is an old-style, narrow tram, and I sit in a single seat with plenty of room. The journey takes over an hour, with about thirty stops. It’s fascinating to observe the passing scenery but parts of the neighbourhood become quite rough. One disheveled elderly woman stares at me, seemingly expecting me to offer my seat. Upon exiting, I realise I had been sitting in the "elderly or disabled" assigned seats.

Nervously, I realise I haven’t bought a ticket. I’ll have to concoct some excuse about being a demented British taphophile.

Apologies to those seeking more history, culture, art, and architecture. Perhaps next time.

Vienna awaits you.