Letters from Vienna

pt. 1/3

Published on April 3rd, 1926

Dear Princess,

To be entirely candid, I have a streak for the dramatic. In the emptiness that so often fills my life, acting out an exaggerated and half ironic charade brings some framework of reference to the nothingness in my heart. "This is what people are supposed to do in this situation". Taking the actions of the person I think I should be brings me comfort. All this to say, I recently fell in love and had my heart broken. It hurt. It still hurts so badly. So I decided to embark on a trip to the continent to take my mind off it, since it seemed like the kind of overreaction a character in a novel might have.

Essen had been to Vienna before, and recommended it. The winter tourist season in Vienna had firmly ended by late March, and the summer crowd had yet to appear, so there I decided to go. The last thing I wanted to do was elbow my way through crowds of happy people. I wanted to be alone, somewhere desolate and cold.

It was my first time in Austria, and I'd only planned the trip a week beforehand. After arriving and leaving my things at my hotel, I took the tram to collect Opera tickets I'd ordered by telegram. Everything was so last minute of me that I'd had to purchase my tickets from a second-hand seller. Still, it was a price I was willing to pay. Puccini's "Madama Butterfly" happened to be on at the Vienna State Opera the same day I arrived in the city.

When I was a girl my family holidayed to Milan, where I bought a little notebook that had the poster for "Madame Butterfly" as its illustrated cover. It was a cherished possession of mine for many years. Life circles around and around. I think I was desperate to... connect with? Or perhaps to appease the restless spirit of the child inside my chest.

The interior of the Wien Staatsoper was gorgeous. Comparable to that of Parisian art galleries and Italian cathedrals. The crowd was much older than I was. I felt both plain and gaudy in my black dress and red lipstick. I often wish for a companion when travelling, this especially was a situation in which a gentleman's arm to lean on would have been a mercy.

My box had an enviable view. The elderly of Vienna's high society were one seat away from me. I was surrounded by German conversation and laughter. Eventually the orchestra played a note and the curtain rose.

The narrative of Madam Butterfly is something that I find... simple. Too simple. Even if one goes into the story blind, the ending is painfully clear from the first few minutes of dialogue. Maybe that adds to the tragedy for some people. I attended a thrilling opera in Madrid (ironically, a German language opera) entitled "Die Passagierin"/"The Passenger", and that was an experience I'll never forget.

Still, Madame Butterfly did make me cry. It was just the medicine I needed. Seeing the eponymous Butterfly despair and ultimately kill herself over a man who never loved her to begin with... it woke me up from my own lovesickness. A slap in the face and a message to get over myself.

More to follow, as I find the headspace to unpack it all.

Love, Makona