Fat, Forty* and Foreign

This is the title for my book about coming to Vienna. A collection of articles on being the uncool outsider.

I've discovered some jazz clubs. One is a dive and one is posh. You know me, I love dives. This is no exception. Cheap benches with the vanish worn off by years of jazz-loving asses wiggling around on them. Big steins of beer. rickety tables, poor sightlines, bad pa. Perfect! Had a good time, but, talking with 3 musicians (yes, women) at the end of the night they just decided they'd had enough of talking english to this old fool and literally just turned their backs on me and started talking back in german. Thanks ladies!

The other place is posh (though beer is the same price as the dive). The music here is the real deal. Lines of Berklee-waffle eminating from the guitar player. Jazz Singer - some white chick who, when I listened closely, actually has a monotone or monovolume. Cool percussionist who thinks he's in the grateful dead.

Vienna is full of weirdos. Quite literally once a day I see someone walking down the street crying. That's not normal. Last night this very odd guy dressed in full parka and wolly hat - INSIDE the club - comes up to me and starts talking German. I apologise for not speaking it. I should have turned and ran then, but he starts talking in English.

'You are a musician'
'Yes, I used to be'
'You are good, I can tell'
'Uh, ok. Thanks'
'I bet you are professional. You could get up there and play'
'Um, I need to get a beer'

But charming. At least they are not starting a fight like in Toronto or London. And hey, maybe I can use his endorsement sometime.

But the posh place was cheap enough that students go there to soak it up. Which is great. But then, they aren't really interested (AGAIN!) in talking with someone like me so conversations are usually painful and brief. Was I like that? Actually, I may be like that now, so perhaps that is the problem.

* I'm actually not 40 yet, but it sounds better.