The Frau

     Three weeks into visiting eight European countries, we were beginning to appreciate fixed itineraries where you had a room reserved when you arrived in the next city. We didn't have reservations, other than scheduled flights from Budapest to Copenhagen, and later the flight home. The rest was winging it with a Eurail Pass and guidebooks.

      It was fall so we figured most of the tourists had gone home - as did everyone else on the crowded train. Europe was in the height of festival season, something we'd have been more aware of had the Internet been available back then. ATMs weren't even in common use and forget credit cards. Half the adventure was finding places to cash enough traveler’s checks and change currency for the next leg of the journey.

      Our concerns about finding a place to stay grew more intense as we neared Vienna. Upon arriving at the train station, everyone moved as a herd to the bank of phones, calling the same numbers from identical tour books. No rooms. It was warm, we were frustrated and cranky and must have advertised such as we headed downstairs to the tourist office.
Air B&B '90s-Style

      Neither noticed the short, stocky woman with a scarf tied tightly under her chin approaching. Babushka came immediately to mind when she pierced our grey cloud of frustration with a mix of German and English. “Look for room?,” she repeated, following us closely. At first we kept walking, but she knew to jump into our first hesitancy. Wary but intrigued by this fairytale-like character, we stopped. She offered a buffet of languages, gestures and persistence to assure us she had a “ 'utiful room, very cheap, by park.” My husband speaks enough German that she spoke mostly that, but slowly so we could understand. 
     A slightly gnarled finger pointed to a spot on a city map she pulled from her sweater pocket, then she motioned for us to follow as she turned toward the streetcar. My husband and I looked at each other, admitting we had little to lose at this point. We didn't want to get back on the train; we wanted to see Vienna. I remembered an older friend describing doing something similar in Moscow, at night, and not only surviving, but having a wonderful experience in spite of misgivings as they ascended dark stairways. 
      Second thoughts visited me a couple more times as we boarded different buses (she had passes in hand for all three of us) and she pointed out museums, McDonald's, a street named for JFK, and expensive hotels, commenting on what a bargain her “ 'utiful” apartment was. A ticket conductor boarded at one point and hassled her but she stood her ground and he moved on in a huff.
Is This Legit?

      We got off by Schönbrunn Palace, then walked a block to her apartment building as she pointed out bus stops, where to get tickets and little restaurants. As she unlocked the front door to her building, she pointed out all the doctors listed on the sign. Was this a business building or apartments? Apparently both. We followed her to the third floor, then her apartment at the end of the hall.

      The entry was crammed with furniture, plastic flowers, bottles and kitchen appliances, all in orderly chaos. She led us to a large room with a double bed, well-worn furniture, a table covered with an oilcloth,  and glass knick-knack shelves full of mementos from many countries, gifts from previous guests. She was very proud of this proof that hers was a good place, enjoyed by people from all over the world.

      The room was sunny and had a little balcony which opened to a noisy boulevard below. We asked if there was a quieter room. Yes, she said, but it was smaller, with twin beds. Her hands were behind her back as she turned, opening and closing one in a follow-me gesture. We followed. The smaller room was cooler, and quieter; the window opened to treetops and a little courtyard. Perfect. We discussed price and number of days, all the while she told us about breakfast,where we could buy cigarettes by imitating a smoker in an exaggerated fashion, and pointing to the map of the city taped to the bedroom wall. She used more gestures to indicate food, music venues and other attractions. We took the room, mainly intrigued by her. Still, we slept with our money belts and passports under our pillows the first night.

No Vacancy

      We began referring to her as “The Frau” and the next day when we returned from exploring the city, she excitedly told us she had rented the other room for five whole days. What a relief it must have been for her, not having to go to the train station to find other boarders for the better part of a week. I asked her why she didn't get listed in one of the guidebooks and even offered to help her do so. She didn't have a phone and insisted she didn't want one, it would be too noisy an intrusion for her guests. I suspect she was “flying under the radar” and renting space illegally; installing a phone might bring attention from the authorities. 
A Red-Faced Run-In 

      Breakfast was simple but good: fresh rolls, marmalade, excellent coffee and tea, and some fruit. I usually went for an early-morning jog on the grounds of the nearby palace or a park and saw the Frau hurrying to or from a nearby bakery. One morning I was up extra early and ran into her as we both headed to the one bathroom. I realized she got up well before dawn to use and clean it before her guests awoke. She was “buck-nekked” and embarrassed, but I was glad it was me and not my husband who had run into her, and insisted she go first. While waiting, I noticed she slept on a little cot in the tiny kitchen. The rest of the apartment was rented out. The bigger bedroom was, in fact, intended to be the living room. No wonder the entryway was so crammed.

       Often while we were gone for the day, she would rearrange the hand-laundry we had hung near the window, or she “improved” how we had arranged things. Normally, I would have resented it, but somehow it was OK that the Frau did it; we could laugh about it.
     When we'd return after an evening out, she would be sitting in the tiny entryway, watching her little TV by an extension cord plugged into the outlet in our room. She'd immediately jump up and pull the plug, apologizing for the inconvenience. I hated to intrude on her evening's entertainment.

      The morning we left she brought in some wall paper to show us what she planned to do with the drab little room we'd been staying in. Maybe she showed it to all the guests who left, hoping they'd return or send their friends. Who knows if the room really ever was wall-papered.
      I would have loved to learn more of the Frau's story. We did learn her real name and that she was from Hungary. Was she a legal immigrant? Where was her family? Was the apartment hers? We're likely not the only ones to remember her after many years. 
A Belated Memento

      When we got back home I bought a robe and slippers at K-Mart and mailed them to her as our thank-you memento, half expecting she'd never receive them. A few weeks later a postcard arrived with the tiniest handwriting I've ever seen covering every inch and curving along the corner. It was from the Frau, thanking us and sharing her latest news. Ours wasn't a memento she would show guests, like those on her glass knick-knack shelves. But, if they did see it, surely it brought a tiny bit of comfort and helped her avoid embarrassment.

      We spent four very full days, seeing wonderful sites and art, hearing great music, and enjoying some famous Viennese pastry. Still, twenty-four years later, when I hear the word Vienna, the Frau still springs to mind first.