Klimt had some surprisingly soothing works, while Schiele - well, let's just say this is the only self-portrait he did they could safely put on a ticket.
It also must be said: Klimt is no Bob Ross.
I didn't take pics of any of Schiele's works because there wasn't a single thing he created that would be suitable for a blog my mother reads, but I will say it was very . . . stimulating.
After the museum, we headed to the ice rink with all the intention in the world of giving it a go. Until we arrived, and saw the masses and masses of people, including a thousand little ones darting around like dervishes of destruction. And this guy:
Yeah, I could see myself taking a turn about the rink with him.
Still, though, the setting was charming:
Just a bunch of stalls selling giant heart cookies, spaetzl, sausage-ten-ways, and gluwein. You know the drill.
Obligatory selfie.
Oh! Speaking of sausage-ten-ways, our local friend and host Thomas took us on a terrific tour of Vienna last night, including hitting a street stall where we ordered sausage stuffed with cheese, which it turns out is sausage living its best life:
We also visited a beautiful arcade - 'like Harry Potter', he tells us -
He wasn't wrong.
After enjoying a warm blueberry punch at the winter market, we headed back to the hotel via yet more precious lanes:
So much Harry Potter, really.
Now we're back home and it's time for our favourite late-night-nobody's-cooking tradition: filthy pizza from our local, eaten in bed while watching Netflix. It's good to be home.
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