The Kiss
If you ever travel through Europe, and happen to cross Austria, there is a city of marble-and-wonder in the northeast region that is dear to my heart: Vienna. The very name rolls off my tongue like melted butter on freshly-cooked sourdough bread.
Like many pockets of history, its architecture is one of mastery and enchantment. There’s the luxurious, vibrant walkways within Schönbrunn Park (even the German name, Schönbrunn, translates to beautiful spring), along with the haunting yet stunning gothic towers of St. Stephen’s Cathedral. These sights stood out from my recent backpacking trip, but. The city left an imprint for another reason.
Vienna reminded me that travelling without a clear plan can lead us to remarkable places. The wandering path – with tight turns, dead-ends, and surprising companions – can entangle and enrich our inner and outer worlds.
Let me backpedal a little.
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On my second day in Vienna, I was debating what to explore. I’ve learned from friends back home that the best way to travel is by letting experiences approach you naturally, spontaneously. It’s a truthful sentiment, but it also poses challenges, like walking into a two-thousand-year-old city and worrying that you’ll waste time by not seeing the attractions people rave about.
I strolled to a café near my hostel. While sipping on a warm cappuccino, I scrolled around Google Maps (one of the only apps I’m grateful is free while I’m travelling solo). I could take the tram to the Votive Church, but I’ve already seen it from afar. Besides, I was craving something different.
I suddenly remembered a conversation I had with this American girl from my hostel. The only place she wanted to see was the Belvedere Palace because it housed a famous painting by Gustav Klimt (the name slipped my mind that morning). I looked up the address, paid for my cappacunio, and said to myself, Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’m going to see this painting.
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When you walk through the outer gate of the Belvedere Palace, you’re greeted by this immense garden. Inspired by French Baroque design, the layout is perfectly symmetrical and ornamental in nature. Limestone fountains shimmer under the sunlight, their carved figures frozen mid-motion as if dancing, while rows of dark-green conical trees line the wide gravel pathways.
When you buy a ticket on the ground floor hall, you can’t help but notice four colossal pillars resembling Atlas from Greek mythology. Each figure seemed to strain under the weight of the vaulted ceiling, but they were lifting it together, silently, in unity.
I placed my belongings in a museum locker and strolled across statues and paintings as if I was a kid in a chocolate factory. After an hour, I arrived in the Vienna 1900 art section. I entered a corner room, and there it was: the masterpiece by Gustav Klimt.
The painting is named The Kiss. I’ve seen it many times in passing (on social media, in magazines, and throughout gift shop trinkets), but it’s another thing to come face-to-face with this vivid work of art. The giant square painting shimmered in an array of golden hues that blended seamlessly with its charcoal black frame.
When I stood there, in that corner room of the Upper Belvedere Palace, I honestly wasn’t awestruck immediately. I thought to myself, I mean, it’s beautiful, but I’ve seen many beautiful paintings before. Oh how wrong I was. For some reason, I decided to stay in that room for a while, not floating around like I normally do through museums. For some reason, I lingered, my eyes fixed on the piece before me. Five minutes passed. Ten-minutes, twenty-minutes. Then I heard it. The music. I understand that none of this is objectively true, and yet, there is still an immense subjective depth worth exploring.
Museum lights were dimming as golden oil streaks glowed in rhythmic bursts. The soft piano instrumental from La La Land simmered my mind. I gazed intensely at the figures embracing one another. Were these figures husband and wife? Were they distant lovers reconnecting? Saying goodbye? Were they falling into each other out of love? Out of grief? Out of sorrow?
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I was no longer in Vienna. I was back home, on Vancouver Island. I sat along some sanded concrete slabs from a beach access I only visit through memories. The sunset was breathtaking. Not a single cloud in the sky. It was the summer hour where you could see streams of pastel greens along the warm horizon. Seagulls were normally a bother to hear, but today they sang while gliding high above the crashing waves. What made the evening all the more sweeter was that I got to spend it with someone special.
She sat a few inches to my left. It was the conclusion of our date, or perhaps the highly anticipated crescendo. I patted my forehead briefly, thinking I’d feel sweat droplets. It was strangely dry. There was a restless herd of wild horses galloping up and down my chest. The spray of ocean salt left a calming yet uneasy fragrance in the air. I should probably make a decision soon.
Wait, is now the right time? Should I do it? What if she doesn’t want to? What if she –
I leaned in. We kissed. It was my first kiss, and I know that I’ll never forget it. I was so close to her hazel-green eyes. The coastal rays were casting orange shadows along her face. If only for a moment, she sparkled. There was a smooth hesitation of dancing as we embraced each other. An eternal, blissful moment.
That was the last time I saw her. She texted a few weeks later that even though we had amazing dates, she didn’t see us continuing further. We were in different places.
Maybe you’ve felt this too (I’m truly sorry if you do). For several weeks I begged whatever gods there may be that this wasn’t my reality. Perhaps I could bend space-time so that – yes, this is the right place, we are right for one another. But it’s not. She moved on. I’ve learned to move on.
Waves of people were pouring in as I returned to my surroundings. I wiped a few tears from my cheeks, took one last look, and continued on my self-guided tour through the museum.
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During my siesta, I read about the history behind The Kiss painting. Gustav Klimt rarely elaborated on a concrete meaning behind his piece. However, some of his motives supposedly involved universality and transcendence through love. A few historians believe that the male figure is Klimt himself, while the woman is possibly Emilie Flöge, his lifelong companion. Although they never married, he claimed she was his source of everlasting muse. According to some reports, when Klimt was on his deathbed, dying from a dreadful case of pneumonia, his final words were “Call Emilie.” If that isn’t a testament of true love – the raw love that is unafraid to weep openly – I don’t know what is.
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I’m currently writing this entry two months after my three-day trip in Vienna. I’ve experienced a unique richness during various moments in this city: the long walks through graceful parks, the scrumptious Austrian cuisine, the late-night drinks with friendly strangers. But even now, after all this time, my interaction with The Kiss remains a highlight within highlights. I still think about that surreal experience, how I dissolved back to that evening on the beach.
This blog isn’t solely about that girl. I’m sure there were chapters in my life where I could’ve written books about her, but what good would that do? It’s not healthy to dwell upon old flames with thoughts of if only, if only. It takes a silent strength to let go and move on, not giving into despair but being grateful for the love that once was. Regardless of how things ended between us, I don’t regret our evenings together.
I chose to write this piece for many reasons, one of them being that I firmly believe that it’s in our best interest to do things that surprise us. Don’t stick in your own lane. Challenge yourself. See things that may disagree with your worldview. Explore someplace new. Do something that shakes you to your core, and maybe, just maybe, something beautiful and mystical will resurface. Don’t be afraid to talk to strangers. Listen to their stories, their hopes, their dreams. Maybe something will click and resonate with you. Maybe you’ll decide to check out that one museum in Vienna with a famous painting that everyone sees but very few feel. I know that I would’ve missed my experience if I didn’t bother saying hello to an American girl at my hostel.
If you’re frightened about putting yourself out there, it’s okay, so am I. Do it scared.
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Oftentimes what resides on the other side of fear is everything we dream: success, adventure, romance, beauty, love. If I allowed fear to continue its grip upon me, I wouldn’t have found the courage to kiss her, to travel solo across Europe, and this whole meta-experience wouldn’t have been possible.
Who knows what will be on the other side of fear for you.
This isn’t to say that every daring decision will be magical. Not every painting or city you come across will leave an imprint. But you’ll never know which ones will sit close with you until you venture through them, letting the moment wash over you, completely.
