Lost in transit

An explosion of beggars

The 8 April International Herald Tribune (which I finally got around to reading last Friday) has an article below the fold on the front page with the headline, "An explosion of beggars in China." At first glance, it sounded like a collective noun -- school of fish, murder of crows, donut shop of policemen: explosion of beggars.

Because I had read the article, I was looking for beggars when I strolled through Vienna later that evening. China has no monopoly on beggars -- I saw at least an explosion of them.

If you've got to be begging, you could do worse than Vienna last Friday evening. It was sunny and mild, and the sunset filled the alleys with orange and purple and blue light. The cobblestone streets looked centuries old, which of course they were.

I've been here, off and on, for more than twenty years, so the city usually has a familiar feel to me. But that evening, I suddenly noticed how much had changed. Walking into town from Schwedenplatz, I saw that police still patrolled the sidewalk in front of the synagogue (across the street from a vodka bar where I went vodka-tasting with a young Russian fellow nearly 10 years ago, and it still gives me a headache to remember that night) but further up the street, two heavily tattooed young men flirted with a middle-aged blonde woman in the street in front of a tattoo parlor I'd never seen before.

Everywhere I looked, the streets were livelier with more young people than I remembered, and more shops, and bars and restaurants. I need to get out more.

Then, on the corner, the first beggar. We've talked about this type here before: he kneels silently, hands held cupped in front of him in supplication, gaze downcast. Sometimes they remain motionless, sometimes they rock back and forth.

Further along, on the Kärntnerstrasse, I saw the next: a tiny old woman hobbling along with a crutch under one armpit, a tin cup jingling with change in her other hand. The street was full of people and she wasn't going very fast and it took forever to get around her without attracting her attention; I hate to attract the attention of beggars because that just makes it harder not to give them anything, when they strike up a conversation with you, you know? Although conversations with beggars can be rewarding. I had a talk with an old fortune-teller once; she was trying to scam me, but it ended up doing me as much good as a successful therapy session.

There were several mutilated Gypsies about as well. An old man in a wheelchair, a young boy of about twelve on crutches, and further up the street another wheelchair held a teenaged girl. All three of them appeared to be visiting from further East, and all three had their pantlegs (or in the case of the girl, skirt) hiked up to display amputations.

It was sort of a relief to be hit up for change by a young Austrian panhandler near the State Opera, on the corner by the Starbucks. A panhandler, maybe because I'm used to them, is my favorite beggar. It's a clear transaction: they ask you for some change, you give them some. They don't expect you to feel sorry for them, nor do they usually pretend they're going to spend the money on food.

A few years ago, I met a man who took panhandling a bit further. He asked me for a certain amount of money, the equivalent of about eight dollars, for a schnitzel and a beer, he said. I figured the story would come in handy some day (and look: it finally has) so I gave him the money. Also, he was blocking my way, and he was about two meters tall and I wasn't, and he weighed about three hundred and thirty pounds, and I didn't.

It was almost like being robbed, but it wasn't. He carried the whole thing off with a sort of drunken Viennese charm.

Besides the beggars, we also have the scavengers. Several times a year, hordes of small cars or vans, pulling beat up trailers, all with Hungarian license plates, swarm across the Eastern part of Austria picking up bulky garbage. Several times a year, you see, every town sets a date for people to put old sofas and bicycles and anything else too big to toss in the normal garbage, and then special garbage trucks drive around picking it up, if the Hungarian scavengers don't get it first. They somehow know the pick up dates in advance.

Yesterday, I was out in my backyard working on the garden. I heard a car stop and some man asking my daughter something. I walked over to where he could see me, trying to look tough and threatening with a spray of spiraea in my hand. He wanted furniture, bicycles or shoes. We said, sorry. No problem, he said, an drove off up the street. His trailer was full of bicycles.

Posted by Mig at April 19, 2004 02:59 PM