After Sunrise (9/26/2009)

The most haunting scene in Richard Linklater's “Before Sunrise” is a montage right before the fade to black. A solo violin resonates over empty Vienna; chairs, a graveyard, a bridge, a park, a river, empty wine glasses, each of which Jesse and Celine – our travelers – had visited while falling in love hours before. The Danube flows unashamedly; Vienna lives on. The message is clear: travel is never about landscapes or landmarks, the military parades or luxury hotels. It’s the fleeting moments – the late afternoons on outdated trams, the fleeting connections with strangers, the midnight strolls through empty Hapsburg streets.

"Before Sunrise" is my Europe, an emotional time capsule of bright-eyed youth. There I was, 17 and idealistic, wandering the same streets, alone or with two, three, four friends. Vienna, Munich, Nuremberg, Berlin ... a smoky cafe, a train station where fog obscured everything beyond the platform, a sip of hot wine and cinnamon sticks, no thought of home or even tomorrow... It was, for a romantic, idealistic kid, a banquet of discovery and imagination.

Of course Jesse and Celine could fall in love. When time and circumstance converge, in Central Europe, no less - you would too. The Danube, the sunset, the eerie silence... the unashamed guts to plant one, as Jesse did, on French girl atop Orson Wells’ “The Third Man” Ferris wheel.

Ten years later, I ventured back to Budapest - a new city this time, but still my Europe, an expense account, and three days' wages for (yes) 30 minutes of work. A chance to reconnect to say hi to the blue Danube, to wander and discover through those same Hapsburg streets. I was no nervous teenager, but still twenty-six, wry and plucky.

In Budapest, though, something had changed. Maybe it was the digital invasion - yes, that was it - the Internet cafes in the old stucco buildings, the wireless ads whitewashed over the hammer and sickle. Or maybe it was the sleek, modern airport; convenient, yes, but a thrill below the transient, watch-thy-pockets train station... Or the rain - always an easy culprit...

But no... Budapest was gorgeous, particularly in the morning. I couldn't begrudge the conveniences, and I always harbored a secret love for the Central European rain - reading in a cafe, watching it fall, or seeing how the sleek streets shimmered in the moonlight.

Maybe the change was me. The idealism was gone, usurped by an uninvited day-to-day order. Ten years ago, tomorrow didn't matter. Now, six more months till b-school applications are due - oh, this back pain is really getting to me - I can really go without seeing that park, who cares - better rest up so I can catch that early flight...

Somewhere, a lonely violin was twanging.

Thus the empty Vienna of “Before Sunrise” still resonates: a hallmark, a reminder of bygone idealism, of young love and friendships blossoming in the fading daylight. Twelve years and four continents on, little can equal the awe of discovery in a musty Vienna (Prague, Munich, Nuernberg) café beside the echoes of an rickety steel tram.