In Vienna I Whirl at A Swirly Ball «

In Vienna I Whirl at A Swirly Ball

Monday 18th February 2013

A Viennese Whirl – a swirl of whipped cream atop the coffee – swansdown, taffeta, diamond-sprinkled, oyster satin, gloves, a fur living at the shoulders, circling, purring. So I cascaded up the gala staircase of the Hofburg Palace, in an evening suit concept by Claudio Tonello (jersey, with tiny jackette, of course) for the Coffee-House Owners’ Ball, a week ago last Friday.

In the morning, I attended, along with our group whose purpose was to show Vienna to the world and the Australian travel agents who later asked for room numbers (see previous Post), Dr Echmeyer’s school of dancing and etiquette. I was in my Topman tweed suitlette and Prada mock-golfing shoes (Prada Factory shop, Montevarchi). I felt that Dr Echmeyer had some particular reason for disliking a Poor Little Rich Gay. He was silvery and positioned and his smile was a sweep of glittery frost. With astonishing brutality he yanked one into the Quadrille positions.

But later, in the evening, in the ballroom, he was far, far away on the daïs while our group was papp-ed by the leading Austrian tabloid. We were exclusively at a table right beside the dance floor, absolutely ring-side for the Opening Ceremony. First of all, the arrival of massed débutantes in white, with their prematurely-aged but spotty boy partners, all trained by Dr Echmeyer, I believe. Then, oh thundering greatness, the procession of the Ball Committee ! Hair in meringue shades egg-whisked to unheard-of new heights! Former Habsburg ladies, iron within, whipped cream without, lazer smiles leaving heaps of ash amongst the on-lookers where a person had stood seconds before. They assumed the daïs before the opera singer, with coiled coiffure and microphone wiring, was received on the floor and gave Lehár – absolutely copper-bottomed, dead certain voice, top notes in the bag without fail. She was followed by a crouching, vampiric rocker (for modernity) and near-nude dancers as prelude to a ball-room dancing exhibition of the Blue Danube and the other famous Viennese waltz. Finally the débutante army carried out manoeuvres – I spotted one hot boy mover in the mass (see graph below).

So the ball was open and ticket-holders surged onto the floor and overwhelmed like ink the virginal white of the débutante îles flottant. Whether to Elvis or Michael Jackson, the Viennese, it seems, never fail to waltz. One said it was like Blackpool. How could he? The tiniest undercurrent of menace flickered, the faintest ghost of the clicking of heels from former years – some had plainly never before seen a Poor Little Rich Gay in a dinner suit concept by Claudio Tonello. One young man shouted in English at another for bumping into him. But on the whole, the orderliness of the Austrians! At midnight, Dr Eckmeyer called out the moves for the Quadrille. Two thousand spontaneously formed opposing lines and although few knew the steps and our party and the Australians later asking for room numbers remembered not one jot from the morning’s lesson, the dance was executed. To participate was pleasure; how happy we were! On some parts of the floor, they knew how to do it. A thrilling sight – a Quadrille properly done.