Goulash and Saunas

Goulash, goulash, goulash. Everyone’s been talking about the goulash museum. And me, I just couldn’t figure it out. A museum about goulash. What could be said about a dish that is a mix between hamburger helper and curry? I imagined myself wandering the halls of a museum, lined with photos of every type of goulash under the sun. I thought I might even get a goulash audio guide to fill my little head (literally little if you know me) with fun facts about the dish. I even went so far as to plan to purchase a goulash cookbook at the gift shop. I’ll admit, I was intrigued and the mysteriousness of it nearly killed me. I happen to have a bittersweet, nostalgic feeling about goulash since I ate it on several occasions at Granny B’s. You can imagine my surprise, and slight mortification when, at 6:30 sharp, I arrived at a restaurant that, as far as I know, has never been a museum. You know the saying, “Don’t judge a book by its cover?” Well, I say, don’t judge a place by its name. Despite the loss of the museum factor, it was a delightful experience. The menu had more goulashes then I ever knew existed. Chocolate desert goulash was my personal favorite- in reality, I don’t think it was any sort of goulash, just huge cake pieces smothered in extremely thick chocolate sauce. I took a bit and in an instant my throat was on fire, not to mention my infamous heartburn. It would seem that chocolate goulash has an intense spicy kick to it. Also, if after reading this you want to look up goulash online, don’t do it. Save yourself from the incredibly unappetizing images. It wasn’t that bad at the “museum.”

Now you’re probably wondering about where I went to a sauna. The truth is, I didn’t go to one. I moved into it. I met my house grandma today. She is the sweetest, hip, old lady. She showed us how to get into the city and on the way, told us a few secrets of Vienna. I know all the best ice cream places, where to sit on the U-Bahn, and to avoid the Viennese Mozart hecklers. As she dropped us off, she kissed our cheeks and said, “Goodbye my beauties.” I could get used to this. But, I forget, I left you hanging at the sauna. Our rooms are on the third floor, not counting the basement, of a house, large by Viennese standards. Being on the top floor has its perks. I get to saunter up four flights of stairs, the last of which is incredibly steep. The best part was lugging my 50 pound bag up all those stairs. So great was this that I thought I might collapse and die before reaching the top. I was forced to stop on a few landings to savor the experience. The cherry on top was of course when I found it to be about 100 degrees in my room and on the entire floor. The rooms have a massive window in the ceiling, If you didn’t know before, this is not a good idea. I could probably boil and eat underneath that thing. I sweat bullets as I unpacked. Normally, I enjoy the sauna experience considerably, but, as I didn’t have my swimsuit on and was nowhere near Sun Valley, it was alarming. I’ve never had cause to use the phrase, “Hotter than Hades” until this moment. If only you knew its true meaning. It was cooler outside and that is saying something. I’m about to crawl into bed and see if I can sleep despite the heat. If I have to sleep in the nuddy pants, don’t worry, I’ll forgo a blog post about it.


Me after unpacking my suitcase