I think I convinced at least a few people in my life in 2015 when I said that I'd had a great time in Vienna. A visit to the Austrian capital was part of the curriculum of the teacher training program I was attending at the time. As the years went by, however, cracks appeared in my carefully constructed lie. I admitted that, okay, not the entire field trip had been fun. And okay, I really didn't like the hysterics displayed by classmates when they talked about princess Sissi and the House of Habsburg. And yes, I did lock myself in my room with two others and lots of Chinese food, because I didn't want to spend my money on a mandatory visit to the ballet. Early this year, I said what I should have said four years ago: My first time in Vienna was awful. So my second visit, in April of this year, served one purpose: reclaiming the city that had been ruined for me by others.

When I landed at Vienna's airport, I was hit by a wave of memories. The museums I was forced to visit. The disgusted looks shot my way when I said I didn't care for an old and gone monarchy. The exaggerated, ear-piercing screams of "SISSI" whenever we visited a palace. I was determined not to find myself in such ridiculous situations again. Luckily, this trip was a family vacation, and although my parents and I clash from time to time, we are on the same page when it comes to Sissi and high culture: we prefer not to associate with those things.


We arrived in the city late in the afternoon. In fact, we arrived so late that we weren't sure about eating out. My mom was in favor of staying in for a meal of bread and yogurt. I was not a fan of that plan. Not only was I hungry, I also wanted to go to a restaurant called Schnitzelwirt. My parents had been telling me about this restaurant for ages. They'd found it on their first trip to Vienna in the late 80s and now, well over 30 years later, they were still talking about the place. I was not going to let the chance to go there slide just because we'd arrived at our hostel after 6PM. I showed my parents that the legendary Schnitzelwirt of their stories was only a short walk away according to Google. An hour later, I was eating an insanely delicious schnitzel that barely fit on the enormous plate it was served on. We shared our table with Southern European tourists. The decor reminded me of old people's living rooms. It was all exactly like my parents had told me, even after all those years. My efforts of reclaiming Vienna were off to a great start.

The next morning, the city was up bright and early, buzzing with anticipation for the Vienna marathon. My dad and I, both runners, looked up the route and found out that the front runners would come close to our hostel soon enough. We packed our bags for the day and headed out to see some of the best marathon runners in the world compete. It took us a while to find the right spot, and then it took a while longer for the runners to get to that point, but it filled me with excitement to see the leaders of the race run past me at a pace that would kill me within 600 meters.

We walked towards the city center after applauding the first women in the race. We followed the Mariahilfer Straße until we reached the Naturhistorisches and Kunsthistorisches Museum. My parents and I discussed our previous visits to the city. None of us wanted to repeat those visits, so we opted out of Schloss Belvedère, the Stephansdom and several museums, and didn't have the original Sachertorte at Café Sacher. Don't believe what the masses say when they tell you that Sachertorte is amazing. I was glad I didn't have to eat it again. Instead, we went to the Danube and got information about the Twin City Liner, the boat that would bring us to the Slovakian capital Bratislava the next day.

From the banks of the Danube, I could see the rides of the Prater, a small amusement park that reminds me of Dutch funfairs. I'd been there in 2015, but hadn't had the chance to ride the century-old Ferris wheel. None of my classmates had wanted to go, because they thought it looked "unsafe", and I didn't want to do it by myself because of my vertigo. But my parents were willing to join me on that sunny day in April, even though my mom's vertigo is worse than mine, so we started walking to the Prater. Our tickets weren't cheap, but soon I was 65 meters up in the air, taking in the view of the city from the top of a 122-year-old Ferris wheel.

Once my feet were safely back on the ground, it was time for lunch. We had no activities planned anymore, so we decided to head to the Danube Channel after a quick bite to eat. I couldn't wait: I'd already spotted some amazing pieces of street art along the Danube channel. With my parents in tow, I spent the rest of the afternoon sprinting from piece to piece, pointing out work from Dutch artists, telling about different techniques and admiring the artistry. And of course, I left some of my own stickers near the pieces I liked best.


Towards the end of the afternoon, my feet and legs started to hurt. We'd walked more than 15 kilometers already. All of us were tired. My mom wanted to go back to our hostel to take a nap. And although my bed looked a little bit like heaven after dragging my sore body from the waterside back to our hostel near Westbahnhof, I could not lie down. My mind was restless. The bad memories from 2015 were being pushed away already by new, much better memories. No one had forced me to go to museums I wasn't interested in; Instead, I'd found art in the streets. I'd rediscovered Vienna on my own terms with people I loved. But there was one thing on my mind that kept bugging me. I needed to go back to Schloss Schönbrunn.

Despite the pain in my legs, my dad and I left the hostel for a brief visit to Schloss Schönbrunn, maybe the most famous of all the residences of the Habsburgs. I'd visited the palace on my college field trip and hadn't liked it. I personally just don't enjoy looking at furniture and being expected to fawn over it because a dead monarch once sat on or lay on it. Back in 2015, I just wanted to explore the palace gardens and bring my life motto into practice: "I see a hill, I climb it." Eventually, I had gotten the chance to make it up the hill, but at a snail's pace as I had to stay close to the other students. There was no time to admire the statues of Greek gods and heroes. People were complaining. It wasn't fun. This time would be different.

My dad and I zigzagged between tourists and speed-walked to the foot of the hill behind Schloss Schönbrunn. We pointed out some of the statues, challenging each other to identify the hero or god, turning it into a competition without saying so. Everything is a competition between me and my dad, but as we started walking up the hill, we left our competitiveness behind. The most important thing became reaching the top together, which was more challenging than ever: I'd injured my calf in February. A tiny tear in the muscle tissue hadn't fully healed yet, and the scar tissue got irritated as I walked up the hill. My dad and I slowed down. Every now and then, I walked backward for a bit, as it relieved the stress on the scar tissue. I felt ridiculous, but could also laugh about it. It didn't matter how I'd get to the top, as long as I'd get there.


And I made it. I made it without hurting myself. I made it without my dad having to carry me. I simply made it. I stood there, breathing more heavily than I'd like to admit. As I looked out over the palace gardens and Vienna, I calmed down. I realized I'd reached my goal. I'd overcome not only the traumas originally associated with my time in the teacher training program, but also the lingering negativity that had attached itself to the Austrian capital. I'd replaced all of it with experiences that made me happy. I stood there, tired but proud. My dad took a picture of me to commemorate that important moment, even though he didn't know half of how much it all meant to me. And as I smirked for the camera, I mentally addressed all the teachers who'd wronged me. Two words came mind, followed by three more.
"Suck it. Vienna is mine."