We live on Nussdorferstrasse, which translates, loosely, as the Nut Village Street. It is, in the words of Monty Python, a very silly place.
All of the shops are always empty, possibly because they sell rarified, slightly odd, though not undesirable things. Two or three doors down, next to a house where Schubert lived, is a Vespa dealership. I always thought Vespas were sort of cool, but I've never seen a sentient lifeform inside the place. A hundred meters farther on is the Klang Konig ("Sound King"), a stereo and home theatre hut; they sell lots of Bose and Bang and Olufsen equipment, which I've always heard was quality merchandise. Well, the Klang Konig never has any customers either. In this city that time forgot, most of the natives have forgotten about Nussdorferstrasse.
There's the Taj Mahal and Mozart Stuberl, restaurants which serve, respectively, Indian and Wiener Kuche, and I don't know how either stays in business. There's the Central Cola Corner, which wants to be a Hard Rock cafe simulacrum, but it never appears to be open, so Bon Jovi fans--if there are any in Vienna, Austria--wouldn't be able to grab a brew there even if they wanted to.
I suppose I ought to try shopping at the Pride of India grocery, because I've been working on my chicken curry recipe. But after all this time, I'm hesitant to actually step inside one of these shops. I think I might break some spell. Or become trapped inside the Pride of India forever and ever.
The most unforgettable spot used to have a plain, all-glass storefront window to display all of their wares, which happened to be marble gravestones. But that business too is empty, shut down, gone. Even the dead go some place else now.