We wake in a bit of a lazy mood ‘cause we don’t have anything to do before arriving at the Opera house at 11:00 for another chamber music concert and the trip takes at most a half hour. So we leave with a skosh of extra time and board the trusty D Tram, which stops WAAAAAY early and FAAAAAR from the Opera House because the Pride Parade’s going on downtown and all roads are closed and the tram’s running minuscule, abbreviated routes. (We were warned. We forgot.)

In a panic, we figure out how to get to the Opera using the underground subway and race to find the correct entrance and hall, where an usher says, “The concert began a half hour ago. You received a message about this last night.” (As it turns out, we were warned in an email last night that arrived with 30+ others.)

But the usher will take us to the concert room if we take our bags and check them somewhere down corridors on the other side of the two-square block building.

Clearly, attending concerts is not our strong suit.

So we check the bags, get let into the back of the recital room, stand for about 15 minutes before the quartet takes a break, and, just as at the Mozarthaus, the performers are first-rate, the music selections (with the exception of one Strauss in David’s opinion) are fun and interesting.

Afterwards, we walk with throngs of rainbow-colored people and pram-pushing families and cavorting teenagers and dancing millennials and make our way to the Kunsthistoriches Museum, which Emperor Franz Joseph opened in 1891. Like the Met, the Louvre, and a few other “biggies,” the place is vast and includes paintings and sculptures from time immemorial and every place on the planet (except, maybe, the Arctic).

Cynthia and I wait for a cafe table while Bernadette hies herself to the Canaletto and his son Belotto special exhibit, and C&D gawk at several great Breugels before browsing some Rembrandt, some Vermeer, some Durer, some Rubens, some sarcophaguses, and a bust of Aristotle.

We meet each other and walk in our fist extended taste of sunshine to the Succession Museum because we have not yet seen enough art, I guess.

David had thought the Succession was going to be the epitome or apotheosis of expressionism, given its history since 1891, but he must have been seriously misinformed and deluded. The Klimt frieze in the basement — known as the Beethoven Frieze — is an homage to the composer’s Ninth Symphony and it’s stunning if you look carefully and have detailed explanatory notes. The other two exhibits are of the ”I am a narcissist, look at me” and “I will put images and music from my life together and it will be poignant” variety.

Such constant art-gawking puts Cynthia in the “I must go to Demel and get pastries” mood, so we tram to St. Stephen’s platz and walk a bit along the “Graben” to Demel’s absolutely packed palace of tortes and confections. SOOOOO many pastries, SOOOOO little time. Cynthia picks a passionfruit cake and a mini-bundt.

We are fried and take a few trams to get home, where we discover that all grocery stores are closed early because of the Rainbow Parade (so David, after being turned away at the door of a Spar and a nearby Billo trying to buy salad ingredients, gets a pizza place to concoct three mixed greens to go for an unreasonable price) and we crumble all the leftover food from last night’s dinner into an omelet that also goes well with the bottle of wine that last night’s cafe gave us for free because David’s quiche was billed but never delivered.

Sleep fulfilled in every way.