Anyone who thinks parks are merely green spaces for breaks between the supermarket and the bus stop should take a stroll through Europa-Park in Klagenfurt. Not hastily. Not athletically. Just the way you stroll through a Sunday you haven't planned.
The park is located on the edge of the city, as if it were considering whether it still wants to be part of it or whether it would rather head off toward Lake Wörthersee. Painted flowerbeds, in colors more familiar from watercolors, line the paths. In between: sculptures – made of stone, metal, memories. Some stand around like old acquaintances, others act as if they were there by chance.
There's a fountain that doesn't bother with splashing, but shoots a targeted jet of water into the blue sky – as if to demonstrate that relaxation also deserves an exclamation mark. Children scream, cyclists ring their bells, mothers call for missing scooters. And yet, above all, there lies that great green tranquility that only parks can achieve: a blend of upright nonchalance and cultivated idleness.
A few benches are as if magnetized—always occupied. Others, further back between tall trees, invite those who want to say nothing, but simply sit. Perhaps with a book. Perhaps with thoughts that can only be thought through in parks.