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| 5 Things I miss about America |
| 1. Let's start this by keeping it real. Mayonnaise. Squeezing vinegar-tasting mayo out of a metal toothpaste container is seriously not fun. And it should be fun. Being able to huck a plastic container of mayo at your friend? Fun. Extracting the luscious gooeyness out of the plastic container with a knife? Deliciously fun. Squeezing mayo on bread, working so hard that you start to sweat? Not fun. Also gross.
2. And while we're on condiments. Free ketchup. Definitely miss that.
3. Driving....a car...you know, that we own...and that we don't have to rent...for like $200 a day.
4. Driving said car to grocery store and then sitting on my can while the groceries get transported to the house.
5. The baptist churches that I found on abandoned, tree crushed roads; built in fields and parking lots, strip malls and solitary hills. I miss the religiosity of America, the unabashed faith in something mysterious, unexplainable, illogical.
Things I don't miss about America:
1. Eating too much Mayonnaise. Because really! Mayo is not necessarily a major food group. Trading Austrian chocolate for mayonnaise is not officially a sacrifice in any real way.
2. And if I'm getting Free Ketchup, you know what else I'm ordering? Too many French Fries. Yes. I love those naughty little things. And if I'm ordering French Fries, you know what I'm not eating? Deliciously ripe, warm tomatoes, fresh asparagus from local farms, cheesy polenta, homemade northern Italian creamy mushroom sauce, basically REAL FOOD. Grown from real people, and sent to my local market. Which I love. And which I then expend effort to make. And which nourishes me and my brood on an entire different level than french fries.
3. My car. I love seeing the city on foot. I feel like I live the city instead of passing by it quickly on my way to somewhere else. We're thinking about buying a car. And I hate the idea.
4. Laziness canonized as 'efficiency.' There is almost nothing that Americans do better than marketing laziness to themselves and the rest of the world. Laziness is practically the national pass time. I'm guilty. And as I haul my groceries up five hills to get home, I often think of how much easier (read: better) it would be if I could just drive. But then I would miss yelling at my kids to keep up, every three seconds. I would miss being able to burn off the chocolate bar that I just ate as I was walking. I would miss being able to walk to a reform house which carries gluten free bread, pudding, pastas, cookies, crackers, bread mixes, bread crumbs, seriously delicious nummies for the celiac and non-celiac alike. I would be fatter if I had a car (scary...and true) and besides, I have no idea how/where/when to park in this city. It's a nightmare. My girlfriend spent most of our lovely visit to the Albertina Museum trying to 'pay' for her parking on her cell phone. How sad. And have you ever seen a woodcut by Munch? WOW. I think my favorite was Moonlight 1. She missed it. She was texting.
5. Public religiosity. The Catholic church bells I hear from my front windows and from my back windows call to a non-existent congregation. The churches are beautiful, lush, and empty. I love the quiet spirituality of a people burned by a long-ago war, a dislike for the commercialized and ancient religions alike, and an intense feeling that religion is something so sacred, that a private display is its only appropriate expression.
Labels: The Move |
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| Like I can answer that |
| I was in the middle of a deep doctrinal discussion with my hubby about the differences between the evaporated milk they sell at 'home' and the kaffee milk they sell here when my oldest interrupted us with a question. "Mom?" His face was raised to us from where he sat. There was something in his quizzical expression. I can't describe it exactly, hope? desire? longing? Or maybe it was simple curiosity. The same kind of curiosity that leads him to streak my side table with reddish-orange acrylics or throw water balloons from our second story window.
Or maybe not. Because he followed that expression with, "Where's home?"
And after he said this, he looked at us as if we could easily solve this dilemma for him. As if we knew the answer ourselves. Labels: The Move |
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| Ending Decay |
30 minute "run."
On route there are 6 grocery stores.
If I had run one street further, I could have added two more.Labels: The Move |
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| neon |
"Adri painted her wall today."
He stops. And then slowly sets aside the dress shirt he's just taken off. He smiles slowly in that impish way that only he can, half of his mouth grinning like a school boy. I can't resist smiling in return. He then gives me the look. The look says, "Are you just saying that to say it or, as I fear, is there more to that statement?"
And I respond, "Some people are settled."
And to my great astonishment, he nods. Understanding what I'm saying. Understanding me.
Thank you.
Labels: The Move |
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| Mental Institution White |
If I ran a mental institution, I think I would paint the walls white. It's calming, bland, it doesn't speak to you like maybe fluorescent green or poppy orange. There are no voices in white that tell you to hurt your neighbor, take another dinner roll, or climb out of the 3rd story window. But, I like talking walls.
I like crazy colors.
AND, I don't run a mental institution (no snickering allowed). So, white walls don't belong in my living space. And. Yet. Everything in my house is white. Walls, ceilings, lamps, chandeliers, fans, everything. And if I paint something, I have to paint it back before leaving (like. I. want. to. do. that.) So mamas, I need to make white look good (and I obviously need to learn how to paint accents instead of every-last-inch-of-wall). Suggestions?
(If only I could change the hardware? The furniture? The SOMETHING! However, I do not control my own fate here, even the upholstered furniture in the house isn't ours. Yuck. So, superficial suggestions would be most appreciated. Now, if I could only order that
parsons desk I have been coveting from West Elm. Do you think they ship to Austria?)Labels: The Move |
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| The Gods Must Be Crazy |
I went grocery shopping last night. It was late, the store was getting ready to close and I was earnestly counting Euros to see if I had enough to buy every-little-cottonpickin-thing that a family of four needs in a foreign country--you know, things like Meister Proper and Sauerkraut.
Anyway, I'm trying to decide what bottle of honey to buy. I want to be modest and not get the size-of-your-head bottle that I'd like to open and drink right then and there like any depressed mama poo bear would. With moderation gleaming from my conscience, I decide on the small bottle, you know, the one that is almost bigger than your thumb, hoping that will mitigate my bread mit honig habit. When great golly be--there's the Nutella. It's practically jumping off of the shelf. It is screaming louder than a post-birth hemoroid for me to purchase it. NOW. Until this very moment, I have refused to buy any kind of chocolate to just "keep" in the house knowing that keeping is not what it will be doing. More like digesting, in my already over-full tummy. But today, I am tempted. I slowly pick up the generic version of Nutella. I daren't (I love crap-shooting for words like this one, it's not right, but it sticks) look at the label for fear that the ingredient list will put me over the edge. But I can't help it. I look. And below where I'm sure it says something about how irresistible this generic version of hazelnut chocolate spread is, it says something that absolutely sends me into a spiral of self-disgusted glee.
Gluten-frei.
Sold.
Dear Austria,
Why must you make me eat honey (now Nutella) and bakery bread for every meal? Why must you create chocolate banana musli that just jumps into my cart at the Markt? Why did you give me a Wuerstel stand around the corner from my house? And why, oh why, did you FORCE me to eat all of your wonderful food, full fat dairy products, sausages of every shape and variety, AND chocolate that doesn't taste a bit like plastic?
My cholesterol is not going to like this. Shame on you.
Vexed in Vienna,
Maralise
Labels: The Move |
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| The Language. The Language! |
I've been twice mistaken for a college student since moving here. Now, I'm not complaining. I like being thought to be an unmarried mother of two boys who must have had my first baby when I was, I don't know, about 15. I'm OK with that. Really. Just like I was Ok when the lady at the check-out counter asked me if I was using my "mom's credit card" to buy a pair of earrings. On my twenty-first birthday.
And since we've established that I'm ok with being thought a college student. Let me give you what made me, indeed, not ok with it anymore. I'm at language class on Monday and we're discussing when to use the formal and informal. I'm wearing a Japanese kimono-like shirt with my favorite pair of leggings (they are back folks, oh yes they are) and my new euro-american platform Mary Janes. I am cute. However, I also am also, obviously CUTE. There is another student there, with a cardigan and matching sweater combo, pearl earrings, and slacks. Leather shoes. Short hair. My teacher makes the comment that she would use the "Sie" (formal) form with her if she met her at a pub. "You look like a professional." Whereas, she would use the "du" form with me, "You look like a college student." I can see that I don't dress like other people around me, I can see that I don't dress like many people I know (in Europe or anywhere). I can also see that this woman could wear her outfit in a business casual setting whereas I could not. However, this woman has a 10 month-old baby. Her first. I'm betting she's my age, maybe a couple of years older. At the most.
So apparently the German Phrase of the Day is "Grow Up."
Labels: The Move |
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| Swimming in a Fish Bowl |
All of the native English speakers know each other here. And, somehow, they know me (or have heard about me or work with my husband). A woman generously invited me to her house next week to meet with a group of Mormon women. She just happened to be visiting her daughter in my german-speaking Ward and heard that I was American. She also knows the lady whose children babysat my children last week. And we're meeting at a woman's house who hosted the International School opening social that I missed.
This week I attended a book club with a colleague of my husband and a lady he had previously offended at work and other folks whose spouses are being quoted in books about the Bush Administration. I feel like my mishaps and quirks are no longer between me and the trees that surrounded my house in Virginia. They're between me and my acquaintances, and the people at my son's school, and the people at church, and the people who my husband works for.
My drapes are now pulled. On all 30 windows in my house.
Labels: The Move |
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| Quote of the Day |
"You dress unlike any other American I have ever known."
--my new Austrian friend
Compliment? Maybe.Labels: The Move |
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| on the eve |
4:30 pm: Get a call telling me the movers will be here tomorrow between 8 and 10 am. Oh boy. So not ready.
4:31 pm: Back to packing. I think, "What do I need more for the next three months, shoes or handbags? Shoes. Definitely shoes."
4:32 pm: Let Mr. Furious play with his Thomas the Tank Engine bag instructing him to pack some toys in there. I think, "Could I fit a handbag in his bag? Hubby's bag? Bam Bam's (3 yo) bag?" Yes. Definitely.
4:33 pm: Lecture from Mr. Furious about forgetting to pack his travel toothpaste in the bag. "Uhhhhh...look what you did!"
4:35 pm: Lecture for Mr. Furious about taking things out of the packed bags. I resign myself to the fact that he is undoing everything I'm doing.
4:35 pm: respond to email. Feel guilty.
4:36 pm: "Don't get stuff out of the bags."
4:38 pm: I feel like I'm having a heart attack. Hot flash. Back and arm pain. Must return to packing.
4:30: wander around the house, not knowing what to pack. Eat popcorn. Finish the bowl of popcorn.
4:41: erase LDS Nugget email (how did I get on that list anyway?). more guilt.
4:42: take three bites of watermelon. out of three different pieces. just for the hell of it.
4:49: "Do you know what a sound wave is? It's like when you talk, there is a wave that you can't see." Mr. Furious is using Color Wonder and pontificating on life's mysteries. And suddenly he walks away. "What were you saying sweetie?" I call after him. "Nothing. You were busy."
5:00: Realtor calls. New owner wants to walk through on Monday. I can't even see past five minutes from now. Monday sounds fine.
5:58: Boys packed for summer and fall. Every stitch of laundry is clean except what we have on. And the boys have no shirts on so I'm ahead of that game. They have no shoes on either. And I just found them across the street. "We're looking for sticks!" Great.
6:00: McDonald's sounds good, no?
6:58: Ghostbusters on. McDonald's being eaten. Talking to hubby, crying now over what still has to be done. It's all made better by the fact that he mentions our townhouse is actually two townhouses with the wall torn out. Tall ceilings. Open floor plan. Manna from Heaven. Sweet nectar of life.
7:23: There is a couple taking their nightly walk down my street. I miss being settled. Already.Labels: The Move |
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Name: Reluctant Nomad
Home: Austria
About Me: I photograph banal subjects to remind myself of the beauty in everyday life. I have two little boys who love me even when I'm crazy and a hubby who loves me in spite of it.
See my profile...
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Brushes by Gvalkyrie
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posted by Reluctant Nomad at 
