As I mentioned in an earlier post, dining at the United Nations cafeteria is a bit like gastronomic roulette. It is here, in this most diplomatic of settings, where you are asked on a daily basis to take a true calculated risk. Even if it is merely your meal decision, for some of us, it’s the most dangerous and life-altering decision you’ll make all day.
Like all of the UN buildings in Vienna, the cafeteria itself is a proud homage to the era of the Partridge Family and Jimmy Carter. The bright orange walls, olive green accent splashes, and dark brown carpet were likely the height of sophistication in 1974, but the décor today looks dated, and frankly, a bit garish. When you enter the cafeteria each day, you are met with a display case full of fake flowers and the daily delectable items available for purchase. Often described in Engrisch, these foods bear no resemblance to anything you would willingly put in your system, but in truth they always look better once you see them actually prepared. Crowds swarm around the display case every day as people contemplate if they should have the blood sausage with sauerkraut, Tunisian stew with mixed meat, or the low-calorie option of a spinach black bean patty drowning in cream sauce (don’t even try to tell them that the cream sauce negates the low calories).
After having consulted the display case, you make your way through the turnstiles and hope against hope that the spaghetti Bolognese, a ‘can’t be done wrong’ lunch option, will be ok. It isn’t. In fact, if there is anything I’ve learned at the cafeteria, it is to never go for the sure-fire lunch choices, because they are inevitably the foods that taste the worst. Todd can attest to this, as I swear that boy has picked some of the strangest tasting foods on the earth (who knew a burger could taste like something other than a burger?). It’s the somewhat vague Engrisch options, like ‘Indonesian mixture with rice’ that seem to be the big winners in my experience. And please-- whatever you do-- don’t ever get the spinach-feta strudel.
One of the more unique offerings that the cafeteria provides is something called ‘Sweet Friday.’ As Austria is an 80 percent Catholic country, the idea of Sweet Friday stems from the Lenten season, when Catholics are required to give up meat (and other things they love), in particular on Friday. This notion is year-round in Austria, and so in place of meat dishes, on Fridays they offer large, sweet treats for people to eat instead. Maybe it’s just me, but the idea of giving up meat and having a huge piece of cake in its place doesn’t seem like you’re giving up all that much. It reminds me of a girl I knew in high school, a ‘devout’ Christian who maintained that she was going to stay a virgin until she was married. However, she and her boyfriend would engage in more… exotic sexual practices, shall we say, because it wasn’t ‘traditional’ intercourse. She never did see the hypocrisy. Bottom line: You can’t hoodwink God. Having a two-pound brownie smothered in raspberry sauce for lunch instead of a turkey sandwich does not seem like a demonstration of piety and restraint. But I digress.
Once you’ve selected your meal option in the cafeteria, you head over to the beverage section, where the UN has a large icemaker. Most of you reading this are probably thinking, “What’s the big deal about an ice maker?” If only you knew. It’s a big deal because this is probably the only place outside of the Imperial Hotel where you’ll find real, honest-to-goodness ice. We’re so spoiled in the US, having ice available wherever and whenever you like it. It’s another thing that’s been added to my ‘I promise I’ll never take you for granted’ list of items back home. For example, to quote Robin Williams, it’s been weather by Sybil over here for the past few weeks, with some days being around 89 degrees with 80 percent humidity, and then the past two days hovering around a nippy 46 degrees. Thank YOU global warming! On hot days all you want is a cold (not cool) drink, and maybe some air conditioning. The UN is the only place you’re going to get it. So you, being a spoiled American, happily take a heaping cup full of ice. Europeans often forsake the ice and simply put their glass face down over a rocket-propelled water sprayer, push on the lever, and the sprayer cools your glass down for you. The problem with the sprayer is that it doesn’t stop the moment the glass is lifted, so whoever is standing by someone who is cooling his or her glass gets sprayed in the face with water. In fact, I genuinely think the Japanese Ambassador has sprayed me in the face at least once during this process.
Now that you have your decadent ice water and your exotic – perhaps even dangerous – food option, you’re ready to pay for all this deliciousness. You say to yourself, “Well, even if it isn’t good, it’s cheap.” Then you remember the exchange rate and come to realize it’s not as cheap as it seems, but hey, the dollar rallied this week, so I’ll splurge and have a half-pound of bread pudding too since it’s Friday. As the saying goes, when in Rome (or Vienna)…
Until next time, my lovelies! Love and miss you all!
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
An afternoon with Martha
I apologize for taking so long to post again. Last week seemed to have a series of crappy events, and honestly I just didn’t have my writing mojo. Hopefully it’s making its way back.
This experience has really made both Todd and I think about our heritage/ancestry, and has allowed us the opportunity to connect with individuals who are (albeit distantly) related to our families and still in Europe, helping us to paint a better picture of our ancestral identities.
On Saturday Todd and I spent a wonderful afternoon with a friend of his Aunt Julie, who is often called “Cousin Martha,” as well as Martha’s son Pierre [Note: For those of you who don’t know Aunt Julie, she is a member of Todd’s family who is like a grandmother to him. She and Todd’s grandfather were cousins, and Julie and Todd’s grandfather remained very close throughout his life. Julie has been an integral part of Todd’s life.]
Martha is in her eighties, and she is part of an ever-shrinking group of individuals who survived World War II and was old enough at the time to really remember it. Her memory of the war is still quite good, and as a result Todd and I ended up learning a great deal about his family and their experience during the war. Linda gave me her blessing to put their family story on the blog, and so I’ll recount it some of it here because I feel that it’s the sort of story that should be told. I can’t begin to do it justice, but I’ll do my best.
First, an observation: Vienna is a city haunted by ghosts. By that I don’t mean that I literally fend off Mozart’s spirit each night, but rather, that it is a city haunted by its past. Everywhere you turn you see vestiges of its former glory, which now seems almost absurd for a city that’s relatively small and no longer a global power. Without the Habsburgs around to occupy all the grand palaces and pavilions, the whole city feels a bit like a museum. And you can’t help but feel the palpable absence I mentioned in my earlier blog post. Like when you go to the former Jewish quarter – former, of course, because there aren’t any Jews left there – and feel the absence, wondering what it must have been like 100 years ago, bustling with shops and families.
With Todd, I feel like Vienna is full of the ghosts of his family’s past. I am grateful that we know the addresses and neighbourhoods where his grandparents lived, where Julie grew up, and where his great grandparent’s store was located. It adds a personal dimension to this historic city, and has made for some strange “life goes on” moments – like when we went to a party at our friend Corentin’s house last week and realized he lives just around the corner from where Todd’s grandmother grew up. I think this is part of why I try so hard to love Vienna. I want to love Vienna the way his family must have once – and I think that’s part of why I get frustrated when it isn’t always a city that is easy to love. So after having a somewhat crappy week, spending an afternoon with Martha was a truly special experience, and made me give Vienna yet another chance.
Martha is a petite woman with a slightly gravelly voice and a warm smile that makes you feel instantly at ease. Her apartment is clean, well organized, and decorated with pictures of her children, grandchildren, and her great granddaughter. Even though is practically a stranger to us, she made us feel like a part of her family. And indeed, Todd somewhat is. Martha’s aunt married one of Julie’s uncles, and so by marriage Martha and Julie’s families became intertwined.
Julie’s family had a summer home outside of Vienna, and one summer Martha was invited to join Julie, and this is how she and Julie became friends. Martha is quick to tell of how kind Julie has always been, even as a child. In 1935, Martha’s family moved to Paris, and in February 1938, Julie’s father, Sigmund Bosel, visited Martha’s family in Paris. Martha’s father implored Sigmund to not return to Vienna, telling him that it wasn’t safe, and that Sigmund should bring his family to Paris.
Sigmund was a prominent man in Vienna, and the owner of Bosel’s department store. He told Martha’s father that he had business to take care of, and that he had a good relationship with the police in Vienna, so he wasn’t too concerned. He returned to Vienna, and Hitler invaded later that year. Both of Julie’s parents, Sigmund and Elke, were arrested and thrown in prison. It was unclear to Martha how it happened, but after a time Elke was released from prison. Sigmund was “made an example of” and murdered in a public square. Martha says that Sigmund’s death was featured in several books on the Holocaust, which is a testament to his role in the Vienna community as a businessman and philanthropist.
Once Elke was released from prison, she was able to smuggle herself, Julie, and Julie’s brother Alfonse to Paris through the underground. When they arrived as more or less refugees, Martha’s family took them in. Their families stayed together for a time, often with people rotating sleeping on the floor. Soon thereafter, even Paris became a dangerous place for Jews, so Martha’s family fled to Marseilles, and they arranged for Elke to be hidden in Paris. Through the kinder transport, Elke’s mother (Julie’s grandmother, who lived in London) was able to come and retrieve Julie and Alfonse and take them to London with her. Elke was not allowed to go with her children.
Martha married in Marseilles, and she and her husband fled to Switzerland, where they stayed for the remainder of the war. Her son Pierre was born there. After the war, Martha went back to Paris, where they found Elke very sick – she had developed breast cancer. Julie too returned to Paris after the war, and after several years of living in both London and Paris, she was finally approved for a visa to come to America. Elke was not approved. Shortly after Julie arrived in New York, Elke’s health deteriorated, and the US government let Elke come to the US so Julie could care for her mother for the remainder of her life. Martha came back to Vienna in 1948 and has lived here ever since.
To this day Martha and Julie remain friends, and make sure to call one another every year on each other’s birthday, and Martha and her family have visited New York on several occasions to see Julie. Their story is one that’s almost difficult to imagine – how they lived through so much pain and suffering, and in Julie’s case, to lose both of your parents in such an awful and tragic way. I can’t even begin to fathom pain like that, and it makes me so grateful for what I do have – most especially for my family and friends.
I promise to post again soon, and hopefully on a more benign topic. Love to you all -- we miss you an awful lot!
This experience has really made both Todd and I think about our heritage/ancestry, and has allowed us the opportunity to connect with individuals who are (albeit distantly) related to our families and still in Europe, helping us to paint a better picture of our ancestral identities.
On Saturday Todd and I spent a wonderful afternoon with a friend of his Aunt Julie, who is often called “Cousin Martha,” as well as Martha’s son Pierre [Note: For those of you who don’t know Aunt Julie, she is a member of Todd’s family who is like a grandmother to him. She and Todd’s grandfather were cousins, and Julie and Todd’s grandfather remained very close throughout his life. Julie has been an integral part of Todd’s life.]
Martha is in her eighties, and she is part of an ever-shrinking group of individuals who survived World War II and was old enough at the time to really remember it. Her memory of the war is still quite good, and as a result Todd and I ended up learning a great deal about his family and their experience during the war. Linda gave me her blessing to put their family story on the blog, and so I’ll recount it some of it here because I feel that it’s the sort of story that should be told. I can’t begin to do it justice, but I’ll do my best.
First, an observation: Vienna is a city haunted by ghosts. By that I don’t mean that I literally fend off Mozart’s spirit each night, but rather, that it is a city haunted by its past. Everywhere you turn you see vestiges of its former glory, which now seems almost absurd for a city that’s relatively small and no longer a global power. Without the Habsburgs around to occupy all the grand palaces and pavilions, the whole city feels a bit like a museum. And you can’t help but feel the palpable absence I mentioned in my earlier blog post. Like when you go to the former Jewish quarter – former, of course, because there aren’t any Jews left there – and feel the absence, wondering what it must have been like 100 years ago, bustling with shops and families.
With Todd, I feel like Vienna is full of the ghosts of his family’s past. I am grateful that we know the addresses and neighbourhoods where his grandparents lived, where Julie grew up, and where his great grandparent’s store was located. It adds a personal dimension to this historic city, and has made for some strange “life goes on” moments – like when we went to a party at our friend Corentin’s house last week and realized he lives just around the corner from where Todd’s grandmother grew up. I think this is part of why I try so hard to love Vienna. I want to love Vienna the way his family must have once – and I think that’s part of why I get frustrated when it isn’t always a city that is easy to love. So after having a somewhat crappy week, spending an afternoon with Martha was a truly special experience, and made me give Vienna yet another chance.
Martha is a petite woman with a slightly gravelly voice and a warm smile that makes you feel instantly at ease. Her apartment is clean, well organized, and decorated with pictures of her children, grandchildren, and her great granddaughter. Even though is practically a stranger to us, she made us feel like a part of her family. And indeed, Todd somewhat is. Martha’s aunt married one of Julie’s uncles, and so by marriage Martha and Julie’s families became intertwined.
Julie’s family had a summer home outside of Vienna, and one summer Martha was invited to join Julie, and this is how she and Julie became friends. Martha is quick to tell of how kind Julie has always been, even as a child. In 1935, Martha’s family moved to Paris, and in February 1938, Julie’s father, Sigmund Bosel, visited Martha’s family in Paris. Martha’s father implored Sigmund to not return to Vienna, telling him that it wasn’t safe, and that Sigmund should bring his family to Paris.
Sigmund was a prominent man in Vienna, and the owner of Bosel’s department store. He told Martha’s father that he had business to take care of, and that he had a good relationship with the police in Vienna, so he wasn’t too concerned. He returned to Vienna, and Hitler invaded later that year. Both of Julie’s parents, Sigmund and Elke, were arrested and thrown in prison. It was unclear to Martha how it happened, but after a time Elke was released from prison. Sigmund was “made an example of” and murdered in a public square. Martha says that Sigmund’s death was featured in several books on the Holocaust, which is a testament to his role in the Vienna community as a businessman and philanthropist.
Once Elke was released from prison, she was able to smuggle herself, Julie, and Julie’s brother Alfonse to Paris through the underground. When they arrived as more or less refugees, Martha’s family took them in. Their families stayed together for a time, often with people rotating sleeping on the floor. Soon thereafter, even Paris became a dangerous place for Jews, so Martha’s family fled to Marseilles, and they arranged for Elke to be hidden in Paris. Through the kinder transport, Elke’s mother (Julie’s grandmother, who lived in London) was able to come and retrieve Julie and Alfonse and take them to London with her. Elke was not allowed to go with her children.
Martha married in Marseilles, and she and her husband fled to Switzerland, where they stayed for the remainder of the war. Her son Pierre was born there. After the war, Martha went back to Paris, where they found Elke very sick – she had developed breast cancer. Julie too returned to Paris after the war, and after several years of living in both London and Paris, she was finally approved for a visa to come to America. Elke was not approved. Shortly after Julie arrived in New York, Elke’s health deteriorated, and the US government let Elke come to the US so Julie could care for her mother for the remainder of her life. Martha came back to Vienna in 1948 and has lived here ever since.
To this day Martha and Julie remain friends, and make sure to call one another every year on each other’s birthday, and Martha and her family have visited New York on several occasions to see Julie. Their story is one that’s almost difficult to imagine – how they lived through so much pain and suffering, and in Julie’s case, to lose both of your parents in such an awful and tragic way. I can’t even begin to fathom pain like that, and it makes me so grateful for what I do have – most especially for my family and friends.
I promise to post again soon, and hopefully on a more benign topic. Love to you all -- we miss you an awful lot!
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
A rough morning
Today was a rough morning. I’ve been debating writing about it because I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate, but I feel like -- for better for worse -- I’ve been really honest with this blog about our experiences in Vienna, and I’ll be sugar coating things if I don’t write about it. Plus I hope that by writing about it I can come full circle and get some closure on a shitty, shitty experience.
Most days I leave for work about 10 minutes after Todd does, and I sort of like it. It gives me a little bit of “Kristen time,” when I can listen to my Ipod and read my book on the train. As I was walking down the escalator at my U-bahn station, two people were ahead of me on the right hand side. As I continued to walk down the escalator on the left, the girl (who was making noise on a harmonica) stepped in front of me on the left. I stepped to the right to go around her, and she stepped in front of me again, and her male friend stepped to the left, effectively blocking me, and she continued to make noise on her harmonica. We reached the bottom of the platform and I stepped around her, but she continued to walk right close beside me, pushing her harmonica and her face in my face. After about 5-10 seconds of her being within eight inches of my face, I turned to her and said, “What is your problem?”
She then started yelling, “What is my problem? You fucking Americans. You’re my fucking problem.” I’ll spare you the verbatim description of her long vitriolic speech that followed, where she blamed me for the death of thousands of people in the Middle East, and the war in Iraq and Afghanistan, and how I’m a heartless American with blood on my hands. Her friend has chimed in with her at this point, and they are both – literally – within six inches of my face, yelling at the top of their lungs. For whatever reason the subway station is very quiet this morning and hardly anyone is around. I keep walking and continue to push them aside, just letting them scream away (because clearly anything I say is going to add fuel to their fire), when the girl starts grabbing at me and my forcefully pulling at my two bags, saying, “What have you got in here? Oh? You don’t like people trying to take your things. You fucking Americans have no respect for privacy, you just exploit everyone.” At this point I’m now getting angry, saying, “What the fuck are you doing? Get your hands off of me!” and still having a tug-of-war with the girl over my bags, forcefully pushing her away.
At this point thankfully a big Austrian man comes over and pulls her off of me, asks me if I’m ok and asks her what the fuck she is doing (sorry Grandma, there was a lot of swearing). She starts yelling at him, and her friend yells, “I am an Austrian citizen, I can do whatever the fuck I want. She needs to get the fuck out of our country!” The Austrian guy who interceded for me is now standing in front of me, basically protecting me, and the train arrives and he grabs my wrist and pulls me onto the train with him. The two ‘attackers’ (for lack of a better word) jump on board and continue to scream, now more at him than at me, but the male friend keeps yelling, “Get that fucking American out of this country!” The riders of the train start staring at me, and I feel like an absolute pariah.
As soon as we reach Stephansplatz, the station where I change train lines, I jump off the train and walk as fast as I can to the U1 line. Either they didn’t see me or have stopped caring, since they were still yelling at the Austrian man and apparently were happy with their new “Pro-American” Austrian target. I was shaking, but apart from a sore arm and my book bag coming a little loose at the seam, I’m physically fine.
I started getting a little emotional on the U1 train to work, eyes welling up with tears even though the rational part of my brain is telling me to get my shit together because I have to go to work. And believe me, the irony that all this happened as I was on my way to work at the United Nations is not lost on me. These two people, also in their 20s, were of Middle Eastern or Armenian descent, and they do have a justified bone to pick with the US and the world. I know that if I had opened my mouth and spoken German, and they thought I was European, they probably would have had some choice words to give me about the EU and its treatment of Turkey, Romania, etc. They are angry people who have an agenda, and I was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time. But the whole experience – being targeted and physically abused because of the foreign policy of my country of birth, being someone’s personal US punching bag – was really unsettling.
I would like to make clear now that in the five trips I’ve made to Europe (all post 9/11), I have never once personally experienced any true anti-American sentiment, and I don’t know anyone else who has – apart from perhaps a cold reception here and there. No one I work with has experienced something like this. It’s not the norm. These people don’t reflect the population of Austria at large. Even if the Viennese can be a little unfriendly at times, it’s how they treat everyone, and it is never because we aren’t Austrian. And I don’t think this whole situation would have bothered me nearly as much if these people hadn’t been physically grabbing me. I can take people screaming six inches in front of my face. If I ever want to work in diplomacy or public policy, I’ll have to get to used to it. But it’s the feeling of physical violation that lingers, that someone is willing to cross the bridge from verbal to physical abuse (albeit mild) of a complete stranger -- because you woke up with that much anger in your heart.
But then I get to the UN and start working on my human trafficking projects, and boy, if ever there was a topic to set you straight, stop you from feeling sorry for yourself, and make you realize how damn lucky you are for being where you are– it’s human trafficking. Perspective: party of one, please.
I’ll probably walk to and from work with Todd for the next couple of days, just until things feel semi-normal again. And I’ll keep working here and going about my business as usual. You live, you learn, and life goes on. I hope for their sake though that those two people don’t stay that hate-filled for the rest of their lives. It doesn’t bode well for humanity.
Most days I leave for work about 10 minutes after Todd does, and I sort of like it. It gives me a little bit of “Kristen time,” when I can listen to my Ipod and read my book on the train. As I was walking down the escalator at my U-bahn station, two people were ahead of me on the right hand side. As I continued to walk down the escalator on the left, the girl (who was making noise on a harmonica) stepped in front of me on the left. I stepped to the right to go around her, and she stepped in front of me again, and her male friend stepped to the left, effectively blocking me, and she continued to make noise on her harmonica. We reached the bottom of the platform and I stepped around her, but she continued to walk right close beside me, pushing her harmonica and her face in my face. After about 5-10 seconds of her being within eight inches of my face, I turned to her and said, “What is your problem?”
She then started yelling, “What is my problem? You fucking Americans. You’re my fucking problem.” I’ll spare you the verbatim description of her long vitriolic speech that followed, where she blamed me for the death of thousands of people in the Middle East, and the war in Iraq and Afghanistan, and how I’m a heartless American with blood on my hands. Her friend has chimed in with her at this point, and they are both – literally – within six inches of my face, yelling at the top of their lungs. For whatever reason the subway station is very quiet this morning and hardly anyone is around. I keep walking and continue to push them aside, just letting them scream away (because clearly anything I say is going to add fuel to their fire), when the girl starts grabbing at me and my forcefully pulling at my two bags, saying, “What have you got in here? Oh? You don’t like people trying to take your things. You fucking Americans have no respect for privacy, you just exploit everyone.” At this point I’m now getting angry, saying, “What the fuck are you doing? Get your hands off of me!” and still having a tug-of-war with the girl over my bags, forcefully pushing her away.
At this point thankfully a big Austrian man comes over and pulls her off of me, asks me if I’m ok and asks her what the fuck she is doing (sorry Grandma, there was a lot of swearing). She starts yelling at him, and her friend yells, “I am an Austrian citizen, I can do whatever the fuck I want. She needs to get the fuck out of our country!” The Austrian guy who interceded for me is now standing in front of me, basically protecting me, and the train arrives and he grabs my wrist and pulls me onto the train with him. The two ‘attackers’ (for lack of a better word) jump on board and continue to scream, now more at him than at me, but the male friend keeps yelling, “Get that fucking American out of this country!” The riders of the train start staring at me, and I feel like an absolute pariah.
As soon as we reach Stephansplatz, the station where I change train lines, I jump off the train and walk as fast as I can to the U1 line. Either they didn’t see me or have stopped caring, since they were still yelling at the Austrian man and apparently were happy with their new “Pro-American” Austrian target. I was shaking, but apart from a sore arm and my book bag coming a little loose at the seam, I’m physically fine.
I started getting a little emotional on the U1 train to work, eyes welling up with tears even though the rational part of my brain is telling me to get my shit together because I have to go to work. And believe me, the irony that all this happened as I was on my way to work at the United Nations is not lost on me. These two people, also in their 20s, were of Middle Eastern or Armenian descent, and they do have a justified bone to pick with the US and the world. I know that if I had opened my mouth and spoken German, and they thought I was European, they probably would have had some choice words to give me about the EU and its treatment of Turkey, Romania, etc. They are angry people who have an agenda, and I was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time. But the whole experience – being targeted and physically abused because of the foreign policy of my country of birth, being someone’s personal US punching bag – was really unsettling.
I would like to make clear now that in the five trips I’ve made to Europe (all post 9/11), I have never once personally experienced any true anti-American sentiment, and I don’t know anyone else who has – apart from perhaps a cold reception here and there. No one I work with has experienced something like this. It’s not the norm. These people don’t reflect the population of Austria at large. Even if the Viennese can be a little unfriendly at times, it’s how they treat everyone, and it is never because we aren’t Austrian. And I don’t think this whole situation would have bothered me nearly as much if these people hadn’t been physically grabbing me. I can take people screaming six inches in front of my face. If I ever want to work in diplomacy or public policy, I’ll have to get to used to it. But it’s the feeling of physical violation that lingers, that someone is willing to cross the bridge from verbal to physical abuse (albeit mild) of a complete stranger -- because you woke up with that much anger in your heart.
But then I get to the UN and start working on my human trafficking projects, and boy, if ever there was a topic to set you straight, stop you from feeling sorry for yourself, and make you realize how damn lucky you are for being where you are– it’s human trafficking. Perspective: party of one, please.
I’ll probably walk to and from work with Todd for the next couple of days, just until things feel semi-normal again. And I’ll keep working here and going about my business as usual. You live, you learn, and life goes on. I hope for their sake though that those two people don’t stay that hate-filled for the rest of their lives. It doesn’t bode well for humanity.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Gus Gus: The Schnitzel on the Highway Tour
Raise your hand if you can name a musical group or musician that hails from Iceland. Not so fast – one that doesn’t include Björk. Anyone… anyone? Well, consider yourselves part of the elite group of individuals who can now name TWO groups from Iceland – Björk and Gus Gus (pronounced ‘Goose Goose’).
The whole genre of ‘techno-soul’ is quite new to me. Actually, I’d never even heard of it until my roommate Marlene told me about it and some of the leading bands in it (like Gus Gus) when I first arrived. Techno-soul isn’t soul in the Aretha Franklin sense of the word – more like contemporary R&B/Soul, more akin to Angie Stone (if you’re familiar with her) put to a techno beat. It’s upbeat, good for dancing, and quintessential Europop.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start at the very beginning (a very good place to start), with the venue where the concert was held. Flex is frequently called the best music venue/club in Vienna, and it offers an utterly unique location – right on the banks of the Danube River, with the club itself actually underground. For those of you from the Bay Area, it’s like a less-classy version of 12 Galaxies, made more atmospheric by the thick haze of cigarette smoke. Oh, and the restrooms are wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, including the inside and outside of the stall doors…meaning you get to watch yourself pee. Very strange. Apart from the smoke and mirrors (damn, I didn’t even try for that one), I like the venue.
From the start it proved to be a very Nordic sort of evening, starting with the opening act Khan of Finland, a three-member dance group who were a little Scissor Sisters, a little Run DMC, and a little Cher. On the whole they were really talented, which you definitely don’t expect of most opening acts. Their percussionist was also a beat boxer, and honestly I don’t know if I have ever heard someone better. It took three songs for me to realize that there was no drum and bass line – just him. The lead singer’s flair for the dramatic (involving several wigs and costume changes) should have given me a better sense of what to expect from Gus Gus, but I just thought to myself, “Hey, this must be what they do in Finland.”
As the title mentioned, Gus Gus is currently on their “Schnitzel on the Highway” European Tour. Don’t ask me why they chose Vienna’s signature meat dish as roadkill for the tour name – a happy coincidence is all I can guess. And as the cliché phrase goes, Gus Gus is very big in Europe, particularly in the dance scene. When I told several people who I was seeing, they were quite familiar with them – and astonished that they weren’t big in the US. “Maybe they are,” I said, “but admittedly I don’t roll in the techno-soul circles back home.”
Seeing Gus Gus perform makes me very curious about Iceland on the whole. I personally know only one person who has very been to Iceland (that’s you Brent), but the stories I have heard (and truthfully the outfits I’ve seen) make me wonder if there is a little something extra in Icelandic water. That, or Björk has set the standard so high for utterly ridiculous outfits (her appearance at Coachella was another fashion classic) that every performer in Iceland feels the need to step it up a notch and compete. But honestly, after the swan dress at the Oscars (egg included), why even try?
Gus Gus is comprised of five members, three of whom alternate lead vocals, and two women performing backup vocals. The two men in the group wore the more mundane outfits, the one being outfitted in head-to-toe black, while the other smeared black war paint around his eyes and must have decided that on Tuesdays he’ll only wear a towel. Not to be outdone, the backup singers brandished their faces with glittery blue war paint, done in the fashion of masks, and wore only ruffled petticoats (hiked up to their chest), making them look like a cross between a Wild West prostitute and a warn-torn smurf. But the real icing on the cake came from their female lead singer, who I am convinced assembled her wardrobe from leftovers off the set of Xanadu – with a little ‘70s Cher thrown in for extra measure. The resulting product was a pink, yellow, and orange neon tie-dye, skin-tight jumpsuit with large, wire-enforced black ruffles wrapping from the shoulder all the way down to the ankle. She opted for the classier, more subdued silver war paint on her face, which complemented her perfectly coiffed Farrah Fawcett hairdo nicely. Björk would be very, very proud.
But at the end of the day, Gus Gus really is talented, and their music is great to dance to. For an example, check out their song “David” (www.myspace.com/gusgus). However, it did strike me a little odd that more people weren’t dancing at the concert – you got more of the head bobbing, shoulder shake-thing than actual dancing – but I guess that’s how people in techno-soul roll in Vienna.
Actually, that’s not entirely true. There was one girl in front of me who was embracing the beat and bobbing up and down to the music. She had a unique dance style that involved moving her elbows back and forth, and unfortunately for me her right elbow constantly found refuge in my left breast. I know I’m not big busted, but honestly, how could she not feel that her elbow was hitting someone’s boob? Not knowing how to say, “Please stop impaling my breast” in German, I resorted to bringing my left arm up to cross and cover my chest, so that at least I’d have a chance at breast feeding my children in the future. After that she managed to keep her elbows more or less to herself, and I was able to enjoy the music and the one-of-a-kind experience that is Gus Gus, Flex, and the world of European techno-soul. Cheers for now everyone, and thank you again for the comments and e-mails. Love and miss you all!
The whole genre of ‘techno-soul’ is quite new to me. Actually, I’d never even heard of it until my roommate Marlene told me about it and some of the leading bands in it (like Gus Gus) when I first arrived. Techno-soul isn’t soul in the Aretha Franklin sense of the word – more like contemporary R&B/Soul, more akin to Angie Stone (if you’re familiar with her) put to a techno beat. It’s upbeat, good for dancing, and quintessential Europop.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start at the very beginning (a very good place to start), with the venue where the concert was held. Flex is frequently called the best music venue/club in Vienna, and it offers an utterly unique location – right on the banks of the Danube River, with the club itself actually underground. For those of you from the Bay Area, it’s like a less-classy version of 12 Galaxies, made more atmospheric by the thick haze of cigarette smoke. Oh, and the restrooms are wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, including the inside and outside of the stall doors…meaning you get to watch yourself pee. Very strange. Apart from the smoke and mirrors (damn, I didn’t even try for that one), I like the venue.
From the start it proved to be a very Nordic sort of evening, starting with the opening act Khan of Finland, a three-member dance group who were a little Scissor Sisters, a little Run DMC, and a little Cher. On the whole they were really talented, which you definitely don’t expect of most opening acts. Their percussionist was also a beat boxer, and honestly I don’t know if I have ever heard someone better. It took three songs for me to realize that there was no drum and bass line – just him. The lead singer’s flair for the dramatic (involving several wigs and costume changes) should have given me a better sense of what to expect from Gus Gus, but I just thought to myself, “Hey, this must be what they do in Finland.”
As the title mentioned, Gus Gus is currently on their “Schnitzel on the Highway” European Tour. Don’t ask me why they chose Vienna’s signature meat dish as roadkill for the tour name – a happy coincidence is all I can guess. And as the cliché phrase goes, Gus Gus is very big in Europe, particularly in the dance scene. When I told several people who I was seeing, they were quite familiar with them – and astonished that they weren’t big in the US. “Maybe they are,” I said, “but admittedly I don’t roll in the techno-soul circles back home.”
Seeing Gus Gus perform makes me very curious about Iceland on the whole. I personally know only one person who has very been to Iceland (that’s you Brent), but the stories I have heard (and truthfully the outfits I’ve seen) make me wonder if there is a little something extra in Icelandic water. That, or Björk has set the standard so high for utterly ridiculous outfits (her appearance at Coachella was another fashion classic) that every performer in Iceland feels the need to step it up a notch and compete. But honestly, after the swan dress at the Oscars (egg included), why even try?
Gus Gus is comprised of five members, three of whom alternate lead vocals, and two women performing backup vocals. The two men in the group wore the more mundane outfits, the one being outfitted in head-to-toe black, while the other smeared black war paint around his eyes and must have decided that on Tuesdays he’ll only wear a towel. Not to be outdone, the backup singers brandished their faces with glittery blue war paint, done in the fashion of masks, and wore only ruffled petticoats (hiked up to their chest), making them look like a cross between a Wild West prostitute and a warn-torn smurf. But the real icing on the cake came from their female lead singer, who I am convinced assembled her wardrobe from leftovers off the set of Xanadu – with a little ‘70s Cher thrown in for extra measure. The resulting product was a pink, yellow, and orange neon tie-dye, skin-tight jumpsuit with large, wire-enforced black ruffles wrapping from the shoulder all the way down to the ankle. She opted for the classier, more subdued silver war paint on her face, which complemented her perfectly coiffed Farrah Fawcett hairdo nicely. Björk would be very, very proud.
But at the end of the day, Gus Gus really is talented, and their music is great to dance to. For an example, check out their song “David” (www.myspace.com/gusgus). However, it did strike me a little odd that more people weren’t dancing at the concert – you got more of the head bobbing, shoulder shake-thing than actual dancing – but I guess that’s how people in techno-soul roll in Vienna.
Actually, that’s not entirely true. There was one girl in front of me who was embracing the beat and bobbing up and down to the music. She had a unique dance style that involved moving her elbows back and forth, and unfortunately for me her right elbow constantly found refuge in my left breast. I know I’m not big busted, but honestly, how could she not feel that her elbow was hitting someone’s boob? Not knowing how to say, “Please stop impaling my breast” in German, I resorted to bringing my left arm up to cross and cover my chest, so that at least I’d have a chance at breast feeding my children in the future. After that she managed to keep her elbows more or less to herself, and I was able to enjoy the music and the one-of-a-kind experience that is Gus Gus, Flex, and the world of European techno-soul. Cheers for now everyone, and thank you again for the comments and e-mails. Love and miss you all!
Saturday, May 12, 2007
The manic love affair continues...
Vienna is a fickle, fickle lover. In my last post, I wrote about my occasional homesickness and frustration with the city – how I felt spurned by it when all I wanted was to be loved. And then we have a day like today, that is truly magical, and I find she is calling me back, making me doubt my previous frustrations as just a passing fancy. Women.
For those of you who regularly read my blog, I apologize now because I’ll be going out of order chronologically for the next couple of posts. It’s quite simple. I started a post on the Gus Gus techno-soul concert after hours at work today, and then proceeded to forget to send it to myself at home. I’m lazy and I don’t want to have to rewrite that post, but I promise that post will be up on Monday or Tuesday. But I digress…
It really is amazing to see how different Vienna is in spring/summertime compared to winter. People are more friendly (well, as friendly as the Viennese can be), and the city comes alive – and goes outside. Cafes extend out onto the large, pedestrian-friendly sidewalks, and the exceedingly mild evening temperatures encourage you to stay outdoors as long as you can. And springtime also marks the beginning of a multitude of outdoor festivals, all of them free and open to all.
Last weekend we experienced Stadt Fest, or City Fest, an outdoor music and performing arts festival hosted by the city that took over the entire 1st district. In addition to the accomplished musical groups who performed (including a fantastic Argentinian quartet), we were treated to unique German covers of American songs, such as John Denver’s “Country Road.” For some reason they chose to sing the chorus in English (or Engrisch) and the rest of the song in German, so interspersed with German you’d hear “West Virginia, Mountain Mama, Take me Home, Country Road.” Guess that just doesn’t translate well into German. Stadt Fest also featured an inordinate amount of mimes (who knew Vienna had so many invisible boxes?), and an array of performance artists who could have been the inspiration for Mike Myers’ SNL skit “Sprockets.” In spite of the… avante garde performance elements, it’s a city that truly values music and the arts, and it’s refreshing. For instance, at Michaelerplatz, in front of the Hofburg Palace, easels and tables full of a variety of paints were set up, and they were handing out canvases for free, encouraging anyone who wished to pick up a paint brush and let out their inner Klimt. It was incredible to see people young and old express themselves through painting. It’s hard to imagine a city in the US that would do such a thing (for free!) for its residents.
And tonight kicked off the summer festival season in Vienna, with an immense concert (ala Central Park) in front of the Rat Haus or City Hall -- all for free. The featured performers included Bobby McFerrin, the Viennese Philharmonic Orchestra, a famous Austrian musician known for fusing traditional Austrian folk music with Arabic and French influences, and 200 ‘kinder wieners’ (no, not mini sausages, just Viennese kids) doing an interpretive dance on the planets. In typical German/Austrian fashion, the concert was well organized, clean, and thoughtfully laid out so it could be enjoyed by all, with large HD screens showing the concert to the masses and also showing what the concert looked like to the folks watching it live on TV back home. The Rat Haus and the surrounding buildings were lit up in alternating colors, making the already regal buildings look even more spectacular. Of course this is the night I left my camera at home, or else I would have pictures to show you what all of this looked like – words can’t begin to do it justice. Nor will I be able to adequately explain the concert itself. Highlights for me included seeing Bobby McFerrin perform live with the Philharmonic and this Austrian musician, doing his incredible vocal work to imitate instruments during Bach’s Symphony No. 5. It was a bit odd to see him, just because when I think of him I think of his albums from 1986, and I forget that 20 years have passed and he’s aged just like the rest of us. The 200-youth dance troupe performance (in four acts) was quite interesting, and for Todd and the 12-year old in all of us, the highlight was their interpretive dance for the planet Uranus, “The Magician.” Yes, Uranus really is magical.
Following the concert, the eight of us made the easy walk over to the Museums Quartier to grab a drink, and as we started walking it began raining very lightly. With the high humidity and warm summer evening it felt very refreshing, and even a little romantic. And as we walked past the enormous monument to Queen Maria Theresa in the deserted museum square, we saw a temporary pool and fountain set up. Right as we walked beside the fountain, it came alive (momentarily scaring the shit out of all us), and erupted into huge, dramatic waterspouts, alternating in colors and swaying to a silent beat. For those of you who have seen the water show at the Bellagio in Las Vegas, this is the closest thing I can compare it to. We spoke to the technicians and found out that one of the museums was having a private corporate event the following night, and the fountain was part of the entertainment. We got treated to a beautiful dress rehearsal show, and it was even more special because for about half of the people in our group, they had never seen anything like this in their lives.
When we reached our final destination, a little beisl (or beer garden) a few minutes walk from our apartment, we relaxed and the enjoyed the company of the great group of friends we’ve made here. We’re our own mini UN -- hailing from Tanzania, Finland, Spain, Germany, Australia, Ukraine, Italy, and Austria – and I am grateful that I’ve been able to meet these people and develop such fast friendships in a city that is, for most of us, far from home. They’ll never replace the incredible friends we have at home, but they reinforce the universality of the human experience, and that no matter where you are, you can find some kindred souls.
For those of you who regularly read my blog, I apologize now because I’ll be going out of order chronologically for the next couple of posts. It’s quite simple. I started a post on the Gus Gus techno-soul concert after hours at work today, and then proceeded to forget to send it to myself at home. I’m lazy and I don’t want to have to rewrite that post, but I promise that post will be up on Monday or Tuesday. But I digress…
It really is amazing to see how different Vienna is in spring/summertime compared to winter. People are more friendly (well, as friendly as the Viennese can be), and the city comes alive – and goes outside. Cafes extend out onto the large, pedestrian-friendly sidewalks, and the exceedingly mild evening temperatures encourage you to stay outdoors as long as you can. And springtime also marks the beginning of a multitude of outdoor festivals, all of them free and open to all.
Last weekend we experienced Stadt Fest, or City Fest, an outdoor music and performing arts festival hosted by the city that took over the entire 1st district. In addition to the accomplished musical groups who performed (including a fantastic Argentinian quartet), we were treated to unique German covers of American songs, such as John Denver’s “Country Road.” For some reason they chose to sing the chorus in English (or Engrisch) and the rest of the song in German, so interspersed with German you’d hear “West Virginia, Mountain Mama, Take me Home, Country Road.” Guess that just doesn’t translate well into German. Stadt Fest also featured an inordinate amount of mimes (who knew Vienna had so many invisible boxes?), and an array of performance artists who could have been the inspiration for Mike Myers’ SNL skit “Sprockets.” In spite of the… avante garde performance elements, it’s a city that truly values music and the arts, and it’s refreshing. For instance, at Michaelerplatz, in front of the Hofburg Palace, easels and tables full of a variety of paints were set up, and they were handing out canvases for free, encouraging anyone who wished to pick up a paint brush and let out their inner Klimt. It was incredible to see people young and old express themselves through painting. It’s hard to imagine a city in the US that would do such a thing (for free!) for its residents.
And tonight kicked off the summer festival season in Vienna, with an immense concert (ala Central Park) in front of the Rat Haus or City Hall -- all for free. The featured performers included Bobby McFerrin, the Viennese Philharmonic Orchestra, a famous Austrian musician known for fusing traditional Austrian folk music with Arabic and French influences, and 200 ‘kinder wieners’ (no, not mini sausages, just Viennese kids) doing an interpretive dance on the planets. In typical German/Austrian fashion, the concert was well organized, clean, and thoughtfully laid out so it could be enjoyed by all, with large HD screens showing the concert to the masses and also showing what the concert looked like to the folks watching it live on TV back home. The Rat Haus and the surrounding buildings were lit up in alternating colors, making the already regal buildings look even more spectacular. Of course this is the night I left my camera at home, or else I would have pictures to show you what all of this looked like – words can’t begin to do it justice. Nor will I be able to adequately explain the concert itself. Highlights for me included seeing Bobby McFerrin perform live with the Philharmonic and this Austrian musician, doing his incredible vocal work to imitate instruments during Bach’s Symphony No. 5. It was a bit odd to see him, just because when I think of him I think of his albums from 1986, and I forget that 20 years have passed and he’s aged just like the rest of us. The 200-youth dance troupe performance (in four acts) was quite interesting, and for Todd and the 12-year old in all of us, the highlight was their interpretive dance for the planet Uranus, “The Magician.” Yes, Uranus really is magical.
Following the concert, the eight of us made the easy walk over to the Museums Quartier to grab a drink, and as we started walking it began raining very lightly. With the high humidity and warm summer evening it felt very refreshing, and even a little romantic. And as we walked past the enormous monument to Queen Maria Theresa in the deserted museum square, we saw a temporary pool and fountain set up. Right as we walked beside the fountain, it came alive (momentarily scaring the shit out of all us), and erupted into huge, dramatic waterspouts, alternating in colors and swaying to a silent beat. For those of you who have seen the water show at the Bellagio in Las Vegas, this is the closest thing I can compare it to. We spoke to the technicians and found out that one of the museums was having a private corporate event the following night, and the fountain was part of the entertainment. We got treated to a beautiful dress rehearsal show, and it was even more special because for about half of the people in our group, they had never seen anything like this in their lives.
When we reached our final destination, a little beisl (or beer garden) a few minutes walk from our apartment, we relaxed and the enjoyed the company of the great group of friends we’ve made here. We’re our own mini UN -- hailing from Tanzania, Finland, Spain, Germany, Australia, Ukraine, Italy, and Austria – and I am grateful that I’ve been able to meet these people and develop such fast friendships in a city that is, for most of us, far from home. They’ll never replace the incredible friends we have at home, but they reinforce the universality of the human experience, and that no matter where you are, you can find some kindred souls.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Musings From Staring at a 40-Foot Sausage
It’s remarkable how adaptable we as humans can be. Take us out of one situation, throw us into another, and at least on a basic level we adapt – or sink trying. We’ve been in Vienna for nearly a month now, and it’s surprising how my perceptions of ‘normal’ life have changed or adapted in just 26 days. Like it’s normal to look outside our bedroom window and see a 40-foot tall poster of a sausage adorning our building. It’s normal to walk to the subway each day and pass a half-dozen world heritage sites. And it’s normal for a small load of laundry to take two hours to wash, and normal to not have a dryer to throw the clothes into afterward.
I’ve been having a hot and cold relationship with Vienna this past week, which I’m sure is in part due to the grey, rainy weather we’re having. Basically, while we feel comfortable here, it’s hard to feel at ‘home’ in Vienna. It’s something I’ve been speaking to other colleagues at the UN about – some of whom have worked at the UN for 20 years – and it seems to be a common theme. Part of it is simply cultural differences. For example, if you go into a typical Viennese café or restaurant, don’t be surprised if you wait 10 minutes to get a menu, and another 20 minutes before you can nab a waiter and try to place your order. And don’t even try to get your bill and leave the damn place. It’s part of a laissez-faire attitude where the waiters think they are intruding if they give you what we’d call back home basic customer service. When they do come to see you, they are frequently emotionless and almost cold. Again, it’s part of the non-obtrusive style of service here, but you have to constantly remind yourself of this and remember it’s not rude. It’s just how they are. And in fairness, it isn’t personal. Everyone in the restaurant or café (Austrian or otherwise) is treated the same way. They just don’t seem like the friendliest bunch of people – at least not compared to the States, where you’re accustomed to being greeted with a smile, welcomed, etc. It’s not bad, but simply different, and after a while it makes you a little homesick.
I will say that this isn’t the case in the ethnic food restaurants we’ve been to. In fact, some have demonstrated near heroic levels of friendliness, like the Chinese restaurant we went to during our second week here, where not only was it arguably one of the best Chinese meals I’ve ever had, but the waiter (and later we found out, chef/owner) of the restaurant went through every single item on the menu, using his little bit of English and my tiny bit of German to explain, and smiling the whole time. I’ll admit too that there is something more familiar about ethnic restaurants, which is perhaps why we’ve preferred them. For instance, the Indian dish Lamb Rogan Josh in German is…Lamb Rogan Josh. The same goes for most Japanese and Italian foods.
I can’t say the same for items like ratsherrentopf, which conveniently don’t appear in your German-English language dictionary. At first glance, you might think it is a casserole made of rodents and herrings. Hoping that the German taste for macabre doesn’t extend that far, you try breaking the word down. You know that rathaus means ‘City Hall,’ and herren means ‘men.’ So it’s baked city men? How very Hansel and Gretel. But alas, it’s merely meat stew with potatoes. But of course! As Todd and I often say (and it goes for life in general, not just food), some days it feels like everything is just a little more difficult here.
My Ipod isn’t helping my recent homesickness either. I crave it at times because it connects me to home, but at the same time I get a little depressed when certain songs come on because they are intimately linked with specific memories. I’ve nearly started crying several times when Carole King, James Taylor, and Billy Joel start playing, simply because of the poignant family memories connected with them. Jimmy Buffett’s “Cheeseburger in Paradise” came on the other day and I actually got homesick for a barbeque. I realized I may not get to have one of Gina’s incredible burgers on Justin’s back porch this summer, or bust out the Weber grill on the beach, or have a hot dog in Dad’s backyard. It’s not rational, and I certainly don’t regret for a second our decision to come here, but nonetheless, I get momentary pangs of homesickness.
But then some fantastic audio barbiturate like The Sultans comes on my Ipod (thanks again Jared) and it makes everything ok again. I’ll make do with my wurstel stands and sausages for the next few months, and fondly dream of a cheeseburger in California paradise until then.
Tonight I'm going to a technosoul concert (no, that's not a typo) with my roommate Marlene, and you can sure as hell bet they'll be a post about it in the future. Love to you all!
I’ve been having a hot and cold relationship with Vienna this past week, which I’m sure is in part due to the grey, rainy weather we’re having. Basically, while we feel comfortable here, it’s hard to feel at ‘home’ in Vienna. It’s something I’ve been speaking to other colleagues at the UN about – some of whom have worked at the UN for 20 years – and it seems to be a common theme. Part of it is simply cultural differences. For example, if you go into a typical Viennese café or restaurant, don’t be surprised if you wait 10 minutes to get a menu, and another 20 minutes before you can nab a waiter and try to place your order. And don’t even try to get your bill and leave the damn place. It’s part of a laissez-faire attitude where the waiters think they are intruding if they give you what we’d call back home basic customer service. When they do come to see you, they are frequently emotionless and almost cold. Again, it’s part of the non-obtrusive style of service here, but you have to constantly remind yourself of this and remember it’s not rude. It’s just how they are. And in fairness, it isn’t personal. Everyone in the restaurant or café (Austrian or otherwise) is treated the same way. They just don’t seem like the friendliest bunch of people – at least not compared to the States, where you’re accustomed to being greeted with a smile, welcomed, etc. It’s not bad, but simply different, and after a while it makes you a little homesick.
I will say that this isn’t the case in the ethnic food restaurants we’ve been to. In fact, some have demonstrated near heroic levels of friendliness, like the Chinese restaurant we went to during our second week here, where not only was it arguably one of the best Chinese meals I’ve ever had, but the waiter (and later we found out, chef/owner) of the restaurant went through every single item on the menu, using his little bit of English and my tiny bit of German to explain, and smiling the whole time. I’ll admit too that there is something more familiar about ethnic restaurants, which is perhaps why we’ve preferred them. For instance, the Indian dish Lamb Rogan Josh in German is…Lamb Rogan Josh. The same goes for most Japanese and Italian foods.
I can’t say the same for items like ratsherrentopf, which conveniently don’t appear in your German-English language dictionary. At first glance, you might think it is a casserole made of rodents and herrings. Hoping that the German taste for macabre doesn’t extend that far, you try breaking the word down. You know that rathaus means ‘City Hall,’ and herren means ‘men.’ So it’s baked city men? How very Hansel and Gretel. But alas, it’s merely meat stew with potatoes. But of course! As Todd and I often say (and it goes for life in general, not just food), some days it feels like everything is just a little more difficult here.
My Ipod isn’t helping my recent homesickness either. I crave it at times because it connects me to home, but at the same time I get a little depressed when certain songs come on because they are intimately linked with specific memories. I’ve nearly started crying several times when Carole King, James Taylor, and Billy Joel start playing, simply because of the poignant family memories connected with them. Jimmy Buffett’s “Cheeseburger in Paradise” came on the other day and I actually got homesick for a barbeque. I realized I may not get to have one of Gina’s incredible burgers on Justin’s back porch this summer, or bust out the Weber grill on the beach, or have a hot dog in Dad’s backyard. It’s not rational, and I certainly don’t regret for a second our decision to come here, but nonetheless, I get momentary pangs of homesickness.
But then some fantastic audio barbiturate like The Sultans comes on my Ipod (thanks again Jared) and it makes everything ok again. I’ll make do with my wurstel stands and sausages for the next few months, and fondly dream of a cheeseburger in California paradise until then.
Tonight I'm going to a technosoul concert (no, that's not a typo) with my roommate Marlene, and you can sure as hell bet they'll be a post about it in the future. Love to you all!
Friday, May 4, 2007
Engrisch (Or Part One of the Long-Awaited Fashion Report)
When it comes to fashion, all my life I have thought of Europe as the pinnacle of hip. To me, Europe was always ahead of the times, pushing the envelope and trying new things. I remember packing to travel to Paris five years ago, and a friend said to me, “Whatever you do, don’t bring blue jeans if you want to blend in and not stand out as an American.” And indeed she was right; when we got to Paris I didn’t see a single European wearing jeans.
But like politics, fashion cycles and recycles itself. The days of people behind the Iron Curtain giving their right arm for a pair of Levi’s gave way to the ‘no-denim’ decade of the 1990s. And with the advent of designer jeans, denim is cool in Europe once again, and nearly everyone is wearing it. If indeed the world is flat and we are becoming one global society, you need look no further than at what cover’s people’s behinds.
Each time I come to Europe I’m searching for that fantastic fashion find that says, “I could only get that in Europe.” But instead I find with each trip that there are fewer and fewer differences in what people wear here and what people wear at home. Even the famous fashion chains of Europe – H&M, Zara, etc – have taken root on Yankee soil in the past couple of years. Ah, the reality of globalization.
So I’m a bit surprised by what is the overwhelming trend here today. The epitome of cool in Austria is wearing shirts with English words or phrases spelled out on them, often in an ‘American’ style. You don’t know whether to be flattered or slightly disappointed that the US culture exported by MTV is what people here actually strive to achieve. The great thing about these shirts, however, is that they frequently display what my friend Jesse affectionately calls ‘Engrisch.’ While the words or phrases may be in English, to a native speaker they just don’t make sense – hence, Engrisch. An example would be the shirt Jesse sent me from Japan, which has an abstract flower on it and says in block letters, “So that more people may make love.” True, it’s English, but when you read it you tilt your head to the side, furrow your brow, and think, “Huh?” Or in the particular case of that shirt, you wonder where in the hell you can wear it without garnering the odd stares of strangers.
In Vienna it’s a bit different, since the English language has roots in German and most people here speak at least a tiny bit of English. Instead, you see shirts that just don’t make sense to anyone who is knowledgeable about the US. Memorable shirt phrases have included, “Washington DC Surf Club,” and my sentimental favourite, “San Diego Basketball.” You also see shirts that you hope are actually trying to be funny – like the one I saw yesterday which said at the top, “All Star Team,” and beneath had a picture of a soccer ball. In bold capital letters, proudly encircling the soccer ball were the following words: “Little Boys. Big Balls.”
You just don’t have the heart to tell them that Dick Cheney doesn’t hang ten on the Potomac, or that San Diego hasn’t seen an NBA team since the Reagan administration. And insert your own joke here when it comes to the little boys with big balls shirt. It makes me wonder just how many people back home who have tattoos in Chinese, Japanese Sanskrit, etc really know what their tattoo says.
So today I’ll close and let you ponder your own jokes for t-shirts. Hopefully by the next post I’ll have gotten some of my funny back. There is some sort of cold/flu bug that’s making its way through the UN this week, and it seems like we’re all fighting it. Take care everyone, and auf wiedersehn for now.
But like politics, fashion cycles and recycles itself. The days of people behind the Iron Curtain giving their right arm for a pair of Levi’s gave way to the ‘no-denim’ decade of the 1990s. And with the advent of designer jeans, denim is cool in Europe once again, and nearly everyone is wearing it. If indeed the world is flat and we are becoming one global society, you need look no further than at what cover’s people’s behinds.
Each time I come to Europe I’m searching for that fantastic fashion find that says, “I could only get that in Europe.” But instead I find with each trip that there are fewer and fewer differences in what people wear here and what people wear at home. Even the famous fashion chains of Europe – H&M, Zara, etc – have taken root on Yankee soil in the past couple of years. Ah, the reality of globalization.
So I’m a bit surprised by what is the overwhelming trend here today. The epitome of cool in Austria is wearing shirts with English words or phrases spelled out on them, often in an ‘American’ style. You don’t know whether to be flattered or slightly disappointed that the US culture exported by MTV is what people here actually strive to achieve. The great thing about these shirts, however, is that they frequently display what my friend Jesse affectionately calls ‘Engrisch.’ While the words or phrases may be in English, to a native speaker they just don’t make sense – hence, Engrisch. An example would be the shirt Jesse sent me from Japan, which has an abstract flower on it and says in block letters, “So that more people may make love.” True, it’s English, but when you read it you tilt your head to the side, furrow your brow, and think, “Huh?” Or in the particular case of that shirt, you wonder where in the hell you can wear it without garnering the odd stares of strangers.
In Vienna it’s a bit different, since the English language has roots in German and most people here speak at least a tiny bit of English. Instead, you see shirts that just don’t make sense to anyone who is knowledgeable about the US. Memorable shirt phrases have included, “Washington DC Surf Club,” and my sentimental favourite, “San Diego Basketball.” You also see shirts that you hope are actually trying to be funny – like the one I saw yesterday which said at the top, “All Star Team,” and beneath had a picture of a soccer ball. In bold capital letters, proudly encircling the soccer ball were the following words: “Little Boys. Big Balls.”
You just don’t have the heart to tell them that Dick Cheney doesn’t hang ten on the Potomac, or that San Diego hasn’t seen an NBA team since the Reagan administration. And insert your own joke here when it comes to the little boys with big balls shirt. It makes me wonder just how many people back home who have tattoos in Chinese, Japanese Sanskrit, etc really know what their tattoo says.
So today I’ll close and let you ponder your own jokes for t-shirts. Hopefully by the next post I’ll have gotten some of my funny back. There is some sort of cold/flu bug that’s making its way through the UN this week, and it seems like we’re all fighting it. Take care everyone, and auf wiedersehn for now.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Obituary for an Icon
It is with great sadness that I must report the passing of an icon: the US Dollar. The dollar is best remembered for its long time domination of the global economy, spurring competition amongst its developed and developing peers. The US dollar created several ‘golden ages’ for Americans, most notably after World War II and in the mid to late 1990s. It is survived by a nation struggling with debt, and a need to maintain its competitive edge over developing countries with lower overhead costs.
While skimming the world headlines on Friday, the one that had the largest personal impact on me was the following: “US Dollar at Record Low Against Euro.” For most Americans, this probably had little tangible impact on their everyday life. However, for me and all other Americans living in Europe (and pulling their money from US bank accounts), this meant yet another financial blow over which you have no control. While the drop was relatively slight compared to the week before, the dollar has slipped regularly since this past October. To give you a sense of what this means: in October 2006, $1 would get you 78 cents Euro. Today, you’re lucky to get 72 cents Euro for one US dollar. It may not seem like much, but when you’re talking about hundreds of dollars, the difference adds up.
Austria is a country strangely against the use of credit cards, so you are forced to pay for most things in cash, including such basic necessities as groceries. Consequently, in order to minimize the frequency of my being charged $5 for every ‘outside of network ATM Use’ (thank YOU Wells Fargo!), I have to take out large amounts of cash each time I go to the bankomat (or ATM). To give you a sense of what the exchange rate looks like today, 250 Euros will cost you a whopping $340 – and that’s getting a good exchange rate.
Shortly after I arrived here I remember reading that the Dow Jones hit 12,000, a new milestone. I was so excited, because even though my basic economics education told me otherwise, I thought maybe-- just-maybe-- this will improve the exchange rate against the mighty Euro. It becomes hard to believe we are the economic powerhouse we claim to be when you realize that everything you buy here in fact costs 30% more in your ‘girly-man’ US dollars. Big, big sigh.
So while I work at my ivory UN tower, hoping in some way to make a difference in this world, I selfishly hope against hope that the US market can make a difference in MY financial world, so that I don’t have to say auf wiedersehn to even more of my hard-earned money in order to pursue a lifelong dream. That’s all the complaining you’ll get from me today. I promise the next post won’t be a whiny rant and will hopefully be a bit more on the lighter side. We love and miss you all, and please keep the comments and e-mails coming – they really make my day.
While skimming the world headlines on Friday, the one that had the largest personal impact on me was the following: “US Dollar at Record Low Against Euro.” For most Americans, this probably had little tangible impact on their everyday life. However, for me and all other Americans living in Europe (and pulling their money from US bank accounts), this meant yet another financial blow over which you have no control. While the drop was relatively slight compared to the week before, the dollar has slipped regularly since this past October. To give you a sense of what this means: in October 2006, $1 would get you 78 cents Euro. Today, you’re lucky to get 72 cents Euro for one US dollar. It may not seem like much, but when you’re talking about hundreds of dollars, the difference adds up.
Austria is a country strangely against the use of credit cards, so you are forced to pay for most things in cash, including such basic necessities as groceries. Consequently, in order to minimize the frequency of my being charged $5 for every ‘outside of network ATM Use’ (thank YOU Wells Fargo!), I have to take out large amounts of cash each time I go to the bankomat (or ATM). To give you a sense of what the exchange rate looks like today, 250 Euros will cost you a whopping $340 – and that’s getting a good exchange rate.
Shortly after I arrived here I remember reading that the Dow Jones hit 12,000, a new milestone. I was so excited, because even though my basic economics education told me otherwise, I thought maybe-- just-maybe-- this will improve the exchange rate against the mighty Euro. It becomes hard to believe we are the economic powerhouse we claim to be when you realize that everything you buy here in fact costs 30% more in your ‘girly-man’ US dollars. Big, big sigh.
So while I work at my ivory UN tower, hoping in some way to make a difference in this world, I selfishly hope against hope that the US market can make a difference in MY financial world, so that I don’t have to say auf wiedersehn to even more of my hard-earned money in order to pursue a lifelong dream. That’s all the complaining you’ll get from me today. I promise the next post won’t be a whiny rant and will hopefully be a bit more on the lighter side. We love and miss you all, and please keep the comments and e-mails coming – they really make my day.
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