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!