The Lost Boy

Those of you who either speak or are learning another language will be able to relate when I say that my dreams sometimes include random snatches of either Spanish (which I studied in high school and part of college) or German (which is, of course, the official language in Austria). Shortly before I returned from my Christmas holidays in the U.S., I had a dream that I was back in Austria already and ordering meals, bus tickets, etc. in German. I remember using “bitte” (please) a lot, so though my German is still broken and disjointed, at least it’s polite!

Well, last night my dream included snatches of Spanish. While touring my old elementary school (don’t you hang out in your old elementary school in your dreams? No?), some friends and I encountered a small boy. He was very charming and super cute, with shaggy blond hair and blue eyes, and was apparently lost – being originally from Mexico. Yep. How we deduced that he was from Mexico I’m not sure (because his appearance sure as heck didn’t give it away – he looked like an escapee from an IKEA catalog in Sweden), but we could tell that he didn’t understand much when we spoke to him in English. So I, ever the linguist (ha!), hoped that my Spanish would come back to me and asked, “¿Como estás?”

His reply indicated that he was either a) confused to mental abstraction to find himself in the U.S. when he obviously belonged in Mexico, or b) not really Mexican, but a Swedish IKEA catalog escapee who bravely swam across the cold North Sea and the Atlantic to reach the coast of Georgia, where he hitchhiked several hours inland to take refuge in an elementary school building, and was so exhausted from the journey that he didn’t have the energy to correct our assumption that he was Mexican – because his response to my friendly, “How are you?” was “Cien.” Yes, cien, the Spanish word for “hundred,” which, coincidentally, rhymes with bien, which would have been an appropriate answer to my question. I looked at my friends and muttered, “Yeah, that’s not right. He means bien.” Ah, those crazy IKEA catalog escapees! Always trying to pull a fast one on the world.

Dreamy Geography

Welcome to another edition of Anne's Dreams, Chapter 27. In last night's episode, I was participating in a mission trip team meeting. I believe that the team's destination was Serbia...only this wasn't the Serbia that we all know and love, located in Central East Europe next to Hungary, Romania, and Bulgaria (to name a few border countries; and yes, I had to Google a map of Serbia just now because I couldn't recall its border countries beyond Hungary). When the team leader and I consulted the map to locate Serbia for the team's benefit, we found that Serbia was, in fact, an island located next to Guam...off the southern tip of South America. What? Serbia is an island? What?? Serbia is next to the Pacific Island of Guam?? What??? Serbia and Guam are located off the southern tip of South America??? My geography skills never were that impressive, but even I know that's wrong!

The (Onion Flavored) Body of Christ

The international church that I attend here in Vienna has been a great place to call my church home for the last year or so. The people are warm and welcoming, and I've learned a lot about how diverse the body of Christ is through this family of believers. Since the church has been without a pastor for the past few years, the elders and other church leaders divide weekly responsibilities among themselves, resulting in a delightful blend of unpredictability. Each week it's anyone's guess as to what the service will contain...but it could include an African-style baby dedication with singing and dancing down the aisle, a testimony from a Middle Eastern believer, or a guest musical performance. This unpredictability has given me plenty of opportunities to laugh, as well as to learn flexibility and openness to the different ways the Lord works.

One particular Sunday, the celebration of communion became one of those opportunities. When we were invited to partake of the bread, I put the cracker in my mouth and began to pray, Thank You, Lord, for Your...onion flavored body??? Indeed, the cracker was onion flavored, no doubt due to an oversight on the part of whoever was responsible for buying the communion supplies that week. It was a bit of a challenge to maintain my meditative mood (not to mention my composure) after that.

Requiem in a Dream

As previously stated here on AustriAnne, I have a very active and strange dreamlife. This is something to which I've not only grown accustomed, but is also a pretty reliable form of personal amusement. I felt like I had pretty much experienced it all in terms of dreams - I've dreamt that I was pregnant, married, a murder witness, and even that I was executed. I've woken up screaming, laughing, crying (not real tears, but real sobs), and so angry that I've wanted to punch the offender (who, of course, hadn't done anything in real life). But last night was a new experience for me; I actually composed a poem in my sleep.

In the dream, it was actually a song, but the tune was lost to the mists of my personal dream world. The funniest part is that the poem is basically a marriage proposal to Billy Boyd - the Scottish actor who plays Pippin in "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy. We were riding on a horse through the forest with my sister (yes, all three of us cozily seated on one horse) when I began singing my song of proposal. I was only able to compose part of the song-poem before I woke up, but I got as far as the first stanza:

Billy Boyd, Billy Boyd, why won't you marry me?
I'll be your bride, stand by your side,
For all eternity.

I didn't say that it was actually good poetry. I was never that keen of a poet, even in my waking hours!

Not You, Too!

During my Annual Performance Review with my supervisor yesterday, we were discussing a training process that he'd like to see me involved in. I was nodding intently and tracking our discussion until I heard him say, "Within the next year, I'd like to see you engaged." Say what? He was the last person I'd have expected to take an interest in my love life (or utter lack thereof)! I had a few moments of confusion, during which it seemed likely that I'd say something to the effect of, Whoa, there - back off!, but when his meaning sank in, I started laughing. He meant that he'd like to see me engaged in the training process within the next year, not engaged to be married! And I had wondered if he'd been talking to my mother...

You know you've been single for too long when your boss lists "get engaged" among your 12-month career goals!

Vanity of Vanities...

You have to understand something about me for this entry to make sense. For as long as I can remember, I've been a nail biter. I never really mean to bite my nails, but it just kind of happens when I'm stressed or pensive or annoyed by an odd nail shape - so maybe sometimes I do mean to bite them. In any case, this bad habit means that my nails only have a chance to grow long enough to be painted every several months or so. Then they may stay nice, long, and painted for a couple of weeks until one of them breaks and I cut them short again.

Over a month ago, they grew to the paint-worthy length and, in an unprecedented twist of events, they stayed that way for about a month. I painted them multiple times, trimming and filing them carefully to avoid breaks. I felt like a grown-up woman with my long, painted nails - and found the color on my fingertips somewhat distracting (and sometimes all-absorbing).

Then, a few Sundays ago, I was sitting in church and admiring my lovely pink nails while listening to the sermon. (Though distracted by their loveliness, I really was listening.) I didn't realize the extent of my vanity until the preacher asked, "If Jesus were to walk into church right now, what would He say to us?" The first thought that sprang to my mind was, "I'm pretty sure He'd say, 'Nice nails!'"

At times like this, it seems most appropriate to quote Ecclesiastes: "Vanity of vanities," says the Preacher, "Vanity of vanities! All is vanity" (1:2). But honestly, check out the photo below and tell me if my vanity was unfounded!

Don't judge a book by its cover - or its movie, for that matter

Recently, I literally felt pieces of my literature-loving soul shrivel and die as a friend noted that she had no interest in reading Pride and Prejudice because she didn't like the movie - actually, the first half of the movie, as she had fallen asleep somewhere in the middle. I was tempted to whack her with a copy of the offending novel. But alas, like the U.S., Austria has laws (not to mention social customs) that frown upon physically attacking one's friends in bookshops. In lieu of being arrested for assault and battery with a Jane Austen novel, I opted for a somewhat melodramatic hyperventilation, which succeeded just as well in alerting my friend that something was amiss. I quickly explained that the "I don't want to read the book because I didn't like the movie" excuse was absolutely against the rules. (I didn't specify which rules her declaration violated, but I'm pretty sure there are some standard Literature Statutes that all literate human beings are obligated to uphold.)

It's not that I find it inconceivable that anyone could not like P&P; what raised my hackles was the judgment of a book based solely upon its movie. Though there are numerous film versions of books that I love to watch, I'm not sure that I've ever seen a film version of a book with which I have been fully pleased. There is always some aspect of the plot that has been changed that I don't like, some key character left out, or some symbol that has been totally ignored. I suppose all of this is due to the fact that it is not a screenwriter's purpose to create a perfect rendering of a book in its film version. If you wanted a perfect rendering of the story contained within a book, you'd just read the book.

But therein lies the trouble. Do people read classic literature as much as they used to? It seems to me that these days people are getting their literary educations merely by passively viewing a 90-minute film version of a 300-page novel. When the film ends, they walk away and dispense of the story's beautiful truths and applications along with their empty popcorn containers and candy wrappers. Unless you're a crazy speed reader, you can't read a novel of significant size in 90 minutes. It takes several hours, usually over several days or weeks, to read and comprehend something like that, and it is during that extended period of time that the story and its themes, symbolism, and potential life applications can take root in your soul. Please note here that I am talking of true literature, not just any story that happens to be printed.

Perhaps I feel so strongly about this issue because I have experienced so many "aha" moments during the act of reading literature. I hate to think that we are becoming an illiterate society when it comes to literature (illiterate because we choose to be, not because we lack the ability to read) who are content to let filmmakers and actors interpret beautiful, classic stories for us. What a shame that would be.