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.

Dream Lover

Anyone who knows me relatively well can tell you that I tend to have odd dreams. I chalk it up to an overactive imagination, which is fun and convenient during waking hours, and but can wreak havoc in the middle of the night. Just ask any of the girls who were on a houseboat with me during my youth group's summer retreat in 1997. Let's just say that the middle-of-the-night episode in question began with a dream about a large snake, included lots of screaming (first on my part, then on everyone's part as each sleepy mind created its own fantastic reason for my screams), and ended in complete and utter chaos until our counselors could get us calm and back to sleep.

When my dreams don't involve giant reptiles, they've been known to include uncovering terrorist plots of which Emma Thompson is the mastermind, purchasing rodents for a meal who were such foul creatures that their souls had to be sucked out before consumption, and so many marriages to different mystery grooms (whose faces I never seem to see) that I must live in Utah in my dreams.

One of my most recent dreams touched on the grisly topic of murder. Though most of the details were lost, thankfully, to the mists of whatever dreamworld I inhabit (is it misty in Utah?), I distinctly remember kneeling next to the murder victim and weeping uncontrollably. What I didn't realize at the time (and didn't recall until the next morning) was that the murder victim was Junior Asparagus. Yes, Junior Asparagus from Veggie Tales. Needless to say, this recollection turned an intense dream into an intense fit of giggles. Thank goodness for a crazy, overactive imagination can turn scary dreams on their heads!

Nicknamed Neighbors

One of the charms of living in a small town and maintaining a consistent morning routine is seeing the same people in and around my town on a regular basis. Since I don’t know their names, I give them nicknames and sometimes invent little histories for them to amuse myself as I make my way to the bus stop.

For instance, I often ride the morning bus with Bright Eyes and Google Eyes, a middle-aged couple that boards a few stops after me. Since they didn’t seem to be a couple when I first began seeing them, my romantic notions strongly suspect them of falling in love at that very bus stop. As they waited there morning after morning for the ever-late bus to arrive, casual conversation turned into love. It’s sweet, really. In any case, Bright Eyes is so-called because her eyes always seem alert, cheerful, and smiling. Google Eyes earned his rather snarky nickname because his eyes are slightly bugged, an unfortunate feature which is sadly enhanced by his glasses.

On occasion I encounter a grey-haired lady who walks with serious purpose (i.e. really fast). I call her The Grey Comet. If I ride the bus at a certain time, I’m sure to encounter Pippi Cellphone, so named for her (dyed) red hair that is usually braided and a mobile phone that seems to have been surgically attached to her right ear. And almost every morning, I exchange a friendly greeting of “Morgen!” (Good morning) with Herr Morgen, the man who owns the small fruit and vegetable store on my street.

But my favorite Nicknamed Neighbors by far are the couple that I encounter most mornings shortly after I emerge onto the street from my flat. She is Tall Blond Woman, or TBW (the nickname and abbreviation are a nod to the TV series Psych). TBW is always smartly dressed and walks in the direction of the train station. After repeated encounters with her, I discovered that she lives in a building up the street from me, just past Herr Morgen’s fruit and vegetable store. TBW is most often accompanied by an equally tall, balding, bespectacled British man, Lover Jack (kind of like the Union Jack, only not). Lover Jack is enshrouded in mystery. It’s not yet determinable if he is, indeed, TBW’s boyfriend, if he actually lives in Austria or just visits TBW from time to time, or if he is perhaps merely a work colleague who happens to live in the same building as TBW.

In any case, TBW and Lover Jack are living proof that fiction is more romantic than reality. Many mornings as I see them walking towards me, the Snarky Narrator Who Lives in My Head will invent little lovers’ dialogues for them. Lover Jack will say, “You walk with the grace of a gazelle, darling TBW.” At which comment TBW will blush becomingly and make some demure reply about how his love has a positive affect upon her posture. In reality, however, the snatches of conversation that I hear as the pair pass by are far from romantic. More often than not, Lover Jack is discussing some item of business. I’ve heard such thrilling comments as, “If you scan the entire e-mail…” Nevertheless, there are times when the Snarky Narrator Who Lives in My Head has the distinct impression that, though Lover Jack may wax eloquent on the most boring of topics, TBW finds his monologues as gloriously melodic as love sonnets. But alas, fiction is, indeed, more romantic than reality, as was demonstrated on one particular morning of note.

I had just left my building and begun my walk up the street when I spied TBW and Lover Jack in what at first glance appeared to be a tender moment. They had paused on the sidewalk and she had her hand on his face. The Snarky Narrator Who Lives in My Head immediately began a lovers’ dialogue (“I just love you SO much!”) and I chuckled inwardly. As they continued walking, however, I realized that the assumption that I had witnessed a romantic moment couldn’t have been further from the truth. Just as I passed the couple, I overheard TBW say, “Ah, so you have been picking your scabs?” Apparently, TBW had been wiping blood from Lover Jack’s face and romance had nothing to do with it. Though I didn’t let loose with the raucous laughter that was bubbling just beneath the surface, I couldn’t repress a few giggles as I continued on my way to the bus stop.

Stay tuned for future musings on my Nicknamed Neighbors!

Sweden: The Promised Land of Europe

I recently enjoyed my second trip to the city of Gothenburg, Sweden, where a friend and her husband live. After listening to Herta's descriptions of Sweden from her visits before she moved there to get married, I dubbed it "the Promised Land."

"The stores are open on Sundays in Sweden? Herta, it's the Promised Land!" I would exclaim, as I imagined what it must be like to be able to do your shopping on a Sunday. (All stores except those at major train stations and the airport are closed on Sunday in Austria.)

My first visit to Sweden in January confirmed my already firm belief in its Promised Land-ness. Not only are stores open on Sunday, but there are so many 7-Elevens that you'd think you were in a U.S. city, and Ben and Jerry's ice cream is available in many stores. Add on top of that the fact that most Swedes are very friendly and happy to speak English with you, and you might as well add Sweden to the list of Top 10 Best Ever Places to Live in Europe. And, as the crowning cherry to the hot fudge sundae that IS Sweden, I discovered a delightful new breakfast dish on the breakfast buffet at my hotel: plain/natural yogurt topped with crunchy cereal and honey. Does it GET more Promised Land than that?

While I'm perfectly happy in Austria, which has its own perks and lovely cultural aspects, it's like a breath of fresh air to visit a place that has some of the creature comforts that I miss from home, as well as a people that I would venture to say are even more genuinely friendly and helpful than my well-loved South (southeastern U.S., that is). Austrians, while noted for their cozy wine taverns and cafes, aren't exactly known for great customer service (and I've heard Austrians say so; this isn't a snobbish ex-pat sentiment).

So, Sweden, I hereby dub thee the Promised Land of Europe! May you continue to bear your title well.

Holy Radioactivity, Batman!

While waiting to board the U-bahn (metro, subway - whatever you call it in your country) one afternoon last summer, I saw a disembarking man wearing an armband indicating that he was blind. If you’re not familiar with the symbol for blindness, it’s a yellow background with three black dots arranged in a triangle…and could be mistaken, at first glance, for the warning for radioactive materials. I’ll give you two guesses as to which way I interpreted it. I experienced a few seconds of panic and almost screamed, “Everyone evacuate! He's radioactive!” before being told that he was simply blind, not radioactive. Good thing I was with people who knew such things!

Shh…the statues are sleeping!

Many towns in Austria have plague memorials, which were commissioned in the 17th century by the current emperor after the tide of Bubonic plague swept through Austria (and Europe), claiming hundreds of thousands of lives. The memorials undergo restoration periodically to keep them as fresh-looking as monuments constructed in the 17th century can look. When the plague memorial in the town where I work was being restored, a number of humorous scenarios ensued. The figures adorning the memorial were all removed and cleaned apart from the monument base. On the day that the cupids were being reassembled on the monument, I happened to be walking past and witnessed a touching scene. Cradling a stone cupid like an exceptionally heavy baby, one bulky construction worker passed the statue to his equally burly colleague. I half-expected to hear them humming a lullaby.

About a week later, I saw an open-bed truck parked beside the memorial. I did a double take, then laughed aloud. Several of the larger statues were strapped into the truck bed, cushioned by mattresses. Some were standing upright against the back of the cab with ropes tied around them like seatbelts, their mournful faces turned heavenward. Others were lying down in the truck bed atop the mattresses, and I had to repress the urge to hiss, “Shhh! The statues are sleeping!”