There's No Place Like Home

My concept of home has become quite ambiguous over the past few years. Those of you who have lived in multiple locations over the course of your life (especially if one of those locations was outside your home culture) will understand what I mean. They say that "home is where the heart is," but what if pieces of your heart are scattered all over the world? I have left pieces of my heart in various locations worldwide, and I've felt at home in Georgia, Tennessee, Austria, and North Carolina, but today wouldn't classify any one of those places as the one above all others where I feel at home. I've heard from a few different sources that "home is where your stuff is," and that's the definition that I've adopted at this point in my life. For right now, North Carolina is where my stuff is, so it's home. Fair enough.

The concept of home can get particularly tricky when you start talking about a home church. I'm currently "church searching," a process that I have found simultaneously exhausting, encouraging, discouraging, nerve-wracking, and emotional. I've driven away from churches in various moods - cheerful, tearful, somber, and shocked. (The shock came mostly from one church that employed the use of smoke machines during worship. Oh. My. Goodness.) Yesterday, as I drove home from the sixth church I've visited in the Triangle area, I realized that perhaps the reason I'm struggling so much to find a home church is because my definition of HOME is so "squishy" right now. While I don't doubt that the Lord has me in North Carolina for the foreseeable future, and while I deeply value the concept of putting down roots and becoming part of a community of believers here, the uprooting process I went through in leaving Austria is still fresh on my mind (and those roots were only three years old).

With all of that being said, I'm giving myself some grace to let my new roots come in gradually, especially while my soul settles into the fact that North Carolina is home for now. I'm also relearning (and cherishing) the concept that nowhere on this planet was meant to be my eternal home. The Lord is my Home, and He never changes, though my physical location may change a dozen more times before my life is over. He is the safest place in which to put down roots, and I trust that, in His timing, He'll show me the right church family to join as I walk through this part of my journey.

Shocking Blue Mouths

Overall, Vienna is one of the safest cities that I’ve ever experienced. As in all cities, however, there are certain parts that I wouldn’t venture into by myself. Karlsplatz, a main U-bahn (underground/metro) station, is one of those places that I tried to avoid as much as possible. It just seems to be a magnet for the unsavory…if you’re going to be pickpocketed in Vienna, it’s most likely going to happen at Karlsplatz, and the lower level of the station (aka the underbelly) is a popular hangout for drug addicts.

The Karlsplatz drug addicts are easy to spot for a number of reasons. First of all, there’s their location – the druggies like to hang out right across from the Starbucks where the U3 and U4 lines intersect. (Why they chose to put a Starbucks in the underbelly of Karlsplatz is beyond me…but that’s another story for another time.) Secondly, there’s their bizarre behavior and dress. And then there are the blue mouths. Apparently, there’s a popular drug in the area that turns your mouth (lips, tongue, the whole shebang) blue when you use it – as if the user has sucked on about 35 Electric Blue Raspberry Fruit Roll-Ups simultaneously.

Needless to say, when my travels did take me through the underbelly of Karlsplatz, I kept my bag close, my eyes forward, and my stride purposeful. It also helped that my understanding of German was quite limited…so even if a druggie had addressed me (which none ever did, to my knowledge), I could easily ignore him/her.

Fast forward to the 4^th of July this year, after I had moved back to the States. I was celebrating the 4^th at a Braves baseball game with my dad, sister, and almost two-year-old nephew. Being a toddler means having a relatively short attention span, so the three adults took turns taking my nephew for walks around the stadium when he got antsy. On my walk with him, as we wended our way through the crowds (and of course stopped to inspect trashcans, giant baseballs that comprise the stadium décor, and other things that captivate a two-year-old), I began to get a vague feeling of unease that almost began mounting to panic. I noticed a number of people around us –mostly teens and tweens – with blue mouths. What is going on?! I thought. These kids are so young…where did they get the drugs?? I thought Turner Field was family friendly!

It was then that I had the “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” moment. It wasn’t drugs that were turning the kids' mouths blue...it was blue snowcones! Welcome back to the land of artificial colors and food dyes, Anne! The only thing these kids are ODing on is sugar.

A Random Request

One day in recent history, a summer intern and I were visiting the botanical gardens at UNC Chapel Hill. An old log cabin that was once the home of playwright, botanical enthusiast, and North Carolina native Paul Green sits on the garden property. It seems a little random, but inside the cabin visitors can read about different plants that were native to the cabin's original location and their various uses, so it has botanical ties.

Soon after entering the cabin, we were joined by a young family with two small children. They sat down on the benches in the cabin and talked as Kate and I read about Persimmon Beer and other interesting uses for local plants.

All of a sudden, Kate and I heard the dad say to his children, "Maybe these two ladies will sing for us."

"Maybe we'll WHAT?" I thought. As soon as they walked in, I was totally prepared to take a family picture for them, but a request to sing was quite unexpected. Dad, however, asked if we knew "Baa Baa Black Sheep," and so, realizing that we couldn't gracefully excuse ourselves, I turned to Kate and said, "Well, ready for a duet?"

Then, standing in the middle of a 19th century cabin that now sits in a botanical garden, four adults broke into "Baa Baa Black Sheep." (To my relief, the parents didn't expect a duet and jumped right into the song...which all four of us sang in pretty perfect unison, I might add.)

When our song ended, the parents explained that the kids had been singing the song all the way to the botanical gardens and had apparently just requested it again (I hadn't heard the kids' request, only the dad's). I laughed and said that I have a 21-month-old nephew and know that you just have to roll with the whimsy of a kid.

As we walked away and I was trying my hardest not to laugh, I reminded myself that I am once again living in the South, where people are more open about sharing certain parts of their lives with friends and strangers alike. At the same time, the random request struck me as odd...which has since been confirmed by other southerners to whom I have told the story.

So, future note to self and all my readers - if a small family requests that you sing them a song, it's strange (though funny), not southern!

Video Tour of my NC Apartment

For any interested parties, here's an 8-minute tour of my new space in North Carolina. (Yes, eight minutes...apparently, I love to blab about my living space.) Enjoy!



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The Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of Transition

The dust is beginning to settle. Now that I have successfully arrived in North Carolina and begun my new position with TWR's HR department, I find myself looking around and wondering, "How did I get here? Is this really my new reality?"

On some level I'm quite happy to be here, but I'm also sad not to be there. I enjoy telling people about my new little apartment and what the transition has been like thus far, but I also grow sick of talking about it. (It's kind of like when you're at Freshman Orientation at college, and everyone wants to know where you're from and what your intended major is. After a while, you just get tired of talking about it, even though you're thrilled that people are interested.) I want to establish roots, make friends, and be invited out places, but I also just want to go home, curl up in the fetal position, and be alone.

It's almost like I am my own strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. My Dr. Jekyll is all smiles, nice-to-meet-you-yes-it's-great-to-be-heres, and thinking that he (she) should start making some social plans and setting up lunches out. My Mr. Hyde, on the other hand, is wildly emotional, anti-social, and full of I-can't-believe-I've-uprooted-my-life-AGAIN self-pity. It's that strange beast of transition, I'm afraid. No matter how many times you deal with it, it just can't be tamed, though it seems to behave for some better than others.

Don't read this and think that I'm cracking up or in the "depths of despair," as Anne Shirley would say. Most of you (probably those of you who have been through a major transition in recent times) will just realize that I'm being honest. There will come a day when Dr. Jekyll will be seen (or felt) more often than Mr. Hyde. It's just that today is not that day. I have hope that "the day" will come sooner rather than later, but in the meantime I'll take one day at a time and live in the fullness of God's grace.

Somewhere, Someone's Life is Normal

During the course of my relatively extensive travels, I have always found it soothing to observe people going about their normal lives. When I am in a foreign country, outside of my normal schedule and perhaps even outside of my comfort zone, I love to see people shopping for groceries, children returning from school, business people going about their daily office routines, and families visiting friends in the evening. While my life, however temporarily, has assumed an element of the unfamiliar (which is simultaneously scary and thrilling and is one of the reasons that I love to travel), I take comfort in the fact that somewhere, someone's life is still functioning normally.

While I myself may not be entirely "normal" (please no comments from the Peanut Gallery), my life is relatively normal, even if I have been living in a foreign country for the past three years. Now that I'm in the process of transitioning from life in Austria to life back in the U.S., life is anything but normal. Crazy, yes. Distracted and disjointed, most definitely. Both exciting and sad, you betcha. But normal? You must be smoking something.

Despite the unsettling process of re-settling, however, I take infinite comfort in knowing that somewhere, someone's life is normal. So the next time you (or I, for that matter!) are feeling a bit dissatisfied with a seemingly boring life, remember that somewhere, someone's glad that your life is functioning normally!

As Nature Intended

There's this driving school in the town where I work. It's housed in a mint green building and, for reasons known only to the school's designers, their mascot is a cow who stands outside the building with the school's logo painted on her side. I have no idea what cows have to do with driving, but at least Bossy makes a good landmark and conversation piece.

The funny thing about this cow is that it has, within the last year or so, had some pretty significant surgery. It originally had both large horns and udders, which I initially thought was a sign of major gender confusion. Then I started reading The Pioneer Woman and realized the female cows can have both horns and udders. How's a girl from the suburbs supposed to know these things? Sesame Street should address these kinds of issues so that children growing up in the suburbs don't make fools out of themselves as adults due to their lack of bovine knowledge.

In any case, many months ago, during one of our frequent bouts of wind and rain, the Driving School Cow toppled over, dislodging one of her (rather large - I still maintain that the horns were too large for a female cow) horns. There were a few pathetic and asymmetrical months in which the poor cow sported only one horn - and in which the children of the town once again began believing in unicorns.

Then, whether by man's design or the power of the elements, the second horn later disappeared, leaving behind a sedate-looking, hornless cow who continues to serve as the driving school mascot...albeit a mascot who kind of looks like she has brain matter oozing out of holes above her ears. Don't worry, readers with delicate sensibilities, it's not really brain matter - just some sort of foamy adhesive.


And that's no bull.

The Mystery of St. Michael's

There are over one hundred churches in the Vienna area, of which I've been to maybe fifteen. One of my favorites of the fifteen I've been to, however, is St. Michael's. It's old and dark, and it has this extraordinarily beautiful altarpiece depicting the archangel Michael and the angels throwing down Satan and his angels, while the eye of God watches over the scene. There's just such a feeling of victory in the altar, and the action and movement that is captured in the sculptured stone is breathtaking.



I love the worshipful atmosphere in St. Michael's, and another favorite aspect was that I always seemed to visit when the choir was practicing. The gentle Gregorian chant and choral music, which seemed to float out of one of the back chambers as if out the mists of a time long past, heightened the feeling of solemn awe that you feel when visiting a beautiful old place of worship.

St. Michael's was always part of my Vienna tour when I had visitors, and I always hoped that the choir would be practicing when I took my visitors inside, and it usually was. Because I am usually in Vienna on the weekends, it made sense that St. Michael's choir would be practicing on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon in one of the church's back rooms.

At least two years passed. Then, during one routine visit, as I was soaking up the atmosphere and reveling in the beautiful sounds of the choir's singing, it suddenly occurred to me how incredibly lucky I was that the choir always seemed to be practicing when I visited. My heart sank a little bit...and then I saw it.


At the foot of one of the statues beside the altar.


A CD player. For over two years, I had been convinced that the hard-working choir of St. Michael's practiced constantly, and that I always lucked out in timing my visit to overlap with their practice time. I was incredibly disappointed - and more than a little sheepish - to discover that the "choir" was really a CD on repeat!

March Comes in Like a Lion...

So, there's that expression that March comes in like a lion and leaves like a lamb. But the pressing question, especially for this year that has been so ridiculously full of snow even as we approach Easter, is what if the lion EATS the lamb? Inquiring minds (and shivering bodies) want to know.

Much Depends Upon a Handshake

Shaking hands by way of greeting is an important practice in Austria, whether you're greeting people in a business or a more intimate setting. As a general rule, Austrians are good hand shakers, according to my personal standards, which include the following characteristics: good hand contact - palm to palm, with fingers grasping the edges of the palm; a firm - but not tight - grip; and one or two controlled pumps up and down. I developed these personal guidelines long before I moved to the Land of Handshakes, and I've even begun classifying the different types of handshakes. For example...

The Limp Fish. We've all experienced this one! You reach to shake someone's hand and are offered something that is more akin to a limp, spineless fish. Though I'm sure it's all in my head, this handshake usually communicates one of two things to me: 1/ I'm a lily-livered wimp afraid of my own shadow and particularly of this handshake. 2/ I just don't care enough to put any effort into shaking your hand. Here, take this limp fish instead.

The Handcuff. I recently discovered this type; it's when the hand-shaker grabs your wrist instead of your hand. It's an awkward one, to be sure, and reminds me of the TV series "Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman" - Sully and Cloud Dancing greeted each other by grasping forearms, a practice I always found hilarious. So, unless implementers of The Handcuff are Cheyenne Indians, I'm just not sure why they would choose to go this route.

The Vice, The Wringer, or The Squeeze. Few things are more uncomfortable than having your hand wrung by someone who doesn't know his or her own strength. This is most common among men (though I have met some women who do this) and can communicate enthusiasm or just outright brute strength. These aren't necessarily bad qualities, but they CAN end in pain. For the love of all small-handed people - less pressure, please!

The Pump. This is the handshake that practically knocks you off your feet with its vigorous up-and-down movement. Again, this can communicate enthusiasm, which is fine, but it can also communicate hyperactivity or an overdose of caffeine. Rein it in, people! Our arm fat jiggles quite enough without your pump.

The Prima Donna. Instead of offering his/her hand, the implementer of The Prima Donna only offers fingers. Fingers! It hardly even qualifies as a handshake - it's more like a fingershake, really, and who's ever heard of those? The Prima Donna could potentially communicate a Sovereign Complex ("You may kiss the royal hand, peasant"), Germaphobia ("The less of your hand I touch, the beter!"), or, like The Limp Fish, a general lack of interest in shaking hands at all.

I'm sure there are other handshakes out there that I have yet to experience and classify (for which you, my three readers, are probably grateful). I realize that cataloging these kind of subtle social interactions is one of my personal quirks, but we've all got those. Next time on Things That Don't Matter, I'll outline my Rules of Winking!

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.