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!
27 April 2010
18 April 2010
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 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.
04 April 2010
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!
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!
16 March 2010
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.
22 February 2010
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 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!
19 January 2010
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.
17 November 2009
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!
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