Some good places to eat are emerging from the dark of our neighborhood. Saturday evening we went to the Grinzing Brau (mit umlaut over the a). Not so large as many of the beer gardens in the village, it sits on an island between two busy lanes of traffic. We sat at a wooden table in a small, graveled outdoor area--many more tables are inside--tolerating the traffic passing continually because we are aware that the season for dining outdoors will end soon. Just beyond our dusky, leafy seating area, large buses debouched tourists, mostly Japanese, but several European groups also. As they flowed off the bus, they eddied in the street and on the sidewalk before reforming as a wider stream and rolling into one of the beer gardens we had tried earlier, one whose fare is primarily pork and potatoes prepared at least a day before.
Although Viennese passing on the sidewalk never make eye contact with us when we are pedestrians, some force compels them to stare intensely when they walk past outdoor dining areas. They do not look at the food, but at the diners. Meeting their gaze does not dissuade them, and their heads turn relentlessly as they maintain their scrutiny until their steps carry them beyond the dining area. Although I thought of opening my mouth and sticking out my tongue with half-chewed food, I was distracted from that thought by two musicians, the best we have heard thus far. The sole diners in the outdoor area, we were treated to beautiful waltz music by a violinist and an accordion player. When the piece ended, I offered several coins to the violinist--who dumped them all back in my hand, saying that he could not accept them because we had not requested them to play. Such a thing could not happen in Rome, where itinerant musicians wish they could assault diners and go through their pockets.
Our dinner was very much to our satisfaction. We started with steins of beer and a slice of bread cut lengthwise and topped with a pasty, spicy, tomato-based spread with a touch of smoked sweet pepper. While Linda had homemade noodles in sauce, with bits of ham, I found a non-pork entree with grilled vegetables. I opted for lamb with the reasoning that cute, small creatures associated with innocence tend to taste really good, and two fine lammwurste (sausages) arrived, arced like large red calipers around a tossed mass of zucchini, red onion, red and yellow peppers, broccoli, and the inevitable potatoes (though just a few, boiled and bite-sized). All of it had been sauteed in a smoky-flavored oil. Presentation is everything. Lovely, we agreed, and we had no room for dessert.
Festival of the Tuber
One evening recently Linda and I were sitting on the sofa, surfing tv. We paused at a scene that showed a man in a chef's hat dumping a bushel of peeled potatoes into a vat. We thought we might have stumbled onto a gourmet cooking show. Soon he was dumping more and more such baskets; finally, he stepped back to talk to a reporter and admire the bubbling cauldron. Next, three or four men extracted the boiled potatoes and put them through huge ricers and then into a device like a giant food processor, which churned away until it brimmed with mashed potatoes. They then shoveled the mass into a brown mold half the size of a VW Beetle and itself shaped like a potato. Beaming, they carted it off to a waiting crowd, some of whom had already lined up with plates. The festival host, with the care of a physician doing a cesarean section, slit open the giant potato and began spooning gobs of it onto the plates of queued-up diners--and in some cases directly into their cupped hands. Looking like delighted children, each person began eating as soon as served, some using spoons and others just using two and three fingers, shoveling the delicacy in as quickly as it was emerging from the big brown womb. And so the happy scene ended. We hope that on New Year's Eve we can witness the Dropping of the Potato from the spire of St Stephen's or some similar edifice downtown.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
This Lime Tree Bower My Prison
Our building, a huge gray, three-story structure with multiple angles and corners, houses nine spacious apartments. For a city known for its low crime rate, residences have an inordinate amount of physical security--sturdy, high fences and locked gates, and high screens of mature trees. A 6'-high fence of gray stone, cement, and green metal bars surrounds our building. We enter first through a locked gate near the street. From there we walk past overgrown, knee-length weedy flowerbeds down a brick walk dappled with brown slugs and gorgeous gray-white snails until we reach our building's lobby entrance, a small foyer holding the apartment mailboxes. Proceeding through through this door to another locked door, we ascend to the third floor and another lock, this one on our own door.
Although we notice signs of life in our building such as umbrellas leaning against doorjambs, an elevator door hissing closed, or a morning newspaper on a mat, we have laid eyes on none but our neighbors down the hall, whom we met the day we arrived, when the two of them burst upon us and asked our names. They are from Syria, the man told us, and have lived in Vienna for 50 years; I am guessing that they are Jewish and, although I would not say they were refugees, they most likely emigrated because of the religion I imagine them to have (as I enter the second tier of speculation). The husband speaks thickly accented English; it is unclear whether his wife speaks it or any other language, though she is excellent at nodding. Although he asked our names, he did not offer his or his wife's, and when I requested their names he seemed not to understand. Both are elderly, frail, and elfin; he stood under the hallway light with wild bouffant white hair and bright blue eyes full of energy, and she by their doorway in the shadows--with a high, multicolored, feral-looking hair-do, she stood in a floor-length housedress, wearing an expression that was welcoming yet made me think there might be a cauldron in her kitchen. Their faces are ridged with friendly ruts and wrinkles. "Haff a trink of vine viss us," he said as he shut the door in parting. Other than a moment two weeks later when he was hanging a sign on the apartment building door about a broken lock, neither Linda nor I have seen either of them since. We know they are there only by the small, fetid bags of citrus carcasses that they set outside their door for long periods before conveying them to the trash bin in front of our building. It's quiet and the building often has a deserted feel to it. In Vienna it is against the law to make noise in your residence that can be heard outside it after 10 p.m. on weekdays and, with the exception of Saturday morning, throughout the weekend. We can live with that.
The Rest of the Social Gallimaufry
Now and again the tram rides present an opportunity to make a new acquaintance, but nothing yet that I want to take advantage of. I ride the same ram line often enough that I am beginning to recognize a number of my fellow passengers. On Sunday when Linda and I were heading down to see the Hapsburg palace apartments, I recognized a woman whom I had seen on three previous occasions. She is tall and slender, aged 73 (as she told another passenger in my hearing); she looks prosperous and is fashionably dressed. She always sports a hat, and on this late-morning ride she had on a large straw flophat, its brim fashionably contoured in accenting curves, and sunglasses, looking like Norma Desmond in the 1940s(?) movie Sunset Strip. Her habit is to sit on one side of the car and ask the nearest young man across the aisle to open the tram window above her head. This is always the opening in her conversational gambit. Her English is fluent, and when she strikes up a conversation with a non-local rider, it is in that language since, it seems, most European and Asian visitors here know at least some English and use it if they don't know German. Her questions, punctuated with deep uh-uh-uh-uh forced laughs, soon become plentiful and personal--as in asking their ages and those of family members, why people are in town, and what their occupations are; she talks about her children, who live in distant cities. I suspect she rides the tram in and out of the town center several times a day; upon arrival at Schottentur station, she wanders the nearby rose garden--where I have twice seen her--returns home, and a bit later once again gets the tram to the center. She wears a set of diamonds on her left hand and is, I am guessing, a widow--and obviously lonely. Seeing her makes my thoughts drift not just to Sunset Strip but to Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? ...and to other people desperate to re-create a past that those around them can never share. My thoughts drift, too, to people I have run into at other times in my life, including a 50-ish woman at Embassy Rome who used to tell any stranger in line at the cafeteria about her divorce and miscarriages. I am sorry for them, but I will never make eye contact with her or her avatars.
And...
I shall probably blog little about our American acquaintances and potential good friends to be made here, because, in part, they seem to be in a separate compartment from our experience of the local culture, even as they are very much a part of our Vienna world. I am inclined to leave them their privacy. But not wishing to leave that part of our experience a total blank...
On Saturday, we met several of Linda's co-workers and their families at a dinner and Austrian wine - tasting event hosted by two couples. We have also met one of Linda's counterparts from another Embassy office, and with her we enjoyed an "Italian" restaurant in the city center. (We have had some additional good leads on good restaurants and will follow up on them in the weekends ahead.) I must also mention two new acquaintances who have been our cultural, social, and culinary guides. When we arrived on July 23, our sponsors were assiduous in making sure we settled in as comfortably as possible. They drove us to large grocery, electronics, and housewares stores to get supplies, and they showed us some of the eccentricities involved in local shopping and getting around on public transportation, as well as sharing restaurant dinners with us on a couple of occasions. We could not have asked for a more generous, thorough introduction to our new lives here.
Although we notice signs of life in our building such as umbrellas leaning against doorjambs, an elevator door hissing closed, or a morning newspaper on a mat, we have laid eyes on none but our neighbors down the hall, whom we met the day we arrived, when the two of them burst upon us and asked our names. They are from Syria, the man told us, and have lived in Vienna for 50 years; I am guessing that they are Jewish and, although I would not say they were refugees, they most likely emigrated because of the religion I imagine them to have (as I enter the second tier of speculation). The husband speaks thickly accented English; it is unclear whether his wife speaks it or any other language, though she is excellent at nodding. Although he asked our names, he did not offer his or his wife's, and when I requested their names he seemed not to understand. Both are elderly, frail, and elfin; he stood under the hallway light with wild bouffant white hair and bright blue eyes full of energy, and she by their doorway in the shadows--with a high, multicolored, feral-looking hair-do, she stood in a floor-length housedress, wearing an expression that was welcoming yet made me think there might be a cauldron in her kitchen. Their faces are ridged with friendly ruts and wrinkles. "Haff a trink of vine viss us," he said as he shut the door in parting. Other than a moment two weeks later when he was hanging a sign on the apartment building door about a broken lock, neither Linda nor I have seen either of them since. We know they are there only by the small, fetid bags of citrus carcasses that they set outside their door for long periods before conveying them to the trash bin in front of our building. It's quiet and the building often has a deserted feel to it. In Vienna it is against the law to make noise in your residence that can be heard outside it after 10 p.m. on weekdays and, with the exception of Saturday morning, throughout the weekend. We can live with that.
The Rest of the Social Gallimaufry
Now and again the tram rides present an opportunity to make a new acquaintance, but nothing yet that I want to take advantage of. I ride the same ram line often enough that I am beginning to recognize a number of my fellow passengers. On Sunday when Linda and I were heading down to see the Hapsburg palace apartments, I recognized a woman whom I had seen on three previous occasions. She is tall and slender, aged 73 (as she told another passenger in my hearing); she looks prosperous and is fashionably dressed. She always sports a hat, and on this late-morning ride she had on a large straw flophat, its brim fashionably contoured in accenting curves, and sunglasses, looking like Norma Desmond in the 1940s(?) movie Sunset Strip. Her habit is to sit on one side of the car and ask the nearest young man across the aisle to open the tram window above her head. This is always the opening in her conversational gambit. Her English is fluent, and when she strikes up a conversation with a non-local rider, it is in that language since, it seems, most European and Asian visitors here know at least some English and use it if they don't know German. Her questions, punctuated with deep uh-uh-uh-uh forced laughs, soon become plentiful and personal--as in asking their ages and those of family members, why people are in town, and what their occupations are; she talks about her children, who live in distant cities. I suspect she rides the tram in and out of the town center several times a day; upon arrival at Schottentur station, she wanders the nearby rose garden--where I have twice seen her--returns home, and a bit later once again gets the tram to the center. She wears a set of diamonds on her left hand and is, I am guessing, a widow--and obviously lonely. Seeing her makes my thoughts drift not just to Sunset Strip but to Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? ...and to other people desperate to re-create a past that those around them can never share. My thoughts drift, too, to people I have run into at other times in my life, including a 50-ish woman at Embassy Rome who used to tell any stranger in line at the cafeteria about her divorce and miscarriages. I am sorry for them, but I will never make eye contact with her or her avatars.
And...
I shall probably blog little about our American acquaintances and potential good friends to be made here, because, in part, they seem to be in a separate compartment from our experience of the local culture, even as they are very much a part of our Vienna world. I am inclined to leave them their privacy. But not wishing to leave that part of our experience a total blank...
On Saturday, we met several of Linda's co-workers and their families at a dinner and Austrian wine - tasting event hosted by two couples. We have also met one of Linda's counterparts from another Embassy office, and with her we enjoyed an "Italian" restaurant in the city center. (We have had some additional good leads on good restaurants and will follow up on them in the weekends ahead.) I must also mention two new acquaintances who have been our cultural, social, and culinary guides. When we arrived on July 23, our sponsors were assiduous in making sure we settled in as comfortably as possible. They drove us to large grocery, electronics, and housewares stores to get supplies, and they showed us some of the eccentricities involved in local shopping and getting around on public transportation, as well as sharing restaurant dinners with us on a couple of occasions. We could not have asked for a more generous, thorough introduction to our new lives here.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
At the Hair Schnitters
Even we bald people like to get a good haircut. Putting aside my fear that I might exit from the friseur (hair salon) looking like a neo-Nazi skinhead, I walked up to Anne's and, looking in the glass, opened the door with tentativeness, fearing the people within would regard me as if I were trying to enter the women's locker room. Hairspray and estrogen hung in the air like steam from a shower. Although the sign out front indicated the salon was for men as well as women, I wasn't so sure: the feminine mystique was palpable. The work stations were five bedroom vanity tables all in a row, thrust up against the wall, each table with a mirror. In front of each table was a wooden, low-backed chair, and in each sat an elderly or middle-aged woman having her hair done by another middle-aged woman.
All eyes turned to me. My mouth dried as Anne (I think) stepped back from teasing a skinny tower of blonde hair and approached me. "Sprechen sie Englisch?" I asked softly, my voice shrinking back inside me in fear and embarrassment. "Ein bischen" (a little), she replied--just what I say when someone asks me whether I speak German. Together, with a mix of language bits and gestures, we established the schnitt: using the distance indicated by thumb and forefinger for side length, a finger-line to indicate a slight raising of the sideburns, and the near-miss gesture of palm skimming over pate to indicate trimming off the few solitary hairs on top that stand like teeny, isolated telephone poles in the North Dakota landscape. The plan complete, Anne called over one of her hair dressers and rehearsed in German what my schnitt was to consist of. Next, shooing me with her hands as if I were a small child, Anne ushered me into an adjacent room with a solitary chair in front of another vanity and mirror. "For men," she explained. I was to witness no more of the secrets of the Misty Cave of Lesbos.
I was seated by the newly introduced hair dresser, who told me in German that she knew no English. Anne, just before returning to the ladies' portion of the salon, asked me "Zomezing to trink? Water, coffee, beer?" Intrigued though I was at the idea of drinking a beer while having my schnitt, I declined. I never clearly got the name of the hair dresser who began to administer my cut. She was quite tall, with shoulder-length bleached-blonde hair. First she worked with scissors and comb on the sides and with a straight razor on the sideburns and edges of my hair line. She seemed kind, if intense. Something about her reminded me of a bird of prey. She had a beak nose and small, intense eyes, and when she snipped the lone hairs on the top of my head, she would stand back to get a change of light gleaming from my shiny scalp, squinting her eyes and crinkling her brow, trying to spot an isolated, solitary hair spike, and then dive at it with her scissors as my heart raced in anticipation of getting lacerated. Job done, she unwrapped me from my cloth cocoon and released me to the wild. Fifteen euros for a good haircut and a warm, sweet smile from my hair dresser, and a kind wave and farewell from Anne as I exited. Auf wiedersehen! Auf wiedersehen....
All eyes turned to me. My mouth dried as Anne (I think) stepped back from teasing a skinny tower of blonde hair and approached me. "Sprechen sie Englisch?" I asked softly, my voice shrinking back inside me in fear and embarrassment. "Ein bischen" (a little), she replied--just what I say when someone asks me whether I speak German. Together, with a mix of language bits and gestures, we established the schnitt: using the distance indicated by thumb and forefinger for side length, a finger-line to indicate a slight raising of the sideburns, and the near-miss gesture of palm skimming over pate to indicate trimming off the few solitary hairs on top that stand like teeny, isolated telephone poles in the North Dakota landscape. The plan complete, Anne called over one of her hair dressers and rehearsed in German what my schnitt was to consist of. Next, shooing me with her hands as if I were a small child, Anne ushered me into an adjacent room with a solitary chair in front of another vanity and mirror. "For men," she explained. I was to witness no more of the secrets of the Misty Cave of Lesbos.
I was seated by the newly introduced hair dresser, who told me in German that she knew no English. Anne, just before returning to the ladies' portion of the salon, asked me "Zomezing to trink? Water, coffee, beer?" Intrigued though I was at the idea of drinking a beer while having my schnitt, I declined. I never clearly got the name of the hair dresser who began to administer my cut. She was quite tall, with shoulder-length bleached-blonde hair. First she worked with scissors and comb on the sides and with a straight razor on the sideburns and edges of my hair line. She seemed kind, if intense. Something about her reminded me of a bird of prey. She had a beak nose and small, intense eyes, and when she snipped the lone hairs on the top of my head, she would stand back to get a change of light gleaming from my shiny scalp, squinting her eyes and crinkling her brow, trying to spot an isolated, solitary hair spike, and then dive at it with her scissors as my heart raced in anticipation of getting lacerated. Job done, she unwrapped me from my cloth cocoon and released me to the wild. Fifteen euros for a good haircut and a warm, sweet smile from my hair dresser, and a kind wave and farewell from Anne as I exited. Auf wiedersehen! Auf wiedersehen....
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Wienerscape
Many springs ago, while I was posted in Okinawa, my young family and I visited the city of Nago to see the cherry blossom festival. Because the season had been cooler than normal, the blossoms were running behind schedule. In order for the festival to go forward on its appointed weekend, the townspeople taped thousands of tiny pink paper blossoms to the cherry trees, thus correcting Nature's oversight. At first, I thought the paper blossoms real. When I did notice the difference, I was all the more delighted, not so much at the spectacle but at the very idea of making such a fix--and the intensity of effort and civic devotion that had gone into it.
Something of the same feeling came over me when I first saw the Votive Church in Vienna, not realizing at that time that I was looking at compensation for a social and architectural oversight, or misdeed, rather than a natural one. Although built in the mid-19th century to mark the emperor's surviving an assassination attempt, the beautiful Gothic structure initially appears to be from 800 years earlier. Vienna is rich in such buildings--neo-Gothic as well as Roman and Greek revival--as well as having a sprinkling of truly old structures. The medieval walls of the city were destroyed more than 100 years ago, replaced by a "ring road" in the city center. The abundance of retro architecture leads me to suspect that the 18th- and 19th-century Viennese needed to engage in re-creation to recoup the loss of history that once was manifest in its stone landscape. The result is a mix of styles, usually interesting if not always pleasing--something that, for me, provides a satisfying texture to the city.
The green spaces of the city bear a natural parallel to the stone structures. Being a retired person, I am driven at times to sit on a bench in a park, as well as to stop and smell the roses. The rose-filled Volksgarten is partially lined with trees subjected to pollarding, or topping, annually performed, with the greenery chopped into rectangles, an 18th-century, Neoclassical imposition of order on unruly Nature. These trees, however, have not been so carefully tended as those that line the streets of Paris; here they are a bit raggedy, with their geometric lines somewhat violated by Nature's own efforts to renew itself. They border the meticulously tended geometric lines and shapes of the rose garden. Like the stonescape, the green and floral portions of the city have a texture of their own, a mix of the new and of an earlier age.
The Votive Church
This Gothic structure with its high spires, ornate stonework, and flying buttresses is an island of sturdiness, a display of the generosity of stonecarvers and this society's love for anachronisms of religion, set in a river of urban noise and motion. A small, slightly unruly and overgrown park, covering a parking garage, stands in front of the Votive Church; along its sides run busy streets, and just beyond it run tram tracks and, overhead, the trams' supporting webwork of electric lines. A large portion of the front of the church is masked by a screen perhaps five stories high with an advertisement featuring a woman's face; the screen, I presume, conceals scaffolding for cleaning and repair work; against its Gothic backdrop, the screen is visually jarring. On the broad stone sidewalk and stone steps leading up to the church are four or five teenagers on skateboards; enjoying their own thrills of speed, abrupt turns, and flips, they are oblivious to the thrills of near collision I am feeling.
Inside it feels solid, dark, and hard, permanent, and timeless though of another time. The stained glass windows are bright and stunning, especially the plentiful, beautiful crimson panels. The rest of the church is dark, shadowy; the stone ornamentation feels cold, and the crofted dark gray ceiling and abundant pointed arches make this church feel like anything but a refuge, and being inside it leaves me feeling threatened by hardness and darkness, in spite of the glorious windows. When I exit, there is noise, chaos, sunshine, life. I will always appreciate this magnificent building from the outside rather than the inside.
Sightings
Black socks, red shorts, green shirt
Black socks, khaki shorts, gray shirt
Black socks, yellow shorts, white shirt
Black socks, black shorts, brown shirt
An Italian family at the Schottentur tram terminal--father yelling at 10-year-old, who is upending a bag of newly purchased games and toys, all about to spill on the sidewalk, while he stands on the danger side of the yellow-lined zone where the trams stop; his 6-year-old brother is shouting angrily at him; the mother shakes her head and mutters. Che bella.....
Behind them an old gypsy woman--the first I have seen in Vienna--emerges, face deeply wrinkled by sun and wind, dressed like the ones in Rome, long skirt of bright red and orange vertical stripes, paisley blouse hanging loosely over the skirt, brightly colored kerchief. In her hand is a paper cup, and from her barely opened mouth the familiar sing-song moan of need and of blessings on any donors. My heart hardened by having visited the Votive Church, I pretend to ignore her petition. Inside, I smile.
Something of the same feeling came over me when I first saw the Votive Church in Vienna, not realizing at that time that I was looking at compensation for a social and architectural oversight, or misdeed, rather than a natural one. Although built in the mid-19th century to mark the emperor's surviving an assassination attempt, the beautiful Gothic structure initially appears to be from 800 years earlier. Vienna is rich in such buildings--neo-Gothic as well as Roman and Greek revival--as well as having a sprinkling of truly old structures. The medieval walls of the city were destroyed more than 100 years ago, replaced by a "ring road" in the city center. The abundance of retro architecture leads me to suspect that the 18th- and 19th-century Viennese needed to engage in re-creation to recoup the loss of history that once was manifest in its stone landscape. The result is a mix of styles, usually interesting if not always pleasing--something that, for me, provides a satisfying texture to the city.
The green spaces of the city bear a natural parallel to the stone structures. Being a retired person, I am driven at times to sit on a bench in a park, as well as to stop and smell the roses. The rose-filled Volksgarten is partially lined with trees subjected to pollarding, or topping, annually performed, with the greenery chopped into rectangles, an 18th-century, Neoclassical imposition of order on unruly Nature. These trees, however, have not been so carefully tended as those that line the streets of Paris; here they are a bit raggedy, with their geometric lines somewhat violated by Nature's own efforts to renew itself. They border the meticulously tended geometric lines and shapes of the rose garden. Like the stonescape, the green and floral portions of the city have a texture of their own, a mix of the new and of an earlier age.
The Votive Church
This Gothic structure with its high spires, ornate stonework, and flying buttresses is an island of sturdiness, a display of the generosity of stonecarvers and this society's love for anachronisms of religion, set in a river of urban noise and motion. A small, slightly unruly and overgrown park, covering a parking garage, stands in front of the Votive Church; along its sides run busy streets, and just beyond it run tram tracks and, overhead, the trams' supporting webwork of electric lines. A large portion of the front of the church is masked by a screen perhaps five stories high with an advertisement featuring a woman's face; the screen, I presume, conceals scaffolding for cleaning and repair work; against its Gothic backdrop, the screen is visually jarring. On the broad stone sidewalk and stone steps leading up to the church are four or five teenagers on skateboards; enjoying their own thrills of speed, abrupt turns, and flips, they are oblivious to the thrills of near collision I am feeling.
Inside it feels solid, dark, and hard, permanent, and timeless though of another time. The stained glass windows are bright and stunning, especially the plentiful, beautiful crimson panels. The rest of the church is dark, shadowy; the stone ornamentation feels cold, and the crofted dark gray ceiling and abundant pointed arches make this church feel like anything but a refuge, and being inside it leaves me feeling threatened by hardness and darkness, in spite of the glorious windows. When I exit, there is noise, chaos, sunshine, life. I will always appreciate this magnificent building from the outside rather than the inside.
Sightings
Black socks, red shorts, green shirt
Black socks, khaki shorts, gray shirt
Black socks, yellow shorts, white shirt
Black socks, black shorts, brown shirt
An Italian family at the Schottentur tram terminal--father yelling at 10-year-old, who is upending a bag of newly purchased games and toys, all about to spill on the sidewalk, while he stands on the danger side of the yellow-lined zone where the trams stop; his 6-year-old brother is shouting angrily at him; the mother shakes her head and mutters. Che bella.....
Behind them an old gypsy woman--the first I have seen in Vienna--emerges, face deeply wrinkled by sun and wind, dressed like the ones in Rome, long skirt of bright red and orange vertical stripes, paisley blouse hanging loosely over the skirt, brightly colored kerchief. In her hand is a paper cup, and from her barely opened mouth the familiar sing-song moan of need and of blessings on any donors. My heart hardened by having visited the Votive Church, I pretend to ignore her petition. Inside, I smile.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Miscellany Trio
1. Sign downtown: Cafe Spitt
2. Morgenmuffel is the word for someone who wakes up grouchy.
3. The tram from Grinzing, like any form of public transit, is a miniature-in-motion of the rest of life, a moving microcosm, as we travelers come in and out of the space we share with others for moments, days, years: all ages and character types, a smile, a vacant look, a stare, a grimace, a frown--the people, the traits, the moods, the expressions disappear as suddenly as they appeared. The Ship of Fools built the metaphor to book length, and life as a journey is most thoughtfully explored in the philosophic quest of Voltaire's Candide. But the real richness of the trope is in the semantic ambiguity of German-English--kind of Zenlike, actually. The following is from Rick Steves' German Phrase Book and Dictionary:
"The German word for journey or trip is Fahrt. Many tourists enjoy collecting Fahrts. In German-speaking areas, you'll see signs for Einfahrt (entrance), Rundfahrt (round trip), Ruckfahrt (return trip), Ausfahrt (trip out), and throughout your trip, people will smile and wish you a 'Gute Fahrt.'"
2. Morgenmuffel is the word for someone who wakes up grouchy.
3. The tram from Grinzing, like any form of public transit, is a miniature-in-motion of the rest of life, a moving microcosm, as we travelers come in and out of the space we share with others for moments, days, years: all ages and character types, a smile, a vacant look, a stare, a grimace, a frown--the people, the traits, the moods, the expressions disappear as suddenly as they appeared. The Ship of Fools built the metaphor to book length, and life as a journey is most thoughtfully explored in the philosophic quest of Voltaire's Candide. But the real richness of the trope is in the semantic ambiguity of German-English--kind of Zenlike, actually. The following is from Rick Steves' German Phrase Book and Dictionary:
"The German word for journey or trip is Fahrt. Many tourists enjoy collecting Fahrts. In German-speaking areas, you'll see signs for Einfahrt (entrance), Rundfahrt (round trip), Ruckfahrt (return trip), Ausfahrt (trip out), and throughout your trip, people will smile and wish you a 'Gute Fahrt.'"
The Food in the Shadows
Some mornings I visit the Kunsthistorisches Museum (national gallery) and sit on a small sofa opposite a Van Dyke or a Caravaggio, waiting to appreciate the art in the sharp contrasts of dark background and brightly lit foreground. The longer I look at the picture and look away from the lit central figures, it is as if my eyes get accustomed to the dark paint, and then details I could not see before begin to emerge: subtle veins on a hand or a forehead, deep green leaves of a schefflera near the ground, folds in brown cloth robes, a dirty gray stone, a brown crumpled leaf, the fine-grained dust on the feet of kneeling pilgrims....
After nearly a month here, the well-lit foreground of daily life has mostly been the basics of survival (e.g., will I make it across the street before the streetcar hits me) and the logistical system needed to do so, with tourism moments that have been much about discovering what's out there, and little about taking time to appreciate it. In the background has been an accumulation of objects and impressions seemingly in shades of black. The longer I am among them and my mind's eye grows accustomed to the dark, the more I distinguish; the browns and deep greens are emerging slowly, growing, I hope, into a scene that will before long appear in bright colors.
I hope a good restaurant will emerge soon. On Saturday evening we went to search out a meal at another of the local beer gardens. The first one we stopped in had no menu, though there was a buffet line. We sat at an outdoor table under the trees--maybe it's a good thing that we've seen almost no birds since we got here--and ordered our drinks, and then we repaired to the indoor food line. Three or four staff (servers?) stood behind a counter looking at their feet and chatting softly with each other, in a contest, it seemed, as to which could be the most unhelpful. Before us was a two-panel enclosed case of thick, fogged-up glass (Teutonic sneeze-guard), which probably shielded cooked meat; two adjacent, unprotected trays contained a pleasing array of the evening's vegetable: potatoes--boiled, with butter; boiled, with parsley; creamed, in lumps; roasted, in wedges. We returned to the table, paid for our drinks, and left to try another place, one with a menu, so we wouldn't have to deal with the culture shock presented by an Austrian cafeteria line--with nothing we particularly wanted to eat.
We walked up the lane to another beer garden and this time got menus. Literally translating the menu names for the meat--which often contain the word fleisch (flesh)--makes me think in terms of pork flesh, calf flesh, and chicken flesh. (Thinking of having a meal of flesh makes my tongue run over my incisors, which seem to grow a bit longer and sharper for the moment.) While Linda has been opting for more ladylike selections, salads and such, I went with the very manly beef slab covered in brown gravy--all a bit too well done, to the point of being crumbly, but tasty nonetheless. I also chose that item because it was to be accompanied by dumplings, not potatoes. The dumplings, to my regret, did not match the goodness of the cow flesh. They were three thick medallions of chewy starchiness, which looked as if they had been cut from a cookie-dough tube, celebrated for its resemblance to a sausage in shape and to a boiled potato in taste and consistency. Other than the meat entrees, much of what we are served here seems to be prepared off-premises: the rare few tablespoons of vegetables we have seen--I refer to non-tubers such as peas, corn, and string beans--seem to have been from packages out of the freezer. Still, the beer was good, the outdoor setting and temperatures were pleasant, the accordion and violin players were delightful, and the most wonderful and loving of persons was my dining companion.
I am most happy to have had a fresh produce stand emerge from the background. Tonight our dinner of chicken flesh will be accompanied by fresh zucchini, red and yellow sweet peppers, and pasta. I'll plunge anew into the dark background of Wiener World come the dawn.
After nearly a month here, the well-lit foreground of daily life has mostly been the basics of survival (e.g., will I make it across the street before the streetcar hits me) and the logistical system needed to do so, with tourism moments that have been much about discovering what's out there, and little about taking time to appreciate it. In the background has been an accumulation of objects and impressions seemingly in shades of black. The longer I am among them and my mind's eye grows accustomed to the dark, the more I distinguish; the browns and deep greens are emerging slowly, growing, I hope, into a scene that will before long appear in bright colors.
I hope a good restaurant will emerge soon. On Saturday evening we went to search out a meal at another of the local beer gardens. The first one we stopped in had no menu, though there was a buffet line. We sat at an outdoor table under the trees--maybe it's a good thing that we've seen almost no birds since we got here--and ordered our drinks, and then we repaired to the indoor food line. Three or four staff (servers?) stood behind a counter looking at their feet and chatting softly with each other, in a contest, it seemed, as to which could be the most unhelpful. Before us was a two-panel enclosed case of thick, fogged-up glass (Teutonic sneeze-guard), which probably shielded cooked meat; two adjacent, unprotected trays contained a pleasing array of the evening's vegetable: potatoes--boiled, with butter; boiled, with parsley; creamed, in lumps; roasted, in wedges. We returned to the table, paid for our drinks, and left to try another place, one with a menu, so we wouldn't have to deal with the culture shock presented by an Austrian cafeteria line--with nothing we particularly wanted to eat.
We walked up the lane to another beer garden and this time got menus. Literally translating the menu names for the meat--which often contain the word fleisch (flesh)--makes me think in terms of pork flesh, calf flesh, and chicken flesh. (Thinking of having a meal of flesh makes my tongue run over my incisors, which seem to grow a bit longer and sharper for the moment.) While Linda has been opting for more ladylike selections, salads and such, I went with the very manly beef slab covered in brown gravy--all a bit too well done, to the point of being crumbly, but tasty nonetheless. I also chose that item because it was to be accompanied by dumplings, not potatoes. The dumplings, to my regret, did not match the goodness of the cow flesh. They were three thick medallions of chewy starchiness, which looked as if they had been cut from a cookie-dough tube, celebrated for its resemblance to a sausage in shape and to a boiled potato in taste and consistency. Other than the meat entrees, much of what we are served here seems to be prepared off-premises: the rare few tablespoons of vegetables we have seen--I refer to non-tubers such as peas, corn, and string beans--seem to have been from packages out of the freezer. Still, the beer was good, the outdoor setting and temperatures were pleasant, the accordion and violin players were delightful, and the most wonderful and loving of persons was my dining companion.
I am most happy to have had a fresh produce stand emerge from the background. Tonight our dinner of chicken flesh will be accompanied by fresh zucchini, red and yellow sweet peppers, and pasta. I'll plunge anew into the dark background of Wiener World come the dawn.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
A Streetcar Named Wunchen
(Wunchen, with an umlaut on the 'u', means "Desire")
Some mornings when I exit our front gate, I stand at the curb next to the separate recycling bins for clear glass, colored glass, "old paper," and plastic bottles. I look first to my left to check traffic before I cross. It's a dangerous moment because we have no crosswalk stripes, and cars speed on the long straightaway as they descend the hill into Grinzing. (Memories of my kids' computer game "Frogger" skid and hop across my mind.) The two sets of tram tracks set in the street provide another hazard: I am quite certain that one day I'll get a shoe stuck in them and be run over by a BMW and then a tram will come along and sever my leg from the gory heap that is my torso. Some mornings I am lucky enough to see the tram coming over the hill. At first all I see are two angled metal rods reaching up to the over-street powerlines, very much like the horns on a slug, and then the red and white metal beast glides on down the hill into Grinzing station.
When I board the tram for the trip into town, I first deposit 2.20 euros in a yellow box on the lead car, next to a sign about bringing aboard dogs. (Beisskorb, the German word for "muzzle," literally translates as "Bite Basket.") A light grinding noise follows, and my ticket plops into a glass-door metal cup at the bottom. Public transit here operates on the honor system, with spot checks by officials. Friends tell us that, if you ride twice a day, you'll get caught about twice a year and fined 60 euros each time. The threat of the fine and the heaps of contumely and humiliation I imagine I would feel are enough to leave me too terrified to try riding without a ticket. I take my seat and prepare to watch life's rich pageant ascend, sit, and descend for the duration of the 30-minute ride, and I look out the window at the colorful and sometimes bewildering variety of shops and businesses, many with signs in English, among them: Style Your Head, Hair Wolf, Taco Grill, Lion Rampant, Design at Nails, Beauty Farm, and, across a 15-foot-wide storefront, Outlet Fashion Mall.
On every trip I see one or two passengers bring their dogs on board; usually they are leashed and wearing their bite-baskets. On our trip to town on Sunday, someone brought aboard a dog without such a device; two passengers complained to the tram driver, who, at the next stop, ordered the man and beast off the tram. By the time I am out and about, lots of moms are out with kids in strollers--which have specially allocated spaces in each car--doing the day's shopping. Yesterday, however, I saw a business woman (I presume) who, a few generations back, might have had the role of Heidi, She-Wolf of the SS: tall, strong, stern, blond hair severely pulled back, pin-striped suit. Also fun to watch are the bums and bag ladies. Yesterday I saw a man who looked like an Old Testament prophet but without a "Repent!" sign: thin, weathered face, long and unruly gray locks, rumpled coat, scuffed shoes. He ambled on past several vacant seats and squeezed in next to a young woman who might have been on her way to work, and he tried to start up a conversation. She rose and moved to another seat. At the next stop, he got off. A very large woman of dumpy build got on, dressed very much like the man who had just gotten off, but she also sported a dirty baseball cap and a cane. A friend of mine once described a woman as looking like she had strapped to her chest a pair of stockings with oranges in the toes. This could have been she. Only it would have been potatoes.
And a couple of days ago, a black family boarded. They were quite well dressed--man in a business suit, wife in nicely tailored and coordinated outfit, three small children in shorts and clean shirts with collars. Because the car was nearly full, the family had to spread out. Two passengers--one a scruffy-looking young man with hair that hadn't seen a comb or shampoo for many days and the other a nicely dressed middle-aged woman--got out of their seats and motioned for the children to move so they could sit by their parents. Shortly after, another woman got up from her seat, crossed the car, and tucked in the end of the mother's shawl, which had dropped to the tram floor. One day soon after we had arrived in this city, one of our new friends commented that Vienna was "notoriously racist," citing the case of a black employee at the Embassy who had been taken off a street corner and badly beaten by the police.
Environmental Note
Shops are stingy about giving out a sack or bag with a purchase. Grocery stores charge dearly for them. Smaller places may deign to provide a small sack with a purchase, but grudgingly, and only if requested in a soft voice, eyes averted to the floor. To request one can feel like I'm poking my head out a bathroom door and, trying not to attract attention, asking someone to bring more toilet paper. I had stopped in a housewares store and purchased a nightlight, and afterward I walked to an electronics store and bought a 1-meter cable to hook up our television. The clerk at the second store seemed to understand that I was waiting for him to bag my purchase and pointed at the small sack I already had in my hand, as if to say, "Why are you waiting for a bag, you environmental criminal?" Drano and bleach are not for sale here.
Vignette
At the end of a 3-page, microprint form required to open a Bank of Austria account, otherwise all in German:
"Sign Here Official Binding Signature"
and
"Please indicate:
__ AM
__ AM NOT
a politically exposed person."
Some mornings when I exit our front gate, I stand at the curb next to the separate recycling bins for clear glass, colored glass, "old paper," and plastic bottles. I look first to my left to check traffic before I cross. It's a dangerous moment because we have no crosswalk stripes, and cars speed on the long straightaway as they descend the hill into Grinzing. (Memories of my kids' computer game "Frogger" skid and hop across my mind.) The two sets of tram tracks set in the street provide another hazard: I am quite certain that one day I'll get a shoe stuck in them and be run over by a BMW and then a tram will come along and sever my leg from the gory heap that is my torso. Some mornings I am lucky enough to see the tram coming over the hill. At first all I see are two angled metal rods reaching up to the over-street powerlines, very much like the horns on a slug, and then the red and white metal beast glides on down the hill into Grinzing station.
When I board the tram for the trip into town, I first deposit 2.20 euros in a yellow box on the lead car, next to a sign about bringing aboard dogs. (Beisskorb, the German word for "muzzle," literally translates as "Bite Basket.") A light grinding noise follows, and my ticket plops into a glass-door metal cup at the bottom. Public transit here operates on the honor system, with spot checks by officials. Friends tell us that, if you ride twice a day, you'll get caught about twice a year and fined 60 euros each time. The threat of the fine and the heaps of contumely and humiliation I imagine I would feel are enough to leave me too terrified to try riding without a ticket. I take my seat and prepare to watch life's rich pageant ascend, sit, and descend for the duration of the 30-minute ride, and I look out the window at the colorful and sometimes bewildering variety of shops and businesses, many with signs in English, among them: Style Your Head, Hair Wolf, Taco Grill, Lion Rampant, Design at Nails, Beauty Farm, and, across a 15-foot-wide storefront, Outlet Fashion Mall.
On every trip I see one or two passengers bring their dogs on board; usually they are leashed and wearing their bite-baskets. On our trip to town on Sunday, someone brought aboard a dog without such a device; two passengers complained to the tram driver, who, at the next stop, ordered the man and beast off the tram. By the time I am out and about, lots of moms are out with kids in strollers--which have specially allocated spaces in each car--doing the day's shopping. Yesterday, however, I saw a business woman (I presume) who, a few generations back, might have had the role of Heidi, She-Wolf of the SS: tall, strong, stern, blond hair severely pulled back, pin-striped suit. Also fun to watch are the bums and bag ladies. Yesterday I saw a man who looked like an Old Testament prophet but without a "Repent!" sign: thin, weathered face, long and unruly gray locks, rumpled coat, scuffed shoes. He ambled on past several vacant seats and squeezed in next to a young woman who might have been on her way to work, and he tried to start up a conversation. She rose and moved to another seat. At the next stop, he got off. A very large woman of dumpy build got on, dressed very much like the man who had just gotten off, but she also sported a dirty baseball cap and a cane. A friend of mine once described a woman as looking like she had strapped to her chest a pair of stockings with oranges in the toes. This could have been she. Only it would have been potatoes.
And a couple of days ago, a black family boarded. They were quite well dressed--man in a business suit, wife in nicely tailored and coordinated outfit, three small children in shorts and clean shirts with collars. Because the car was nearly full, the family had to spread out. Two passengers--one a scruffy-looking young man with hair that hadn't seen a comb or shampoo for many days and the other a nicely dressed middle-aged woman--got out of their seats and motioned for the children to move so they could sit by their parents. Shortly after, another woman got up from her seat, crossed the car, and tucked in the end of the mother's shawl, which had dropped to the tram floor. One day soon after we had arrived in this city, one of our new friends commented that Vienna was "notoriously racist," citing the case of a black employee at the Embassy who had been taken off a street corner and badly beaten by the police.
Environmental Note
Shops are stingy about giving out a sack or bag with a purchase. Grocery stores charge dearly for them. Smaller places may deign to provide a small sack with a purchase, but grudgingly, and only if requested in a soft voice, eyes averted to the floor. To request one can feel like I'm poking my head out a bathroom door and, trying not to attract attention, asking someone to bring more toilet paper. I had stopped in a housewares store and purchased a nightlight, and afterward I walked to an electronics store and bought a 1-meter cable to hook up our television. The clerk at the second store seemed to understand that I was waiting for him to bag my purchase and pointed at the small sack I already had in my hand, as if to say, "Why are you waiting for a bag, you environmental criminal?" Drano and bleach are not for sale here.
Vignette
At the end of a 3-page, microprint form required to open a Bank of Austria account, otherwise all in German:
"Sign Here Official Binding Signature"
and
"Please indicate:
__ AM
__ AM NOT
a politically exposed person."
Friday, August 6, 2010
Routines and Let's Hope Not
I'm taking the liberty of blending a couple of days in this posting to relate something of what has become a routine for me. After Linda leaves for work, I keep the tv on in the background as I drink my coffee, read press online, and check email. From 8 to 9 a.m., one of the state-run channels shows scenes, like those from a traffic camera, of different provinces and cities throughout Austria, shifting every moment or so to a new camera and what is usually a new foggy, rainy mountain vista. A graphic on the screen shows the day's predicted high and low along with an outline of Austria, which looks very much like a stomach with part of the small colon attached, and within the outline is a yellow blob to identify the geographic area of the forecast. The scenes are accompanied by an oompah band: an accordion or two or three and a trombone, all making jolly melodies punctuated by the gutteral flatulence of a tuba.
Musically charmed to meet the day, around 9 a.m. I head across the street to shop at Bila, and if I'm alert, I remember to take along my own large bag for a 1-2 day supply of groceries. (If I chose, I could buy a bag each time for about 20 cents.) The amount of shelf space is about the equivalent of what I used to find in a 7-11 at home, but most of the things I need are there. The hard part is the check-out. The same young man is at the lone register each morning, and there are usually 2-3 people in line, and he is always in a hurry to get us through. His eyes are bulged and bloodshot, and he scans the items like someone on crack, flinging them down the counter to a kind of corral, where I pick them up and put them back in my cart, for bagging at a counter further back. His goal is to scan and throw the items more rapidly than I can put them back in the cart, so he can wait impatiently--glaring, hand outstretched--for me to pay him, as his glance shifts rapidly back and forth between me and the customer behind me.
After this chore is done, most mornings I hop the tram for downtown, where I stroll through the wonderful, huge rose garden and make my way to the art museum. Linda and I have annual passes, and I am taking full advantage of mine. Some mornings I spend with the Italians and Spanish, and some with the Dutch. I doubt I shall ever tire of those displays.
Many a time I walk home, about 5 miles, and along the way I stop at specialty stores for items unavailable in the village. I will hope the following experience, however, will not become routine.
Earlier in the week I picked up a variety of electronic cables, cords, and extensions, and, because our air freight arrived on Wednesday afternoon with more of our electronic gear, I planned to spend Thursday afternoon getting our Vonage telephone connected. I set about that task soon after I arrived home Thursday. Because of the different current in Europe, I assembled converters as well as power strips, extension cords, and plug adaptors before tackling the modem, phone, and computer connections. First the power to the entire apartment blew. With flashlight and reading glasses in hand, I finally found the electrical panel and the right breaker. Next I got out a bigger current converter and started over. Things were purring along, and then the screen on the Vonage modem read "Internet connection lost." After another 15 minutes of effort, including multiple rebooting attempts, I gave up. I sat on the hallway floor in a tangled nest of cords, plugs, and wires, feeling like a demented giant condor trying to lay an egg. So...those of you who were expecting a phone call will need to connect via Skype for the time being.
Musically charmed to meet the day, around 9 a.m. I head across the street to shop at Bila, and if I'm alert, I remember to take along my own large bag for a 1-2 day supply of groceries. (If I chose, I could buy a bag each time for about 20 cents.) The amount of shelf space is about the equivalent of what I used to find in a 7-11 at home, but most of the things I need are there. The hard part is the check-out. The same young man is at the lone register each morning, and there are usually 2-3 people in line, and he is always in a hurry to get us through. His eyes are bulged and bloodshot, and he scans the items like someone on crack, flinging them down the counter to a kind of corral, where I pick them up and put them back in my cart, for bagging at a counter further back. His goal is to scan and throw the items more rapidly than I can put them back in the cart, so he can wait impatiently--glaring, hand outstretched--for me to pay him, as his glance shifts rapidly back and forth between me and the customer behind me.
After this chore is done, most mornings I hop the tram for downtown, where I stroll through the wonderful, huge rose garden and make my way to the art museum. Linda and I have annual passes, and I am taking full advantage of mine. Some mornings I spend with the Italians and Spanish, and some with the Dutch. I doubt I shall ever tire of those displays.
Many a time I walk home, about 5 miles, and along the way I stop at specialty stores for items unavailable in the village. I will hope the following experience, however, will not become routine.
Earlier in the week I picked up a variety of electronic cables, cords, and extensions, and, because our air freight arrived on Wednesday afternoon with more of our electronic gear, I planned to spend Thursday afternoon getting our Vonage telephone connected. I set about that task soon after I arrived home Thursday. Because of the different current in Europe, I assembled converters as well as power strips, extension cords, and plug adaptors before tackling the modem, phone, and computer connections. First the power to the entire apartment blew. With flashlight and reading glasses in hand, I finally found the electrical panel and the right breaker. Next I got out a bigger current converter and started over. Things were purring along, and then the screen on the Vonage modem read "Internet connection lost." After another 15 minutes of effort, including multiple rebooting attempts, I gave up. I sat on the hallway floor in a tangled nest of cords, plugs, and wires, feeling like a demented giant condor trying to lay an egg. So...those of you who were expecting a phone call will need to connect via Skype for the time being.
Lost in Our Space
Wednesday evening Linda and I went for a stroll well beyond our village boundaries, ending up in nearby Heiligenstadt--a smaller village--and taking a wrong turn in an effort to make a loop hike out of it. We'd been walking close to an hour, and the last 15 minutes, it became clear, in the wrong direction. At two points we stopped people--both with fairly good English--to ask directions. The first sent us back up the hill we had just come down; when we realized we were still lost after following her directions--at least thinking we had done so--we stopped a second person, and she graciously pointed us the way we had just come.
As we heading back up the hill again, realizing the fecklessness of our effort, I suggested we ask yet a third person. Dark was coming on, and I wanted to be home before the streets got inky black and we were beset by garden gnomes. A very kindly looking man about 200 years old was making his way along, shopping bag in hand, and Linda and I approached him. His English, unfortunately, was not so good as the others', and I found myself falling back on my limited German, trying to get him to understand that we needed to get to our village of Grinzing:
I: Grinzing?
Old Man: Wo? (where?)
I: (trying to improve my accent) Grrreenzing
Old Man: Wo?
I: Grrreeeeeeenzing
Old Man: (squinting, hand to ear) Wo?
I: Grrrrrrrreeeeeenzink!
Old Man: Aah, Grinzing!
The three of us smiled, said "Ja, Ja" repeatedly, and nodded vigorously to each other. Drawing on my store of languages, I conveyed our need to him: "Wir haben ge-walked mucho far. Want go home...hausfrau anfang pooped out eingang. Grinzing ja ja." Or somesuch phrasing, mostly picked up from traffic signs and elsewhere in the local environment.....
He asked in German whether we were on foot. I thought, yes, you dolt. And then I realized that he thought we must have gotten out of a car to approach him. He pointed up the hill and said, "I you go." Ah, we realized he was going to walk with us and show us. And so we three proceeded up the hill, in matched, shuffling baby-steps. Interminable matched, shuffling baby-steps. When we got to the top of the hill, he pointed to the right, and we three turned into a narrow lane. He pointed to an apartment and said "I go here," and then added, "But I walk with you." This wonderfully kind man stayed with us another block or two to be certain we followed the appropriate road, and then he left us for his own home. We were quite sorry our disorientation had taken him so far out of his way, particularly given the effort it was for him to walk. But we were home before the gnomes and werewolves came out.
As we heading back up the hill again, realizing the fecklessness of our effort, I suggested we ask yet a third person. Dark was coming on, and I wanted to be home before the streets got inky black and we were beset by garden gnomes. A very kindly looking man about 200 years old was making his way along, shopping bag in hand, and Linda and I approached him. His English, unfortunately, was not so good as the others', and I found myself falling back on my limited German, trying to get him to understand that we needed to get to our village of Grinzing:
I: Grinzing?
Old Man: Wo? (where?)
I: (trying to improve my accent) Grrreenzing
Old Man: Wo?
I: Grrreeeeeeenzing
Old Man: (squinting, hand to ear) Wo?
I: Grrrrrrrreeeeeenzink!
Old Man: Aah, Grinzing!
The three of us smiled, said "Ja, Ja" repeatedly, and nodded vigorously to each other. Drawing on my store of languages, I conveyed our need to him: "Wir haben ge-walked mucho far. Want go home...hausfrau anfang pooped out eingang. Grinzing ja ja." Or somesuch phrasing, mostly picked up from traffic signs and elsewhere in the local environment.....
He asked in German whether we were on foot. I thought, yes, you dolt. And then I realized that he thought we must have gotten out of a car to approach him. He pointed up the hill and said, "I you go." Ah, we realized he was going to walk with us and show us. And so we three proceeded up the hill, in matched, shuffling baby-steps. Interminable matched, shuffling baby-steps. When we got to the top of the hill, he pointed to the right, and we three turned into a narrow lane. He pointed to an apartment and said "I go here," and then added, "But I walk with you." This wonderfully kind man stayed with us another block or two to be certain we followed the appropriate road, and then he left us for his own home. We were quite sorry our disorientation had taken him so far out of his way, particularly given the effort it was for him to walk. But we were home before the gnomes and werewolves came out.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Day 10
In contrast to the chaos and cacophony of Rome, the city center here is quiet and casual. Few panhandlers appear, and only rarely do we hear a street musician. Things are not quite uniformly white or perfectly, Teutonically orderly, but it is close: there are few blacks, few street vendors aside from those hawking theater tickets, no gypsies, a sprinkling of women in Islamic dress, and lots of Turks--which explains the abundance of kebab stands. The curse of European cities, however, is present: mimes. Although I was hoping to see one of Hitler, no such luck--Mozart and other music figures abound. (World War II does not exist here. I thought of Faulkner's comment that "The Past is not dead. Hell, it's not even in the past.") Women in dresses and heels are in evidence, but a man in a suit and tie is a rare sight. And, although women young and old are usually dressed pleasingly, many people tend to wear sloppy-casual, and some young men fit the stereotype: hiking shoes and black socks against white legs, blue shorts, stretched-out gray-white T-shirts featuring band names, and sunglasses with red plastic frames.
Vignettes
1. On a sunny sidewalk, near the city center, I walked behind two scruffy young men with backpacks, both staggering along; twice, one stepped out in front of traffic and the other pulled him by the sleeve back onto the sidewalk. They were taking turns drinking a foul-smelling liquid, smelling vaguely like ether, from what looked like a cough-syrup bottle. They giggled and sometimes burst out in loud laughs...then stood attentively at crossings, carefully observing the walk/don't walk signs.
2. A young woman--locally typical dark brown hair, fair complexion, and royal blue eyes--in a cool summer frock boarded the tram with a happy, plump baby in a large stroller, and sat across the aisle from me. The baby and I exchanged several smiles and raised eyebrows over the next three or four stops, and then the young woman addressed me in German as the tram stopped again. I indicated I could not understand and said, "English?" She replied in perfect, unaccented American English: "Can you help me? I need to get off." I stepped off the tram and took hold of the bottom of the stroller while she lifted from the top, and, as we set the stroller on the sidewalk, "Thank you very much." And a sweet, warm smile.
3. At the news kiosk by the Grinzing tram station:
I: "Herald Tribune"?
Vendor: "Zirty min."
I: (checking my watch) "Danke."
Vendor: "Sank you."
30 minutes later:
I: "Guten morgen. Herald Tribune?"
Vendor: "Goot morneeng."
I: (taking paper, handing him 3 euros): "Danke."
Vendor: "Sank you."
I: "Auf wiedersehen."
Vendor: "Gootbye."
4. In the deep of Sunday dusk, Linda and I were out strolling, exploring our neighborhood. Descending a deserted sidewalk on a rather steep hill on the outskirts of the village, we noticed another couple, middle-aged, in the shadows ahead of us. Apparently they had just parked their car and were heading arm in arm down the hill to the restaurant district, he in a dark suit and she in a silky, close-fitting, full-length dress of gold and floral pattern. As they walked on in the dark, his arm let go of hers, and his hand slipped behind her and squeezed her butt. They paused in the dark and kissed. Walking a few steps further, they turned into the open doors of a theater entrance. We passed them, we in the dark, smiling, they in the brightly lighted foyer, smiling, reaching for flutes of sparkling wine.
Vignettes
1. On a sunny sidewalk, near the city center, I walked behind two scruffy young men with backpacks, both staggering along; twice, one stepped out in front of traffic and the other pulled him by the sleeve back onto the sidewalk. They were taking turns drinking a foul-smelling liquid, smelling vaguely like ether, from what looked like a cough-syrup bottle. They giggled and sometimes burst out in loud laughs...then stood attentively at crossings, carefully observing the walk/don't walk signs.
2. A young woman--locally typical dark brown hair, fair complexion, and royal blue eyes--in a cool summer frock boarded the tram with a happy, plump baby in a large stroller, and sat across the aisle from me. The baby and I exchanged several smiles and raised eyebrows over the next three or four stops, and then the young woman addressed me in German as the tram stopped again. I indicated I could not understand and said, "English?" She replied in perfect, unaccented American English: "Can you help me? I need to get off." I stepped off the tram and took hold of the bottom of the stroller while she lifted from the top, and, as we set the stroller on the sidewalk, "Thank you very much." And a sweet, warm smile.
3. At the news kiosk by the Grinzing tram station:
I: "Herald Tribune"?
Vendor: "Zirty min."
I: (checking my watch) "Danke."
Vendor: "Sank you."
30 minutes later:
I: "Guten morgen. Herald Tribune?"
Vendor: "Goot morneeng."
I: (taking paper, handing him 3 euros): "Danke."
Vendor: "Sank you."
I: "Auf wiedersehen."
Vendor: "Gootbye."
4. In the deep of Sunday dusk, Linda and I were out strolling, exploring our neighborhood. Descending a deserted sidewalk on a rather steep hill on the outskirts of the village, we noticed another couple, middle-aged, in the shadows ahead of us. Apparently they had just parked their car and were heading arm in arm down the hill to the restaurant district, he in a dark suit and she in a silky, close-fitting, full-length dress of gold and floral pattern. As they walked on in the dark, his arm let go of hers, and his hand slipped behind her and squeezed her butt. They paused in the dark and kissed. Walking a few steps further, they turned into the open doors of a theater entrance. We passed them, we in the dark, smiling, they in the brightly lighted foyer, smiling, reaching for flutes of sparkling wine.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Our Grinzing Neighborhood
The last two evenings we have been strolling our neighborhood. It is no exaggeration to say there must be 100 restaurants, often adjacent to each other in rows, within a half mile of our apartment. Most of them are heurigers, with wooden tables on stone patios inside courtyards and sometimes up long, leaf-dark corridors lined with pots of bright red geraniums, white-light wisps on candles, and orange-red lanterns. Potatoes, cabbage, and pork feature prominently in the posted menus we consulted, and always wiener schnitzel, which seems to be the only way that they prepare veal here. Some of the restaurants are quite informal and some quite elegant, and all with live music--which is perhaps in the definition of heuriger--some with piano and strings, and some with accordions and strings. The evenings have been cool and pleasant, sometimes with spritzes of rain; we wonder how long it will be before indoor dining becomes the rule.
Down one street from us, less than a mile, is a modest house occupied by Beethoven in 1808, and a place once the residence of Strauss is also nearby. Large, very old trees abound; the public green areas and yards, including that of our apartment building, tend to be overgrown, shrubs rarely if ever pruned, with grassy areas of clumpy green. Our sidewalk in the morning has an abundance of 2-3" brown slugs inching their way to work, and we wonder where the birds are that should be breakfasting on them. We see birds only rarely, a surprise given all the natural housing that the many trees provide for them. The untended look to many of the yards and the slightly rundown little park near the village center is in marked contrast to the city parks and green spaces downtown, which are meticulously trimmed. Many a large, luxurious home sits on our side streets, though the main street, on which our modern if bourgeois apartment building sits, also has small and medium individual homes dating perhaps to the 18th century, as well as what look like Soviet-era design apartment buildings: large, sturdy, boxy structures with square-cut windows in blank plain flat facades--reminding me of what D.H. Lawrence, writing of his travels in Switzerland, called "a vigorous ordinariness." Near the main street and the Grinzing tram end-of-the-line are small shops and groceries, including two bakeries, a news kiosk (yes, it sells the International Herald-Tribune), a bank, a sundries store, and a few shops purveying glassware and women's clothes. The two churches we have been in look to be Baroque, but modestly so, as if the funds for the usual excess were not available, and so the ceilings are left bare and side chapels are furnished sparsely compared with those in Rome.
Down one street from us, less than a mile, is a modest house occupied by Beethoven in 1808, and a place once the residence of Strauss is also nearby. Large, very old trees abound; the public green areas and yards, including that of our apartment building, tend to be overgrown, shrubs rarely if ever pruned, with grassy areas of clumpy green. Our sidewalk in the morning has an abundance of 2-3" brown slugs inching their way to work, and we wonder where the birds are that should be breakfasting on them. We see birds only rarely, a surprise given all the natural housing that the many trees provide for them. The untended look to many of the yards and the slightly rundown little park near the village center is in marked contrast to the city parks and green spaces downtown, which are meticulously trimmed. Many a large, luxurious home sits on our side streets, though the main street, on which our modern if bourgeois apartment building sits, also has small and medium individual homes dating perhaps to the 18th century, as well as what look like Soviet-era design apartment buildings: large, sturdy, boxy structures with square-cut windows in blank plain flat facades--reminding me of what D.H. Lawrence, writing of his travels in Switzerland, called "a vigorous ordinariness." Near the main street and the Grinzing tram end-of-the-line are small shops and groceries, including two bakeries, a news kiosk (yes, it sells the International Herald-Tribune), a bank, a sundries store, and a few shops purveying glassware and women's clothes. The two churches we have been in look to be Baroque, but modestly so, as if the funds for the usual excess were not available, and so the ceilings are left bare and side chapels are furnished sparsely compared with those in Rome.
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