Here We Go

The end is in sight, the time flies as the weather betters, and the feeling that 'soon this'll be over' is starting to set in.  It's been an amazing adventure since its start in September, and with the past few weeks having been as incredible as they were, there's a strong indication that my time here will go out with a bang.

Last Friday I caught an early train to Vienna, perhaps my favorite city.  I took the metro right into the heart of the Altstadt and rose from underground to meet the intricate façade of the great Cathedral rising high above the city.  It's towering spire was caressed in soft sunlight, and the roof's colorful mosaic tiles were glistening brightly under the radiantly blue sky.  A little walk through narrow, shaded streets, past varied architecture, including Otto Wagner's once-radical post office, I found myself amidst an unruly garden with trees hanging over walkways, benches with elderly couples sitting intimately, sharing the experience of watching the city slowly come alive for the start of a new day, monuments to masters of music stand surrounded by beds of brilliantly vibrant tulips, sprinklers sputtering the last rush of water before being reclaimed by the ground, the lone police officer keeping watch over the growing bustle through his tinted red glasses.  There are few things in life which are as magical as witnessing a great metropolis come to life at the start of the day.  

The Wiener Sezession, "To each age it's art, to art it's freedom."  

I walked along the winding paths of the Stadtpark, working my way around the Ring, on to the Karlsplatz, past the Islamic-influenced Karlskirche with its engraved minarets flanking the cross-topped copper dome.  My first stop of the day was the famed Café Museum, originally designed by Alfred Loos, diagonally across from the famous Wiener Sezession venue, and the old haunt of architects and artists alike, where I had a scrumptious Schwarzwälderkirschtorte (black forest cake, thankfully with morello instead of maraschino cherries) and a Melange.  Heavenly.  From there, it was on to a yet another Viennese landmark, Café Sperl, for a much needed water, as the temperature had climbed to nearly 80°.  This place definitely gave off a different vibe than the rest I had visited.  It was simple, worn, if not downright grungy, and I could definitely see how it became the favored café of a blue collar, failed artist by the name of Adolf Hitler.  It wasn't really my cup of tea, as it were.  Off I was again, but this time, keeping sure to stick to the shady side of the street. I was to meet up with a friend and her boyfriend, and when I arrived early, I ordered a Radler, which is half beer, half lemon soda, and drank it like it was water!  The place was a real hole in the wall, and filled with locals, and after my friends arrived, I did not expect what was to come.  A mountain of Schnitzel...a mountain!  Two massive pieces of fried meat, hanging off the plate in all directions, sat before each of us.  More food than any one person should attempt at a time, it was crazy good!  My friend, Margi, had promised it would be better than my newly beloved Figlmüller, and boy, was she right!  Probably the best Schnitzel I've ever had, and I will definitely be making a return visit before I head home. We had a really fun time chatting, laughing, but then the day had to continue and we were both off.  I made my way to another favorite place in Vienna, the hallowed Staatsoper, to meet another friend, Daniel, for a night at the opera.  We waited in line a bit for our tickets, and raced up to grab out spot, dead center, a few floors up.  The orchestra began with a roar, and then we were in for an emotional roller coaster.  Puccini's La bohème, my desert island opera.  A simple story in Paris' Montmartre about poor artists falling in love under the moon, the struggles of life, the death of a lover, the opera's music is beyond romantic, filled with tenderness, passion, and sounding like a classic film soundtrack.  It's arias still give me goosebumps, and it's reality permeate every cell in my body.  It speaks to me, as it does to so, so many, and brings me into the core of its emotion, letting me go only in the final chords - the final chords, which signify the soprano's death, which are written in a major key (unheard of for 'sad' music), and make the sadness even more terrifying and heartbreaking.  It's an opera that is about life and love, and it's rapture gets me every time.  Incredible to see it on the stage.

The quiet, dingy Café Sperl hidden away on a Viennese side street.

May 1st, Maifest, closes schools and businesses across Austria, and much of Europe, for a holiday to honor the laborers, a tradition in Austria restarted and codified only after the annexation with Germany in March 1938.  The more traditional provinces celebrate the day with traditions rooted in paganism associated with preparing for the growing season of spring and the return of longer days and warmer sun.  Villagers clad in Tracht (Lederhosen and Dirndl) amass in a field or public square for the raising of the Maibaum, a decorated tree, nearly 100ft. tall in Salzburg's case.  By a simple system of supports and pulleys, the tree is gradually raised by men throughout the day, sure to rest for the necessary beer.  At the end of the day, once the tree has been set in place, youngsters are encouraged to try and climb the tree to reach the treats suspended near the top.  As I experienced with the national holiday on 26 October, not a single student over the past 2 weeks could explain why Austrians celebrate May 1st.  To them, it's a day off from work to wear traditional costumes and drink beer with friends.  To me, and apparently to them, today's celebrations remain cryptic, and I'm not entirely sure of the significance behind any of the customs, and again, this sense of little civic knowledge surprises me - it's so foreign.  

Raising of the Maibaum for Maifest.

Yesterday I had run out of my coveted Pecorino Romano and headed to the shop around the corner to pick up some more.  It was the end of the day, and Antonio's father was manning the shop, singing to himself as he cleaned up some knives behind the counter.  To him, I'm the "Americano," and his face brightened when I approached.  Without saying a word, he reached into the display and grabbed the wheel of my cheese.  As I was about to leave, he threw in a loaf of fresh bread from Udine, and poured me a small jar of freshly pressed olive oil from his family's farm south of the border, as a gift.  He told me to forget the pasta tonight - cut a thick slice of bread, a paper thin slice of pecorino, and dip it into some of this oil with a bit of fine balsamic vinegar.  Wearing a red bow tie, a white apron, hunched over and with wrinkled face, with a voice like Corelli and a heart of gold, he's the type of man you want to pick up and place in your pocket to keep with you always, and he sure as heck knows good eats.  Bread, oil, cheese.  Throw in a light Chianti, and dinner's on the table.  Mmmm!

Monday evening I planned my final teaching schedule with my supervisor, and get this, I'll work a whopping 5 days in the whole of May.  He's given me plenty of opportunities to travel around my classes, and my final scheduled "class" actually consists of him taking me out for a drink.  Many of my Fifth Form (final year) students are preparing for Friday's Matura, or final examination, and have been taking me out with a small group of students for beer, simply so they could practice their English.  In doing that, in meeting with them and shooting the wind, I've seen a different side of them, and they of me, and a few of us actually consider each other friends now, which is a really remarkable thing.  I came into this year thinking that I'd have very little effect on the kids, but now, after nearly a year, even though I haven't often visited with the classes, I see just how much I've learned, how I've changed simply by being with them.  It hasn't always been fun, but I think we worked together every time we met to break down walls, to search for the truth, to explain how we see both see the world, and to try and find our place in it.  It's a rewarding feeling, and I think I'll be able to look back on this experience and smile knowing just how great an influence both of us have had on each other, and that, my friends, is a beautiful thing.

To Infinity...

"Plus ultra," meaning "further beyond," emblazons the crest of an ancient land which once stood at the world's end, beckoning courageous explorers to challenge its mandate and conquest the unknown that lay ahead. Wide-ranging arid landscapes dominate most of the country, whilst its northern parts are consumed in verdure, the land seems almost alien amidst the dull, low-laying shrubbery, vast plains, and cities which hardly stand out amongst the blinding emptiness devoid of indiscernible shades of the surrounding deserts. It is nearly inconceivable that this foreign space nurtured a people who would change the shape of the world, and who to continue to celebrate life in a way unique to themselves. Long a fierce battleground, it is now a shared home to Christian, Islamic, and Judaic cultures, melding architecture, cuisine, academia, and tradition into an example of toleration and coexistence. During its heyday, it had nearly single-handedly conquered the Americas, and had sent its expeditioners to the far side of the globe. It was one of the most powerful forces the world had seen, and the construction of its cities and monuments was funded by the vast wealth they claimed from their overseas territories. Though it lacks today that in which old days gave it might, it remains, even if only in mind, one of the world's most influential and mysterious countries. My most recent journey brought me to this place, to the 'end of the world,' to Spain.

Spain was a country I had never visited, and for a few reasons, I long felt that I didn't know enough, that I wasn't in the right frame of mind, that I wasn't prepared to visit and understand it. One of my best friends from last semester, Alice, left Salzburg to continue her language immersion in Barcelona, a city on Spain's northern coast along the Mediterranean just south of the French border. About two weeks ago I sent her a message about the possibility of visiting Barcelona, Madrid came up in passing, and within a few hours, we booked a hostel, I had purchased my flight and she her train to the Spanish capital! It happened all so quickly, and I've never so haphazardly thrown together a trip, but we were off! A few days before I left, I grabbed a city map from a local shop and began to familiarize myself with the lay of the place. I had purchased an early flight Thursday morning, leaving at 7:30, and booking a return Sunday night, to maximize time in Spain. Getting an early flight meant catching the earlier 4:15 train, but as I'm a five minute walk to the station, it didn't bother me much...until I looked at the train schedule a few hours before I had to leave. Yes, the train still left at 4:15 and arrived in plenty of time to check-in and pass security in the Munich airport, but, it wasn't quite leaving from the station I had thought. It was departing Freilassing, which if you know this neck of the woods, isn't even in Austria, it's in Germany. This upset killed any plans of trying to sleep. I left around 2am, but couldn't find a cab in sight. Naturally. So, on foot it was! Thank God I left early enough, because it took me nearly 1.5 hours walking through sleepy streets and fields until I arrived, a whopping 7 minutes before the train was on its way. I slept a much deserved sleep nearly all the way to the airport, and once on the plane, I was out before the safety announcement and awoke to a docked plane, sunlight shining through the windows, in faraway Madrid.

Palacio de Communicaciones, the city hall of Madrid.

Directly at the exit I was met by one of my college roommates, Vincent, who's living in Madrid and working in a nearby city as an English language assistant. From there, we took a train to the city, where I was able to grab my first views of the landscape, and oh, how different it was. I had never seen a desert before, and I couldn't tell if I liked it or not - it was completely strange to me, almost as if I had been on the moon. Once we reached the city, we switched to a bus to see some of the sights along the main drag on our way to the hostel. It was incredible that, within a 20 minute bus ride, I had seen architecture that was modern, Romanesque, classical, art nouveau, art deco, minimalist, and an exuberant Spanish baroque called Churrigueresque. Diversity. It would become a theme of this trip. We found the place where we'd stay, which was smack dab in the middle of everything, I dropped of my bag, grabbed my camera, and then we hit the streets. Our first stop was a place called La Mallorquina, a typical pastry joint on the famed Puerto del Sol. That was a sight to my tired, hungry eyes. Windows packed with sweets, and both sweet and savory pastries on display inside. I followed Vincent's lead and ordered a Napolitana de crema, which was a puff pastry filled with creme and topped with toasted almonds. As I found to be the case in most eateries in Madrid, people tend to stand and eat, usually sitting only for the big midday meal. It was delicious, and I knew right there and then that I'd sample some terrific food in Spain. From there, we explored nearly the entire old city, which was largely constructed by the Habsburgs of Austria, and we had ticked off almost everything from my list in the first day. We visited a market, the palace and opera house, a few squares and plazas, strolled through gardens, and a magnificent park, and didn't seem to stop eating. One of my favorites things from the first day was shopping in a grocery store. Good God, the fruit looked unreal! I bought some fresh strawberries that looked out of this world, and they sure tasted it! Juicy, flavorful, sweet, and unlike any strawberry I've tried back home. I also tried a lemon Fanta, which I hadn't seen before, and it was so refreshing! For lunch, we headed to a hole in the wall local place, filled with old Spanish couples and friends. The staff were frenzied, throwing things, running around, and moving as quick as lightning. Not bad for little guys in their 60s, but I knew the food would be good. The local brew went down like water, and my first dish was a paella with vegetables, meat, and seafood. Creamy, savory, and I wanted more! My next dish was a type of meatball, covered in a brown gravy and served with fries. Dessert was strawberries covered in crème fraîche. Words cannot describe what it was like to taste food with dimensions of flavor again! Don't get me wrong, I love, love, love Schnitzel, but spice, even a bit of black pepper, seems unpalatable to Austrians, and I missed it so much! Something I had to get used to was meal times. Lunch is between 2-4, and dinner from 9-. After walking around a bit more, we stopped for a pre-dinner dessert, which is apparently how they do it in Spain, backwards. I'm all for it. It ensures you stock up on the good stuff, and only then do you try and eat the stuff that's actually good for you. This time, it was chocolate con churros at a small place called Chocolatería San Ginés. We sat at a table outside and I fell in love. Fried dough and melted dark chocolate - what's not to like? Well, after we finished, my stomach had about had it, and there was simply no room for supper, even if I wanted it. I was curious what time it was, as I still could have worn sunglasses, but yet I was exhausted. It was after 9pm. It was still light out by the time I reached the hostel, which was crazy, and before I knew it, I was fast asleep under a warm breeze breathing through the open door to the balcony overlooking the street. 

The bull ring at Las Ventas.

The next day moved quickly, and I had hoped it would, as I was really anxious to see Alice who was to arrive that afternoon from the coast. I met Vincent at the station, as we planned to visit Toledo, the former Spanish capital city just south of Madrid, but to my surprise, unlike trains in Austria, the Spanish trains had filled up, and we weren't able to go. We ended up going to the edge of the city to tour Las Ventas, Europe's largest bull fighting ring. Towering above an open plaza, the brick edifice of Moorish-influenced design looked right out of the movies. Our self-guided tour led us through the inner workings of the ring, around the ring itself, and then out through the stables. It was a rather beautiful place, serene and foreboding at the same time. We then returned to the city center to grab lunch. This time, we went to another market and I started with gazpacho, a cold tomato soup, and then had grilled pork, rare, with a red pepper chimichurri and potentially the best fries I've ever had. The flavor of the roasted red pepper is beyond comparison. Simply amazing. The fries were perfectly crunchy on the outside, and creamy on the inside. So simple, but so often cooked incorrectly. For dessert, I had a pear that was saturated with mulled wine, then covered in dark chocolate fondant. I could survive on a diet like this forever!

After lunch, we slowly made our way to the train station through the park, and we arrived about an hour early.  I was too excited to sit, so we stood by the reception gate and waited for a while.  Alice came amidst a mass of people, and then we were off to drop her things off at the hostel before heading out on the town for dinner.  We first went to a small market where I had been the day before, and I had my eye set on a plate of pulpo, which was sliced octopus served with paprika and a spicy olive oil.  I then grabbed a glass of local vermouth and we stayed there for a bit, talking at a stall with a nice, older pair who had lived all over the world.  That wasn't really a big enough meal to fill us up, so we went to yet another local place near the Puerto del Sol where when you buy a drink, it comes with a gigantic platter of food.  The beer was good, and the food which consisted of bread with sliced ham or chorizo, stuffed mushrooms, and patatas bravas, heftily diced potatoes with a spicy pepper-based sauce, were pretty good, too.  It was one of the loudest places I'd ever visited, though, and I got a headache quickly.  We soon moved on to the churro place again, but at this point, I had eaten so much the past two days that I literally couldn't have eaten another bite if you had paid me.  I think we were both pretty tired, and it was finally dark, so it must've been really late, so we called it a night.  

Jardines del Buen Retiro, Madrid's Central Park.

The next day we were pretty much on our own, and we did a lot of sightseeing.  We started the day with another visit to that bakery on the Puerto del Sol, and we each had a pastry dotted with candied fruit and topped with a light sugar glaze.  Mmm!  It seemed like we walked all over creation, but we really did see so much of the city.  We waited in line for 20 minutes to get into a temple purchased by Spain from Egypt, which was rebuilt stone by stone just north of the royal complex.  Inside proved to be essentially one room with a few faintly detectable hieroglyphics on the walls.  Not worth the wait, but it was a piece of history, and thankfully free of charge. Nearby is the Plaza de España, which was built to showcase Franco's might after the Civil War predating World War II.  We were astonished that these massive buildings, capable of housing thousands, were entirely vacant.  No one could afford to rent space, so instead of lowering prices, the buildings were closed.  A shame, and senseless, too.  We had a great al fresca lunch in the main square, the Plaza Mayor.  We were after patatas bravas, a new obsession of mine, so we ordered what we assumed were those, though the description "bag of fried potatoes" was a bit cryptic.  Along side, we ordered mussels with fresh celery, roasted red pepper, and fresh green pepper, a plate of salted hot green peppers, and a local sandwich called a Bocadillos de calamares, which is just a roll with fried calamari.  Don't worry, it tasted stranger than it sounds - too much starch for me.  When the waiter arrived, though, I wish he had taken a picture of our faces.  The "bag of fried potatoes" was actually just a bag of chips, which were quickly taken back to the kitchen and out came hot fried potatoes, which were kind of just soggy hot potato wedges.  Sounds disgusting, but they actually grew on me, and we ate them all!  The mussels and peppers were terrific, though, and the view couldn't have been bettered.  

From there, we meandered on across the city to El Retiro, which is the city's largest open, green space.  It was beautiful!  Passing a stone arch, we ascended the few steps to an avenue lined with overarching trees and yellow and white flowers.  The clay pathways were trampled over by the many people spending the siesta relaxing in the vast park.  After some communication issues, we ordered some ice cream and sat idly in the sun, watching the people stroll past, and the boaters rowing in the lake across the way.  Local musicians and performers attracted small crowds here and there, and it seemed like everyone was at peace.  We continued walking, past the crystal palace and a turtle filled pond, under shaded routes and sunny openings.  The park is massive, and we explored nearly every corner of it.  We got a bit tired of walking, and so found a comfortable patch of grass near a fountain.  There, I could have stayed forever, basking in the sun, talking and laughing.  We stayed in that spot for what seemed like hours.  To me, it seemed like midday, but when Alice asked if I had a watch, I looked at the time and was utterly astonished to see that it was already after 6pm.  I think that's why nightlife in Spain goes into all hours of the morning, because it can get so hot during the day that the cooler nights are much more hospitable. Not too far away from our patch of grass, we witnessed a living mop. Or rather, one of the most adorable poodle puppies we'd ever seen - he jumped 2 feet straight into the air, and was shaking with excitement - definitely made us smile! We headed back to the hostel a bit later, and took a little nap, as our French neighbors weren't too keen on sleeping quietly the night before, and then we met up with Vincent again for dinner. I tried croquetas de Jamón ibérico, which were little fried finger-shaped food filled with béchamel sauce and pieces of the prized Jamón ibérico (which sells for €74/lb.), paired with a locally made rosé and finished with a coconut/pineapple/mystery dessert, which all went down very nicely. Afterwards, Alice and I went in search of a few drinks. After some searching and almost giving up, we stumbled upon a happening little square where we pulled up a table and each had a refreshing cocktail. From there, we headed back towards the hostel and hit another tiny place on street corner. Compared to the other places we had visited, this place was really pretty and cozy on the inside. We ordered two little beers, which came out in frosted mugs, and it they went down easily on the hot night.  We were out in the sun all day, and I would have bet that Alice, with her Irish complexion would be burnt to a crisp; rather, she was delightfully rosy, and I looked as if I had taken my siesta on the surface of the sun!  My left arm under my watch is as white as a ghost, and I have a ridiculous tan line on my forehead where my hair had covered during the day  As it was almost 3am by the time be returned to the hostel, we decided to sleep in Sunday and make a relaxing day of it.

Hundreds of thousands, if not millions of dollars worth of the black-hoofed Jamón ibérico.

Once we got up, we walked to El Rastro, a massive Sunday market.  There I'm confident one could find anything.  We walked amongst the stalls, listening to live music along the way, and eventually made our way down one of the market's main streets, tree-lined with locals hanging out their windows, peering at the hustle below.  We didn't get anything, but it was a fun way to spend the morning.  When we reached the end of the market, a whiff of grilled meat immediately caught both our attentions.  Like dogs on the hunt, we followed our noses for a good 10 minutes, being misled by the wind at times, and eventually found the source, a Portuguese grill across the street, but, alas, it was a stand up restaurant, and we were both in the mood for sitting.  We grabbed another delicious pastry from a bakery, and headed back out to the bull ring before lunch, but sadly it had closed literally two minutes before we arrived, as they had to prepare for the opening night of the bullfighting season.  We returned to the center of town, to Plaza Mayor, for our last meal together in Madrid.  This time, however, we were determined to order patatas bravas, and we scanned each menu in the square as a condition, and eventually found our place.  Patatas bravas, grilled steak on camembert on toasted bread, and a tomato stuffed tortilla, which is like a big omelet.  A light, but absolutely delicious lunch - a fitting end to four days of great eats!  There were two German boys sitting next to us, and when I asked them to take a picture of us, it was the first time since arrival that I could actually ask someone something!  This is really the first place I've been where I haven't been able to communicate by myself, and although it was frustrating at times, I was really happy to have friends with me who know Spanish.  

After lunch we headed towards the hostel to grab our gear.  We stopped in the Plaza de Santa Ana next to our place for some ice cream in the sun, which really hit the spot.  From there, we checked out, and walked down yet another tree-lined boulevard to the station.  Despite being a quickly thrown together trip, it was one of the best I've had in a long time - a true, relaxing vacation, and with a great friend at my side.  It'll be some time before we see each other again, but now we've new memories to build our friendship upon, and I'm really so happy we took the leap and made the trip a wild success.

This picture: the only thing I could ask for in Spain!

I walked into Spain not knowing what to expect or how to react, and although my venture into her heart was only a glimpse of the great culture that she's raised, I've found that the Spaniards are just like any other people - they love life, and in their own, special way, they embrace it, celebrate it, and see to it's living like it's their job.  They might not have 'real' jobs, haha, but the way they see the world and interact with it is nothing short of beautiful.

Mutual Understanding

A late politician from Arkansas once said, "Educational exchange can turn nations into people, contributing as no other form of communications can to the humanizing of international relations."  Over the past 7 or so months, this man's words and aspirations have become realized in my experience abroad.  Senator J. William Fulbright, for which the program is named, sought to establish global peace through mutual understanding by means of research and cultural immersion.  It sounds rather bland and abstract when it's put that way, but I've grown to recognize just how strong an impact I have had on the people of Austria, and reciprocally, they on me.

This weekend, all the participants in the program, Austrian scholars, students, and language assistants heading for the United States in August, and the American scholars and students here in Austria, gathered in a quaint Alpine village in Salzburgerland for the annual Fulbright Seminar on American Studies.  We all arrived not knowing what to expect of the weekend.  I was placed in a room with two Austrians, both of whom will pursue degrees in the U.S. come autumn.  The seminar revolved around lectures by professors on topics as varied as blues in Bernstein's music, marriage and migration, misconceptions about the Civil War (which was fascinating), and the 'Eurovision' phenomenon and why it hasn't caught on back in the States.  It was great to see these experts talk about their passions - their eyes glowed, they spoke dynamically, and they had a command on their topic.  The rest of the time was devoted to break-out sessions discussing various Austro-American topics like gender, music, history, and finally, education in the U.S. for the preparing Austrians.  For me, the most valuable parts of the seminar were the unscheduled ones.  Staying awake into all hours of the night, chatting with my Austrian roommates about everything under the sun, including, most interestingly, the different views we might have on the same topic, particularly the ones that seem outstandingly clear if the other had been from either American or Austria, such as patriotism, travel, etc.  Patriotism and Travel.  In October I had written about how nationalism and patriotism are inseparably linked here in Austria, which consequently disallows patriots from outwardly expressing love for country for fear of being labeled national socialists.  While that may be a valid assessment, it only serves to explain Austria's behavior, and not that of the United States.  What of us?  Do flags, national colors, elevation of the military, patriotic songs define 'normative' patriotism?  An Austrian at the seminar said that America's sense of patriotism is over the top. An American countered with the example of Austria, to which the Austrian offered a counterexample, Switzerland - a nation who's enjoyed democracy for 500 years, yet, they do not express patriotism like the United States does.  In fact, no one could supply a country whose patriotism outdoes that of America.  The Austrian answered that, perhaps because of the fact that for the past 200 years, the United States has not enjoyed a single 20 year spree of peace, that is, the United States is militarily involved in conflict at least once every 20 years, that the people of the United States have constructed a narrative of patriotism to support troops, to give reason to the fighting and for confronting the hardships of war by seeing them as a fight for our country, for our very livelihood.  It was something I, as an American, had never heard before, and I found that perspective mind-blowing.  Secondly, one of my roommates asked me why a large majority of Americans have never left the country and prefer to vacation somewhere at home.  After a minute, I tried to answer.  I asked him where he and his family go on vacation.  He said to Spain for the beaches, to Asia for the jungles.  I told him, "Think of how big the United States is."  We have mountains taller than the Alps, the hemisphere's hottest deserts, thousands of miles of coastline, millions of square acres of rolling hills and fields in the Midwest, several of the world's largest lakes, the glaciers of Alaska, the rain forests and volcanoes of Hawai'i, islands in the far Pacific, and in the Caribbean, the world's tallest forest, and nearly every other conceivable landscape, and we never have to leave our own country to see them all.  Being an immigrant nation, and having large, historic architectural influence from the nations which colonized the land, England, France, and Spain, one can hear Spanish in the South, French in the north, and visit structures hundreds of years old, again, without leaving home.  I'm not arguing that Americans shouldn't travel (I'm a big, big proponent of the opposite!), but I think that helps to explain why so many Americans never leave home.  Cultural immersion, language, cuisine, and perhaps an affinity for history seem like some of the few reasons why Americans might want to leave, but otherwise, their desires are satisfied without ever requiring a passport, and that sure seemed to have satisfied my roommate.  

The last evening, they showed a 'surprise' film, The Third Man, which happens to be one of my favorites.  It stars Joseph Cotten, Trevor Howard, and Orson Welles, and takes place in an immediately post-war Vienna.  It expects a certain level of knowledge from the audience, showing the riveting 'four men in a jeep' concept without explanation, which represents how Vienna was divided into four sectors after the war for each of the four major Allied victors.    Carol Reed's use of shadow and light is sublime, and the screenplay is brilliant.  My favorite aspect of the film, and I'd argue, perhaps it's greatest, is Karas' score, written entirely for the zither, juxtaposes lighthearted music traditionally heard in Viennese wine bars with violence, deception, and ruin - it's a masterful foray into the Groteske, and work extraordinarily well for the film.  I've seen it at least a dozen times, and my heart still races along with the intensity.  

Less than two months of teaching left, and only three more months of research to go.  It's cold...still.  On my way to Mass this morning, it was snowing.  It's April.  All's not dull and dreary, though!  I've befriended a young priest at the Church where I attend Mass, and he was telling me about his only visit to the U.S....to Montana.  He was blown away by an American BBQ, and literally talked about it for a solid five minutes.  On the other hand, he's noticed me the past few months, and asked me if I'd like to learn how to serve the old form of the Mass that they celebrate in this Church, which is in Latin and quite different to what I'm experienced with in the U.S.  The lesson will be in German, but he said I'll be on the schedule in no time, which is really exciting!  I've planned a trip to both Hamburg and Madrid to be reunited with two of my friends from last semester, and I'm really, really happy to be able to spend some time with them.  Also, two of my friends from back home, including my best friend, solidified their plans to join me over here in Austria for 2 weeks in May, and we're already planning things to do and places to visit.  Fun.  The next few months are going to be fun, and, once Salzburg gets it's act together and shows us some spring-like days, the time'll fly.  It'll be quick, now!

Catching Up

One of the most remarkable features of great friendships is, after a great period of separation, the ability to pick up exactly where it was left off.  A few weeks ago, I was told my brother would be able to visit me here in Austria for 15 days on leave from duty serving with the Marine Corps in Afghanistan.  The last time we had seen each other was after my graduation in May of last year for a few days.  Nearly a year later, and we continued on as if no time had elapsed.  

It was McKenzie's first time in Europe, and as he didn't want to do anything overly touristy, I had the opportunity to share some of my favorite spots around this neck of the woods with him.  I greeted him at the airport with a freshly baked pretzel and some pastry, and then we were off.  We visited the salt mines in Berchtesgaden and sat outside in a quaint courtyard, basking in the sun, eating refreshing gelato and watching the people walk by.  I took him to Vienna, one of my favorite cities, and there we walked along the famous Ringstraße, ate the biggest Schnitzel I've ever seen, and spent a few hours in my favorite café sipping our coffees and eating cake.  We visited the local beer hall with several of my friends, and spent the night in a cavernous room filled with jolly folks, and walked the mountains surrounding Salzburg.  On a beautiful day, we rode to Munich and passed by dozens of street musicians dotted across the city in some type of organized event - they even had concert grand pianos in side alleys and main boulevards; it was fascinating!  We walked around the aged streets, among decorated façades, through manicured gardens, and finally through the seemingly wild Englischergarten, a beautiful park similar to Central Park, where a tributary of the Isar River that flows through the city winds over rocks with such force that surfers can test their skill on the waves.  After many attempts to gain entrance in the past, we walked right into the brewery of my favorite beer, Ayinger, and had a few Weißbiers and literally the best Strudel I've ever tasted - apple and apricot with vanilla sauce, fresh whipped cream, and mint leaves.  It was well worth the wait.

Towards the end of his stay, we went on a surprise trip to Venice, whose beauty grows with each visit.  The very concept of a city with waterways instead of paved roads, boats instead of cars, is mind-blowing, and with such a magnificently preserved cityscape, flower-decorated balconies, singing gondoliers in striped shirts, it's history and roots combined with its current tourist marketing make itself both remarkably authentic and simultaneously a parody of itself, prompting a question that's surfaced in my mind ever since laying eyes on the place - what's the real Venice?  It's the one place I've visited that I haven't been able to fully grasp, to understand how it works and what the people think, and I'm starting to think that this cryptic status is what makes Venice so alluring, so perpetually interesting and changing.  It's unlike any place I've been, and its perseverance throughout the ages and sheer brilliance only serve to magnify what is surely one of the most valuable gems man has produced.

The Grand Canal towards Santa Maria della Salute.  Breaktaking. 

  
We had so much fun in Munich, that we decided to return on Good Friday.  We went straight to Dachau, a suburb about 20 minutes from the city center by train.  There, we explored the concentration camp, the first built in 1933.  This was my fourth camp visit (9, if you count satellite camps), and the overwhelming of feeling of "something," still overcomes me.  I don't think it's sadness, and it isn't sympathy, and I don't know how to describe it.  You can read all about the Holocaust, see all that newsreel footage on the History Channel, but until you're actually there, you walk through those gates, you see the barbed wire and towers, smell the crematoriums, the bunks, and the gas chambers, walk on the gravel and touch the bricks, you have no idea what they're like - and, to think, it's 70 years later and one still gets a strong reaction - there's just something about it.  We ended the day back at Ayinger, as we liked it so much, and then headed home.

Lastly, we returned to the mountains above Berchtesgaden, to what I consider to be one of the most beautiful locations in the world, the Obersalzberg.  I have said it before, but, despite being one of the most brutal regimes in modern memory, the Nazis sure knew how to pick a vacation spot!  It's the type of place that pictures cannot explain - it must be experienced.  The vivid colors, the crisp air, the untapped vastness of nature - it is nothing short of stunning.  We traced through the woods, forged trails through the snow, on a scavenger hunt for Nazi-era buildings, fortifications, ruins, and remains, and it was absolutely spectacular.  We stumbled upon things that no tourist ever sees, and we had a blast doing it.  We spent the night at Augustinerbräu at a corner table, giving him the opportunity to soak up everything before heading back.  Our time together ended after Easter Mass in a local Church that performed Puccini's fun Messa di Gloria with full orchestra and choir, after which we sat in Café Sacher, eating for the last time together Apfelstrudel and coffee.  And then he was off, back to the Middle East.  

Augustinerbräu in Salzburg on Holy Saturday.

It was just like old times, laughing and sharing memories, a reminder of home and our tied pasts.  It was surreal at times, too.  He can give his life for his country, and yet he still can't buy a beer back home, and there we were, sitting in a beer garden in Munich, enjoying a cold one.  Regardless, it was a great time.  The big question now is: when will we next see each other?  I hope it won't be another year before it happens, but, I know for certain that it will be just as comfortable as it was these past two weeks, catching up and keeping the ball moving as if it had never rested.  

Anticipating Transitions

One of the most beautiful things about the world we inhabit is that nothing is permanent.  Though it sometimes takes an extraordinarily long time, everything we see is in a constant state of change, of transformation.  Some changes are longed for, others are dreaded with hopeless avoidance, and still others occur without anyone noticing at all. We are bound to an unstoppable cycle of growth to decay, rise to fall, new to old.  One of the most pronounced of these changes is the seasonal pattern.  Just last week, after what had been a long, dark, and cold winter, I was laying alongside the winding river, sprawled out on raised embankment looking across the river to the Altstadt with its steeples and belfries reaching towards the base of the fortress dominating the city with the towering Alps off in the distance.  As I basked in warm sunlight, rereading my favorite book, F. Scott Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise, drinking a grapefruit Radler from the local brewery, donning my sunglasses and polo shirt, feeling the warm breeze pass through my hair, birds in the tree above whistled to one another, while gulls played in the rapidly flowing river below me.  A puppy was splashing in the shallow bank, people either running or cycling, walking or taking a moment's respite from the workday to absorb the sun's energy.  It felt like we were on the brink of a new start, a fresh spring and all that that promises, from rich blue skies and long days, to the fresh fragrance of flowers and a green so deep in hue, that it makes one consider if he's ever truly seen the color before.  Spring would be a welcome change, but it was not yet to be.  Down to freezing temperatures and a snow blanketed city today, and not a warm day in sight.  

Some transitions are monumental in the eyes of the world, though, and are cemented in history.  Yesterday was one of those transitions.  In the world's smallest country, the successor to a 2,000 year old institution, the caretaker of 1.2 billion souls, the Roman Pontiff was elected.  I watched the event as it unraveled through the BBC, and at first, I wondered what it must have been like to have been there in Bernini's masterful Square, celebrating the announcement, but then I heard it.   I flung open my windows and in flowed the powerful sound of every Church in Salzburg ringing its bells it unified joy at the return to the throne.  The peeling bells sounded for an hour, notifying everyone of the momentous news.  That moment, of opening my windows to the sound of bells, made me realize just how significant an event that really was.  Churches all over the world let their bells loose.  Every news station had its cameras pointed at that famous chimney above the Sistine Chapel, as they did when the new Pope addressed the world for the first time from that imposing loggia on St. Peter's massive façade.  Catholic or not, it was one of the few events to have brought the entire world together in awareness, marking the transition of the most covered person in the world, from old to new.

This week has been one of anticipation and transition.  At school, teachers and students alike have become restless at the thought of sitting in classrooms for hours a day.  I, myself, have felt the initial spark fade, and now it seems as if one long, monotonous obligation.  Everyone seems to be ready for spring to come, for a change of climate and atmosphere, for a change of routine and possibility.  

At the last minute, my brother let us know that he had been granted 15 days of leave from active duty in Afghanistan to visit me here in Europe.  He will have made a transition, too.  It's been nearly a year since we have since each other last, and it has been months since he has seen the United States, instead seeing the plainness of desert in a tired war zone.  After days of travelling, he should arrive tomorrow.  We've both changed, of that I am sure.  We've both been living our lives in different spheres, trying to make the best of our lives the way we know how.  We've experienced very different worlds, and I am interested to see how his view of the world has been altered since his latest stage of the game.  I cannot begin to imagine what it'll be like for him, coming from the cesspool of the Earth to what I consider paradise, fully knowing that it will only last the two weeks before having to return to that place from which he recently departed.  

But then again, that is the game of life we play, into that eternal rotation of experiences, of changes.  For better or for worse, they are what they are, and we must accept them as they come.  They're what make life special, the changes.  If everything stayed constant, if everything were perfect, to what value on life could we ascribe?  Without the transitions, without the imperfections, we would never, could never, understand the beauty, the good, the wonderful in our lives.  Life is full of changes.  Anticipate them.  Embrace them.  Remember them.  I'm ready with open arms.