The 11th hour

Posted on August 15, 2015 by admin

Before we came here, we just naturally assumed that due to the nature of the work, the UN/IAEA would be really good at certain things. Since they relocate people from all over the world to the various UN sites (New York, Geneva, Vienna, and more), we figured they’d be particularly practiced at getting people oriented, situated and settled in.

As we discovered, this was not the case.

We’ve been consistently surprised with not only our own difficult relocation experience, but the fact that our experience seems pretty standard, not unusual at all.

Likewise, since the UN/IAEA employees are on a variety of different contracts, varying from very short term (as little as a month) to many years, we assumed they’d be fantastic at arranging and taking care of getting the various contracts ironed out, followed through on, and, most importantly, SIGNED.

Alas, also not the case. And, again, it’s not just us.

When we first came here, Dan was on a 2 year contract with a provisional period of 1 year. Meaning, basically, that though the contract was for 2 years, they could let him go (and send us home) any time in the first 12 months. Luckily, it didn’t come to that, because even in the early days here, when I was not entirely sold on being here, I did NOT want to get settled in just to turn around and leave. After those first two years, he got another 2 year contract, which was set to end in mid-April of this year.

They wanted us to stay. We were prepared to stay. Everyone was in agreement on the fact that we were going to stay. Without a contract extension, our ability to stay in the country (in any Schengen agreement country, actually) would have expired on Dan’s last day of work. We literally would have had to have been on a plane before we went to bed that night.

So, you’d imagine that MONTHS before the end of his contract, all “t”s would be crossed, all “i”s would be dotted, and we’d be all squared away.

But again, no.

My personal comfort range was 3 months. All through last fall, I repeatedly asked Dan to make sure that the contract stuff was getting figured out, because, as I reminded him, I needed at least 2-3 months to manage getting the household relocated if, by some fluke of paperwork or change of heart, we had to leave. He agreed that January was a reasonable deadline for having the contract figured out, and assured me that would happen.

But again, no.

Mid-January (and the 3 month deadline) came and went. Early February came and went. Valentine’s Day and the IAEA Ball in mid-February. Still, nothing. Lots of assurances and personal guarantees that all would be well and that we wouldn’t be deported in mid-April, but no actual papers, and thus, very little peace of mind for me.

We finally had a contract for Dan to sign on February 18, just 2 months before we all turned into pumpkins and would have had to leave the party.

But even though the contract was READY didn’t mean it was done.

This contract was a new kind for Dan (I’ll spare everyone the details, but it switched him from a special kind of employee to a full staff position), so we (naturally) had questions. There were changes to the retirement plan, questions about the other benefits, a lack of certainty over exactly how long it would be for, and there was a surprising pay cut attached to it.

Again, you’d think that with thousands of employees around the world, the UN/IAEA would be skilled at handling these fairly simple (and utterly predictable) questions. But again, you’d be wrong.

It took us a further 6 weeks to get those questions answered. In the end, the contract was finally signed on March 30, just 2 days before it went into effect. (Did I mention that this contract was effective April 1, not April 25 as we expected? No? Neither did they.)

And so, though it happened nail-bitingly close to the deadline, we finally did get the contract signed, and so, here we (still) are.

The price of expat friendships

Posted on August 14, 2015 by admin

Expat friendships are kind of crazy. Maybe it’s because so many of us are so far from home, and completely removed from our usual social circles that we have an overwhelming need for good friendships. Maybe it’s because we’re outside of our own cultures and when we meet someone from our home country (or who at least shares a common mother tongue) we already have more in common than we do with 90% of the people we interact with every day. Maybe it’s because our lives here tend to be a whirlwind, and contain challenges that other people don’t understand, that talking with someone who nods knowingly when you vent about the glare of the lady in the grocery store checkout line makes you feel like you’ve found a soul mate. Maybe it’s all of those things.

I don’t entirely understand the WHY of it, but the evidence of it is without question. I’ve formed the fastest, and some of the closest, friendships of my life in the 4 years that I’ve been here. (The only experience that came even close in terms of the speed and depth of friendship formation was my early days at college, which, I guess, is actually a bit of a similar experience to being an expat.)

Even though I’ve experienced it, seen it happen, and heard others’ stories of going through the same thing, it’s still a bit strange to experience it. If you click with someone you meet as an expat, you’re likely to skip right past all of the niceties, keeping each other at a distance, getting to know each other slowly, observing standard social practices. You’re much more likely to share embarrassing anecdotes, offer to do something incredibly generous or invasive, and to go out of your way to see each other a ton of times in the early days of knowing each other. I have made several very good friends since I’ve been in Vienna, and it’s always felt like an accelerated process. These are people I feel like I could call on no matter what I needed, people I would go vastly out of my way for, people that I miss if it’s been too long since I’ve seen them, people I would share holidays, or hospital visits, or heartbreaks with. They are people I’ve shared my fears, insecurities and least attractive qualities with. In short, some of them are among my very best friends, and I think we’re essential to each other’s survival here.

This past January, I made a new good friend, and, as it had been in the past, I knew in the first day that we were going to be close. (Except, because I’ve done this before, and I’m starting to get over the weirdness of it, I just considered her to be one of my good friends after the very first time we’d hung out.) We’d corresponded via email for a few months before her arrival, but I didn’t know we were going to be friends until we met in person. We’ve had great fun getting to know each other, and now it seems strange to me that I’ve known her and her family for less than a year . . . actually, for just over half a year.

The timing of her arrival was also incredibly beneficial to me. I’d just gotten back from my trip to the States, and I had a “home hangover” worse than I’d ever had before. Basically, I was unenthused about being back in Vienna. I was tired of the grouchy people. I was fed up with speaking German. I wanted to be home with my family. I was done with it being dark by mid-afternoon. I was in a funk.

One of the many great things about friends is that they bring you out of yourself and can help to change your perspective. And so it was with my new friend. In getting to know her, sharing my Vienna stories and showing her around the city, I was able to see Vienna through fresh eyes, and it really helped me to remember so many of the things I genuinely love about living here. Also, in hearing her stories about the initial challenges and frustrations of relocating, I was able to see how very far I really have come, and it snapped me back into having a little appreciation for how good I really do have it. In short, while she may have felt I was helping her get acclimated to Vienna, really she was helping me find my joy about being here again.

There’s a downside to these intense, close, expat friendships, though, and it’s a big one. The very things that cause us to cling together with these people, also rip us apart. The expat life is volatile and turbulent. People don’t stay in one place for very long, and I recently found out that another of my closest friends here in Vienna will be leaving soon. Though I am supportive, and happy for her (because it’s a move she really wants) I am also heartbroken for myself. My close friends are so woven into the fabric of my experience here that removing one of them is a massive blow. I am really, truly happy for her, as I would be for any friend who was making a change that she was wonderfully excited about, but I feel more devastated and selfish about the whole thing than I think I ever would have if I had never left home.

But, if the pain of the loss is the cost of the friendships I have gained here, it is one I will gladly pay. Though we may eventually be separated and spread around the world (that’s not hyperbole, but quite likely) I also know that the friendships I have made here are not flimsy enough to be damaged by time or distance. My friends here have entered my inner circle, and like my close friends back home, we will continue to love and support each other, regardless of circumstance.

Back at it

Posted on August 13, 2015 by admin

Getting back into the swing of things after a long vacation is always hard. We’ve just recently done it once (getting back from our summer vacation, which I have yet to write about) and we’re facing our next round of it (because school starts in less than 2 weeks, which is a bummer). But it’s worse when the whole family is battling jet lag, as we were after our trip home over Christmas. Making matters even worse was that we had a really short turn-around before getting back to our usual routine.

We had planned to have the boys skip school for the first two days after we got back, returning to Vienna on Wednesday but not sending the boys back to school until the following Monday. But B ended up sick for large parts of November and December, and he missed so much school that we were worried about him missing more than is allowed, so we lost the option of keeping him home for any extra days. So instead, we left the US on Tuesday, arrived in Vienna on Wednesday, and B went back to school on Thursday. (L, who is still in preschool, can miss pretty much as much as we want, so he did stay home until the following Monday.)

We were all exhausted and felt totally dysfunctional.

The frist night we were back, L woke up 3 times overnight. The first time, I had no idea where I was and was worried I was going to wake my mom . . . who was still awake, because she was at home in Maryland. At 1:10 in the morning, B got up, out of bed, on his own (which is odd for him in any circumstances — he usually waits for us to come and tell him it’s time to get up), went through the entirely dark house to the living room, turned on all the lights, scared himself with thoughts of a giant, sinister snowman, and came running into our room crying. It took 2 hours to get him back to sleep.

After that charming night’s sleep, I found I had forgotten how to do EVERYTHING. I couldn’t remember how to pack B’s snack for school. I couldn’t remember how to get the boys dressed and out the door in any reasonable kind of time. I couldn’t remember what time I needed to leave the house to pick B up on time. And I certainly couldn’t remember how to communicate in German. My first attempt at post-vacation German resulted in the coffee guy immediately failing over to English despite my continued attempts to communicate in German.

It’s always a bumpy road back to “normal” after a long trip away. And sleep deprivation never helped anyone adjust any faster. Next time, I will do whatever I can to NOT have us jump right back into things as soon as we get back!

Another visit ends

Posted on August 12, 2015 by admin

All good things must come to an end, and so it was with our trip home for Christmas last year. Just like the year before, we got treated to a significant snowstorm the morning of our flight out, but unlike last year, I was mentally prepared for the possibility, so I was able to enjoy it a bit with the kids instead if just stressing about how wet everyone’s snow pants were getting. (Good thing, too, because we had another disappointing snow year in Vienna this past winter, so it was nice to get some kind of chance to play in the snow together.) And again, our flight was delayed (though not as badly as the previous year), but before too long we were trekking through the snow to the airport to return to Vienna.

I hate leaving. Every time. Doing it repeatedly does not make it easier. Our time here has gotten long — longer than any of us counted on — so leaving is hard, because part of me feels like we shouldn’t be leaving at all. But we did. With help from our family, clear and safe roads, and our boys, we collected up our things and prepared for another transatlantic journey.

Because of a different seating configuration on the plane, we sat differently than we usually do. Whenever possible, we sit in the middle of the plane, 4 across. When that isn’t possible, we sit 3 across at the window with one on the neighboring aisle. This particular plane had only 2 seats near the window, though, so Dan & B sat there, and L and I sat across the aisle in the middle section. No problem.

Except that it was a red-eye, and when it came time for sleeping, we had a problem. It’s never easy to do a red-eye with kids. No one ever enjoys sleeping on a plane, and kids can get progressively less adaptable as they get more tired. When my guys are a bit older, they might think it’s fun to stay up all night and watch movies as we fly over the ocean, but not yet. B leaned up against the window and fell asleep. Dan dozed next to him. Liam, with no window to lean on and no family member to bookend the other side of him, could just not get comfortable. We tried putting him on the aisle with me in the middle seat, and we tried me on the aisle and him in the middle. Whatever we tried, he ended up either sticking an appendage into the aisle or kicking the woman sitting next to him (the one that wasn’t me). He was so tired. He cried. He tried to lay on the floor of the plane. He could not get comfortable and he could not sleep. He finally dozed off, laying across me, for maybe 20 minutes when it was nearly “morning” (meaning it was still very much the middle of the night for us). I didn’t sleep at all. It was a rough flight.

But, it was at least fast. We didn’t know why at the time, but despite taking off about 15 minutes late, we landed in London over an hour early. (We later discovered that our flight was able to take advantage of unusually strong upper level tail winds — we were traveling at over 700 mph!) Arriving early in London wasn’t as much of a benefit as it might have been, though — we were to have had a 5 hour layover at Heathrow, which would now be over 6. With a very tired family, it was a bit of a daunting proposition.

Other than rare occasions when we get a direct flight to the US, we usually connect through Heathrow or Charles du Gaulle. I don’t love either option. Both are huge airports which require commuting between distant terminals for international connections. I don’t mind flying TO those airports, but I don’t like flying THROUGH either one. This time, though, I learned to love Heathrow a little more.

We were lucky to discover that in the terminal we’d be flying out of (some 6+ hours after we arrived) there was a “Family Lounge”. We didn’t know exactly what that meant, but we decided to find out. It turns out that it was a spacious set of rooms outfitted for kids of all ages, and only accessible to people actually travelling with children. They had comfy places to sit, an indoor play area (full of foam-rubber covered obstacles to play on), a nap/quiet room and a game room with TV and foosball (for older kids). There was also a coffee machine for the grown ups. It was EXACTLY what we needed. Not only were the kids able to both run around and rest as they needed, but we were free from the typical airport worry that we were bothering any of the other travellers.

The kids started out by running around, climbing on the equipment and playing with the other kids who were waiting. Eventually, Liam layed down in the nap room for some much needed rest, and we were able to charge our phones, connect to the wi-fi, and let the kids play games on the iPad while we waited. It gave us some peace and relaxation during a very long day of travel (and has bumped Heathrow up to my most favorite airport to connect through).

The best part about flying back to Vienna from the States is that by the time we get on that second flight back to Vienna, we’re almost home. That last little flight feels so short in the overall scheme of the entire trip, so it’s not so daunting. It was another long day of travel, with another transatlantic journey accomplished, but we made it back “home” from another great trip Home.

To Grandmother’s House

Posted on July 9, 2015 by admin

I’ve completely lost count of our transatlantic journeys as a family. I actually just tried to count, and can’t quite resolve the trips in my head anymore. I *think* we’ve taken 4 round-trip transatlantic trips together, plus the one-way trip that brought us here (or, if you like, you can think of that as the round-trip we just haven’t completed yet) but I could be missing one. So, we’ve done at least 9 transatlantic flights together as a family, and though I’m not sure we’re experts, we’re certainly pretty well experienced. (I mean, seriously. My kids have each made at least 9 transatlantic flights so far. I was 37 before I could say that.) But all of our experience does very little to mitigate the unscripted insanity that invariably awaits us every time we do it. Every trip has been a little different, and each one has presented its own challenges. It is, as I often say, always an adventure.

In the past, we’ve usually (always?) flown direct from Vienna to Washington or stopped in Paris. Direct is great, but pricey, and though Austrian Airlines is pretty wonderful, their planes are not always the most comfortable. Last year, we opted to fly through Charles de Gaulle in Paris so that we could fly to Washington on the new A380 — the gigantic, double-decker plane. I said I wanted to try it out because I thought it would be fun for the kids, but the truth is that my years working in aviation left me as kind of a plane nerd and *I* really wanted to try it out.

It was great — comfortable, quiet and convenient, and Air France has stellar service. But Charles de Gaulle is a headache of an airport, and no matter how long we allow for a connection there (we’ve connected through Paris in the past, flying to other European destinations) we always end up running for the plane, which is a crummy beginning to a trip. (Last year was no exception.)

So this year, I thought we’d try something a little different. I was fine with connecting through Paris, but I wanted to allow more time than last year, and I wasn’t set on it being anywhere in particular. As it turned out, the A380 now flies between Washington and Heathrow, too. We’ve had some decent experiences at Heathrow before, and it’s a bonus that people in London speak English. Sold! We booked our tickets with a connection through Heathrow.

We had no delays getting from Vienna to Heathrow, so I expected than having nearly 2 hours to get to our next plane would be no problem. Ha! I had never realized that connecting from intra-European travel to transatlantic travel at Heathrow makes it every bit as much of a headache as connecting through Charles de Gaulle. It was not pleasant.

We had to wait for a shuttle bus which ran only every 15 minutes, and which took 20 minutes to get to its destination. Which sounds fine, except that the entire flight of people from Vienna had to get on the shuttle, and we had to wait through 3 rounds of shuttle buses before we got on. Then we had to go through security again, and there were insanely long lines. When we finally got to the front of the line, we were told that Liam’s antibiotic (remember how we were all sick for most of December?) couldn’t clear security. Huh??? No, really. It couldn’t go through because nowhere on the bottle did it say how bit it was (though it was, quite clearly, the same 100 mL size as the children’s ibuprofen we had — which DID say 100 mL on the bottle, so that was clear to go). Apparently, it would have been ok if we’d had the doctor’s written prescription with us (but we didn’t), even though it was in its original bottle from the pharmacy, all official-looking and everything. I explained that antibiotics are the kind of medicine where it’s very bad if you miss a dose. I offered to take some of the medicine. I offered to let them gas chromatograph it. I asked Dan to find someone to call our gate and tell them we were coming while I pleaded with the (not unsympathetic, but unbudging) security guy. Our flight was due to take off in less than 15 minutes, and we still had a shuttle train to take. We had to choose between leaving the medicine and running for our flight, or staying to argue about the medicine and getting on a later plane. We ran. (Again.)

I’m not exaggerating when I say that by the time we left security, we had just over 10 minutes to get to our gate. I was 95% certain we were going to miss our plane. I figured that, at least, our seats had been given away to someone on standby at this point. We ran, flat out, to the train terminal. We ran, flat out to the gate. We arrived, with about 90 seconds to spare before departure time. The gate agent said that the only reason our seats weren’t given away is that so many people had missed their connections that there were more open seats than standby passengers. He told us that if we hadn’t called from security to say we were coming, they would have left without us. We were the last people across the jetway, they closed the door as soon as we were through it, and we were still walking down the (admittedly very long) aisle when the plane pushed back. We were red-faced, sweaty, stressed, exhausted and without antibiotic, but we made our flight. (So much for not repeating the experience we had the year before!) I wanted to email our pediatrician, to ask if she could email or fax a replacement prescription, but between the dash for the plane and the actual takeoff, there was not a single moment to do it.

The kids were great. Though it’s not great that we keep ending up in that situation, they’re at least getting used to it, and they know that it’s not a calamity. (Besides, they’re getting bigger, so they’re getting pretty fast!) The rest of the flight was relatively uneventful. The boys are definitely getting more and more accustomed to long flights. The service on British Airways was as good as Air France (though the configuration of the plane was slightly less comfortable).

And it was so, so wonderful to see our family again when we arrived. That is the absolute BEST feeling about being abroad — how magical it feels to come home again. There are all of these wonderful people that you miss SO much, and then you get to see them, and they’re just as happy to see you as you are to see them, and they don’t care too much what state you’re in when you arrive. It is the BEST. (And, we got to meet our new nephew/cousin!!!!)

But after we gave hugs and kisses, collected our things, packed everything up, got to my mom’s house and got semi-settled in . . . we still had the antibiotic to deal with.

By the time we got to Maryland, it was late at night in Vienna, so I couldn’t reach our pediatrician (though I left her a message). We had no recourse, except to go to a 24 hour pharmacy and beg for them to give us a single dose of amoxicillin (we figured we could come back with an emailed prescription in the morning, but we didn’t want him to miss a dose). If at all possible, we didn’t want to have to take poor, exhausted Liam to the ER or an urgent care place to get them to write a new prescription that night. I discovered that, randomly, I’d taken a picture of the prescription when the doctor gave it to us (I have no idea why — I never do that) so Dan was able to take that with him to the pharmacy. (It’s too bad that I didn’t realize I had that at Heathrow — he might have let us through with that.)

When Dan went to the pharmacy, he explained the situation. We were fortunate that the pharmacist was as outraged by the fact that the antibiotic had been confiscated as we were, and he refilled the entire prescription for us, based just on the picture from my phone. And so, just 22 hours after leaving our apartment in Vienna, after running through the airport, going over the ocean and through the hassle of getting Liam’s medicine, we were, finally, tucked in, safe and sound, at Grandma’s house.

Rauber

Posted on July 8, 2015 by admin

December was kind of crazy in terms of our daily schedule. The kids and I took turns being sick with various things, and we ended up with very few days that were at all normal. So, the last Tuesday morning before we headed home for Christmas, I was home with Liam instead of helping out at B’s school (which was my usual plan for Tuesday mornings). We had a doctor’s appointment, so we could check whether his congestion and fever was turning into an ear infection — I didn’t want to take any chances with an intercontinental flight coming up. I was just getting over being sick myself, too, and I still had tons of laundry to do and all of the packing, all with less than 48 hours to go before our departure. I was a bit overwhelmed and exhausted, so after our doctor’s visit (sinus infection, antibiotics prescribed) and our trip to the pharmacy to pick up the necessary medicine, I decided to stop and pick up lunch on the way home rather than making something once we got there.

We got home, rode up on the elevator, got out on our floor . . . and found this across the hall:

I had no idea what I was looking at. We’d only been gone for about an hour and a half, and when we left, everything was quiet in our building. Our across-the-hall neighbor is very rarely around, and I hadn’t seen him in weeks. Looking at the destruction, I couldn’t tell if there had been some urgent purpose in breaking down the door — had there been a flood, or a medical emergency? I stood on the landing (there are only 2 apartments on our floor, ours and his) and called out, expecting our neighbor, or maybe our building superintendent, to answer. Nothing. As we stood there, I got scared. It hadn’t occurred to me initially, but I suddenly realized that there might have been a more nefarious explanation to the broken-down door, and that I had no way of knowing if the person responsible was still there (there are no other exits). Our building was completely quiet. I was fairly certain that no one else was around, which is not unusual for mid-day on a Tuesday (though I have several retirees as neighbors, and a doctor who works out of her home downstairs, so I’m not always alone during the day). I was completely freaked out, and not sure what to do.

At home, I would have called the police. But did I want to try to do that, with my poor German? What if all was well, and I got things all crazy and complicated for no reason (and couldn’t explain what was going on)? Without a good command of the language, I didn’t want to insert myself into the middle of a police investigation, but I had to do something. I thought for a minute and called Dan. I took Liam inside and locked the door, while Dan called our building manager, who came to check it out (immediately). He took one look and then called the police himself.

Liam and I stayed inside, but I peeked out when I heard a commotion on the landing. I saw two police officers guarding the door to the apartment across the hall while two other officers explored inside. They were taking it very seriously (more seriously that I was when I first saw it) which makes sense — there was no way to know WHAT they would have found inside.

Shortly afterwards, there was a knock on the door, and I answered. Fortunately, the police officer at the door spoke English (someone, probably our building manager, had explained that we didn’t speak German well). He explained they needed to fingerprint the door to our apartment, since whoever had broken in to our neighbor’s place had apparently covered the peephole in our door, so that if we’d looked out during the destruction, we wouldn’t get a clear view! (I am so glad that I wasn’t home, because I probably would have just opened the door to see what was happening. I’m further glad that Liam and I stopped to get lunch while we were out, or we would have been home 20 minutes sooner.)

Later, when things were less exciting, Liam & I took Bailey outside for a walk, and we encountered our neighbor downstairs in the courtyard on the phone with the door replacement people. After his call was finished, we talked, and it turned out that the burglars had made off with a lot (I can’t remember exactly how much, but it was in the thousands) of cash, and pretty much nothing else. According to him, this kind of robbery is the most common kind in Vienna (other than pickpocketing). They probably took advantage of the front door of our apartment being propped open (we share a door with the kitchen entrance to a restaurant, and the workers commonly leave the door propped open when they take out the garbage or take a smoke break . . . and they don’t always close it when they’re done), buzzed all the buzzers in our building, and when they didn’t get an answer, they went all the way upstairs, picked a door, smashed it down, grabbed what they could as quickly as possible and ran out. Apparently they almost never take anything of significant size or weight — not even laptops. By his reasoning, it was only a 50/50 chance that kept it from being our place instead of his. (But I don’t know that I entirely believe his theory — had they broken into our place looking for cash, they would have been INCREDIBLY disappointed. The only cash we keep at home is what’s in my purse and what the boys have in their piggy banks — and I had my purse with me. By choosing his place, they got thousands of Euros . . . so I’m not entirely sure it was just a lucky choice.) I wonder, though — did Bailey bark? Did they care? Is THAT why they didn’t pick our apartment?

It was definitely scary, and the fact that it took a few days for our neighbor’s door to get completely repaired didn’t help much. In the interim, we were met with the harsh gray reminder of what had happened every time we got off of the elevator or walked out of our front door. I tried to keep as calm as possible, because I didn’t want to scare the kids. Both boys were a little nervous around the house for a few days, but nothing bad, and nothing lasting. I was pretty anxious when I was home alone for the following few days — not that I expected them to come back, but I spend a good bit of time in the house by myself, and I don’t know how often I’m the only person in the building. It was unsettling.

Luckily, we left just 2 days later to go home for Christmas, which helped put some physical and psychological distance between us and the scene of the crime. Since then, there have been some changes around our building — the elevator now requires a key for access and the restaurant workers have been instructed not to leave the door propped open (though that isn’t perfect, and I make a point of closing it whenever I see it open). We barely think about the robber anymore, and I don’t feel fearful at all in our building, though I did for a short while after — especially when someone would unexpectedly ring our buzzer in the middle of the day (though it always was, as it always had been before, typically the mail carrier with a package). I know that we are generally safe here (statistically, much safer than at home in the US), but this added to my sense of insecurity, not just because it brought up general concern for our physical safety (as it would have for anyone anywhere), but because it highlighted yet another way in which I feel vulnerable because I live in a country where I don’t speak the language well. There are many ways in which it’s hard to be the outsider, but this was a new one for us.

A different kind of Christmas

Posted on July 7, 2015 by admin

Yes, I’m still writing about pre-Christmas stuff. I’ll get caught up. Eventually. Probably. (Maybe. After all, I still have posts to finish about our summer vacation last year . . . and the year before.)

One of my favorite times of year in Vienna is the Advent season. From mid-November through Christmastime the Christmas markets are open, the weather is cool but not overly frigid, the city is lit up to celebrate and the Viennese are enjoying the season. I just love it. I love to be out and about, taking care of my Christmas shopping somewhere other than the mall, visiting the different markets, decorating the house, preparing (usually) to travel home to see our families. I just love Vienna in the Advent season. It hasn’t yet failed to be wonderful.

But this year was different. From the day after the first market opened in November, all the way through the day before we left to fly home to see our families for Christmas, at least one of us was sick. There were only 2 days during the entire month of December that none of us was sick enough to have to alter our daily schedule — we had only 2 “healthy” days during the entirety of the Christmas season.

So, it was different than usual. There were almost no Christmas market visits (and only one together as a family). We didn’t go out to see the Christmas lights. We didn’t ride on the Christmas train at the Rathaus, see the decorated trees or ride the carousel. I didn’t take the boys out to choose gifts for their teachers (or for each other). I wasn’t able to go to the Christmas party at Benjamin’s school, and Liam wasn’t able to go to the one for his own class. The days I had set aside to shop and pack for our trip home were superseded by trips to the pediatrician and mornings spent rushing to school to pick up boys that had seemed fine in the morning, only to be feverish by snack time.

It was entirely different than what I expected . . . but it was no less festive. We went out less, and we were in more. So there were fewer red-cheeked pictures under massive Christmas trees, and more afternoons spent painting trees and snowmen onto our own windows. There were fewer warm treats scarfed up in the chill of the market, but much more baking in our own kitchen. The boys’ teachers got shortbread that the kids helped to make themselves instead of something chosen from a shop. And I spent an insane 48 hours before our departure to the US in a whirlwind of laundry, packing, trips to the pediatrician and to the pharmacy.

I know I have a tendency to be ve 1012 ry “Pollyanna” about just about everything, but (other than the kids being sick) it wasn’t awful. It was a good reminder. Our Christmas season wasn’t at all what I expected, and it wasn’t full of the things I usually say I want to do during Advent. But what we lost in bustle we made up for in peace (the last 48 hours of mad packing not withstanding). And having to accept the utter “imperfection” (i.e., lack of adherence to my “plan”) of preparing for our trip helped to put me in the right perspective — what mattered wasn’t really whether all of the “right” socks were clean or whether we got all of our presents wrapped before we packed them, but that we were going home to see our family, who were all overjoyed to see us, regardless of the chaotic and disheveled state we arrived in.

It wasn’t the Christmas season I would have planned, but it was no less wonderful. It was lovely just how it was.

Kinderwagen culture

Posted on July 6, 2015 by admin

At this point, both of my kids have pretty well outgrown the need for a stroller. Liam rode in one until sometime during this past winter, when I finally decided that the inconvenience and physical strain of pushing him around outweighed the extra bit of comfort and convenience for him. (He really still needs a nap most days, and the stroller was functional because it would allow him to doze while we made the daily 90+ minute round-trip to pick up B at school. Now, without the stroller, he misses a nap most days, but my back is happier. It’s not ideal, but it’s currently the best compromise.)

I was recently chatting with a friend about our shift away from using the stroller, and in explaining the pros and cons, I was surprised at how many had never occurred to her. There were whole experiences that I consider commonplace that she had never had, and observations I’ve made about Vienna and the people here that she had never made. Also, compared to my experience of having kids in the US, living in this city (or maybe it would be the same in any city) with children and without a car is vastly different than what it was like to move my kids around mostly by car, as I did in the States. I’m not sure that many of the pitfalls and challenges of being dependant on a stroller would ever have occurred to me if I hadn’t experienced them firsthand. After all, I did use a stroller in the States, but it was purely a convenience. I almost never NEEDED it, and when I encountered circumstances that made its use tricky or inconvenient, I’d just skip it. Here, our strollers have been essential pieces of urban child-rearing survival gear, making life simpler and safer for all of us. (We’re on our third stroller since moving to Vienna. The first two were used until they fell apart.)

Having little kids in Vienna means being part of a whole sub-culture of stroller-pushers. If you’re not part of it, you frequently see and encounter those of us who are … but you don’t really know what it’s like. So I’m going to offer a small guide to the less obvious aspects of raising small (stroller-bound) kids in Vienna.

Austrians have a weird thing about elevators. It is incredibly common for able-bodied-looking people to speed walk past fully functional escalators to push in front of people in wheelchairs, with crutches, or with strollers, just to get a spot on an incredibly crowded, slow (and often smelly) elevator. It’s posted on signs that priority on elevators is supposed to go to strollers, people with luggage, and people with handicaps (and Austrians are pretty rule-abiding in general), but, for reasons unknown, no one seems to care about the rules in an elevator. It’s a mystery, but it happens all the time and it used to drive me crazy.

Taking a stroller on an escalator is really not a great idea. Sometimes, out of ignorance, laziness, or actual need (like when an elevator is broken) parents will put a stroller, with a kid inside, onto an escalator to get upstairs or downstairs. In general, this is not really a great practice, but sometimes, we do what we have to do. Unfortunately, the fact that people sometimes do this contributes to the belief that it’s a perfectly fine thing to do, and thus complete strangers will suggest that I put my stroller on the escalator while they take the elevator. Sorry, no. I’ll wait.

“But, when you’re out with a stroller, it must be so nice to have special spots on the trains and buses!” Ha ha ha ha ha! Well, it might be, if people actually made those spaces available for a stroller. If trains or buses are even slightly crowded, people often don’t move aside for a stroller to park in a designated spot, leaving stroller-pushing parents having to park the strollers in less than ideal (and very much in the way) spaces, making everyone’s life a little more difficult. Most of the time, if you see a stroller parked in an awful spot on public transport, it’s not because the parent thinks it would be fun to be in everyone’s way, but because they had no other option. Also — what is it with people trying to get ON the train or bus before people have gotten OFF? Wherever you are, this makes no sense. And when trying to get out of a train with a stroller (and, as in my case, with another child in tow) things get especially crazy if people insist on getting in before we get out. In general, the public transportation in Vienna is excellent, but it’s significantly more difficult to use (and requires a lot more pre-planning) when using a stroller.

On the other hand, Austrians are incredibly helpful with doors, stairs and getting into trains. When I was out and about with the stroller, people would regularly hold doors for me, offer to help me lift the stroller into trains, even go completely out of their way to help me carry the stroller up or down stairs if there was no other alternative. It was amazing, and so consistent that mothers with strollers can count on having someone help them if they’re in need.

The Viennese seem to really like children to be seen and (almost) not heard. It is amazing to me the level of quiet that the locals here expect (and get!) from kids in public places. Parks and playgrounds are, of course, free zones for loudness, but in all forms of public transportation, restaurants or other public spaces, the expectation is that children will keep themselves to near the level of adult conversation. If you’re an American, and reading this, and thinking, “yeah, sure, that’s just common courtesy”, you don’t understand. An adult Austrian having a public conversation would count as a whisper in the States. Normal American dinner table conversation volume is out of place, incredibly noticeable and considered rude. Having a conversation at a “normal” (American) volume guarantees you’ll be the loudest person on a train, and means you’ll probably be glared at, if not actually shushed by a stranger. I’m amazed not only at the expectation, but at how well Austrian children seems to adhere to it (the occasional tantrum aside — those are universal).

Want a kids’ menu? Nope. Viennese kids mostly eat smaller portions of adult foods here. There are no macaroni and cheese or chicken nuggets on the menu (though one could argue that a chicken schnitzel really is just a giant chicken nugget). Though this took me some getting used to, my kids don’t mind it, and I actually now kind of like that they’re not accustomed to ordering from a special list of tailored choices. Though in other places, where I never would have expected it, there are likely to be special accommodations for kids (like on the regional and long-distance trains, which often have children’s areas and sometimes even family-friendly train cars). And, at least when it comes to feeding babies, things are pretty easy here — no one has hangups about breastfeeding here. Have a hungry baby? Feed it. No one cares how, where, or how much effort you make to conceal what you’re doing.

The playgrounds here are amazing. Even if you don’t have kids, stop by a Viennese playground if you ever get the chance. They’re more challenging and less protective than what I was used to, and they very often incorporate water and other natural features (dirt, rocks, sand). There are a lot more ways in which kids could potentially get hurt at these playgrounds, but there are also a lot more ways for them to challenge themselves. And the parents “hover” less than I was used to at home, too. When we first got here, I was definitely the most hovering parent at the playground. These days, I’m more likely to hang back with the other parents (though I still hover more than is typical). They also don’t lavish praise on (or “encourage”) their kids like we do in the States. I’m usually the only mom at the playground saying, “Great job, guys!” (and not just because the other parents are speaking German).

Austrians apparently own the entire sidewalk. Walking anywhere here, you’ll encounter people walking the opposite way who will very happily crash right into you, or walk you right out into the street, rather than move over a few inches to make a space for you. On even a very narrow sidewalk, two people will walk abreast rather than move to single file to allow foot traffic in the opposite direction to pass. This is even true if you’re walking with a small child, or pushing a stroller. Nobody is moving over. I’m pretty sure this is why Austrians have the habit of walking in front of their kids, single file, instead of with their kids, holding hands (which is what I’m used to). When I first saw this, I was horrified, because it looks like they’re just walking off without their kids. Now I get it, though — sometimes there’s no other practical option.

Adults holding cigarettes inadvertently carry them at a child’s face height. And Austria has the highest smoking rate in Europe. Thus, I’m constantly freaked out about my kids getting burned in the face by a distracted person holding a cigarette. I suspect this makes me much more aware of the number of people smoking around me than the average person.

Though a lot of this kind of came out as a list of grievances, by and large we’ve found Vienna to be a FANTASTIC place to raise our kids. The culture, history, environment and education here are excellent and we love enjoying and exploring this city with our boys. But there are definitely a few elements to life in Vienna that I’m not sure I would ever have seen so clearly if I hadn’t parented my very small kids here. “Vienna”, and “Vienna — with kids”, can feel like two different places.

As American as pumpkin pie

Posted on June 18, 2015 by admin

Living here is a constant adventure (as I think I may have mentioned once or twice). We are trying new things, seeing new places, and challenging ourselves to learn and grow – constantly. A lot of it is amazing and wonderful. I’ve crossed a lifetime’s worth of experiences and travel destinations off of my wish list in the four years we’ve been here, and living in Europe is undeniably cool and enriching beyond what I could have imagined. But, being far from home, away from our loved ones and outside of our familiar communities can also be intensely hard. It’s usually worst around the holidays … and even more so when those holidays don’t exist here. Christmas and Easter and beautiful, fun and festive here. Thanksgiving and July 4th, not so much. It causes us to bond strongly, and sometimes strangely, with our fellow Americans.

Anytime I meet an American here — tourist, ex-pat or immigrant — I feel immediately connected to them. From the first moment, we have so much in common — language, social cues, cultural framework. It’s just so easy to interact with another American. We instantly “get” each other (in a way I always took for granted before). When it’s someone I get to know a bit better, over time, the person is likely to feel like a friend, even if I only know them professionally.

With our pediatrician, who is not only American (and Austrian), but also roughly my age (she’s younger) and the mom to two small kids (her twins are nearly exactly between my boys in age), I have a particular tendency to accidentally sometimes treat her friend-ish, rather than doctor-ish.

But it’s not just down to me and my tendency to treat everyone I see a lot as a friend (which I do). The nature of living abroad can sometimes change the situation and increase the blurriness between friends and professional acquaintances. Which is how our pediatrician helped me make pumpkin cheesecake for Thanksgiving this year.

The boys and I were in her office in mid-November, because B had been having some asthma-like reactions to a nasty head cold that just wouldn’t go away (everything turned out fine, ultimately). While I was paying the bill at the end of our visit (which, here, happens directly to the doctor, because most of them do not have receptionists, nurses, or office staff) we chatted about Thanksgiving, and lamented the difficulty of finding good Thanksgiving supplies so far from home. Thanksgiving is so very American, and so many of the foods we eat for it are uncommon in Europe. Sweet potatoes? Good luck. Turkey? No way — besides, it won’t fit in the oven. Graham cracker crust? Better start smashing some graham crackers! Pumpkin pie spice? Ha ha ha ha — make your own. And, in the course of chatting, I told her how I’d learned to roast my own pumpkin in order to make my own pumpkin purée for a pumpkin cheesecake I made for Halloween, but that it was kind of a pain, and that I was just going to skip it for Thanksgiving. We both agreed (surprisingly enough, for Americans) that we weren’t really huge fans of pumpkin pie. And then she remembered that she had, sitting on a shelf in her pantry, a can of pumpkin pie filling that she was not going to use.

And that’s how I ended up, the following Sunday evening, texting her to remember to bring it to the office, which she did, and B & I picked it up the next morning at his follow up appointment. And so, our pediatrician helped us have the stuff to make pumpkin cheesecake for Thanksgiving — an Austrian Thanksgiving surprise.

Liam and the dentist

Posted on May 20, 2015 by admin

When I was little, my dad always used to say, “If you ignore your teeth, they’ll go away”. I don’t know if that’s what did it, but I’ve always taken good care of my teeth. I floss and brush carefully and religiously, and I’ve tried to instill the same respect for oral hygiene in my kids. I know, though, that along with good home care comes the requirement for a good dentist to aid in the protection of our teeth. I was so lucky to have a great dentist when I was a kid, who helped me create good habits and, possibly most importantly, never gave me cause to be afraid of going to the dentist.

As a mom, it’s been very important to me to make my kids’ early dental appointments as positive as possible. I know that if they get in the habit now, they’re more likely to keep it up as they get older. I also know that even one bad experience now can turn them into the type of adults who would rather do anything than go to the dentist. It’s not always easy, though. Little kids aren’t always up for letting a stranger get close to them, let alone for opening up their mouth for one, no matter how many reassurances they get. And the process of a dental cleaning can be uncomfortable, awkward and scary, even if you aren’t a little kid.

With Benjamin, we’ve been really lucky. First, he is just a generally cooperative kid. He wants to do the things we ask, most of the time. In fact, the vast majority of the time, simply asking him to do something — even something as “awful” as putting away his toys, or walking away from the ipad — is enough to get it to happen. We did once make a visit to a pediatric dentist who explained that if the kids were difficult, they’d be strapped down … but we only stayed long enough for them to “count” Benjamin’s teeth — code for getting the kid to allow this stranger to put a mirror in their mouth and do a quick exam — and we did not go back. Instead, we subsequently took Benjamin to our own wonderful dentist and excellent hygienist back in the US, and by the time we relocated to Vienna, he already had a positive foundation to build on. Once he realized that the dentist here had a toy bin that he could choose from after his cleanings, just like the dentist back home, he was perfectly happy to have his teeth cleaned in Austria.

With Liam, we have not been as lucky. When we moved to Austria, he hadn’t yet gotten any teeth, so he didn’t have any “pre-Austria” experience to draw on. Liam is also not generally what I would call a compliant kid. He’s not fundamentally uncooperative, either, but Liam is very unlikely to be bribed, cajoled, encouraged, pushed, led, strong-armed or threatened into doing ANYTHING that he really doesn’t want to do. You can sometimes convince him, but you can’t coerce him. When pushed, he pushes back. So while lots of praise, encouragement and baby steps got us easily through Benjamin’s first dental cleanings, nothing could get us through Liam’s. Starting when he was about 18 months old, we started having him accompany us (including Benjamin) on our cleanings, just so he could watch the goings on and get used to the idea. This part went fine. It took a bit of patience on the part of our dentist, but after some very kind requests, Liam did once let the dentist count his teeth without complaint. Once.

There was nothing obviously traumatic about that visit, but after that one visit to the dentist when he was about 2, he was totally done with the idea. We could explain to him what was going to happen, and he would simply say “no”. We could ask if he was worried, and he’d say, “I just don’t want to”. He would GO to the dentist without a problem — no tears, no worry, no fear — he would happily walk into the office, climb into my lap in the chair, and look at the dentist . . . he just wouldn’t open his mouth. No promise of toys, pleading, stern insistence or threat of withholding treats made one ounce of difference. Short of actual force, it was just not going to happen.

And so, it didn’t. Every evening at home we’d brush and floss, and we’d brush every morning. He didn’t love the process, and certainly complained more about it than B ever had, but we made it through, most every day, without major issue. But when it came to the dentist, it was just not happening.

But, as time went on, as he turned 3, and then 4, the need to have his teeth actually checked and to get the process of cleaning them started became more pressing. I would take him in every time B or myself had a cleaning, and we’d give it a try with Liam. Each time, before we went, we’d talk about what was going to happen at the dentist’s office. We’d practice at home during teeth brushing times. We’d talk about how important it is, and how everyone needs to get their teeth cleaned. B would reassure him that it had always gone fine for him. A few times, Liam allowed the dentist to look in his mouth and count his teeth, but when it came to the idea of actually cleaning them, we had no luck. He would clamp his mouth shut and completely refuse. I’d try to convince him, and he’d cry. The dentist suggested bringing him in on his own, not during someone else’s cleaning, so we tried that. Still no. The dentist suggested bringing him a month later, so he could find the surroundings more familiar. Nope.

We tried again a month after that. This time — success! He allowed the hygenist to clean 3 of his teeth. Yay! Wonderful! Lots of praise. I was certain we were on our way!

We came back again about a month later. No progress. He was still only up for getting about 3 teeth cleaned (and I was a bit frustrated that the hygenist started over with the same 3 teeth — I’d been thinking that at least we could maybe get through his mouth 3 teeth at a time . . . but no).

I try, as best I can, to balance being empathetic with my kids against the fact that certain things really DO need to happen. I get that they’re scared of the dark, but I’m not up for them sleeping with the lights on. I know that going to school can be tiring and sometimes scary when you’re little, but it’s important to go and learn. I know that vaccines hurt, but they’re essential. In this case, I couldn’t tell whether I was being overly empathetic, and basically feeding into his fears by letting him say when he’d had enough, or if my forcing the issue of him getting his teeth cleaned was making a bad situation worse. I wasn’t going to flat-out force him, and I wasn’t getting a lot of support or direction from the dental staff — I still don’t know if they thought I was going too easy on him or making too big a deal of it (and though I might not have been swayed by their opinion, I wish I had known what they thought, since they have much more experience with this than I do).

When we flew home for Christmas, I decided to try what had worked so well for Benjamin when he was little — we went to our dentist at home, had Liam watch Benjamin and I get our cleanings, and then it would be his turn. Benjamin did great. Liam got his teeth counted, but no more. At the sight of the cleaning tools, he was done. (Again.)

I was totally frustrated. I was worried about Liam’s teeth. I was tired of going to the dentist once a month. I was embarassed that though I could clean his teeth at home, I couldn’t convince him to let the dentist clean his teeth (I’m fairly certain our dental hygenist here in Austria doesn’t believe me that I was brushing and flossing his teeth every day). I was afraid of creating a lifelong phobia or setting him up for serious dentral trouble down the road. I had no idea what else to do or try.

In January, after things had calmed down from the holidays, we went back again to our dentist here in Vienna. I talked with Liam beforehand. We’d talked about what I wanted the dentist to do and why. I explained that he’d be safe. I promised that I’d hold him. I assured him that it wouldn’t be much different from what we did at home every night. He said the dentist could count his teeth, and that the hygenist could clean a few of them. I agreed that’s what we’d do.

And, for some reason, this time was completely differnt.

He was still nervous. He still wanted to go slowly and only do a few teeth at a time. But he ultimately let her clean all of his teeth. We went from 3 teeth at a time to all of his teeth at once, and he was fine. He wasn’t traumatized. He didn’t cry. He didn’t object at all. I have no idea why. I don’t know what changed. He was so proud at the end. I was so proud of him, and so relieved that we’d made that progress. I was so grateful that we’d FINALLY gotten that first cleaning done, and that it was a positive experience.

Next month, we go back to try for a second time. I’m hoping that he’ll remember that positive experience, and remember that it wasn’t as scary as he’d feared.

A Mommy Abroad

Our big adventure, as a family of three.

Category Archives: Adventure in Vienna