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.

I (actually don’t) hate Legoland

Posted on August 6, 2015 by admin

I am not a huge fan of amusement parks.

When I was 17, I went to Disney World for the first time. It was every bit as magical as I had hoped it would be, even as a skeptical teenager who was worried that I was already too old to appreciate it. I had a fantastic time. And, after college, I took a trip with friends to ride roller coasters in Ohio, and I loved that, too. In fact, going to amusement parks generally seemed like good fun when I was younger, even though each trip left me sunburned and vaguely ill. But, now, as a grouchy old adult, my enthusiasm has waned somewhat. Most of the time, when faced with the prospect of an amusement park trip, I struggle to get beyond the expense, effort, endless lines, crush of sweaty humanity, hours in the burning sun, general uncleanliness and near certainty that at least one of us will get sick after (or during) the visit. It’s just not really my thing these days.

That being said, it’s not really about me anymore. As a mom, I try to embrace my kids’ enthusiasm for such places. With one set of grandparents who live in central Florida, a visit to Disney was inevitable. We went a few summers ago, and it was EXACTLY as I imagined it would be: hot, crowded and a test of patience. I spent the day feeling like I was enduring something rather than enjoying it, and, I thought, based on the numerous tears and tantrums, that the kids felt the same way. Surprisingly, though, the boys came out of it feeling like they’d had a great day and with seemingly no memory of the misery that we experienced while we were there. (I vaguely suspect that the chicken nuggets may be laced with whatever brain chemical it is that makes mothers forget the pain of childbirth.) Regardless, my boys were left feeling like they’d had a great day, and honestly, that’s more than good enough for me.

Even so, when my in-laws suggested a trip to Legoland this past December, my enthusiasm was all for the sake of the family. I could not get the episode of “The Simpsons” where they visit “Blockoland” out of my mind. I could not imagine what Legoland had to offer that would be better than Disney. I anticipated a life-sized hours-long ad for everything Lego and not much more. I was not excited. But, I’d take one for the team. However, after the projected 90 minute drive turned into more that twice that, with a nightmare of a parking situation (whatever my gripes against Disney, they do know how to park cars), I was 100% ready to go home before we got through the gates. I was hot, grouchy and already over Legoland.

After waiting in a long line for the bathroom and an another long line for tickets, I was not happier. Plus, the very first thing the boys saw when they went into the park was a giant Lego sculpture … which was not fenced off but was not meant to be touched. Being told off by the guard assigned to protect it and then wrestling a sweaty, exhausted 4 year old off of it, I was ready to run for the hills, but we persevered. By 3:30, we had ridden on the (admittedly cool) merry-go-round (with giant Lego horses!) and had an awful $80 lunch. By 4:00, we’d ridden a water ride that got us completely soaked and had Liam in tears. I decided I hated Legoland.

But then . . . we discovered The Dragon.

The Dragon is a roller coaster, designed for small kids, and everyone else, too. My previous experience with kid-friendly roller coasters was restricted to tiny, carnival-type roller coasters which have not been a lot of fun (for anyone). This wasn’t tiny, and it wasn’t rickety. It was a real roller coaster, just set up to be safe and functional for little kids (as well as adults). I was skeptical at first, imagining waiting through the 45 minute long line only to have one (or both) of the kids chicken out at the end, or, worse, getting them on and having them hysterically beg to get off after it was too late to do so. The boys were absolutely determined to ride it, though, and so we did.

And I’m so glad.

It was great fun. It was exciting enough to be scary, but not so scary as to not be fun. There was no moment when I was worried that the kids were going to fly out or get hurt, but it had enough drops and turns to count as an actual roller coaster. The kids loved it. We all loved it. It was the beginning of turning our day at Legoland around.

The boys had such a blast that we ran around and got straight back in the line. We rode The Dragon several times (even dragging my reluctant in-laws on it) and had a great time each time.

After that, and some face painting, we wandered down to “Miniland” which recreates well-known sights and cities from around the world (extra credit because we got to see a lot of places we’ve actually been to). We didn’t get down that way until dusk was falling, and I think it would have been even more impressive in the daylight (though it was well-lit at night), but we all enjoyed looking at the Lego recreations of the Eiffel Tower, the Golden Gate Bridge, and the monuments and museums of Washington, DC (which is quite near where we’re originally from).

We all would have liked to have spent more time exploring the scenes in Minland, but it was almost time for fireworks, which the boys really wanted to see. On our way to the stadium to see the fireworks, though, one of us had a brilliant idea . . . why go see the fireworks from the stadium when we could try to go see them from The Dragon?!

And so we did. We ran back up the hill and through the park and into the line, hoping that our idea wouldn’t be one that everyone else in the park had already had. We were completely in luck. We climbed aboard and started our ride, holding our special Lego glasses on our faces while we rode The Dragon (again). And we were lucky enough to have an amazing view of part of the fireworks show while riding our favorite ride in the park. (The special Lego glasses made the fireworks appear to be made of Lego bricks, which is also pretty cool.)

After that, we repeated our run around to the line again . . . and again . . . and again. In all, we rode The Dragon 8 or 9 times total (including an extra bonus ride at the end of the night, where the ride operators let us all go one last time before they shut the ride down).

So, I admit it. I was wrong. I thought I was going to hate Legoland, but I actually didn’t. We had a great time, enjoyed the park, and spent some really fun time together. The park didn’t end up being just a giant Lego ad (though there were plenty of places to shop for Legos, too). In fact, I enjoyed it so much that I’d like to go again, and I’ve already started looking into the other things in the park that we didn’t get to do our first time (like Lego jousting — only for kids, though). I was pleased with the number of things they had for the little ones to do (though we did end up doing the same thing over and over again — they had other stuff) and the members of the staff that we interacted with were all friendly and pleasant. Instead of having an awful day, we had a great one. I was impressed, and we will go back. (Or, possibly, we may go to Legoland Germany instead, which all of B’s school friends have been to. They all think it’s weird that he’s been to one in Florida. I hear they have their own version of The Dragon!)

My favorite gifts

Posted on August 5, 2015 by admin

(Yep, still writing about last Christmas. I ought to be done sometime before this coming Christmas.)

This year, when I was shopping for Christmas gifts for the boys, I wanted to find a small way to incorporate more of the idea of “giving” into their holiday. Not by giving gifts to loved ones (which we already do), but something a bit wider-minded — something beyond their immediate sphere. I thought a lot about how best to do that in a gentle, positive way. I considered Heifer International, where you can buy a cow or a goat or a rabbit for an impoverished family in another country, but I worried the concept might be a bit advanced and the gift too intangible for the boys to really understand. I thought that just opening an envelope about a donation of a goat would get completely swallowed up in all the STUFF they would be focused on Christmas morning. So, maybe one day, but not yet. But I liked the idea — of taking the money I would have spent on a gift for them, and doing something charitable with it instead … without it seeming like a punishment or deprivation in any way. (My kids are certainly not deprived of anything, but the idea was to encourage charitable giving, not make it seem like a rotten idea.)

Despite my best intentions, when Christmas comes around at our house, my kids are overwhelmingly focused on the presents. (Though I get the feeling that this is pretty normal.) One unintended consequence of being able to provide so much for our kids is that they take so much of what they have for granted. And though I understand that Christmas (even for those of us who celebrate it culturally, rather than religiously) is about family, togetherness, kindness, charity and peace, somehow, for my kids, it’s really almost entirely about the presents (and also a little about visiting our family, which is a good thing). I think it’s hard for intangible themes of peace, charity and time spent together to compete with boxes of brightly-colored plastic and flashing lights packed up under the tree.

But I wanted to do a little something small to start to make a shift.

So, I kept looking, and found out that through The Sierra Club, you can “adopt an animal” at a U.S. National Park. You get a certificate, a little booklet and a stuffed animal to represent your adoptee, and the money goes towards conservation efforts across North America. It was perfect. It would accomplish the goal of giving, but still give the kids a tangible THING to focus on. My hope was that reading the booklet and playing with the stuffed animal would keep the gift in their minds beyond just the moment that I told them about it.

And, it worked. The kids loved the stuffies when they opened them, but they were even more fascinated by the idea that they had “adopted” a real, actual wild animal in a park somewhere. They wanted to learn more about the animals (a fox for L and a wolf for B), and more about where they live. They learned a bit more about US geography, too, which is something they don’t know enough of yet (because my kids know where the Alps are, but not the Rockies). They are absolutely set on visiting the parks (Glacier and Rocky Mountain National Parks) to see “their” animals. And we were able to talk about conservation and the environment and the way the animals’ survival depends on people taking care of the planet.

I’m really happy. My plan worked! I know it’s not much — we’re not saving the rainforests or ending homelessness — but it was a tiny step in the right direction that we hadn’t taken before. They were my favorite gifts to give this year.

Exactly as it was

Posted on August 4, 2015 by admin

I have a natural tendency to get worked up about things. I worry. I stress. I fret. I am, by nature, an anxious person. It doesn’t serve me well. Though I believe, in the deep and rarely examined recesses of my mind, that my worry and anxiety will ultimately benefit me, they don’t. Somewhere along the line, I became convinced that conceiving of, and preparing for, every eventuality would give me some influence or control over situations. It doesn’t. I read once that “Worry doesn’t rob tomorrow of its problems, it robs today of its joy.” That pretty much sums up the reality, but still, somewhere in my mind, I equate worry with control and control with happiness. Thus, I somehow think that worrying will make me happy, even though it never, ever has.

I’m also a perfectionist. (Being a perfectionist might not mean what you think. It doesn’t mean “doing everything perfectly”. It means “not being able to let go of the idea of doing everything perfectly”. Which is crazy-making, because no matter how well you ever do anything, you can always find a way that it isn’t “perfect”.) If I don’t work on it, I naturally revert to a state where I am constantly anxious about how I can make things perfect. So, I basically make myself miserable pursuing an impossible goal. And perfection isn’t even a good goal! Again, in some back room in my mind, I got the idea that perfect = happy. Also, not true. Trying to be perfect, at everything, all the time, is actually a pretty great way to NOT be happy.

I’m working on this in myself, and I’ve made good progress. I can now see that somewhere in my mind I think that worry = happy, and I can see the nonsense of that idea. I can also see that my life is actually happier when I don’t worry about anything being “perfect”. Which is great. But I’m not totally immune to it yet.

When I was preparing to go home for Christmas this year (yes, back in December), amongst sick kids, sick me, a break-in across the hall and all the usual frenzy of the Christmas season, I slipped back into this thinking. I spent a lot of time in the weeks before my trip home contemplating (aka worrying about) all the things I could do to make the holiday at home with my family go perfectly. I worried about what I would pack. I wanted to make sure we all had the right sweaters, the perfect pajamas, the best outfits that we could for our weeks at home. I tied myself in mental knots trying to figure out how to maximize every moment of our time at home so that we could see all of the people we wanted to see and do all the things we wanted to do in order to ensure a perfect holiday. I stayed up late doing laundry, wrote up complicated planning calendars of people and events, and lost sleep over things like whether or not I had packed all of the most perfectly appropriate socks.

Before I made myself sick, crazy or miserable, I got things straightened out, though. A few days before we left, in the midst of the chaos of that week, I realized that the only thing that truly mattered is that we were going home. We were travelling across the ocean to see our family and our friends. We would spend time with people that we love. We would do fun things. We would also not get to see everyone we wanted to, because time is finite, the holidays are busy and kids have a limit on how much activity they can handle happily. No one would care if we had our best Christmas sweaters or the best possible collection of socks on hand. Whether or not we made the connections on our flights was not going to make or break our trip. None of the stuff I was agonizing over was going to make the difference between having a wonderful holiday and not. What was going to make the difference was me NOT trying to make it be perfect. In trying to make it be perfect, I was going to miss the fact that it was going to be absolutely wonderful regardless. I wouldn’t have been able to enjoy it as well, and in not enjoying it, I would have gradually eroded the enjoyment of the people around me. In reality, it didn’t have to be anything different than exactly what it was to be a happy holiday.

In the end, it wasn’t perfect. We didn’t get to see everyone we wanted, and we didn’t get to see anyone for as much time as we wanted. There were tons of things we wanted to do that we didn’t (there always are when we go home). There were peaceful moments, busy moments, quiet moments, festive moments and lots and lots of love and fun. It didn’t have to be any different. It was exactly right as it was.

(I mean, really — how could we have improved on this?)

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.

A Mommy Abroad

Our big adventure, as a family of three.