Austrians and elevators

On the whole, Austrians are courteous, helpful and generally polite when I encounter them out in public.  People seem to generally do what they’re supposed to do (throw their trash in the trash cans, sit where they should on the train, give up their seat to someone older or less able than themselves, hold doors, cross at crosswalks, etc.).

The example I get to experience, frequently, is how helpful they can be with a stroller.  The trains are generally set up to work well with strollers — there’s designated stroller parking areas on the trains, and doors that are marked which are stroller accessible (generally, but not always, they’ll even accommodate our double stroller) and all of the underground trains are accessible by elevator.

Every so often, though, an elevator might be out of service.  And although I prefer to travel up and down by elevator, I will use an escalator in a pinch — but not every station has an escalator going down, and often the staircase is too long to try to manage a stroller on my own down a flight of stairs (what’s possible isn’t always safe).  And some of the trams and out-of-town trains have several steps up to get inside.  Both can be difficult, if not impossible, to manage with a stroller.  100% of the time that I’ve run in to a difficult situation I have had one or more complete strangers offer to assist by helping me carry the stroller up or down the stairs, helping us on or off the tram or helping us carry excess stuff that isn’t easy to manage on an escalator.  (I had one particularly memorable situation where I had Liam in the stroller, B on his bike and the elevator was broken.  I had no idea what I was going to do — I simply didn’t have enough hands to get everyone safely up the escalator.  But then a woman who had just come down the escalator I was trying to go up stopped and offered to help.  She carried the bike while I managed the stroller and Benjamin — and she even missed her train to do it.)  This kind of kindness is a normal part of daily life here in Vienna.  I’m still a little surprised when it happens, but people generally count on it, and it is incredibly reliable.  I am incredibly grateful for this help when I need it, and truly impressed by the culture of responsibility and thoughtfulness that has created it.

But this leaves me all the more perplexed by the behavior I see regarding Austrians and elevators.  Every single day, I see people go out of their way to walk to take an elevator when they could, more easily and more quickly, have taken an escalator or the stairs.  They will wait for the elevator to come (the elevators here aren’t usually very fast) and pack themselves in.  There are signs on the elevators stating that priority is to be given to strollers, people in wheelchairs, and the elderly, but no one seems to care.  I have, on several occasions, been pushed aside so that seemingly fit people can take the elevator that they had to walk out of their way to get to.  (I’ve seen wheelchairs pushed aside, too.)  Generally, the people here don’t shrink away from physical activity, and the sense of courtesy and responsibility seems so strong that I just can’t make sense of this one weird little thing.  It just seems so out of character based on everything else I experience here, but it’s also remarkably pervasive.  (I wonder if it’s related to the dislike of waiting in lines that seems to be common here, too.)

I am impressed and amazed by the amount of kindness and help I’ve gotten here when I need it — it’s part of what made my mind up to move here when the opportunity came up.  The strangeness with the elevators doesn’t undo that — it’s just a piece of the puzzle that I don’t understand yet (and there are still a lot of those).

Der Zahnarzt

I haven’t been to the dentist since January.  I’m a bit of a nut about oral hygene, and my teeth were starting to feel icky, so I just couldn’t leave it any longer — it was starting to get to me.  So I found a dentist, and today, I went.

This is another one of those experiences you just won’t have as just a tourist or a visitor to another country — even going somewhere as a foreign exchange student, for an entire school year, you could probably manage to do routine dental (and any other) visits during school vacations, or to go just before you left and then wait to go again until you get back.  Visiting the dentist is one of those things you only do in a foreign country if you live there (or have some kind of dental emergency).

Visiting any type of doctor here is a little weird.  At home, I’m used to a dentist (or any kind of doctor) having their office in an office park or some kind of medical center.  Here, the doctor’s and dentist’s offices are mixed right in to residential buildings.  Not, as you might see in the States, on the ground floor of a residential building, but in just any building, on any random floor, next door to regular apartments.  As such, you have to get buzzed in to the building, and then again to the office unit . . . and you ride up in the elevator along with the building’s residents.  This afternoon, on the way to the dentist, for example, I rode up in an elevator full of young women, laden with beer, having a party, I presume.  There was just something odd about getting off on the same floor, and going in to the neighboring apartment . . . to have my teeth cleaned.  (I should be used to this by now, really, since there is a doctor who has her office downstairs from our apartment, and she appears to ALSO live there, which I also find strange.)

Going in to it, you don’t know what to expect.  Do they do things the same way here?  Will my teeth be taken care of?  Do these people know what they’re doing?  Will I be able to communicate with them?  Have I rotted my teeth out on coffee and pastries over the past 6 months?!?  For all the strangeness of the office location, and the nervousness and anticipation, the actual experience of getting my teeth cleaned was pretty much the same.  The dentist was nice, the hygienist was nice.  The dentist is originally from California, so there’s no language barrier there (although living in Vienna for 10+ years gives him a very strange accent) and the hygienist, who is Austrian, spoke English very well, and got assistance from the receptionist when she got stuck (she told me she was going to “shower” my teeth, but knew that wasn’t right . . . the receptionist looked it up for her, laughing — the word she was looking for was “rinse”).

It was a fine experience, and my teeth are clean.  I admit I miss my dentist and hygienist from home, though.  But this is definitely one of those things that I kind of took for granted at home that I’m not sure I will again.  And it’s another one of those moments that reminds me that I’m not just visiting.

Breaking a sweat

I’ve recently started to make more of a point to get regular exercise.  I’d love to lose the rest of the “baby weight” (from being pregnant with Liam, but also still from being pregnant with Benjamin) but even more just because I feel better when I move around — it’s good for my body and my brain.  After years of being active regularly without having to think too much about it (riding, dancing) it’s amazing how crappy it can feel to basically stop moving except when you need to.  (Even that’s an exaggeration — we don’t own a car, so I walk a lot, and I chase two kids around all the time, so that’s a lot of activity, but it just isn’t the same as moving for the purpose of moving.)

Not wanting to end up injuring myself right away, I’ve started slowly — I’m walking and doing a little bit of yoga.  I felt better almost immediately, and now, after just a week, I’m really starting to notice a difference — I walk for time, not distance, and I go significantly further each time.  So, that feels good.  It just feels good to move.

I usually walk with Liam in the mornings (don’t worry — I don’t make Liam walk, he gets to ride in the stroller) when B is at school, but I don’t always make that work, so then I try to go in the afternoons.  Today, I went in the afternoon with both Liam and Benjamin.  Liam rode in the stroller and Benjamin rode his “pushing bike”.  We had a blast.  It was so fun to be outside, making my body move, and spending time with my kids — we all really, really enjoyed it (even Dan met up with us after he got home from work).  It was a beautiful day, and I got a pretty good workout in — Benjamin can get going pretty fast on his bike!

I’ve often wondered how the Viennese manage to walk everywhere and still look perfect.  They are beautifully done up (in general) and seem to maintain that throughout the day — even though use of public transportation, and walking, are so common.  On all my walks over the past week or so, I’ve been noticing something — in part, at least, it’s because they walk pretty slowly.  Even I, relatively out of shape (and with pretty short legs), manage to speed past even tall men walking to the train station.  If they’re out just strolling around, they go even slower.  I doubt they usually break a sweat.  It’s a novel concept for me — maybe I’m an impatient person, but I almost always walk quickly.  No wonder they manage to look the same at 6:00 in the evening as they do at 8:00 in the morning!  It also helps to explain why they’re always so bundled up (I am easily the most lightly dressed person I encounter when I go out for my brisk walks).

That isn’t to say they don’t exercise — they definitely do.  It’s a very active and relatively fit culture, as far as I can tell.  But when they’re about their daily tasks, they seem to take their time . . . although they ALSO manage to be on time to everything (a paradox I have yet to figure out).

There’s a measured pace, coupled with an efficiency and promptness, that I find really nice in the people here.  They manage to be on time without being rushed, fit without being obsessed.  I still haven’t figured out how they do it, but I like it, and I hope I learn a little.

Being American

Living abroad, I thought I’d be a lot more embarrassed about being American (and more reluctant to admit it).  It turns out that (to my face, anyway) I haven’t encountered a lot of anti-American sentiment.  People are much more likely to react with interest, rather than derision, when they hear where I’m from.  (So far, the only people I’ve met who make me embarrassed to admit that I’m American are other Americans who are behaving badly — but that is the exception, rather than the rule, as well.)

At home, we’re all from someplace else.  As you are getting to know someone, it’s very common for them to identify themselves with another country/culture:  Italian, Irish, French, Puerto Rican, Indian, Chinese, etc., etc., etc.  Even people born in the US — even people whose parents and grandparents were born in the US — will identify themselves by their country/countries of heritage.  People have a lot of pride about where their family is from.  I’ve heard (and been involved in) arguments about how much of your family has to be from somewhere for it to “count”, and heard cultural/nationalistic stereotyping used both negatively and inclusively.  It’s part of the “mixing pot” mentality, I suppose — since we’re all from somewhere else, we find and share our common bonds.  There’s strength and tradition in identifying with our culture of origin, but it also creates divisions and can create discord and dislike.

At home, I’m Irish.  (Well, mostly.  More or less.  More than anything else.)  Dan is Colombian (that’s legit, though, as he was born there — but his family likes to point out that they’re really Spanish, by way of Colombia).  Our kids are Colombian/Irish/???.

When we first arrived here, we’d find ourselves equivocating, the way people do at home, about where we’re “from”.  Living in Austria, that just confuses people.  If you say you’re Irish, they expect you to have an Irish passport, to have been born there . . . or at least to have BEEN there sometime in your life.

Here, we’re just American — no further explanation required.  I find it ironic that I didn’t really identify myself that way until I left.

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire

It was cold and rainy this morning in Vienna.  I quite liked it.  My weekly Sunday trip to Starbucks was ill-effected, though, because since it was rainy and cold, everyone wanted to drink hot coffee, everyone wanted to sit inside and drink their hot coffee, and (literally) I think a tour bus dropped off an entire load of people while I was there.  Which is all fine, but made for a rather loud and crowded Starbucks visit (I got the last seat at a table when I arrived, and then people started cramming into small, odd spaces — I had one woman standing over me for a significant portion of my white mocha).

It still served my purposes — an hour out, on my own, not worrying about the kids — but I decided to leave a bit early and go on a stroll.

On my way back home, I came upon a chestnut vendor.  Chestnuts roasting on an open fire — for real — served in a little paper cup.  So, I got some (12, to be exact).  Oh, so yummy.  And warm.  And happy in my tummy.  Just the thing for a cold, rainy, autumn day.

I brought them home to share with Dan and the boys.  Benjamin did not care for them.  Liam thinks they’re fantastic (or so I interpret his persistent toddling up to me, pointing at the paper cup and shouting, “Da!”).

Score another point for Vienna:  chestnuts roasting on an open fire.  There are things I really love about this place.

The elements

I’ve always considered myself to be an outdoorsy person.  I like to be outside.  I’m a horseback rider, and have been for over 25 years.  I’ve taught riding, on and off for years, too.  I like to walk outside, go camping and swim, too.  So, it has come as a bit of a shock to me that now, with no outdoor hobbies, I am more in touch with the weather and it’s slight permutations than I ever have been before.

Part of it is our apartment.  At home, we lived in a north-facing apartment with windows on only one wall.  At both of my last two jobs, before leaving the workforce when Benjamin was born, I rarely even saw outside, and was only out in the weather on my way to or from work.  On the other hand, our apartment here has windows on all 4 sides, and a terrace in the middle.  I can go outside without leaving my apartment.  We don’t have central air, and (ironically) our heat is somewhat centrally controlled by the City of Vienna (I’m still learning about how this works, as it’s just starting to get cold).  I’m much more aware of the amount of cloud cover, precipitation and temperature than I ever have been before while indoors, to be sure.  Now that Benjamin is in school, I also have an hour long commute to pick him up and bring him home every day.

I don’t have a car, so when I do go out, into the weather, it’s not just a quick dash from door to car, and then from car to school and back.  I’m out, walking in the weather (whatever it may be) at least every weekday.

Today was a rainy, cold day in Vienna.  It was a major reminder of something I’ve been slowly realizing:  I can’t just grit my teeth, “make do” and get through the weather in Vienna (especially the upcoming winter).  Today was rough, and it’s October.  We just don’t have the equipment.  My boys have rain coats, but not enough layering pieces to put underneath when it’s cold and rainy but not so inclement as to pull out the winter parkas.  And, their legs are mostly unprotected from the elements (particularly an issue for Liam, who is in the stroller, legs out).  Neither of them have rain boots (or, for that matter, snow boots) right now.  I don’t own a functional umbrella.

When I first got here, I was surprised by all the “weather gear” I saw.  The Viennese seem to have about 12 different kinds of coats, twice that many kinds of footwear, scarves for use in all types of weather (literally — they wear them in July), plus hats, gloves, mittens, balaclavas.  They have rain covers as well as snow buntings for their strollers.  Their strollers even have holsters for their umbrellas.

Today was a good lesson in outerwear.  I wore my raincoat and boots — I was fine.  Benjamin wore his raincoat and sneakers — he was ok, but was worried about getting his light-up shoes in the rain puddles, lest it short them out (not something I had thought of?).  Poor Liam.  I put him in fleece pajamas, to make sure he was snug and covered, and then put his raincoat on top.  His clothes got pretty wet, but he stayed dry.  Of course, once we went inside the trains and the school, he got overheated in about a second.

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It’s only October.  I need to get myself equipped.

Off the leash

Today, I was doing some online birthday shopping for Liam.  Down at the bottom of the page, they have those “you might also be interested in” links, and I saw something that I had completely forgotten about:  leashes for children.

I used to be judgemental about people who leash their children . . . until Benjamin started running away from us, giggling madly, when we were walking outside with him — a behavior which peaked (not coincidentally, I’m sure) when I was about 8 months pregnant with Liam and incapable of keeping up with him.  After a few heart-stopping incidents, I completely rethought my no-leashes-on-kids philosophy.  This is just one of those things that you can’t understand until you have a child that might require one.  I didn’t give in to my passing desire to tether my child whenever we were outside, but I definitely stopped judging people who do.  (I do, however, still question the sense of those who leash their child and carry their dog . . . )

But, I had honestly completely forgotten about kid leashes until today.  For one, Benjamin’s temporary need for one has long since passed, but more so, because I just don’t see them here.  I literally have not seen one since before we got on our plane at Dulles.

I wonder what an Austrian would say about a leashed child.  The kids here, some barely older than Liam, rocket down the sidewalk on bikes and scooters.  They seem very aware of the dangers in the street, and, as a whole, extremely well behaved in this regard.  As a point of consideration, the culture with dogs and leashes here is subtle — it’s required that dogs be leashed nearly everywhere, but most people ignore the law most of the time . . . except in very specific situations (in stores, in restaurants, on public transportation) where there is near 100% adherence.  The Austrians speak their minds when they see something they don’t agree with, so I imagine that anyone trying to walk their child on a leash in Vienna would get a stern German lecture — even in a restaurant or on the subway.

Bad hair day

005I haven’t had a hair cut since before we left for Austria.  Back when my hair was really long, I would routinely go a year (or longer — yikes!) without getting it cut, but I’m quickly learning that it doesn’t work well with shorter hair.  My recent haircuts don’t always seem to grow out gracefully.  I’ve been struggling with what to do about my hair:  I loved having it short when I was pregnant, but lately, I’ve kind of been missing having it long.  When my hair was really long, I wore it up almost all the time, but I knew how to wear it up in a way that I liked.  With my current hair, I have no idea what to do with it.

This morning, I went to get it cut.  I had a good consultation with the stylist, and she started cutting.  All seemed to be in order.  Then, at the end, she styled it.  I hate it.  She made it big, fluffy and frumpy.  I think it aged me at least 5 (maybe 10 years).  Yuck.  I honestly had no idea I could look that old.  It’s my first experience ever walking out of a salon and feeling worse than when I went in.  I’m hoping (praying) that when I wash it and “style” it (I use that phrase loosely, since mostly I wash it and towel dry) that I’ll like it more and look more like myself.

This stylist did Benjamin’s hair a few months ago, and she did a great job, so I’m a little surprised that it went so badly.  I think, first and foremost, I’m getting older.  I don’t mean that I’m “old”, but this stylist is probably at least 10 years younger than I am.  To her, I am pretty old.  I have two kids, I’m married.  Her major pastimes (I asked) are going out and partying.  She probably doesn’t see anything wrong with a 35 year old mother of two looking old and frumpy.  I’m sure she thought it’s what I should look like.

It’s amazing how much of a cloud it has put over me to have a bad hair day.  I’ve found myself irritable and grumpy since getting out of the salon.  I finally gave up and pulled my hair back to at least get it out of my way (and now it doesn’t look or feel so fluffy).  I was expecting to come out of my appointment feeling cute and, at worst, lamenting that I probably wouldn’t be able to make it look as nice myself.

Sigh.  Another Austrian challenge:  find a new hair salon.  On the plus side, it’s actually refreshing to have a bad experience that doesn’t seem to come from a language or cultural barrier.  This is a “normal” problem, that I could just as easily have at home (but have just been lucky enough not to have ever experienced).  Bad hair is bad hair, even in Austria.

Telling time

Today, in my German class, we worked on telling time.  (Actually, we worked on reporting the time and understanding it when someone else tells us — the ability to actually tell time was assumed.)

There are a variety of conventions used, most of which I found to be fairly complicated — some are used by all German speakers, but a few were specific to Austria.  What I found particularly interesting is that after (and including) quarter past the hour, they orient everything to the hour that is coming, rather than the hour that has passed.  For example, you’d say it’s “half eleven” when it’s 10:30.  You’d say it’s “three quarters six” at 5:45 (i.e., three quarters of the hour towards 6:00).  At 8:15, you could either say a quarter after 8:00 or “quarter nine” (a quarter of an hour towards 9:00).

As our teacher said, after a quarter past the hour, that hour is history — old news.  They look ahead to what’s coming, not what’s already happened.  They also ask the time (literally) as “How late is it?”  When I consider that the Austrians are the most punctual people I’ve ever been around, this all seems to make a lot of sense.  They aren’t stuck on where they’re coming from, they’re looking to where they’re going.

Fluent

I speak one language.  I took 7 years of middle school/high school/college French, and my comprehension is ok, but my ability to speak is pretty poor.  I understand some Spanish, just from having heard a lot of it (and because you can make educated guesses on a lot of the nouns if your French vocabulary is decent).  I’m just starting to learn German.  I can sign the alphabet in American Sign Language and I can code in a variety of programming languages.  That’s it.  Actually, I feel pretty good about it.

I was, therefore, incredibly impressed today when ordering coffee at Starbucks.  The person in front of me ordered in German, and the barista taking the order spoke in such quick and fluid Austrian-accented German that I was thinking, “Uh-oh.  She sounds like she might be one of those few Austrian Starbucks baristas who doesn’t actually speak English, so I hope my German is ok and the other baristas haven’t just been humoring me.”

I step up, order in German, she smiles, and replies in perfect English (as they often do).  “Whew”, I think,” I got to use my German, but she’ll understand me if I have to correct/add anything.  Great!”  Then I remembered that I was going to order a brownie, blurt that out in English, and she smiles, gives me my total in English, and all is well.

Then, the person behind me steps up and says, “Bonjour!” and proceeds to order in (surprise!) French.  To which the barista replies in perfect (as far as I can tell) French, responding to questions, corrections and several specific requests.

Damn.  I can’t do that.  I’m totally impressed.  And humbled.  And grateful for the Austrian educational system, which lets me get by with my 30 words of poorly spoken un-articled German.  Danke!