Tales of Mundane Existence

At the moment Jim and Keir are engaged in a foraging adventure. It’s Sunday, and we have no food. Unfortunately, on Sundays in Vienna, grocery stores and most stores in general are closed, including bakeries. It’s a law.  Only two or three Billa grocery stores have special dispensation to be open on Sunday, and the one we used for the first time last week, today no longer exists.  It simply vanished. So, J and K are driving into an unfamiliar area of Vienna to find the Billa we think is actually still open.

When we came here, we learned the hard way that grocery stores close by 7:30 on weeknights and are closed on Sunday, and that most other stores, including bakeries, are also closed on Saturday or close by noon on Saturday. Most of the stores in our neighborhood, for instance, are closed either all day or half a day on Saturdays, whether they be clothing stores or Tabaks, where people buy tram tickets.  We waffled between thinking this was charming and thinking it was annoying. It was kind of how one views certain spousal traits after many years of marriage.

There is something wonderful about a town closing down one day a week. Those of us in our fifties and older remember that the U.S. was like that during our childhoods. It’s hard to imagine now in the 24/7 age, but in Pierre, S.D., and in most other American towns, Sunday was an enforced day of rest. Only the most essential people worked and commerce, except for a few restaurants, closed down.  Even the service stations, where the attendants actually pumped the gas, washed the windows, and checked the oil (really, children, it’s true), were closed.

There is no 24/7 in Vienna, except maybe the sex clubs. This has required us to change our daily habits. In Virginia, we shopped at Harris Teeter, which is open 24 hours a day and where we could find almost anything we wanted from food to housewares to shampoo to medicine.  It was not unusual for Jim to make a late-night run to the store. Here we need to actually think about when we do our shopping and how much to buy given our small refrigerator.

Last week was the first time we were desperate enough to try to shop for groceries on a Sunday.  The open Billa, previously unbeknownst to us (a friend gave us the information), was almost within walking distance, but somewhat hidden, so we were excited to find it. Given that the Viennese clearly want the grocery stores to be closed on Sunday, or they would change the law (naïve American that I am), we expected very few people to be there. Instead the place was mobbed and not just by ex-pats; the Viennese were everywhere.   Go figure.

Our Kangoo

Because bad habits are easily resurrected, Jim and I spent yesterday walking around Vienna knowing that we didn’t have to buy groceries because there was always tomorrow, and since Keir wouldn’t return from Munich by train until 9:30, we figured we’d be OK with a couple of tortillas and a half a hunk of cheese.

Unfortunately, the Billa we shopped at last week has vanished.  Hence, the boys are out searching for what might be the only open Billa in Vienna. They're back. Here's Jim.

We found it.  Almost in the shadow of the famous Prater Ferris Wheel from "The Third Man" movie.  The store is actually located in the Nord Bahnhof, and that part of town has a drunk or two passed out on the sidewalk.  Or, as I thought about it later, maybe they weren't drunk at all, but unconscious casualties of trying to buy groceries on a Sunday in Vienna.

Prater Ferris Wheel

Keir and I made it into the Bahnhof (all Nouns are capitalized in German) and confronted a stunning mass of people fighting for the bananas, brot, bier and anything else you could grab as the masses of humanity swept you down the aisle.  We started with a list, but quickly abandoned it and just grabbed what we could reach without being injured.

Misti may have commented in an earlier blog about how Austrians, despite having a zillion laws and regulations, aren't very good at standing in lines or otherwise making order out of something fairly straightforward, like pushing carts down aisles.  Carts and people move with no sense of direction, and based on the number of collisions, everyone seems to be invisible to everyone else.  I tried to get down one aisle, only to be blocked by a stepladder someone had left standing in the middle of a critical intersection.  The shoppers seemed stymied by it … I folded it up and leaned it against the soup.   The resulting surge swept me toward the baked goods.  Okay, not quite.

But at least the effort to get out of the way provided the answer to a puzzle I've had on other shopping outings.  Shopping carts here go forward and back, like in the States, but they also go sideways.  It takes some getting used to.  But today, as I quickly moved left, then right, dodging other carts and Austrian shoppers, I realized why the carts are designed as they are.   It's a real-life video game.

I'm exaggerating, but only slightly.  It is the rudest, most aggressive shopping one can imagine.  As Keir and I were leaving, we noticed a phalanx of security guards at the front door.  A crowd had gathered in the main terminal of the Bahnhof, all trying to push into the Billa.  As there was not room in the Billa for even one more shopper, the guards were holding the mob at bay.  It was a confrontation.

So much for a Sunday trip to the store to grab a carton of Milch.  The Austrian Parliament needs to review the Sunday closing law in order to maintain the social order.

Christmas Cloud

And as Misti began this by talking about the Mundane Existence of Vienna, I'll provide you with what passes for mundane in this place.  Keir was just off to Munich for a volleyball tournament.  While he was gone, we had two boys from Zurich stay with us so they could play in the soccer tournament here.  The school's cross country team went to London – where they still are, and the girl's soccer team is in Cairo.  Another weekend of sports at the school.  Yawn.

Our Street with Blue Clouds

Next week Keir is going to take a little jaunt over to Portugal to do some Habitat for Humanity work.  The girls he hangs around with a lot advised him not to spend his birthday money on clothes here in Vienna because they are, like, soooooo much cheaper in Portugal.  Like, wow.  How do they know that?

As Keir got mad when I pulled out my camera in the Billa, the pictures this week will be of other things.

This image is one of the blue Christmas clouds that now hang over our street.

Stairs 41 to 52/our door

Many, many streets are adorned with stunning Christmas decorations … we'll do a nighttime tour in a few weeks.  One pedestrian arcade in the First District has giant chandeliers hanging high over the people … we haven't seen them at night yet.

The brown doorway at the top of the stairs is our apartment (52 steps up from the entrance). 

We're on the third floor 

Our building is undergoing a year-long outside renovation, so it is encased in scaffolding and green netting.   That is common in a city filled with old buildings.  One of the things they are doing to our building is adding an elevator.  It will go up the outside in the back courtyard and watching it being built … by two guys with trowels and cinderblocks … is both fascinating and disconcerting. We definitely won't be the first to use it.

 The netting, when on regular buildings, is green or white.  But when it is on historic buildings, it contains accurate images of the buildings being covered.  

What's real?

The photo here is of the Stephansdom … the big famous cathedral in District One.  Almost everything you see in this photo is actually a sort of silkscreen of the building hanging in front of the actual building while they fix the bricks.

Kino in English

As we live in a town where everything is historic, here is a shot of the Artis Kino, the movie theater where all films are shown "OV" – which means original version, which means in English.   The theater is a maze of staircases to little theater rooms that are more like screening rooms.  It isn't very big, but it is easy to get lost inside.

And as we must include some art, here is a statue of a very casual guy hanging around over a doorway, contemplating the mundane nature of his existence.


The guy in the two frames at the top is art, and if you drop a couple of Euros in his coin box, he'll pose.  If you don't, he puts his hands in front of his face. Just another human trying to make a living.


Misti again.  While the boys' trip to the Billa was the most exciting thing to happen all week, we actually had a second thrill, again based on the most mundane of things. Last weekend we had headed out for Keir's birthday celebration (and, yes, we do know that his birthday is Nov. 4, the day I wrote the last blog, not Nov. 5, when it was posted - we're not slipping that badly).  His friends have been giving him grief about looking "too American" so we gave him some money, took him to the large shopping district, and let him go in search of European styles. We had planned to go from there to the Prater ferris wheel (above), but when we caught up with Keir, he had run into two girls (the afore-mentioned) and decided that hanging out with them was preferable to a one-of-a-kind ferris wheel ride with his parents.


Jim and I went home, and although we have three sets of keys, we quickly realized that all three were inside the locked apartment. I ran down the street to the key shop, but it was Saturday afternoon, so it was closed, of course. I went to the apartment of the man we consider the superintendent, and I met the person I assume is his wife, who doesn't speak a word of English. I explained in German that we had a serious problem and where the keys were and she looked very concerned, but no, her husband didn't have a key. I went into the Italian restaurant downstairs and, unfortunately, neither of the waiters we know best were there, but I finally met the owner, a dapper looking man from Jordan who runs an Italian restaurant in Vienna. All anyone could tell us was that it would cost a couple hundred euros to have a locksmith come to the place. Everyone was sweet and tried to be helpful.


Then, we looked up. Our apartment building is surrounded by scaffolding (see above), and although we always lock our windows (two sets of locks each, so double locked; nine sets in all), it was worth a try. We live on what we call the third floor, what Austrians call the second floor.  Jim went up on this clearly not OSHA-approved scaffolding, moving ladders, inching along narrow boards, and jumping over gaps, while the restaurant owner and I tried to see him through the green netting.  By leaning precariously across open air Jim was able to check the windows. One of the nine wasn't tightly locked, so he pushed on it, it opened, and he dove headfirst through the window. Thank you, Tae Kwon Do! 


The upshot of this (other than our paying more attention to keys) is that I ran into the superintendent's wife a day or two later. She's a head shorter than I am, and probably years younger. I tried to explain to her in German how we had solved our problem, and she said again how outrageously expensive locksmiths are ("Zwei hundert. Hundert. Hundert.") And then, she grabbed me by the shoulders and almost hugged me! It was so unexpected. So dear.


No matter where you live, most of life comes down to the mundane. The search for food, access to shelter, and human contact, in any language.

In Search of Vincent

Van Gogh

Today our baby, Keir, turns 17.  How in the world did that happen?

We’re late with the blog because we were busy exploring our extended neighborhood – most of central Europe. Keir had last week plus this Monday off school (two Austrian holidays and school break), so we headed via Kangoo to Arles, France, to finally visit Reeve, Melanie and Ocean.

Given that the French had been striking and gas was purportedly rare, and many people (including ourselves) imagined us stuck at the border with an empty tank and nowhere to go, and that Keir woke up Saturday, the day we were to leave, with a nasty stomach disorder, the beginning wasn’t auspicious. 

Snow in the Italian Alps

But on Monday, our intrepid spirits prevailed (actually, we were just desperate to get out of town) and we headed south. The first day we drove in depressing wind and rain for the entire day, but the blurry Austrian scenery was nonetheless impressive, particularly the deepening forests. The real excitement began in the Alps in northern Italy. The rain changed to snow. 

Now, we know snow. I grew up in South Dakota, land of howling blizzards and ice-encrusted cattle and buffalo. In my early 20s, I lived in Wisconsin, which has slightly wimpier winters, but when a VW dune buggy and bicycles are all you own, and public transit is minimal, a Wisconsin winter takes on a very personal dimension.   Then Jim and I spent 20 years in Minnesota (land of 10,000 snowflakes per nanosecond per inch for, oh, nine months out of the year) until we moved to Virginia, civilized environs in which snow makes an occasional grand entrance and graciously vanishes before one can tire of it. It’s like the belle of the ball leaving the gala before her armpits are sweaty and her tresses come undone.  We love Virginia winters.

The Kangoo Challenge

This Alpine snowfall was mesmerizing, enthralling, gorgeous. That is, for Keir and me. For the driver, who was testing out the performance of this used Kangoo, the word would be harrowing.

In Vienna, there is a rule. Surprise. Snow tires are required by law to be put on vehicles no later than November 1. Of course, we would never do anything before a deadline and nothing warned us of imminent snow, at least not in English. The mountain roads were curvy, slushy, slippery and down to one lane populated by an astonishing number of trucks.  Relief was found in the many tunnels, in which Jim could resume normal breathing, if only momentarily, and Keir could indulge his love of tunnel photography.

A Kangoo like ours 

We survived the snowstorm and stopped for the night in Padua, filled with new respect for this un-American-looking French car of ours.

Then, on to France. Driving through Italy to France on this route is defined by Ts: trucks and tunnels, terror and thrill. Hundreds of trucks, which we assumed were heading to the harbor in Marseilles, accompanied us. We stopped counting tunnels when we got to 40. Few things attest to the marriage of human ingenuity and muscularity more clearly than mountain tunnels.  The trust we have in this union as we allow ourselves to be deep inside a mountain that could crush us beyond any remnants of existence is stunning, a peculiar act of faith in our fellow humans.

TomTom and a Tunnel

Once in France, where luckily gas was abundant, we began driving on elevated roads to the left of which we could see the glorious Mediterranean.  The sun was radiant, the wind merciless.  Keir’s pictures show you all you need to know.

Driving the Mediterranean Coast

After all that dramatic scenery, the drive to Arles through land that looked more like the Midwest, except for the wispy trees and lacey foliage (think Impressionist painters) was relatively calm.

After 14 hours total, we arrived in Arles. Nothing in the U.S. resembles Arles, which is in some ways the antithesis of Vienna – dirty, down-to-earth, colorful, irrational, diverse, dark, tattered, lively, subversive. 

Misti and Keir walk to the Hotel du Musee

Arles is on the Rhone River, and its infamous mistral was blowing hard the first day we were there trying to navigate the narrow streets with their confusing signage. It was bitter cold, and we couldn’t get to our hotel from where we were (we gave Reeve and Melanie a break for two nights), so we parked by the ruins of the Roman coliseum and toted our luggage through a maze of dark streets until we reached Hotel du Musee, where the proprietor, frazzled and disorganized, spoke no English.

The four days we were in Arles, we walked miles along narrow streets virtually unchanged for centuries. If there is one thing Americans should learn from Europeans it is the joy of walking. Everyone walks, no one is obese, even those who are disabled walk with canes and crutches. At first, I thought there were more people with disabilities in Europe, but then I realized, that no matter the age or the disability, the people are out walking in whatever manner they can manage. 

Arles is a Roman town, and Reeve and Melanie’s centuries-old home is just around the corner from the ruins of a Roman bath, the Thermae of Constantine, built in the fourth century. One can only imagine the intrigue and romance and scheming and lust that must have played out within that ancient structure. Beneath the town, you can walk in the near-dark, dank and musty, and see the remains of Roman walls.  Julius Caesar himself may have walked there.

Arles street

This is a place famous for bullfights, and both Hemingway and Picasso satisfied at least some of their bloodlust at the Arles arena, first built in Roman times. I’m no fan of bullfights, at least I don’t think so having never actually seen one, but the strange exoticness of that singular violence as entertainment harks back through hundreds of years. What is it that that pageantry and cruelty sparks in otherwise normal people? 

Where bullfights still happen

My mother loved animals and I remember her nursing our tomcat’s disgusting head wounds, resulting from nights out prowling, and feeding with an eyedropper every abandoned bird I ever brought home. She was a force to be dealt with under whose supervision that hunter/tomcat, our cocker spaniel, and our house rabbit all co-existed peacefully in the family room and kitchen.  One of my favorite photos is of that cat lying on a kitchen chair right next to the bunny. The cat does not look happy.  According to my dad, this woman who could subdue the murderous instincts of that tom while in the house with easy prey thoroughly enjoyed the bullfight she saw in Spain. The men thought my mother, tiny and pretty, would be too delicate for the gore. She wasn’t.

Another street 

Given the choice, death to a single animal pitted against a single man, who also risks death, is certainly a preferable way to play out the violent nature of humans to planting indiscriminate car bombs in Baghdad. I suspect that watching the spectacle of matador versus bull brings death into focus.  Perhaps it’s cathartic; at least it’s safe, for everyone other than those in the ring. And, maybe, just maybe, a bullfight is in my future (but I’d better hurry because they’ve just been banned in Spain), so instead of imagining these things, I, too, will test my true instincts, might discover my own dark bloodlust.

St. Trophime

The town square, just outside the entrance to the Roman crypts, is faced by the Church of St. Trophime, built on the site of a fifth century basilica; the current church was begun in the twelfth century. Its statues, on one side a group of the “elect” heading to paradise, on the other the naked damned going to hell, are a bit less playful than many of Vienna’s statues. The interior is cathedral-like but spare. 

Leaving the church and standing in that square, a difference becomes evident. In Vienna, the imagination is ordered, constrained.  Beauty is codified. The statuary, the fountains, the gardens, the architecture, the music (think Schoenberg’s 12-tone row as well as Mozart symphonies) are structured, controlled.  The passion finds expression in music, in opera, but it needs corners and boxes, rules, and palatial surroundings. Even Viennese Sigmund Freud’s intent was to order the mysterious human psyche.

Keir photographing the Rhone

In Arles, the accordion and tambourine players in the town square enliven the very air. They just play. The skateboarders and bikers dare the cobblestones to trip them up, the smokers engage in simple conversation during lengthy lunch breaks, women in rags hunched in corners on the steps of the church beg, protesters holding pictures of Che Guevara and pounding drums pour through the narrow streets. Unruly humanity.

Marching with Che

Here’s an irony. The Viennese of structure and control enthusiastically welcomed Hitler in 1938, a reality for which the city only apologized in the 1990s, and the darkest passions were unleashed. Order was lost, humanity usurped by demonic impulses.

Bullfight? Holocaust?

Arles, too, has its dark side, a small aspect of which concerned Vincent Van Gogh, who was institutionalized there after he cut off his ear. Some posit he mutilated himself as a gesture to the object of his respect, artist Paul Gaugin, mimicking the bullfight tradition of presenting the vanquished bull’s ear to a special person in the stands.  Or maybe he just had a bad day.  Whatever the reason, the Arlesians tricked him into an institution, a place still standing and quite lovely, where he continued to paint.

The painting, the place

Another universal irony. Arles had not appreciated Van Gogh in his time, but after his importance was secured for all of posterity, it embraced all things Van Gogh. I’m reminded of Sinclair Lewis’ novel “Main Street,” a thinly disguised and scathing critique of Lewis’ hometown, Sauk Centre, Minnesota. Initially, he was castigated for embarrassing his hometown; the book was even banned in at least one Minnesota town. But, later and still today, the town embraced him. I’m sure in both cases the change in heart had nothing to do with tourist dollars….

Van Gogh and his Cafe 

All of this, of course, is impression, conjecture and presupposition, so let me tell you something I absolutely know to be true: My grandson, Ocean Benjamin Schumacher, is the most adorable almost-seven-month-old baby on the planet. I know that many of you have not yet become grandparents and some of you never will, so I won’t bore you with the details of his huge, inquisitive blue eyes or the perfect slant of his eyebrows, or of the sweet, sweet, sweetness that emanates from his smile, or his adorable bottom, or the beauty of seeing him nestled against his gentle mama nursing contentedly. Aren’t you glad I spared you?

Reeve and Ocean

At 57, it’s thrilling to experience something new, and becoming a grandmother for the first time when Colin was born more than a year ago, was more profound an experience than I ever anticipated. On the days when grandbabies are born, nothing, nothing, matters more than their entrance into our lives.

It’s impossible to truly explain to the uninitiated; it’s like trying to explain sexual climax to a child. I remember the sex book I used to explain intercourse to Reeve when he was quite young. It featured charming frontal drawings of a man with a paunch and a penis and a woman with slightly-sagging breasts and pubic hair, almost cartoon-like. Orgasm was described something like this: After a lot of wiggling together, it’s like being tickled with a feather and then you sneeze. Hmm.

Anyway, the joy of being a grandmother is equally inexpressible.

All of us in the house from the 1600s

Reeve and Melanie are adjusting to life in a town where neither knows anyone, but fortunately, they’re only about an hour from Marseilles, where much of Melanie’s family lives, and they are both people who make friends easily.

Reeve might already be known as the crazy American artist; to promote an opening in their art gallery, he walked on stilts in the town square, and another time, he performed his songs (he has an amazing way with lyrics and melody) in the square with his guitar case, I think, left open for donations. Because so much of his current work involves feathers, he has a relationship with one of the local bar owners, who serves many of the hunters in the area. Recently he spent more than two hours plucking freshly-killed ducks for the guy so that he could keep the feathers.

His current exhibition – sculptures of feather boats – is exquisite. Feathers have been a motif in his life. My mother and grandmother taught me the names of birds and I routinely collected feathers and bird nests as a child. Reeve and I always collected feathers on our walks, especially along Minnehaha Creek, and after he left home for college and even later, he and I would often include a feather in our letters.

Coral King 

One of my favorite feathers is a great blue heron feather that Reeve retrieved for me at the Everglades. It was inside the fence where the alligators were hiding, and since I’m a coward and generally obey the rules, it was Reeve who crossed the fence, dashed to the edge of the water, and returned with the treasure.

When they had their art opening, Melanie’s videos of boats in the Marseilles harbor (Melanie is a video artist) was running in the “cave,” what counts as a cellar in Arles, a musician friend was creating the music, and as the people walked among the boats, the boats moved in response to their movements and breath and cast mysterious shadows.

Here’s my favorite constructed of feathers, bones and petrified coral as the keel.

Reeve and Melanie live here

We had to leave Arles much sooner than we would have liked, but work and school beckoned, and Reeve and Melanie, who had had many visitors in recent weeks, were ready to be alone.

We decided to drive back the northern route through France, Switzerland, and Germany. The trip was less exciting in a visceral way, but the beauty of the countryside was breathtaking. And the sunset high in the Alps with its complicated layers of cloud types and golden hue was perhaps the most spectacular I’ve ever seen. After two days, we drove back into Vienna, mostly happy to be back on the eastern side of things.

Heading home via the Alps

This weekend, we hope to continue our hidden tour of Vienna, but our main objective will be to celebrate Keir’s birthday, hopefully in a uniquely Viennese way. I doubt it will involve stilts.

All the Time in the World

Misti and I ventured out into a grey Vienna day intending to resume the walking tour of "hidden" Vienna that we began a couple of weeks ago.  We were diverted by clocks and globes.

As we wandered toward the center of the old city, we stopped first in the Globe Museum, which is just what it says it is ... a museum of old globes of the Earth, the heavens,  Mars, Venus, and the solar system, both pre- and post Copernicus.

It is an intriguing, unusual museum that reveals past visions of our world.

These two globes date from 1621, and were made in Amsterdam.  They are desktop sized, and they are stunning.

It is wonderful to look carefully at the details of the many globes in the museum and consider what people knew and didn't know about the planet at different times.  You realize the amazing effort, attention to detail, sheer concentration, that went into each one of these.

This picture gives a sense of the museum, with its cases of globes dating back several centuries.

In addition to the big globes, there was a pocket-sized Earth, complete with a carrying case.  That is pictured here (above).

And then there was the tiny globe and the little fold-up paper that included images of the people of the world.  We weren't allowed to use a flash in the museum, and the place is much darker than Keir's Cannon makes it seem.   So, it was difficult to get clear pictures of tiny things ... but the Earth with its people is whimsical.

And finally, on our globe tour, I'll include the image of a spectacular Zodiac globe dating back to 1698 (to the right -- click on it to see it in detail).  It is very dimly lit, but the images on it ... copper engravings on paper ... are beautiful.

Okay, enough of the globes ... although we will be returning to the museum in the future.  It is both quiet and worldly.  And though it is small, it is housed in a palace ... or what used to be a palace.  Sometimes it's hard to tell, but the little hallway leading into the first room is a giveaway.

While this seems ornate ... well, it is ornate ... there are a lot of ceilings and walkways and hallways like this in Vienna.  This one is cozier than most.  Even the old schloss/palace where I work,  despite being in some disrepair, has a few rooms and ceilings like this.  They restored one big room and the gold leaf alone cost enough that they don't plan on doing a second room.

One last picture from the globe museum ... which is both educational and quaint.  If you want to show the relationship of the Earth, the moon and the Sun in a model, and you want to see how the moon casts shadows ... and electricity hasn't been invented yet, what do you do?  See below.

After the Globe Museum we wound our way through some alleys to the Clock Museum.  The museums here usually include the buildings.  The Clock Museum is contained on three floors of a small old building across from the little clock maker shop we showed a couple of blogs ago.

To get to the three levels of exhibits, you have to wind your way up these:

Once inside, we found an amazing collection of clocks -- including this 200-year-old Christmas ornament style clock that was wonderful for its simplicity.

This clock (left) from the 1700s was amazingly modern, and it was ticking away as it has for more than two centuries.

This cabinet clock (right) was puzzling. Clearly it took someone a long time to make it.  The dials are hand painted and lettered, somewhat crudely.  Somewhere in all of these dials is the time ... but we couldn't find it.

 This one was (left)  ... well, the eyes moved left and right as the clock ticked.  Not what you want in your room.

And behind Misti is a clock painting and a clock figurine.  There were several clock paintings and they were all bad.

And finally there was a very old 16th Century piece that was dark and gloomy.  It had a group of religious figures circling a bell with hammers.  They looked like they'd been doing it for much too long.  

Das gute, das schlechte, und das hässliche

BRRRRRRRR.  No, that’s not a weather report, although it is getting quite chilly here. It’s a comment on the Viennese.

I’ve been reluctant to write about the people here because I’ve been waiting for my negative impressions to be proved wrong. However, it’s been almost three months, and instead, those impressions have been strengthened.

Austrians, in general, have a reputation (and after teaching students from more than 90 countries, I’ve learned that every nationality carries a reputation) of being formal, reserved, cold, and, at best, impolite, and more typically, rude. This is particularly true on the street and in other public venues.

Now, my apologies to the Austrians we met in Modling, who, with the exception of two female pharmacists, were generally warm and friendly. The pharmacists, however, whom we met on a fruitless search for Advil, were a harbinger. When Jim mentioned their rudeness to his colleagues, he was told that Austrian pharmacists are notorious for their disdain. I tried to understand this and to see it from their perspective. After all, we were Americans who spoke almost no German requesting an American medicine as if we were asking for nothing unusual. Besides that, we were bursting with the excitement and happiness of the newly-arrived. What could be more offensive….

Except for our short time in Modling, we’ve dealt primarily with the Viennese, so I won’t cast aspersions on all Austrians, and obviously, the non-native Viennese, such as lovely Dominique and the Irish store owner previously mentioned, are not included in this assessment.

Let me try to describe the mean streets of Vienna.

Keir was the first to notice. He returned from an outing and told us the Austrians seemed to target him. He had never been bumped into, shouldered, and elbowed so much in his life. Now, remember, Vienna is not that big, and the sidewalks are not crowded in the way they are in New York, for instance.

Jim and I scoffed, assuming it was merely adolescent exaggeration. It wasn’t.

I venture out almost every day. Lately, I’ve had to steel myself for the experience. On the street, Viennese are cold – ice crystals hanging from their eyelashes cold. They routinely bump into you, expect you to get out of their way, ignore your greeting, and never smile, except at their own companions.  No matter how hard they bump into you, no one ever apologizes. My most common word here is “Entschuldigen” (excuse me.) I use it like an American – if I accidentally get in someone’s way, when I pass in front of somebody, when I need to reach across to get something off a shelf, all those occasions in which Americans say, “excuse me.” I even say it when people bump into me or force me off the sidewalk.

I greet people, not everyone, of course, but if we are the only two people on the sidewalk or in the store or if we’ve happened to make eye contact, I generally smile and say, “Gruse  Gott,” the standard Viennese greeting, which sounds roughly like Grease Got. I smile at children. I smile at mothers and fathers with infants or toddlers. I smile at teenagers. I smile at old people. I smile at dogs. What I get in return is almost always an impassive glower, a glare, a look of contempt that could turn anti-freeze to ice.

And I am not exaggerating. OK, the dogs don’t glower, but they don’t wag their tails like American dogs.

Americans, of course, also have a reputation and most people distinguish, as they should, between the American people and American foreign policymakers. My students are surprised by how friendly, energetic, optimistic and generous Americans are. Depending on their culture, they are amazed when Americans hold doors open for people, hold the elevator for someone, greet people with a hi-how-are-you, and engage in small talk with complete strangers.

In addition, by many cultures’ standards, American society is exceptionally well-ordered. For the most part, people follow the rules; they even stop at stop signs when no one is coming, something considered novel and ridiculous by many South and Central American students. The concept of standing in line isn’t even questioned by Americans, although it is utterly unknown in some cultures. And in American culture, you don’t bribe cops, the folks at the DMV, or teachers.  Some of my students have pointed out that we do have a bribery system – we call it lobbying – but even that has rules.

People from some cultures see American exuberance as naïve and unsophisticated, a result, perhaps, of our having not suffered enough (unless we’re Native or African American). Americans are also known for being superficial, work-obsessed, selfish, and hard to really get to know. As a people, we are seen as generous with money but not with our time. We eat lousy food, are obese, don’t respect the elderly, give children too little discipline, are uptight about sex, tolerate the intolerable such as homelessness, are anti-intellectual and woefully ignorant, and most of us couldn’t dance to save our lives. According to a couple of young Brazilian women I had as students, the worst thing about Americans is our bikinis are too big.

Two weeks ago I had a day when I simply gave up. I had gone forth as I usually do with the intention of speaking German as I did my errands. First stop, the cell phone store. Cell phones here are called “handies,” a term I really like. When I came in, an older customer was already at the counter, but the clerk, whom I had met previously, gestured to me. I asked in English if the other woman was finished, and he assured me that she was, but she remained at the counter about six inches away from me (personal space is very different here). I asked in German if I could practice my German, and proceeded to tell the man that my handy had a long message in German that I couldn’t understand and would he please listen to it and tell me what it meant. My German was pretty good. Throughout this exchange the woman stared at me, not kindly. The man wasn’t cold, merely tepid.

I smiled at the woman, and I noticed that the corner of her mouth twitched slightly. Oh, my god, I thought, she’s going to smile. But she didn’t. She merely hardened her face, which, considering it was already stone, was a feat.

When I left, it hadn’t been a particularly pleasant experience.

I returned to the sidewalk and after about 10 minutes of nothing but frigidity on the street, I was seething. I began having violent fantasies. I was going to trip the next Viennese who glared at me. I envisioned looking over my shoulder and seeing Viennese men and women strewn on the sidewalk for blocks nursing scraped knees and wondering what had set off the crazy American. I knew it was time to go home before I created an international incident.

Now, I realize the Viennese are not behaving this way just to irritate me. This is how they are, how they perceive the world, how history and culture have taught them to be. All cultures are shaped by such factors as geographical location, natural resources, wars, foreign occupation, religion, and the vagaries of fate. The trick is to parse out the why without necessarily justifying the what.  In a later posting, I’ll wrestle with the reasons why the Austrians and the Americans are the way they are.

I decided to go out the next day to shop for Jim’s birthday presents. I was going to spend my money in the neighborhood, and I was determined to wage a one-woman American charm offensive. I knew what I wanted  and where I was going to get it. I practiced what I needed to say, hummed the Rocky theme song, and headed out.

The first challenge was an old one that predates our move to Vienna. Dante missed an important ring of hell – shopping. I detest shopping unless it’s for books, art, or music in a small, cozy store. My idea of hell is being stuck in a 7-11 or any massive warehouse be it Home Depot or Ikea or a shopping mall, any shopping mall. Now not only was I shopping, but I had to do it in German.

I was a woman on a mission.  I walked to the men’s clothing store as quickly as possible before my resolve could wither under the cruel eyes of the Viennese.  I met the young clerk and asked him for permission to speak German, and we were  off. I was there for more than a half hour, a variety of expensive blue shirts spread out on the table, and he and I had a delightful time speaking almost exclusively in German, so delightful, in fact, that another clerk, a woman perhaps in her 40s, came to join us. I bought the shirt, told the young man he was wonderful (Sie sind wunderbar!), and he and I were both beaming as our encounter came to a close.

Phase 1:  Success.

I ducked into and out of a few clothing stores, spreading my American joy, but not my money. Finally, I was ready for Phase 2.

Just down the street is a small jazz and classical CD store. I’d seen the proprietor before and he was a tad scary – in his late 50s, burly, bearded, gruff. But I went for it. I asked if I could speak German, and he looked cynical but amused. Within minutes I had a new Herbie Hancock CD for Jim and had asked about some Chopin nocturnes for me. It wasn’t the warmest conversation I’ve ever had, but it was satisfying.

By then, I was exhausted. It is taxing enough to speak in a foreign language, but to be charming and speak German was almost too much to bear. To reward myself, I went to the bakery, and, fortunately, the woman in her 40s was there instead of the more impertinent younger workers. I asked in German for my new bad habit: a chocolate croissant and a latte to go. She smiled and through broken English, German, and pantomime, told me that what I had said was, “I would like a chocolate croissant and a latte because I am pregnant.”

It was time to go home.

I still go out almost every day; I continue to greet people, smile, and apologize for my lapses and theirs.  I’ve thought about sending an invoice to the State Department to reimburse me for all the diplomacy I conduct daily in this city.

One reason why I expend so much time and energy thinking about this is fear. I don’t want to be Vienna-ized, at least not in this way. I know from my students how easy it is to be Americanized. I see it when my Korean students who were raised on kim chi (which some believe can cure the avian flu) bring in doughnuts slathered with frosting, double-stuffed Oreos and sour cream potato chips to a class party. I hear it in the ugly American slang the young students can’t wait to use. I see it as the au pairs gain weight and a closet full of shoes.

One Chilean woman said when she’s in Chile her friends don’t like to go out with her anymore because she’s so American. When I asked what she meant, she said she will no longer drink alcohol when she goes to dinner if she’s going to drive home. A Ghanian colleague didn’t get the official paper he required while in Ghana until he remembered to bribe the guy behind the desk. A couple of Eastern European au pairs said that when they now see infants in their native countries held on laps in cars or small children not in car seats, they’re horrified. One of Jim’s English colleagues jokes that when she returns from the States, she has to work at becoming a dour Brit again. In each of these cases, I think the American way is better.

The Ghanian colleague, who has lived in the U.S. for almost 20 years, however, said he knew when he had truly become American -- when he no longer allowed Ghanian relatives and friends to stay at his house for any length of time; instead he found them a hotel. Ouch.

As with so many axioms, we mouth the “When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” catchphrase with too little thought. Yes, we should adapt and adopt better customs than our own, but I don’t believe we need to take on the negative characteristics of a foreign culture. Obviously, determining which aspects are positive and which deleterious is a matter of judgment.

I worry because it might be easier to behave as coldly as the Viennese as I would certainly experience less frustration and disappointment. Also, I’m not sure I have the fortitude to retain my American energy in the face of all of this joylessness.

See the lamp? When we first moved in, Jim, Keir and I were all aghast at the lamps in this apartment. Although perhaps they were lovely in their original time and place, we find them hideous, this one in particular. This lamp stands a short way from the entryway, and I see it multiple times every day.  Most days, I no longer notice it, but when I do, I stop to wonder if perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe it really is a thing of beauty.

Adaptation can occur consciously or unconsciously. It can be advantageous or insidious. If when I return the States, I’m cold, haughty, superior, humorless, and unkind in public, promise me, you’ll whap me upside the head as many times as it takes to make me American again.