Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Glorious! Brilliant! Sparkling, swirling, soft big intricate flakes come swirling down around me in a rainstorm avalanche of sweet powdering perfection. It is snowing! At last! Like rain falling after a long drought, the snow comes pouring down unexpectedly one afternoon. Suddenly the sky is full of clouds, and then, as I ride up the lift alone for another afternoon of teaching myself to ski, I notice that the clouds surrounding the Zugspitze look terribly ominous and then, suddenly I see my first snowflake since I have been in the Alps. And then there are many of them. I tear off my goggles so that I can see the full brilliance of the whiteness of the white snow. Then I put on my headphones blasting Beethoven's Sixth Symphony and barrel down the hill through swirling eddies of snow, which flies into my eyes as my poles slam into the snow in perfect time with the brilliant rolling rollicking happiness of the third movement of the fantastic music. What could be better?
Characters. Schneepferdchen (that is, the kids that I teach, mostly German but often Dutch and occaisionally something else. Age 3-8).
Gummy Bear: There is one kid who is as tiny, adorable, and rubbery as a gummy bear. She is tiny and has a funny round little face with tiny glasses perched on her nose and is perpetually wrapped up in layers of pink ski gear. She is far too young to learn to ski (as some of the kids here are), and is too small to even lift a ski, let alone walk or make the snow-plough. So she just sails down the slope with a wicked grin and you have to catch her. But once you do, there is the incredible recurring surprise of just how boneless she is. She literally seems to not have a bone in her body, to be made of rubber, or gummy, and when you set her down on the conveyor belt to the top of the hill she just folds and lies on the ground. Like a boneless chicken. Or a gummy bear.
The Boy from Scot's Land: There is one little boy who clearly does not understand a word of the Deutsch that we are all speaking to him so I ask him in German, what his name is, hoping to gain a clue as to his origins (at an international resort like this he could be from Anywhere). He responds after a long pause "I don't understand what you people are saying." Oh, I say, relieved. "You speak English!" "No, I do Not." He responds. Well, I ask, where are you from. "I am from Scot's Land. I speak Scots." Hiding a bout of laughter, I respond by speaking to him for the rest of the day in English tinged with a Scottish accent. His parents are quintessentially Scottish and he develops such a fondness for me that he refuses to switch to another ski group for the whole week, even when his level has progressed past the rest of the kids in my group. Typically Scottish stubborness.
Monsieur: There is a little French boy named Martin who is very fat, smells strongly of onions and strong cheese (how french, right?), and is utterly incapable of stopping, or even trying to, once he starts skiing. He just steams down the hill at 100mph cackling and shouting things in French. Since no one at the ski school speaks any French, we can only demonstrate and point and hope he figures out how to ski.
The Little Warrior: There is one boy who, once we start a snowball fight one day, cannot let the fight end. The result is that he chases me around with snowballs for the rest of the day, long past the end of the class and even when I return from an afternoon of snowboarding. Every time he starts throwing snow, I collapse on the ground and roll around, pretending to be mortally wounded, to his endless enjoyment. This strategy of starting a snowball fight and then being the community target and rolling around and being tragic proves to be a great strategy for cheering up tired kids.
Working with the kids is hard, and I look forward to kicking back on a beach somewhere in Argentina at the coldest, wettest, most miserable moments. But I genuinely enjoy the work too, and now that high season has started it is non-stop craziness and it is not even worth complaining. It is fun and I am good with the kids and, were it my native language, it would an be utter, simple, joy.
Gummy Bear: There is one kid who is as tiny, adorable, and rubbery as a gummy bear. She is tiny and has a funny round little face with tiny glasses perched on her nose and is perpetually wrapped up in layers of pink ski gear. She is far too young to learn to ski (as some of the kids here are), and is too small to even lift a ski, let alone walk or make the snow-plough. So she just sails down the slope with a wicked grin and you have to catch her. But once you do, there is the incredible recurring surprise of just how boneless she is. She literally seems to not have a bone in her body, to be made of rubber, or gummy, and when you set her down on the conveyor belt to the top of the hill she just folds and lies on the ground. Like a boneless chicken. Or a gummy bear.
The Boy from Scot's Land: There is one little boy who clearly does not understand a word of the Deutsch that we are all speaking to him so I ask him in German, what his name is, hoping to gain a clue as to his origins (at an international resort like this he could be from Anywhere). He responds after a long pause "I don't understand what you people are saying." Oh, I say, relieved. "You speak English!" "No, I do Not." He responds. Well, I ask, where are you from. "I am from Scot's Land. I speak Scots." Hiding a bout of laughter, I respond by speaking to him for the rest of the day in English tinged with a Scottish accent. His parents are quintessentially Scottish and he develops such a fondness for me that he refuses to switch to another ski group for the whole week, even when his level has progressed past the rest of the kids in my group. Typically Scottish stubborness.
Monsieur: There is a little French boy named Martin who is very fat, smells strongly of onions and strong cheese (how french, right?), and is utterly incapable of stopping, or even trying to, once he starts skiing. He just steams down the hill at 100mph cackling and shouting things in French. Since no one at the ski school speaks any French, we can only demonstrate and point and hope he figures out how to ski.
The Little Warrior: There is one boy who, once we start a snowball fight one day, cannot let the fight end. The result is that he chases me around with snowballs for the rest of the day, long past the end of the class and even when I return from an afternoon of snowboarding. Every time he starts throwing snow, I collapse on the ground and roll around, pretending to be mortally wounded, to his endless enjoyment. This strategy of starting a snowball fight and then being the community target and rolling around and being tragic proves to be a great strategy for cheering up tired kids.
Working with the kids is hard, and I look forward to kicking back on a beach somewhere in Argentina at the coldest, wettest, most miserable moments. But I genuinely enjoy the work too, and now that high season has started it is non-stop craziness and it is not even worth complaining. It is fun and I am good with the kids and, were it my native language, it would an be utter, simple, joy.
Had a really nice evening when Patrick and Berry and I went to the local Kebab place. Yes, there is one of these even in tiny, quaint little Ehrwald. Over kebabs, late at night, after a long day of work and an afternoon of Apres-Ski drinks, we had a long philosophical argument. This was the standard philosophical argument that I constantly find myself getting into. It consists of something along the lines of humans are better than animals, but animals live a purer simpler happier existence, but animals don't feel emotions like happiness, but then what is the difference between humans and animals, animals just live to reproduce, we live for something more, well we should live for less, etc etc etc. I won't go into it in too much depth for fear of boring the tens of thousands of people reading this blog but it was an incredible talk, very inconclusive but totally satisfying.
Later in the evening we wander back to the ski slopes to inspect the jump that we have spent the last few days building. We are worried that the snowploughs have destroyed this jump like they did the first one, even though we asked the ski school to ask them not to. We wander up the icy slope in the dead of night, hollering the wonderful chords of Bohemian Rhapsody in perfect harmony with pitch-perfect precision and rocking out at the head banging section. We find the jump huge (as we left it) and very icy (not how we left it). Patrick even has the guts to strap on his snowboard (which he never seems to set down) and go sailing through the darkness and the ice, with incredible bravery. Awesome.
These kind of funny quirky wonderful little evenings make up much of the existence here.
Later in the evening we wander back to the ski slopes to inspect the jump that we have spent the last few days building. We are worried that the snowploughs have destroyed this jump like they did the first one, even though we asked the ski school to ask them not to. We wander up the icy slope in the dead of night, hollering the wonderful chords of Bohemian Rhapsody in perfect harmony with pitch-perfect precision and rocking out at the head banging section. We find the jump huge (as we left it) and very icy (not how we left it). Patrick even has the guts to strap on his snowboard (which he never seems to set down) and go sailing through the darkness and the ice, with incredible bravery. Awesome.
These kind of funny quirky wonderful little evenings make up much of the existence here.
I have explained the daily routine here, and that certainly has not changed much, but there are a few facets of it that I want to mention.
As far as the who, I have spent increasing amount of time with Nadieh, who as I mentioned before is a very laid-back, easygoing kind of person. A good person to have as a flatmate. When a flood of new teachers came in, I was forced to move out of room 13 and into another which, while not miserable by any means, was a bit annoying, since Nadieh and I still spent all our time in 13 and Berry came there for meals as well. So we took matters into our own hands and moved every ski teacher in the building around (which was a long complex 4 day process with a gazillion moving parts) until everyone was established, happy, comfortable, and we had the setup we wanted. Which was the three of us (and one other who never shows her face) in room 13. This allows us: a good communal place for meals and hanging out, a place to watch movies (which Nadieh and I do a lot), full balcony access with great views of the town and mountains, and simplicity.
The day of moving itself was an amusing one, as we left it until a Saturday (the day we have free) and so spent the whole day getting life organized. This involved a massive To Do list with over 30 items that was drawn up at 8am. It included moving all of Berry's stuff from his old room, my stuff from my old room, cleaning the whole apartment (no easy feat believe me), going on a massive grocery run (also a big deal since we normally live hand to mouth), bringing all our garbage to the hotel that runs this dorm, getting fresh linens, making and consuming 7 meals (a challenge I know; included 2nd breakfast, elevensies, tea time, and Dessert with a capital D. It was, remember a Saturday). The To Do list also included several cups of coffee and a few movies. It was a delightful day, utterly pointless in the best possible way. It was hectic and fun and left us all exhausted and feeling incredibly accomplished for no particular reason. Nadieh also cut my hair, which was about a mile long and is now very short. It is actually one of the best haircuts I have ever had, free, from someone who had never cut hair but had had plenty of coffee, and was done with the tiny scissors on my Swiss Army knife, while we watched a movie. Impressive, no? Even more so are the results...
The day ended up with a vain attempt to vaccuum up all the excessive amounts of hair scattered around the newly clean apartment. My foot got sucked into the vaccuum. Enough said.
As far as the actual day to day life here, I want to give a couple highlights.
The Fliegerlieder (the flying song):
This is actually quite a famous song (look it up please) in Austria, and it is played on the loudspeakers every day at the Ski School at the end of each ski class. We stand in a circle (10-50 kinder and 5 or 6 teachers) and sing and dance to the song. The kids either love it and rock out, or break into tears (no middle ground). The teachers rock out, at least I do, and Gisella has a blast, standing in the center of the circle showing everyone how it's done. The lyrics are (in german): I fly like a kite (flying motion with arms), I'm strong like a tiger (show muscles in time with music), I'm big like a Giraffe (reach for the sky), Oh oh oh (fall to the ground), I jump like a kangaroo (jump three times, not so easy in giant ski boots), I swim in the river (swimming motion, duh), I take my friends by the hand and sing "It's a nice day!" La la la la. It is totally, utterly awesome, exuberant, bright, and fun. Especially after a stressful morning of lifting up screaming children and untangling their skis (yes, skis can get very tangled), dancing in the sun is pretty amusing. And it's easy to make fun of yourself in front of a bunch of Austrians who you don't know, will never meet again, and who are paying you anyway.
The Snow (or lack thereof):
Since I arrived (after a snowstorm), there has been not one drop of snow. It is a disaster. The piste is about 20 feet wide and the snow is universally slush. The brown grass and green leaves and grey rock of the mountain is far too visible and the town is almost completely free of snow. The days are hot, sunny, and clear. It could be summer. Wonderful, but terrible. People vacillate infuriatingly between loving the sun (nothing better than a leisurely drink outside on the patio of the ski school in the sunshine) and mourning and cursing the lack of snow. People, snow-loving people, are seriously upset. Mind you, it is not as bad for us (we aren't paying much money to be here, and are here long enough to be guaranteed snow someday) but the tourists who have paid an arm and a leg to come here are, to say the least, slightly miffed.
Food.
We eat damn well, for a few kids who are budgeting. I have already mentioned Berry's cooking ability (he whips up things like omelettes and chicken satay without even breaking a sweat). Me and Nadieh, meanwhile, have used the same limited ingredients to create a whole range of delicious delights which are all named and patented for when we open our amazing restaurant. These include (of course) P-Gnocchi-O, but also Bono Pasta (made while watching U2's Rattle and Hum), Red Hot Chili Mochas (made while watching the Chili Pepper's Live at Slane Castle), and a variety of other exciting dishes. We always eat a 4-course lunch, something like pate on toast, followed by grilled cheese, followed by tortellini in pesto, followed by milk rolls with jam and nutella. All from the budget section of SPAR (infinitely better than Thorpe's Tesco Express). We also make our own ice tea, which is very economical and sooooo delicious.
Music.
Besides the endless re-watching of U2 and Red Hot Chili Pepper's videos, there is also the endless techno music that Berry blasts on his huge speakers 24/7 (really, he did it at 4am once...ugh...), and there is great live music at the local place Musikafe. One of the shows features a performer called Pete Hoven (brilliantly clever, nay?) who everyone says is one of the biggest rock stars in Austria (cool?...) and who actually puts on an incredible show, just him and his guitar and a beautiful voice and great sense of rhythm and some awesome Bob Marley covers. There is also the music that is constantly blaring on the speakers at the ski school. This ranges widely and depends entirely on which hotel manager is running the restaurant at which point. Sometimes it is Austrian folk tunes, sometimes old classics (my favorite), and sometimes it is a bizarre (and, in my opinion, not very kid friendly) mix of Gorillaz and Outkast and Amy Winehouse. I love to imagine the kids getting back from Ski School and singing to their parents: "Take me back to Rehab I said No, no no."
Language
One of the infuriating and endlessly confusing things about working here is the various languages spoken. Ok so I speak English, which very few children but lots of the adults here speak and anyone whose Dutch speaks perfect Dutch, English and German. So my German is improving and that is very useful too. But Dutch is crucial with all the Dutch people on holiday here, and all the little kids who only speak Netherlandish or Hollandish (same as Dutch). And then there is another Ski Teacher named Jose who I speak Spanish with but who infuriatingly talks to me in Spanish at really inconvenient moments when I am really trying to function in German. And there are plenty of French kids too, which is truly useless and not easy. It just goes in circles and no one seems to speak all of these various lenguas, I mean idiomas, languages, tongues, spraches. Whatever.
As far as the who, I have spent increasing amount of time with Nadieh, who as I mentioned before is a very laid-back, easygoing kind of person. A good person to have as a flatmate. When a flood of new teachers came in, I was forced to move out of room 13 and into another which, while not miserable by any means, was a bit annoying, since Nadieh and I still spent all our time in 13 and Berry came there for meals as well. So we took matters into our own hands and moved every ski teacher in the building around (which was a long complex 4 day process with a gazillion moving parts) until everyone was established, happy, comfortable, and we had the setup we wanted. Which was the three of us (and one other who never shows her face) in room 13. This allows us: a good communal place for meals and hanging out, a place to watch movies (which Nadieh and I do a lot), full balcony access with great views of the town and mountains, and simplicity.
The day of moving itself was an amusing one, as we left it until a Saturday (the day we have free) and so spent the whole day getting life organized. This involved a massive To Do list with over 30 items that was drawn up at 8am. It included moving all of Berry's stuff from his old room, my stuff from my old room, cleaning the whole apartment (no easy feat believe me), going on a massive grocery run (also a big deal since we normally live hand to mouth), bringing all our garbage to the hotel that runs this dorm, getting fresh linens, making and consuming 7 meals (a challenge I know; included 2nd breakfast, elevensies, tea time, and Dessert with a capital D. It was, remember a Saturday). The To Do list also included several cups of coffee and a few movies. It was a delightful day, utterly pointless in the best possible way. It was hectic and fun and left us all exhausted and feeling incredibly accomplished for no particular reason. Nadieh also cut my hair, which was about a mile long and is now very short. It is actually one of the best haircuts I have ever had, free, from someone who had never cut hair but had had plenty of coffee, and was done with the tiny scissors on my Swiss Army knife, while we watched a movie. Impressive, no? Even more so are the results...
The day ended up with a vain attempt to vaccuum up all the excessive amounts of hair scattered around the newly clean apartment. My foot got sucked into the vaccuum. Enough said.
As far as the actual day to day life here, I want to give a couple highlights.
The Fliegerlieder (the flying song):
This is actually quite a famous song (look it up please) in Austria, and it is played on the loudspeakers every day at the Ski School at the end of each ski class. We stand in a circle (10-50 kinder and 5 or 6 teachers) and sing and dance to the song. The kids either love it and rock out, or break into tears (no middle ground). The teachers rock out, at least I do, and Gisella has a blast, standing in the center of the circle showing everyone how it's done. The lyrics are (in german): I fly like a kite (flying motion with arms), I'm strong like a tiger (show muscles in time with music), I'm big like a Giraffe (reach for the sky), Oh oh oh (fall to the ground), I jump like a kangaroo (jump three times, not so easy in giant ski boots), I swim in the river (swimming motion, duh), I take my friends by the hand and sing "It's a nice day!" La la la la. It is totally, utterly awesome, exuberant, bright, and fun. Especially after a stressful morning of lifting up screaming children and untangling their skis (yes, skis can get very tangled), dancing in the sun is pretty amusing. And it's easy to make fun of yourself in front of a bunch of Austrians who you don't know, will never meet again, and who are paying you anyway.
The Snow (or lack thereof):
Since I arrived (after a snowstorm), there has been not one drop of snow. It is a disaster. The piste is about 20 feet wide and the snow is universally slush. The brown grass and green leaves and grey rock of the mountain is far too visible and the town is almost completely free of snow. The days are hot, sunny, and clear. It could be summer. Wonderful, but terrible. People vacillate infuriatingly between loving the sun (nothing better than a leisurely drink outside on the patio of the ski school in the sunshine) and mourning and cursing the lack of snow. People, snow-loving people, are seriously upset. Mind you, it is not as bad for us (we aren't paying much money to be here, and are here long enough to be guaranteed snow someday) but the tourists who have paid an arm and a leg to come here are, to say the least, slightly miffed.
Food.
We eat damn well, for a few kids who are budgeting. I have already mentioned Berry's cooking ability (he whips up things like omelettes and chicken satay without even breaking a sweat). Me and Nadieh, meanwhile, have used the same limited ingredients to create a whole range of delicious delights which are all named and patented for when we open our amazing restaurant. These include (of course) P-Gnocchi-O, but also Bono Pasta (made while watching U2's Rattle and Hum), Red Hot Chili Mochas (made while watching the Chili Pepper's Live at Slane Castle), and a variety of other exciting dishes. We always eat a 4-course lunch, something like pate on toast, followed by grilled cheese, followed by tortellini in pesto, followed by milk rolls with jam and nutella. All from the budget section of SPAR (infinitely better than Thorpe's Tesco Express). We also make our own ice tea, which is very economical and sooooo delicious.
Music.
Besides the endless re-watching of U2 and Red Hot Chili Pepper's videos, there is also the endless techno music that Berry blasts on his huge speakers 24/7 (really, he did it at 4am once...ugh...), and there is great live music at the local place Musikafe. One of the shows features a performer called Pete Hoven (brilliantly clever, nay?) who everyone says is one of the biggest rock stars in Austria (cool?...) and who actually puts on an incredible show, just him and his guitar and a beautiful voice and great sense of rhythm and some awesome Bob Marley covers. There is also the music that is constantly blaring on the speakers at the ski school. This ranges widely and depends entirely on which hotel manager is running the restaurant at which point. Sometimes it is Austrian folk tunes, sometimes old classics (my favorite), and sometimes it is a bizarre (and, in my opinion, not very kid friendly) mix of Gorillaz and Outkast and Amy Winehouse. I love to imagine the kids getting back from Ski School and singing to their parents: "Take me back to Rehab I said No, no no."
Language
One of the infuriating and endlessly confusing things about working here is the various languages spoken. Ok so I speak English, which very few children but lots of the adults here speak and anyone whose Dutch speaks perfect Dutch, English and German. So my German is improving and that is very useful too. But Dutch is crucial with all the Dutch people on holiday here, and all the little kids who only speak Netherlandish or Hollandish (same as Dutch). And then there is another Ski Teacher named Jose who I speak Spanish with but who infuriatingly talks to me in Spanish at really inconvenient moments when I am really trying to function in German. And there are plenty of French kids too, which is truly useless and not easy. It just goes in circles and no one seems to speak all of these various lenguas, I mean idiomas, languages, tongues, spraches. Whatever.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
In small towns, life can become very vivid, in all it's simplicity. Here, in Ehrwald, the lifestyle is simply and the surprises are mild (mostly), but it is easy to feel very alive. Every time I step outside, and I do in fact mean every single time, the crisp mountain air brushes against my face and wraps around my shoulders, and I feel the vast presence of the mountain above me. It is impossible to be outside at any hour of the day or night and not feel and see the Zugspitze above you. Sometimes it is a clear, sunlit, blue sky framed image of perfect Alpine postcard beauty. Sometimes, wrapped in fierce storm clouds, it is the ultimate symbol of nature's ominous power. Sometimes, it is the last thing left illuminated after the sun has set, glowing fiery oranges and soft pinks as the rest of the valley falls into deep blue shadows. And sometimes it is a huge dark form surrounded by stars, distinguished from the night sky only by it's slightly darker shade of black than any natural sky. The presence of the mountain is the palpable beating heart of the village, as well as it's loving caretaker. But, in absolute honesty, not many hours of the day are spent in contemplation of the Zugspitze, simply the occaisional glance or minute-long stare, as well as the constant gut-knowledge of it's presence.
So, life in this little town. As someone passing through, it is easy to laugh at the tiny ambitions, hopes and dreams of people whose lives lead to nowhere grander than little Ehrwald, or to marvel at the stubborn habit and apparent small mindedness of people who have lived out all of their lives here. But I am not really someone passing through, or if I am I am here too long to remain aloof and uninvolved with the spirit of the place. Like Thorpe-le-Soken, the world is small here, small and safe and cozy and known. But there are some interesting advantages to that. At the very least, it allows you to see more, and for what you see to be more vivid. Daily interactions, a special moment, a revelation, all take on grander tones when they are framed by so little clutter.
I should add though, that with my appreciation of this place comes a powerful and moving counterpart. And that is a poignant appreciation from where I have come from. For home. Not the same as homesickness, which has long since faded (along with the knowledge that I shall, someday soon, return there), this is a more appreciative kind of nostalgia. It is just love, love for what and where I have come from. These thoughts manifest themselves in various way. For example, there is the city itself: San Francisco. One of the most lovingly cliched and filmed and well-known cities in the world. But what a place it is! How bright and sunny and foggy and green and the bay and the wind and the boats sailing on the water and Alcatraz and the Pyramid Building and the Golden Gate and the parks and the hills and Coit Tower and Lombard Street and the Fillmore. It is all so good, so gloriously unique and wonderful and sought-after. And though I have not spent my time there completely taking it for granted, I have always looked beyond it or past it. But I do love it, and miss it, and can't wait to return to it. Put simply, I am grateful.
And another thing I appreciate (I am aware of how absurd this sounds) is English. The language. Because learning German is a struggle, and German is a language that I do like and find very interesting. But every hour spent struggling with a new tongue makes me grateful for the one I have already (that could sound very strange in different contexts). But I do consider myself a wielder of the English language. Not a master by any means, but certainly someone who knows it and loves it and uses it to my full ability. I really do think it is a wonderful language, and has so much inherent beauty (as well, of course, as complexity and complication).
I know it seems as if I'm rambling (and I am) but that is what living alone in a little village allows the mind to do, and it is not unpleasant. One more example of this newly rekindled sense of appreciation was when I was talking to Nadieh about my home. And each story about the house, the ranch, the vineyard, Marin, Petaluma, was filled with such glowing praise and adamant love, which of course I found perfectly normal. But it was put into sharp contrast by Nadieh's almost indifference to her home. It was simply a demonstration that, though everyone loves home because of it's familiarity, not everyone lives in a place that they consider truly unique or wonderful. Another thing, I suppose, for which I should be grateful.
So, life in this little town. As someone passing through, it is easy to laugh at the tiny ambitions, hopes and dreams of people whose lives lead to nowhere grander than little Ehrwald, or to marvel at the stubborn habit and apparent small mindedness of people who have lived out all of their lives here. But I am not really someone passing through, or if I am I am here too long to remain aloof and uninvolved with the spirit of the place. Like Thorpe-le-Soken, the world is small here, small and safe and cozy and known. But there are some interesting advantages to that. At the very least, it allows you to see more, and for what you see to be more vivid. Daily interactions, a special moment, a revelation, all take on grander tones when they are framed by so little clutter.
I should add though, that with my appreciation of this place comes a powerful and moving counterpart. And that is a poignant appreciation from where I have come from. For home. Not the same as homesickness, which has long since faded (along with the knowledge that I shall, someday soon, return there), this is a more appreciative kind of nostalgia. It is just love, love for what and where I have come from. These thoughts manifest themselves in various way. For example, there is the city itself: San Francisco. One of the most lovingly cliched and filmed and well-known cities in the world. But what a place it is! How bright and sunny and foggy and green and the bay and the wind and the boats sailing on the water and Alcatraz and the Pyramid Building and the Golden Gate and the parks and the hills and Coit Tower and Lombard Street and the Fillmore. It is all so good, so gloriously unique and wonderful and sought-after. And though I have not spent my time there completely taking it for granted, I have always looked beyond it or past it. But I do love it, and miss it, and can't wait to return to it. Put simply, I am grateful.
And another thing I appreciate (I am aware of how absurd this sounds) is English. The language. Because learning German is a struggle, and German is a language that I do like and find very interesting. But every hour spent struggling with a new tongue makes me grateful for the one I have already (that could sound very strange in different contexts). But I do consider myself a wielder of the English language. Not a master by any means, but certainly someone who knows it and loves it and uses it to my full ability. I really do think it is a wonderful language, and has so much inherent beauty (as well, of course, as complexity and complication).
I know it seems as if I'm rambling (and I am) but that is what living alone in a little village allows the mind to do, and it is not unpleasant. One more example of this newly rekindled sense of appreciation was when I was talking to Nadieh about my home. And each story about the house, the ranch, the vineyard, Marin, Petaluma, was filled with such glowing praise and adamant love, which of course I found perfectly normal. But it was put into sharp contrast by Nadieh's almost indifference to her home. It was simply a demonstration that, though everyone loves home because of it's familiarity, not everyone lives in a place that they consider truly unique or wonderful. Another thing, I suppose, for which I should be grateful.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
A new creation! Possibly culinary revolution! The name: P-Gnocchi-O (say it outloud for full enjoyment). It's an abbreviation of Percy's Incredible Gnocchi Oh My God My Stomach Hurts. I recommend you all try it although it probably won't compare to the maestro's original. Gnocchi, with plenty of olive oil and pesto (brilliant), tomato paste (genius), pepper (how does he think of these things), peas (wow), and tuna fish (astonishing). I cooked dinner tonight, and the creation was truly world class. It has been named and patented, and we will be having it at Room 13 Haus Austria every Thursday from now on until the day I leave. Which is still, thankfully, quite distant.
I thought I would write about my final run today. Today I went out with music and headphones, which was an utterly wonderful experience. Now, in addition to blazing sunshine, glistening snow, the gorgeous alps, and the beautiful village below, I had killer music to top it all off. For the jumping (mentioned in the last entry) it was crucial to have music to pump me up and quell my nerves and clear my mind, and I was helped through the jumps by things like the hoarse shouts and jumping drums of Vampire Weekend's A-Punk, the rhythmic pounding guitar of Rodrigo y Gabriela's Ddiablo Rojo, and the leaping frenzy of Modest Mouse's Dashboard (not to mention the fitting lyrics; everytime I made it over the jump the song would get to the line "well it woulda been, coulda been, worse than you could ever know."). After the jumping I went for a few runs on my own. I had an incredible run listening to the straight Rocking Out of Franz Ferdinand's Turn It On, which added some intense ferocity and speed to my form on the snowboard. The next run was fantastic, listening to the pounding bass and synthetic soundwaves of MGMT's Electric Feel. And then came the final run of the day: as the lifts ground to a halt, I flowed down the slopes listening to Andrea Bocelli sing La Donna e Mobile from Verdi's Rigoletto. It was, quite simply sublime. A little Mozart polished the whole thing off as I arrived back at the Ski School, and I listened to Cat Stevens as I walked home, utterly exhausted and very happy.
I realize now how incredible the perks of this job are. In the first few confused days, the brilliance was obscured, but now I am in constant awe of the fact that I have free snowboarding and ski gear, almost free (very comfortable) accomodation, a free lift pass that applies to all of the surrounding resorts as well, and if I run into anyone on the slopes I don't like, I can take away their pass (as a ski teacher). Awesome. Also, the location is totally incredible. Ehrwald is situated at the foot of the Zugspitze, which is the tallest mountain in Germany and Austria. The incredible peak rises majestically above the little town, and is mirrored across the valley by various other incredible peaks. The whole place is just jaw-droppingly beautiful. Every time I go out side I have to take a moment to be stunned, and often I will come out of some trees on the ski hill and just stop and stare for a while. There is nothing quite like this place. Stunning.
And I am learning so much. Besides German, which I am picking up sehr schnell (very fast), my snowboarding is getting way better, as is my skiing, and my more ambitious snow sports.
As for snowboarding, I went out with "the boys" which consisted of me, Patrick, Berry, and a friend of theirs who is an INCREDIBLE snowboarder. We went to a nearby resort that is a bit smaller and was totally deserted, and snowboarded all day on Saturday (our one day off). We made an incredible group, cutting expertly down the hill in perfect form (at least they did, and I tagged along, looking cool). I have never, ever skied with such an impressive group. It was very fun, and being around people at that high level, I am rapidly increasing in skill myself.
Skiing, though, is even more intense. Yesterday, I was at the Sonnenhang (one of the main hills) just trying to get some practice, when I ran into the incredibly intimidating Martin. Thinking he was giving a lesson, I asked for a quick bit of advice on my form, but it turned out he wasn't giving a lesson so he decided to give me one. It was so intense. He is an incredible skier and was incredibly demanding about my form, using very technical terms and insisting that I do everything exactly right. He also sped down the hill incredibly fast and I had to struggle to keep up. Which I did, barely. We slalomed right through a lesson that Nadie was giving, and I realized that I was rapidly becoming one of the better skiers on the hill, thanks to his tutelage. With his guidance, however exhausting and demanding, I will improve rapidly. I also survived Coordinazion, which is the weekly lesson where the ski teachers get taught how to teach. This is very intense because they are all of course really good skiers. But again I tagged along and again I managed to keep up and not make a fool of myself.
As for the ambitious activities I mentioned above, if you know me then you know I am not necessarily much of a daredevil. But today after work Berry and Nadie decided they wanted to go make a jump (a kicker) and take some pictures, and they insisted I come along. Thinking at first that I wouldn't have the guts to jump, I ended up going crazy and jumping dozens of times, and under Berry's instruction actually getting quite good, or at least better and better. Nadie took a bunch of pictures and I was so excited by how badass I looked that I immediately put the pictures online to prove to everyone who knows me how badass I am. So now you know. But seriously it was a real challenge and a real thrill and I was so happy to bite the bullet and throw caution to the wind and have a great time. And it is another thing that I will rapidly improve at.
Everything to gain, little to lose.
And I am learning so much. Besides German, which I am picking up sehr schnell (very fast), my snowboarding is getting way better, as is my skiing, and my more ambitious snow sports.
As for snowboarding, I went out with "the boys" which consisted of me, Patrick, Berry, and a friend of theirs who is an INCREDIBLE snowboarder. We went to a nearby resort that is a bit smaller and was totally deserted, and snowboarded all day on Saturday (our one day off). We made an incredible group, cutting expertly down the hill in perfect form (at least they did, and I tagged along, looking cool). I have never, ever skied with such an impressive group. It was very fun, and being around people at that high level, I am rapidly increasing in skill myself.
Skiing, though, is even more intense. Yesterday, I was at the Sonnenhang (one of the main hills) just trying to get some practice, when I ran into the incredibly intimidating Martin. Thinking he was giving a lesson, I asked for a quick bit of advice on my form, but it turned out he wasn't giving a lesson so he decided to give me one. It was so intense. He is an incredible skier and was incredibly demanding about my form, using very technical terms and insisting that I do everything exactly right. He also sped down the hill incredibly fast and I had to struggle to keep up. Which I did, barely. We slalomed right through a lesson that Nadie was giving, and I realized that I was rapidly becoming one of the better skiers on the hill, thanks to his tutelage. With his guidance, however exhausting and demanding, I will improve rapidly. I also survived Coordinazion, which is the weekly lesson where the ski teachers get taught how to teach. This is very intense because they are all of course really good skiers. But again I tagged along and again I managed to keep up and not make a fool of myself.
As for the ambitious activities I mentioned above, if you know me then you know I am not necessarily much of a daredevil. But today after work Berry and Nadie decided they wanted to go make a jump (a kicker) and take some pictures, and they insisted I come along. Thinking at first that I wouldn't have the guts to jump, I ended up going crazy and jumping dozens of times, and under Berry's instruction actually getting quite good, or at least better and better. Nadie took a bunch of pictures and I was so excited by how badass I looked that I immediately put the pictures online to prove to everyone who knows me how badass I am. So now you know. But seriously it was a real challenge and a real thrill and I was so happy to bite the bullet and throw caution to the wind and have a great time. And it is another thing that I will rapidly improve at.
Everything to gain, little to lose.
So now that I am established I should give a sense of some of the characters here, as I did in Thorpe (this place and Thorpe have some similarities in terms of scale and eccentricity).
Nadie: 19. A Dutch girl from Rotterdam, Nadie is my flat mate and she is the person I have most connected with. She speaks good English (all the Dutch speak many languages fluently, they have an incredible educations system) and reads tons of books. We love a lot of the same movies, books, and music, and we get along really well. She is funny and fun and laid-back and not such a party animal as some of the others, which is refreshing. I am teaching her to snowboard with very limited success. She teaches intermediate kid skiers and hates the little kinder.
Berry: 27. The other sorta flatmate, also from Holland. Berry is a really wonderful guy, who was incredibly welcoming to me from the moment I got here. He is friendly and warm and easy to get along with. He listens to hardcore music and although he teaches skiing he Loves snowboarding. He is a great cook and loves cooking so we let him make exotic feasts most nights. He really likes to go out for fun nights all the time, and does so very often.
Patrick: 20. A very interesting guy, Patrick is a Scot whose family moves cities every few years, allowing him to live in (so far) Glasgow, Dublin, Amsterdam, Munich, and now Ehrwald, among others. He speaks multiple languages like a native, although in English he has a hilarious Scottish accent that takes some getting used to. He plays multiple instruments, including classical piano, and loves Nirvana. He also has a great sense of humor and is constantly insulting people. Which of course is also how I operate. We really get along well.
Gisella: Older. The teacher that I work with. An incredible individual, bubbling with energy and great with kids, she is very sweet but also very demanding, and doesn't cut me much slack, although she is certainly not unfair. We are starting to get along well and she shares all of her many woes (including how annoying the kids are, and how much she hates some of the other ski teachers) with me.
Martin: 30. Nadie's boyfriend, Martin is the classic Austrian. The only person I know her besides the Leitners who is actually from Ehrwald, Martin is incredibly impressive and overbearing and intimidating and a truly world-class skier.
Well, I think that will do for now. I know these are not as colorful (or to use a more accurate word, abusive) of descriptions as I sent from Thorpe, but the fact is that this is the cast of characters that I have really grown to like, and around whom my daily life more or less revolves now, and so this is a more simple, straightforward description. More people, of course, to follow...
Nadie: 19. A Dutch girl from Rotterdam, Nadie is my flat mate and she is the person I have most connected with. She speaks good English (all the Dutch speak many languages fluently, they have an incredible educations system) and reads tons of books. We love a lot of the same movies, books, and music, and we get along really well. She is funny and fun and laid-back and not such a party animal as some of the others, which is refreshing. I am teaching her to snowboard with very limited success. She teaches intermediate kid skiers and hates the little kinder.
Berry: 27. The other sorta flatmate, also from Holland. Berry is a really wonderful guy, who was incredibly welcoming to me from the moment I got here. He is friendly and warm and easy to get along with. He listens to hardcore music and although he teaches skiing he Loves snowboarding. He is a great cook and loves cooking so we let him make exotic feasts most nights. He really likes to go out for fun nights all the time, and does so very often.
Patrick: 20. A very interesting guy, Patrick is a Scot whose family moves cities every few years, allowing him to live in (so far) Glasgow, Dublin, Amsterdam, Munich, and now Ehrwald, among others. He speaks multiple languages like a native, although in English he has a hilarious Scottish accent that takes some getting used to. He plays multiple instruments, including classical piano, and loves Nirvana. He also has a great sense of humor and is constantly insulting people. Which of course is also how I operate. We really get along well.
Gisella: Older. The teacher that I work with. An incredible individual, bubbling with energy and great with kids, she is very sweet but also very demanding, and doesn't cut me much slack, although she is certainly not unfair. We are starting to get along well and she shares all of her many woes (including how annoying the kids are, and how much she hates some of the other ski teachers) with me.
Martin: 30. Nadie's boyfriend, Martin is the classic Austrian. The only person I know her besides the Leitners who is actually from Ehrwald, Martin is incredibly impressive and overbearing and intimidating and a truly world-class skier.
Well, I think that will do for now. I know these are not as colorful (or to use a more accurate word, abusive) of descriptions as I sent from Thorpe, but the fact is that this is the cast of characters that I have really grown to like, and around whom my daily life more or less revolves now, and so this is a more simple, straightforward description. More people, of course, to follow...
My Routine.
8:00 Wake up, scalding shower, sit in bed and study German vocab for an hour (I am trying to do 100 words a day, which is hard after the first few days)
9:00 Get into bright red Tiroler Schischule uniform. Get gloves and hat and goggle etc. Go into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea and some small breakfast and sit with Berry and Nadie. We are quiet in the mornings, but we take a lot of pleasure in eachother's company. At least, I do in theirs, and I truly think they are beginning to like me.
9:30 We go together to the ski school Office where the nice Austrian lady behind the desk chirps "Percy!" (she loves me and is always talking about my pretty eyes and my nice smile). At the office we get our schedule for the day and then we go to the ski school.
10:00 I teach the Schneepferdchen (which means snow horses) the youngest group on the slopes. They are 3-5 years old, dressed adorably in ridiculous pink and blue costumes and lovingly (but annoyingly) taken care of at every moment by gaggles of parents. Teaching these little fellas is all I can do with my limited German, and I can't even quite do that so I assist a woman named Gisella. Basically she puts their skis parallel and pushes them down the slope and I catch them, tell them Gut Gemackt, and send them back up on the little escalator thing. Some of the older ones do learn to actually ski a bit, but for the younger ones it is essentially day care. As crazy and stressful as it can be, with 12 children simultaneously weeping, screaming, sliding away down the hill Gisella shouts orders to me in German, I love it. I love the little kids, they are adorable and so much fun whenever they are not crying. I have tons of patience of it and actually get quite good and helping them learn to ski, playing games with them to keep them interested, cheering them up when they cry, helping them when they fall, etc. etc. It is rewarding as they are very sweet and take to me pretty quick. Some of them are evil little bastards its true, but I just say nasty things to them in English and they can't understand (not really). They are great people to practice my German on though because there is not a lot of pressure to impress. Every day I come to the lesson with a handful of new phrases. I learn quickly that I am THE ONLY person at the ski school who doesn't HATE teaching the Schneepferdchen, who are universally feared and avoided by all the other teachers. I don't mind. I like the work, although it truly can be very trying. And I am, I think, good at it, or getting good. One boy said I was the best teacher he had ever had, and the next day I saw him shooting down the slopes without the aid of any parent or anything, with great confidence and form, so I thought I had done a good job. And one set of parents (admittedly British, not German) came up to me and told me how wonderful they thought I had been with the kids, which was of course very gratifying, especially considering how terrified of a parent freaking out because I don't speak their kid's language. I feel like if a parent finds that they will be very angry but so far they have been fine. Slowly but surely, Gisella, who is a fantastic teacher and great with kids, but very short and impatient with me, is warming up to me and we are starting to work as more of a team. I can joke with the kids, make funny faces and noises, and try and figure out what language they speak to comfort them when they break down (they mostly speak German, which I can sort of do. I have had two English kids who were easy of course, several Dutch, lost cause, and one French girl, to whom I repeated Sa va bien? until she stopped crying. For two hours we slide them up and down the slope, play games, put them on a skiing carousel, and let them ride in the snow train. It is work at times, but it is good work.
12:00 At noon the morning lesson is over and I go home and make myself some lunch. I sit on the balcony in the sunshine (it is really sunny here, which is fantastic, but bad for the snow of course. Luckily, it snowed heavily before I got here so the snow is only now starting to disappear, and it should snow again soon. For now though, the weather is gorgeous). I make myself a sumptuous feast of leftovers and a sandwich and I sit in the sunshine with a cold drink and read my book about Argentina, the next segment of the trip which I am eagerly planning. Reading about it is a huge treat and I allow myself one chapter a day. Then I listen to a movement of a Mahler Symphony while reading the score, which is fantastically therapeutic as well as intellectually stimulating and fun. I have just finished symphony number one so that leaves 8 to go, although I know the second already quite well. Finally, having had a short break from stress, I launch back into my German lessons, and study hard for another hour or so. The church bells here always ring very consistently right on the quarters of the hour so at...
1:30 I get my ski gear back on (this time incognito, normal black jacket etc instead of the ski school uniform) and go out to the hill and continue teaching myself to ski. It is utterly exhilirating to learn, and I pick it up fast. Within a day I am doing proper parallel turns, within two I am improving my form and using poles on an intermediate slope, and in three I am on a serious slope moving along at a decent pace with decent confidence. I ski right until the lifts close.
4:30 The lifts closed, I return to the apartment, shower (always incredible after a day in the snow), and spend the afternoon on German.
7ish Nadie and Berry come back from the bar eventually (I have stopped really going to the bars since my walk-out, which makes me slightly antisocial but it is nicer for me and as I already have some pretty established friends now it is no problem). Actually Nadie doesn't go out much either, but more about both of them later. One of us makes dinner (Berry is a great cook, Nadie is good, and I am getting good), and we have a really nice mellow evening.
And then, eventually we part ways and head to sleep, exhausted by the work and the glare of the snow and the heat of the sun.
8:00 Wake up, scalding shower, sit in bed and study German vocab for an hour (I am trying to do 100 words a day, which is hard after the first few days)
9:00 Get into bright red Tiroler Schischule uniform. Get gloves and hat and goggle etc. Go into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea and some small breakfast and sit with Berry and Nadie. We are quiet in the mornings, but we take a lot of pleasure in eachother's company. At least, I do in theirs, and I truly think they are beginning to like me.
9:30 We go together to the ski school Office where the nice Austrian lady behind the desk chirps "Percy!" (she loves me and is always talking about my pretty eyes and my nice smile). At the office we get our schedule for the day and then we go to the ski school.
10:00 I teach the Schneepferdchen (which means snow horses) the youngest group on the slopes. They are 3-5 years old, dressed adorably in ridiculous pink and blue costumes and lovingly (but annoyingly) taken care of at every moment by gaggles of parents. Teaching these little fellas is all I can do with my limited German, and I can't even quite do that so I assist a woman named Gisella. Basically she puts their skis parallel and pushes them down the slope and I catch them, tell them Gut Gemackt, and send them back up on the little escalator thing. Some of the older ones do learn to actually ski a bit, but for the younger ones it is essentially day care. As crazy and stressful as it can be, with 12 children simultaneously weeping, screaming, sliding away down the hill Gisella shouts orders to me in German, I love it. I love the little kids, they are adorable and so much fun whenever they are not crying. I have tons of patience of it and actually get quite good and helping them learn to ski, playing games with them to keep them interested, cheering them up when they cry, helping them when they fall, etc. etc. It is rewarding as they are very sweet and take to me pretty quick. Some of them are evil little bastards its true, but I just say nasty things to them in English and they can't understand (not really). They are great people to practice my German on though because there is not a lot of pressure to impress. Every day I come to the lesson with a handful of new phrases. I learn quickly that I am THE ONLY person at the ski school who doesn't HATE teaching the Schneepferdchen, who are universally feared and avoided by all the other teachers. I don't mind. I like the work, although it truly can be very trying. And I am, I think, good at it, or getting good. One boy said I was the best teacher he had ever had, and the next day I saw him shooting down the slopes without the aid of any parent or anything, with great confidence and form, so I thought I had done a good job. And one set of parents (admittedly British, not German) came up to me and told me how wonderful they thought I had been with the kids, which was of course very gratifying, especially considering how terrified of a parent freaking out because I don't speak their kid's language. I feel like if a parent finds that they will be very angry but so far they have been fine. Slowly but surely, Gisella, who is a fantastic teacher and great with kids, but very short and impatient with me, is warming up to me and we are starting to work as more of a team. I can joke with the kids, make funny faces and noises, and try and figure out what language they speak to comfort them when they break down (they mostly speak German, which I can sort of do. I have had two English kids who were easy of course, several Dutch, lost cause, and one French girl, to whom I repeated Sa va bien? until she stopped crying. For two hours we slide them up and down the slope, play games, put them on a skiing carousel, and let them ride in the snow train. It is work at times, but it is good work.
12:00 At noon the morning lesson is over and I go home and make myself some lunch. I sit on the balcony in the sunshine (it is really sunny here, which is fantastic, but bad for the snow of course. Luckily, it snowed heavily before I got here so the snow is only now starting to disappear, and it should snow again soon. For now though, the weather is gorgeous). I make myself a sumptuous feast of leftovers and a sandwich and I sit in the sunshine with a cold drink and read my book about Argentina, the next segment of the trip which I am eagerly planning. Reading about it is a huge treat and I allow myself one chapter a day. Then I listen to a movement of a Mahler Symphony while reading the score, which is fantastically therapeutic as well as intellectually stimulating and fun. I have just finished symphony number one so that leaves 8 to go, although I know the second already quite well. Finally, having had a short break from stress, I launch back into my German lessons, and study hard for another hour or so. The church bells here always ring very consistently right on the quarters of the hour so at...
1:30 I get my ski gear back on (this time incognito, normal black jacket etc instead of the ski school uniform) and go out to the hill and continue teaching myself to ski. It is utterly exhilirating to learn, and I pick it up fast. Within a day I am doing proper parallel turns, within two I am improving my form and using poles on an intermediate slope, and in three I am on a serious slope moving along at a decent pace with decent confidence. I ski right until the lifts close.
4:30 The lifts closed, I return to the apartment, shower (always incredible after a day in the snow), and spend the afternoon on German.
7ish Nadie and Berry come back from the bar eventually (I have stopped really going to the bars since my walk-out, which makes me slightly antisocial but it is nicer for me and as I already have some pretty established friends now it is no problem). Actually Nadie doesn't go out much either, but more about both of them later. One of us makes dinner (Berry is a great cook, Nadie is good, and I am getting good), and we have a really nice mellow evening.
And then, eventually we part ways and head to sleep, exhausted by the work and the glare of the snow and the heat of the sun.
Somehow, it becomes OK.
The next day, the day after the miserable walking out of the bar episode, I go skiing. That's right, not snowboarding. Instead I borrow a pair of skis, intending to teach myself. And not only do I not make a fool of myself, I don't even wipe out. I stand up, I slide along, I do french fries and pizza and suddenly, amazingly, I am skiing. Granted, it is only the beginner ski hill, but I am really rocking it, sailing along under blue skies with the massive alps around me and not only is everything OK, everything is, maybe, good.
And from that moment, that first glorious ridiculous moment on skis, I began to get my feet under me (and not just under me wipe-out style, although that happens a few times). I begin to be happy. To get into a routine. To realize how great this situation is, how much I stand to gain, how little there is to lose. I realize I like this person. I also call home, call all my family members and all my closest friends over the course of a few days and, this done, I feel grounded again, solid, loved, stable, capable. I have to constantly remind myself, as I struggle to keep up in German, that I am not only Not Stupid, but actually totally capable of learning a new language. So now, I settle in, I find a groove. Like skiier slowly, slowly getting to know and understand a difficult hill after having been smoothly sailing down open slopes for so many months, I find my groove. I find my place, I do, as it turns out, have one here.
I begin to be happy.
The next day, the day after the miserable walking out of the bar episode, I go skiing. That's right, not snowboarding. Instead I borrow a pair of skis, intending to teach myself. And not only do I not make a fool of myself, I don't even wipe out. I stand up, I slide along, I do french fries and pizza and suddenly, amazingly, I am skiing. Granted, it is only the beginner ski hill, but I am really rocking it, sailing along under blue skies with the massive alps around me and not only is everything OK, everything is, maybe, good.
And from that moment, that first glorious ridiculous moment on skis, I began to get my feet under me (and not just under me wipe-out style, although that happens a few times). I begin to be happy. To get into a routine. To realize how great this situation is, how much I stand to gain, how little there is to lose. I realize I like this person. I also call home, call all my family members and all my closest friends over the course of a few days and, this done, I feel grounded again, solid, loved, stable, capable. I have to constantly remind myself, as I struggle to keep up in German, that I am not only Not Stupid, but actually totally capable of learning a new language. So now, I settle in, I find a groove. Like skiier slowly, slowly getting to know and understand a difficult hill after having been smoothly sailing down open slopes for so many months, I find my groove. I find my place, I do, as it turns out, have one here.
I begin to be happy.
Things are worse. Bad, even. I feel that I have been misled and misplaced. Having been invited here under the impression that an inability to ski or speak German were no problem, I find now that I Must learn German as soon as possible. There is no work besides being a ski teacher (especially since it is the low season and everywhere is, in fact, overstaffed already), and that is impossible without some German, so I have to get going, really going, and fast. There is also essentially no work for a snowboarder so I am going to have to learn to ski ASAP also. I am not angry at my hosts and employers, whose generosity is still their primary feature, just confused why and how they brought me here.
With the German, I really try. From day one I am studying hours a day, but it feels futile. Even working overtime, there is no way to learn a language overnight, and I have no teacher, and there is NO TIME. And the stress is trebled by the impatience of my colleagues at the ski school, all of whom demand to know WHAT I AM DOING HERE? Why, they ask, would I come to work in Austria without speaking German? I wish I could answer that I DON'T know but that seems like a foolish response. One of them, on meeting me, just looks me in the eye and says. "You Have to learn." Thanks Captain Obvious. It is hard to make friends with people who don't want you there.
And as for making friends, I work hard at it. The social scene is quite simply. After work, go to one of the two bars in the village for some apres ski drinks, and stay at the bar till dinner. Grab some food and then keep drinking till the wee hours. Money no object as the ski school pays sufficiently and there is nothing else to spend it on besides more ski gear (everyone here has about 4 snowboards, sets of skis, a dozen jackets, etc.). This is not good for me for a variety of reasons. One, I don't enjoy drinking too much all the time and don't have the money to support it anyway, and especially in a drinking scene where as people drink they speak even less English. The people are nice, truly, especially my roomates Berry and Nadie, and Patrick. And they are very inclusive and nice to me, but we don't really seem to understand eachother. And though I loosen up on thee exterior after a couple beers, I don't really get any happier. And the money is flowing out and I go out with them every night in an attempt to involve myself and be sociable and then one night, after too many drinks I am just fed up, with the whole situation, tired of trying to avoid the next beer and not buy another round and wanting to go home (to the apartment, but also to Real Home), and tired of not understanding what is said and tired of studying and tired of being in a place where it seems I am not wanted and don't belong. So I get up from the table, and walk out, beer in hand, without saying goodbye or even putting on my jacket. Rude, yes, but in that frame of mind there was no alternative. They joke about it the next day but my unhappiness is not assuaged.
Why am I here? What the hell am I doing? Should I leave? Walk out, like I did from the bar? Or stick it out, be miserable, and count the hours till I return to England and Casey? This is a challenge. Challenges are good, right? But I hate them. I hate this. I don't want it. So, Why am I here? What the hell am I doing? Should I........the loop of thoughts continues, flashing intermittent images of home, my family, Casey, my friends, and all the places I wish I were, when I am quite simply in a place I wish I weren't.
With the German, I really try. From day one I am studying hours a day, but it feels futile. Even working overtime, there is no way to learn a language overnight, and I have no teacher, and there is NO TIME. And the stress is trebled by the impatience of my colleagues at the ski school, all of whom demand to know WHAT I AM DOING HERE? Why, they ask, would I come to work in Austria without speaking German? I wish I could answer that I DON'T know but that seems like a foolish response. One of them, on meeting me, just looks me in the eye and says. "You Have to learn." Thanks Captain Obvious. It is hard to make friends with people who don't want you there.
And as for making friends, I work hard at it. The social scene is quite simply. After work, go to one of the two bars in the village for some apres ski drinks, and stay at the bar till dinner. Grab some food and then keep drinking till the wee hours. Money no object as the ski school pays sufficiently and there is nothing else to spend it on besides more ski gear (everyone here has about 4 snowboards, sets of skis, a dozen jackets, etc.). This is not good for me for a variety of reasons. One, I don't enjoy drinking too much all the time and don't have the money to support it anyway, and especially in a drinking scene where as people drink they speak even less English. The people are nice, truly, especially my roomates Berry and Nadie, and Patrick. And they are very inclusive and nice to me, but we don't really seem to understand eachother. And though I loosen up on thee exterior after a couple beers, I don't really get any happier. And the money is flowing out and I go out with them every night in an attempt to involve myself and be sociable and then one night, after too many drinks I am just fed up, with the whole situation, tired of trying to avoid the next beer and not buy another round and wanting to go home (to the apartment, but also to Real Home), and tired of not understanding what is said and tired of studying and tired of being in a place where it seems I am not wanted and don't belong. So I get up from the table, and walk out, beer in hand, without saying goodbye or even putting on my jacket. Rude, yes, but in that frame of mind there was no alternative. They joke about it the next day but my unhappiness is not assuaged.
Why am I here? What the hell am I doing? Should I leave? Walk out, like I did from the bar? Or stick it out, be miserable, and count the hours till I return to England and Casey? This is a challenge. Challenges are good, right? But I hate them. I hate this. I don't want it. So, Why am I here? What the hell am I doing? Should I........the loop of thoughts continues, flashing intermittent images of home, my family, Casey, my friends, and all the places I wish I were, when I am quite simply in a place I wish I weren't.
And when the morning begins, it really begins. I arrive at the ski school on time, in full brilliant Tiroler Schischule blazing scarlet uniform with my nametag on and my German utterly incoherent. I have to rent a snowboard and buy goggle and get my liftpass and be introduced to a dozen uninterested colleagues and then I am off and going. After having been berated and yelled at by various ski school employees, I am handed to a snowboard instructor who I am to shadow for the day. I struggle to keep my calm and not break down as he rambles on to me in German. The lesson proceeds at breakneck speed and, utterly lost, I struggle to simply keep up (it has been a long time since I snowboarded and I hardly seem like a teacher). The whole thing is chaotic and stressful and lasts two hours. There are a lot of differences from Lake Tahoe ski resorts too. Some are positive (like the electronic lift cards that are automatically scanned by machines as you pass by). But some are very negative (like the fact that almost all the lifts are T-bar lifts, basically ropes that you have to hold on to for dear life as they literally drag you up the slope). I am totally out of my depth, and even more so when Patrick (for that is the name, I determine, of the teacher I am shadowing) asks me to help his students (intermediate snowboarders) up the treacherous lift. Only towards the end of the long two hours does Patrick ask me, in German, what language I speak. As he asks, I notice a twinge in his accent and then, when I tell him English, he responds, "Well why didn't you say so?" in a brilliant, reassuring, almost comical Scottish accent. As we speed down the slopes to the end of the lesson, I am left to wonder how on earth a Scot has ended up in Ehrwald teaching snowboarding and speaking perfect German. But then again, how did I get here? His story could hardly be much stranger.
During lunch, I quietly gulp down soup in the ski lodge restaurant as Patrick and few other teachers speak rapidly to each other in German. By the end of lunch one of them is lecuring me in broken English about the global economy, and I am glad when I am able to leave, as the second round of lessons begins. I am again shadowing Patrick, and this time he has an advanced student, so we are able to just hit the slopes and have a good time. And suddenly, as I speed along and snow flies up and the sun shines down, I begin to be ok. Not happy, quite, everything is still too new for that, but relaxed at least, in the snow and the snowboard, and feeling it beginning to come back.
After the lesson the ski teachers all have a drink at the ski lodge bar. I take off back to my apartment but then decide that I have to seize this moment and make some friends, so I return and quietly drink a beer while they talk in German and some English. Slowly I get my bearings and they try to involve me in the conversation without speaking too much English.
That evening, I get to know my roommates a bit. They are flat mates actually, one who lives in the room across from me and shares a kitchen, and the other who lives downstairs but is friends with her. He (his name is Berry) cooks dinner and they speak in Dutch (they are both from Holland). I study German for a while and then give up and go to sleep. I am, I feel, in the wrong place.
During lunch, I quietly gulp down soup in the ski lodge restaurant as Patrick and few other teachers speak rapidly to each other in German. By the end of lunch one of them is lecuring me in broken English about the global economy, and I am glad when I am able to leave, as the second round of lessons begins. I am again shadowing Patrick, and this time he has an advanced student, so we are able to just hit the slopes and have a good time. And suddenly, as I speed along and snow flies up and the sun shines down, I begin to be ok. Not happy, quite, everything is still too new for that, but relaxed at least, in the snow and the snowboard, and feeling it beginning to come back.
After the lesson the ski teachers all have a drink at the ski lodge bar. I take off back to my apartment but then decide that I have to seize this moment and make some friends, so I return and quietly drink a beer while they talk in German and some English. Slowly I get my bearings and they try to involve me in the conversation without speaking too much English.
That evening, I get to know my roommates a bit. They are flat mates actually, one who lives in the room across from me and shares a kitchen, and the other who lives downstairs but is friends with her. He (his name is Berry) cooks dinner and they speak in Dutch (they are both from Holland). I study German for a while and then give up and go to sleep. I am, I feel, in the wrong place.
The night of the symphony Casey and I both slept somewhat fitfully, since it was our last for a long time in each other's company. Despite the moderate trials of such close living quarters for so long, we had of course come to rely utterly on eachother.
But the next morning, early, I slipped away in the pre-dawn light and, weighed down by my ever-growing backpack, boarded a train towards my next chapter, leaving Casey to board that night the train to his next chapter. About his adventures he will hopefully write soon, but from that moment, at 7AM on January 31st, our paths part until a distant future date. But the train, which was due to leave at 7:30, left at 7:31, with typically germanic efficiency, and I was off, out of Vienna, speeding from Wien Westbanhof across the snow covered country side and up into the alps. The journey was uneventful (save for a panicked dream where everything went wrong, I missed my stop, lost my violin, and couln't find my destination) and peaceful, but lonely. It was immediately clear that this new independence was going to be much more of a curse than a blessing. I arrived in Innsbruck, a major transit center of a city, and tried to find the bus or train to my destination. This was utterly chaotic, as my German is very limited. I finally found the right train, had to wait two hours, then missed it, then the bus, but it was the wrong one, and finally, 4 hours after my arrival in Innsbruck, I fell exhaustedly into the correct bus and tried in vain to take my mind off my upcoming arrival by listening to Rimsky-Korsakov's Sheherezade.
The bus climbed up long winding roads into the mountains. Having been travelling for 10 hours, I arrived in the tiny little village at 5PM and looked around, with a strange mixture of relief, anticipation, nervousness, and nausea.
So where am I and why (I have asked myself this fairly often since I got here). I am in a town called Ehrwald in the Austrian Alps. It is a tiny village, primarily a ski resort town. It is quaint and picturesque and utterly perfect. I came here one summer with my family so I vaguely recognized it. The entire town is essentially run by one family (The Leitner Family) a dynastic chain of super-strong personalities who run the main hotel, the ski resort, the ski school, the cafe, the jewelry store, the ski rental store, and the sports equipment store. So essentially everything. The Stubbs' have been coming here for decades, and Denys (the grandfather whose spirit so completely fills White House, where we started our journey) was a bit of a legend here as the resident Brit. Anyhow the Stubbs' and Leitner's developed a friendship and a bit of a connection and the two Leitner boys came and worked on White House farm when they were 18. Then, when my dad and his brother were 18 and 16, they came and worked in Ehrwald for the Leitners. It became a bit of an exchange and a tradition. Well, despite the fact that the main contacts have all passed on (my grandparents and many of the elder Leitners) I decided to attempt to continue this tradition. So they (the two Leitner boys, who are now the heads of the dynasty and the town) offered me a job here (as a ski teacher, apparently no problem despite the fact that I cannot speak German or ski). And so here I am, in the Kirchplatz in the center of town after a long day of travel. I vaguely recognize the town but I don't know anyone in it, or what my place in it is (if I have one).
I go into Intersport Leitner, my imminent employers, and ask for the woman I have been emailing. She arrives, and is clearly confused. It slowly becomes apparent, in broken English and German, that she thought I was a girl (Percy is not a super common German name. It is not a very common name anywhere, in fact, so her mistake is forgivable). So the room and roommate that await me are no longer fitting and everything has to be rearranged and it is already very late in the evening and everyone is tired and confused. But I am given various papers in German telling me how things works, handed a bright red skiing uniform, introduced to 30 different people, and told to report for work at 9 the next morning at the Ski School. Then I am shown to my room, in an apartment complex specifically for the ski teachers. I spend a couple hours translating the various papers with the help of my German dictionary and end up thoroughly confused and unenlightened. I go out to the supermarket to find myself confused but being a tiny village market it has closed hours ago. So I am hungry now, as well as lonely and lost. No sooner do I return to the apartment than I realize that my key doesn't work. So I go to the local hotel (run, of course, by the Lietner's) and ask for a replacement key. Then I go back and find that the replacement doesn't work either. Exhausted and lonely, lost, confused, locked out, hungry, and fairly miserable, despite the strength that I am still trying to retain from last night's (so long ago!) Mahler experience, I feel ready to collapse. But instead I return to the Hotel and ask for Another key. As I am being handed it a voice hesitantly asks me, "Stubbs? Is das Stubbs?" It is, of course, Mr. Leitner, who runs this incredibly fine and fancy hotel and has somehow determined who I am. He, unlike his brother, speaks very little English, so after communicating that I am a Stubbs and that he remembers working at Whitehouse and how is Denys (not so well) and how is Margaret (same) our conversation draws to a close. But then he insists that I have dinner at the hotel, for an instant my lips form the standard polite, "no i couldn't possibly" but then I accept the gracious hospitality and nod excitedly.
The episode that starts here saves the night. From miserable and cold and hungry I am transformed into content, full, warm, and surrounded by light and people. The food and service is totally world class. I feast on various cold meats and salads for starters, followed by a delectable soup that washes away all the trials of the day (which already seem incredibly trivial), and then a plate heaped with mashed potatoes and succulent slices of duck. I guzzle a whole bottle of icy sparkling water and finish the meal with a massive delectable cake and a coffee. Throughout, I am surrounded by the buzz of a full restaurant, full of people and dozens of children (the hotel is famously child-friendly, so it is full of them) who are on holiday and are bronzed and weary but jovial from skiing. It is a bit strange to eat alone at a fancy restaurant, but not by any means insufferable, and my overwhelming feeling is one of joy and amazement at the ability to move so far, so rapidly. Looking back over the last few nights, from a symphony to a party with English kids in Vienna to the many strange wonders of Budapest and Prague and on and on. And all in so little time. I look at myself, and my surroundings, and I think: Look at me! Look at what I can do! I can move. I can see a lot. And be a lot.
I walk back through the snow to the apartment house and climb the long staircase to my room. I have a big, comfortable, private room, and I collapse into bed in utter bliss, warm and full and here. Now. In a new place. Alone, but ready.
But the next morning, early, I slipped away in the pre-dawn light and, weighed down by my ever-growing backpack, boarded a train towards my next chapter, leaving Casey to board that night the train to his next chapter. About his adventures he will hopefully write soon, but from that moment, at 7AM on January 31st, our paths part until a distant future date. But the train, which was due to leave at 7:30, left at 7:31, with typically germanic efficiency, and I was off, out of Vienna, speeding from Wien Westbanhof across the snow covered country side and up into the alps. The journey was uneventful (save for a panicked dream where everything went wrong, I missed my stop, lost my violin, and couln't find my destination) and peaceful, but lonely. It was immediately clear that this new independence was going to be much more of a curse than a blessing. I arrived in Innsbruck, a major transit center of a city, and tried to find the bus or train to my destination. This was utterly chaotic, as my German is very limited. I finally found the right train, had to wait two hours, then missed it, then the bus, but it was the wrong one, and finally, 4 hours after my arrival in Innsbruck, I fell exhaustedly into the correct bus and tried in vain to take my mind off my upcoming arrival by listening to Rimsky-Korsakov's Sheherezade.
The bus climbed up long winding roads into the mountains. Having been travelling for 10 hours, I arrived in the tiny little village at 5PM and looked around, with a strange mixture of relief, anticipation, nervousness, and nausea.
So where am I and why (I have asked myself this fairly often since I got here). I am in a town called Ehrwald in the Austrian Alps. It is a tiny village, primarily a ski resort town. It is quaint and picturesque and utterly perfect. I came here one summer with my family so I vaguely recognized it. The entire town is essentially run by one family (The Leitner Family) a dynastic chain of super-strong personalities who run the main hotel, the ski resort, the ski school, the cafe, the jewelry store, the ski rental store, and the sports equipment store. So essentially everything. The Stubbs' have been coming here for decades, and Denys (the grandfather whose spirit so completely fills White House, where we started our journey) was a bit of a legend here as the resident Brit. Anyhow the Stubbs' and Leitner's developed a friendship and a bit of a connection and the two Leitner boys came and worked on White House farm when they were 18. Then, when my dad and his brother were 18 and 16, they came and worked in Ehrwald for the Leitners. It became a bit of an exchange and a tradition. Well, despite the fact that the main contacts have all passed on (my grandparents and many of the elder Leitners) I decided to attempt to continue this tradition. So they (the two Leitner boys, who are now the heads of the dynasty and the town) offered me a job here (as a ski teacher, apparently no problem despite the fact that I cannot speak German or ski). And so here I am, in the Kirchplatz in the center of town after a long day of travel. I vaguely recognize the town but I don't know anyone in it, or what my place in it is (if I have one).
I go into Intersport Leitner, my imminent employers, and ask for the woman I have been emailing. She arrives, and is clearly confused. It slowly becomes apparent, in broken English and German, that she thought I was a girl (Percy is not a super common German name. It is not a very common name anywhere, in fact, so her mistake is forgivable). So the room and roommate that await me are no longer fitting and everything has to be rearranged and it is already very late in the evening and everyone is tired and confused. But I am given various papers in German telling me how things works, handed a bright red skiing uniform, introduced to 30 different people, and told to report for work at 9 the next morning at the Ski School. Then I am shown to my room, in an apartment complex specifically for the ski teachers. I spend a couple hours translating the various papers with the help of my German dictionary and end up thoroughly confused and unenlightened. I go out to the supermarket to find myself confused but being a tiny village market it has closed hours ago. So I am hungry now, as well as lonely and lost. No sooner do I return to the apartment than I realize that my key doesn't work. So I go to the local hotel (run, of course, by the Lietner's) and ask for a replacement key. Then I go back and find that the replacement doesn't work either. Exhausted and lonely, lost, confused, locked out, hungry, and fairly miserable, despite the strength that I am still trying to retain from last night's (so long ago!) Mahler experience, I feel ready to collapse. But instead I return to the Hotel and ask for Another key. As I am being handed it a voice hesitantly asks me, "Stubbs? Is das Stubbs?" It is, of course, Mr. Leitner, who runs this incredibly fine and fancy hotel and has somehow determined who I am. He, unlike his brother, speaks very little English, so after communicating that I am a Stubbs and that he remembers working at Whitehouse and how is Denys (not so well) and how is Margaret (same) our conversation draws to a close. But then he insists that I have dinner at the hotel, for an instant my lips form the standard polite, "no i couldn't possibly" but then I accept the gracious hospitality and nod excitedly.
The episode that starts here saves the night. From miserable and cold and hungry I am transformed into content, full, warm, and surrounded by light and people. The food and service is totally world class. I feast on various cold meats and salads for starters, followed by a delectable soup that washes away all the trials of the day (which already seem incredibly trivial), and then a plate heaped with mashed potatoes and succulent slices of duck. I guzzle a whole bottle of icy sparkling water and finish the meal with a massive delectable cake and a coffee. Throughout, I am surrounded by the buzz of a full restaurant, full of people and dozens of children (the hotel is famously child-friendly, so it is full of them) who are on holiday and are bronzed and weary but jovial from skiing. It is a bit strange to eat alone at a fancy restaurant, but not by any means insufferable, and my overwhelming feeling is one of joy and amazement at the ability to move so far, so rapidly. Looking back over the last few nights, from a symphony to a party with English kids in Vienna to the many strange wonders of Budapest and Prague and on and on. And all in so little time. I look at myself, and my surroundings, and I think: Look at me! Look at what I can do! I can move. I can see a lot. And be a lot.
I walk back through the snow to the apartment house and climb the long staircase to my room. I have a big, comfortable, private room, and I collapse into bed in utter bliss, warm and full and here. Now. In a new place. Alone, but ready.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Vienna. One of the worlds artistic capitals, home of some of the greatest artists, and virtually all of the greatest composers, and endless great architecture, and the Wiener Schnitzel, and much else besides.
And we have one day.
I feel obligated to add that if, reader, you are not interested in art or classical music, you had ought to skip this blog entry directly. You should also consider our friendship or other relationship terminated.
So we rise early, rub the sleep away and hit the streets directly. First stop, St. Stephens cathedral in the center of town. A classically gilded and wildly colorful cathedral of the time we have come to almost (insanely) take for granted. It dominates a central square. From there we walk to the Belvedere Palace, an astonishing white masterpiece of architecture set in a long geometric, snow-covered garden. Outside are statues of centaurs and angels, but within it becomes truly astonishing. The art is some of the best we have ever seen, and the space is spectacular, truly a spectacle in itself, including a room of mirrors and a room of gold. The highlights are a series by Max Oppenheimer on classical music, especially his stunning canvas "The Philharmonic" which depicts Gustav Mahler, the great composer and conductor, as he conducts the Vienna Philharmonic at the KonzertHaus in turn of the century Vienna. It is a vast painting glowing pulsating with life and music. A true masterpiece, as are many of Oppenheimers. There is also a series of busts called "The Character Heads," a set of incredible pieces by Franz Xaver Messershmidt. These include incredible faces grimacing, glaring, smiling, and expressing every incarnation of human emotion. They are hilarious and riveting and impressive. Finally we reached the centerpiece of this particular museum. A collection of pieces by Gustav Klimt, about whom Casey is an expert and who was a founder of the Art Noveau movement in Vienna. His paintings are incredible, and the finest work (including the famous "Judith" and "The Kiss") is all on display at the Belvedere so it was a farely memorable experience. Finally there was a wonderful exhibition on Rodin, my personal current obsession. The whole thing amounted to one of the greatest museum experiences of my life to date. And it was free, seeing as we were no longer in a city (Amsterdam) that insisted on charging 20 euros for anything remotely similar to a museum, or a city (Budapest) that would only acknowledge that you were younger than 30 if you had 12 forms of ID. Vienna was rapidly becoming one of our favorite places.
For lunch we had Kase Krainer, a type of frankfurter sausage served at a stand on the main boulevard. Afterwards, we went to the Haus of Musik, a very eclectic mix of great historical exhibits (Vienna is the center of the classical music world, home and place of major works and premiers for Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Shubert, Strauss the younger, Strauss the Elder, Arnold Shoenberg, and my personal favorite, Gustav Mahler) on all of Vienna's favorite classical music superstars, as well as some very bizarre technological psychological exhibits attempting to incoherently explain and imitate music's impact on the brain. It was all very incomprehensible and badly laid out, but very amusing. One highlight was a podium where you could climb up, take a little metal wand, and conduct the Vienna Philharmonic on a screen, controlling the tempo and spirit of Strauss' Blue Danube waltz with remarkable accuracy and technological brilliance. Brilliant compositions played in the background for the entire exploration of the museum.
As the afternoon wore on, our spirit and enthusiasm did not fade, and we went on to Mozart's Haus, an incredible place were some of the most famous, memorable, influential, technically astounding, emotionally exuberant, ground-breaking, model-forming, life changing music ever created was composed. It was very strange to walk to floors in the footsteps of someone who, to me, is far more than a famous name, but a huge inspiration and idol. The museum itself was uninspiring, but the location was iconic. Mozart's cluttered, drunken, immature, genius-filled, debt-stricken existence was actually palpable in the woodwork, and I could imagine him running back and forth, one moment a genius working on a phrase that he could within minutes turn into a symphony, the next moment a drunken swine with a capricious wife capable of nothing more complex than drinking wine and telling poop jokes (this is actually historical fact, Mozart had a strange comical fascination with feces and defecation). I imagine him singing, yelling wildly, demanding and young and headstrong and narcissistic knowing that he is the most famous and beloved person in the city, and the musical world. The favorite of not only the public, but icons like Marie Antoinette and the Austro-Hungarian Emperors. Being in the house was vivid, to say the least.
Now evening was drawing on, but our exploration of Vienna would not be complete save for a few crucial things. We swung by the Opera House, (where Figaro, Fidelio, Giovanni, and Die Zauberflote, among countless others, were premiered) and dropped into a Vienna Coffeehouse (another iconic location) for a touch of culture. We drank hot chocolate and ate Mozartkugeln (beautiful chocolates with mozarts face on gold foil and a pistachio center...mmmmm), resting legs and minds after what had been a long and wonderfully exhausting day. Then we were back on the streets, and around the corner found ourselves in front of the Musikvieren, an impressive building on the exterior and even more so on the interior. Like the Budapest Opera House or the Royal Albert Hall, but smaller, and more intense, more focused. Instead of a sea of red velvet or vast murals flowing above, it was a small, intense rectangular room with endless layers of gold and blue and glittering chandeliers refracting bright light all over the room. Again we were surrounded by the beautiful and glamorous artistic-minded sophisticated Elite, and this time we had not even had a chance to make a pretense at dressing up. Needless to say, we were treated like swine by various ushers etc. We took it in stride however, and soon found ourselves standing at the back of the concert hall (5euro tickets for standing room, not bad at all) with a flawless view of the Vienna Philharmonic, one of the worlds greatest orchestras, performing in the venue that housed some of the greatest musical minds in history, home to a dozen famous premiers, about to watch a piece (Mahler's Seventh Symphony, "The Tragique") in a class by it's own. All there is to know about Mahler (who, incidentally, conducted this philharmonic in this hall less than a century ago, and was painted doing so by Max Oppenheimer) is that, when it comes to symphonic construction, he is the best. Hands down. And when it comes to music that moves you, that controls and lifts you up and crushes you, that changes you and opens parts of your mind you didn't know existed, that comes closer than perhaps any other music to expressing a complete notion of what it means to be human and to emote and to feel, he is the one and only. The best. He only wrote 7 symphonies, and they are in a class all by themselves. They are characterised by size and force (one is called the symphony for a thousand because it requires literally 1000 musicians and singers to perform it) that make Beethoven look like he was writing nursery rhymes in his 9th symphony. They are also characterised by supreme delicacy and beauty that at moments, can rival the most touching music of the romantic era. And they are further defined by innovation in, and understanding of, the technical form and ability of a symphony that makes anyone with the barest notion of classical music or composition's head spin. If you are interested in the technical details, his work is also characterised by a large number of lower-range stringed instruments which provide a heavy baseline, some very strange percussion instruments, lots of kettle drums, lots of very beautiful and not remotely comical pizzicato, soaring violin and flute combinations that stretch the eardrums, sliding notes instead of scales, and a complete inability to stick with any theme more than about 2 minutes. He also does not give the violins the preferential treatment that composers usually give, but treats them as simply on of his many orchestrational tools. He writes long works, ususally at least 2 hours (compared to a 15 minute Mozart or Haydn symphony) and demands utter focus and involvement from his audience. It is very, Very difficult to fall asleep listening to Mahler.
And so it begins. With vast, earth-shaking rhythmic chords and blasting horns and massive marching melody that sends the audience reeling back in their seats. But within moments, the first movement has developed into something softer and more romantic, flowing and lovely, but this does not last long, because by the end of the first movement we are back to truly huge and moving chords that shake the little room and everyone in it. The next movement is heart-wrenching, soft and mournful and tragic. It ends, as his slow movement often do, with a slide down to a quiet and final-sounding pizzicato from the cellos. The third movement is like a story all of its own, with various harmonic and melodic storylines twisting and turning and forming a vast book, a tapestry of music that does more than inspire awe. And the final movement deftly and masterfully brings the whole thing crashing together, with snatched melodic fragments from each of the preceding movements and a sense of completion that is like impending doom. Like the end of the world. Or the beginning of a new age. Watching this incredible piece in this incredible setting, my eyes go out of focus and suddenly I am in fact looking at Max Oppenheimer's incredible painting, all gold and light and brilliance, and the conductor is Mahler himself, pouring emotion into his control of the instruments that pulsate with the life and the torment and the vast imagination of a man long dead but utterly immortal. The sense of symmetry that strikes then, the who and the where and the painting and the piece and Mahler and all of it is almost overbearing. But then, as my muscles relax in the flowing chords and descending scale of the last few moments, (I have been tense in my rivetted attention for over two hours now, I swear my attention has not wandered for a moment), I am finally given a glimpse. A fleeting glimpse, it lasts only a moment, of what Mahler was writing about. Because his music is not simply a vague image of the human condition, nor is it a weak and self pitying monologue about the tragedy of human existence. No, this music, this statement, this art, is about strength. Human strength. Human Brilliance. The size, the scale, the force, the noise, the volume, the beauty, the delicacy, the unity, all are simply metaphors, simply windows through which to view the strength that was his theme and eternal aim. Life, death, humanity, and strength. And in those moments, in that glimpse, of human strength, and what it is or can be, I am allowed to know what I am capable of. Me, personally, my future, my life. It is all here, it is all within these sweeping chords and epic melodies. It is strength. Strength to do what is right, what is good, what I need, what I want, what I know. I feel understood, and understanding. And the epiphany of this moment, beyond the poor attempt I have thus far made, is otherwise indescribable. In the golden light of that room and those musicians and that piece and that moment, the road before me is miraculously unfurled, and my future is handed into my waiting arms to embrace and leap for.
And slowly, ever so slowly, the chords fade away from their massive force until they are merely a whisper, merely a few of the 200 musicians are still playing a final note that must be marked painississississimo in the score. And finally, there is silence. But the silence is too intense, to focused to signal an end. Because it is not the end, the silence and the entire room is torn asunder then by a chord that blasts with a strength that even the preceding two hours could not rival. The sound is vast and powerful and huge, so huge. And it is focused and pointed, and it looks each listener in the eye and tells them, "You have heard. Do not forget. Go forth."
And then it is done.
Little more need be written about that night. It was one of the pinnacle experiences, musical and otherwise, of my life so far. It will never, ever be forgotten.
Beethoven, another Viennese icon, is quoted as saying something that I live by and that seems appropriate here:
"Music is the one incorporeal entrance to a higher world of understanding which comprehends mankind, but which mankind cannot comprehends."
So if my writing here sounds preachy or condescending or confused, that is because I do not comprehend, necessarily, this experience or all of its components. But in that symphony hall, in that moment, I was comprehended, as I never have been before.
And we have one day.
I feel obligated to add that if, reader, you are not interested in art or classical music, you had ought to skip this blog entry directly. You should also consider our friendship or other relationship terminated.
So we rise early, rub the sleep away and hit the streets directly. First stop, St. Stephens cathedral in the center of town. A classically gilded and wildly colorful cathedral of the time we have come to almost (insanely) take for granted. It dominates a central square. From there we walk to the Belvedere Palace, an astonishing white masterpiece of architecture set in a long geometric, snow-covered garden. Outside are statues of centaurs and angels, but within it becomes truly astonishing. The art is some of the best we have ever seen, and the space is spectacular, truly a spectacle in itself, including a room of mirrors and a room of gold. The highlights are a series by Max Oppenheimer on classical music, especially his stunning canvas "The Philharmonic" which depicts Gustav Mahler, the great composer and conductor, as he conducts the Vienna Philharmonic at the KonzertHaus in turn of the century Vienna. It is a vast painting glowing pulsating with life and music. A true masterpiece, as are many of Oppenheimers. There is also a series of busts called "The Character Heads," a set of incredible pieces by Franz Xaver Messershmidt. These include incredible faces grimacing, glaring, smiling, and expressing every incarnation of human emotion. They are hilarious and riveting and impressive. Finally we reached the centerpiece of this particular museum. A collection of pieces by Gustav Klimt, about whom Casey is an expert and who was a founder of the Art Noveau movement in Vienna. His paintings are incredible, and the finest work (including the famous "Judith" and "The Kiss") is all on display at the Belvedere so it was a farely memorable experience. Finally there was a wonderful exhibition on Rodin, my personal current obsession. The whole thing amounted to one of the greatest museum experiences of my life to date. And it was free, seeing as we were no longer in a city (Amsterdam) that insisted on charging 20 euros for anything remotely similar to a museum, or a city (Budapest) that would only acknowledge that you were younger than 30 if you had 12 forms of ID. Vienna was rapidly becoming one of our favorite places.
For lunch we had Kase Krainer, a type of frankfurter sausage served at a stand on the main boulevard. Afterwards, we went to the Haus of Musik, a very eclectic mix of great historical exhibits (Vienna is the center of the classical music world, home and place of major works and premiers for Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Shubert, Strauss the younger, Strauss the Elder, Arnold Shoenberg, and my personal favorite, Gustav Mahler) on all of Vienna's favorite classical music superstars, as well as some very bizarre technological psychological exhibits attempting to incoherently explain and imitate music's impact on the brain. It was all very incomprehensible and badly laid out, but very amusing. One highlight was a podium where you could climb up, take a little metal wand, and conduct the Vienna Philharmonic on a screen, controlling the tempo and spirit of Strauss' Blue Danube waltz with remarkable accuracy and technological brilliance. Brilliant compositions played in the background for the entire exploration of the museum.
As the afternoon wore on, our spirit and enthusiasm did not fade, and we went on to Mozart's Haus, an incredible place were some of the most famous, memorable, influential, technically astounding, emotionally exuberant, ground-breaking, model-forming, life changing music ever created was composed. It was very strange to walk to floors in the footsteps of someone who, to me, is far more than a famous name, but a huge inspiration and idol. The museum itself was uninspiring, but the location was iconic. Mozart's cluttered, drunken, immature, genius-filled, debt-stricken existence was actually palpable in the woodwork, and I could imagine him running back and forth, one moment a genius working on a phrase that he could within minutes turn into a symphony, the next moment a drunken swine with a capricious wife capable of nothing more complex than drinking wine and telling poop jokes (this is actually historical fact, Mozart had a strange comical fascination with feces and defecation). I imagine him singing, yelling wildly, demanding and young and headstrong and narcissistic knowing that he is the most famous and beloved person in the city, and the musical world. The favorite of not only the public, but icons like Marie Antoinette and the Austro-Hungarian Emperors. Being in the house was vivid, to say the least.
Now evening was drawing on, but our exploration of Vienna would not be complete save for a few crucial things. We swung by the Opera House, (where Figaro, Fidelio, Giovanni, and Die Zauberflote, among countless others, were premiered) and dropped into a Vienna Coffeehouse (another iconic location) for a touch of culture. We drank hot chocolate and ate Mozartkugeln (beautiful chocolates with mozarts face on gold foil and a pistachio center...mmmmm), resting legs and minds after what had been a long and wonderfully exhausting day. Then we were back on the streets, and around the corner found ourselves in front of the Musikvieren, an impressive building on the exterior and even more so on the interior. Like the Budapest Opera House or the Royal Albert Hall, but smaller, and more intense, more focused. Instead of a sea of red velvet or vast murals flowing above, it was a small, intense rectangular room with endless layers of gold and blue and glittering chandeliers refracting bright light all over the room. Again we were surrounded by the beautiful and glamorous artistic-minded sophisticated Elite, and this time we had not even had a chance to make a pretense at dressing up. Needless to say, we were treated like swine by various ushers etc. We took it in stride however, and soon found ourselves standing at the back of the concert hall (5euro tickets for standing room, not bad at all) with a flawless view of the Vienna Philharmonic, one of the worlds greatest orchestras, performing in the venue that housed some of the greatest musical minds in history, home to a dozen famous premiers, about to watch a piece (Mahler's Seventh Symphony, "The Tragique") in a class by it's own. All there is to know about Mahler (who, incidentally, conducted this philharmonic in this hall less than a century ago, and was painted doing so by Max Oppenheimer) is that, when it comes to symphonic construction, he is the best. Hands down. And when it comes to music that moves you, that controls and lifts you up and crushes you, that changes you and opens parts of your mind you didn't know existed, that comes closer than perhaps any other music to expressing a complete notion of what it means to be human and to emote and to feel, he is the one and only. The best. He only wrote 7 symphonies, and they are in a class all by themselves. They are characterised by size and force (one is called the symphony for a thousand because it requires literally 1000 musicians and singers to perform it) that make Beethoven look like he was writing nursery rhymes in his 9th symphony. They are also characterised by supreme delicacy and beauty that at moments, can rival the most touching music of the romantic era. And they are further defined by innovation in, and understanding of, the technical form and ability of a symphony that makes anyone with the barest notion of classical music or composition's head spin. If you are interested in the technical details, his work is also characterised by a large number of lower-range stringed instruments which provide a heavy baseline, some very strange percussion instruments, lots of kettle drums, lots of very beautiful and not remotely comical pizzicato, soaring violin and flute combinations that stretch the eardrums, sliding notes instead of scales, and a complete inability to stick with any theme more than about 2 minutes. He also does not give the violins the preferential treatment that composers usually give, but treats them as simply on of his many orchestrational tools. He writes long works, ususally at least 2 hours (compared to a 15 minute Mozart or Haydn symphony) and demands utter focus and involvement from his audience. It is very, Very difficult to fall asleep listening to Mahler.
And so it begins. With vast, earth-shaking rhythmic chords and blasting horns and massive marching melody that sends the audience reeling back in their seats. But within moments, the first movement has developed into something softer and more romantic, flowing and lovely, but this does not last long, because by the end of the first movement we are back to truly huge and moving chords that shake the little room and everyone in it. The next movement is heart-wrenching, soft and mournful and tragic. It ends, as his slow movement often do, with a slide down to a quiet and final-sounding pizzicato from the cellos. The third movement is like a story all of its own, with various harmonic and melodic storylines twisting and turning and forming a vast book, a tapestry of music that does more than inspire awe. And the final movement deftly and masterfully brings the whole thing crashing together, with snatched melodic fragments from each of the preceding movements and a sense of completion that is like impending doom. Like the end of the world. Or the beginning of a new age. Watching this incredible piece in this incredible setting, my eyes go out of focus and suddenly I am in fact looking at Max Oppenheimer's incredible painting, all gold and light and brilliance, and the conductor is Mahler himself, pouring emotion into his control of the instruments that pulsate with the life and the torment and the vast imagination of a man long dead but utterly immortal. The sense of symmetry that strikes then, the who and the where and the painting and the piece and Mahler and all of it is almost overbearing. But then, as my muscles relax in the flowing chords and descending scale of the last few moments, (I have been tense in my rivetted attention for over two hours now, I swear my attention has not wandered for a moment), I am finally given a glimpse. A fleeting glimpse, it lasts only a moment, of what Mahler was writing about. Because his music is not simply a vague image of the human condition, nor is it a weak and self pitying monologue about the tragedy of human existence. No, this music, this statement, this art, is about strength. Human strength. Human Brilliance. The size, the scale, the force, the noise, the volume, the beauty, the delicacy, the unity, all are simply metaphors, simply windows through which to view the strength that was his theme and eternal aim. Life, death, humanity, and strength. And in those moments, in that glimpse, of human strength, and what it is or can be, I am allowed to know what I am capable of. Me, personally, my future, my life. It is all here, it is all within these sweeping chords and epic melodies. It is strength. Strength to do what is right, what is good, what I need, what I want, what I know. I feel understood, and understanding. And the epiphany of this moment, beyond the poor attempt I have thus far made, is otherwise indescribable. In the golden light of that room and those musicians and that piece and that moment, the road before me is miraculously unfurled, and my future is handed into my waiting arms to embrace and leap for.
And slowly, ever so slowly, the chords fade away from their massive force until they are merely a whisper, merely a few of the 200 musicians are still playing a final note that must be marked painississississimo in the score. And finally, there is silence. But the silence is too intense, to focused to signal an end. Because it is not the end, the silence and the entire room is torn asunder then by a chord that blasts with a strength that even the preceding two hours could not rival. The sound is vast and powerful and huge, so huge. And it is focused and pointed, and it looks each listener in the eye and tells them, "You have heard. Do not forget. Go forth."
And then it is done.
Little more need be written about that night. It was one of the pinnacle experiences, musical and otherwise, of my life so far. It will never, ever be forgotten.
Beethoven, another Viennese icon, is quoted as saying something that I live by and that seems appropriate here:
"Music is the one incorporeal entrance to a higher world of understanding which comprehends mankind, but which mankind cannot comprehends."
So if my writing here sounds preachy or condescending or confused, that is because I do not comprehend, necessarily, this experience or all of its components. But in that symphony hall, in that moment, I was comprehended, as I never have been before.
Our last morning in Budapest is spent exploring some cool shops, including an incredible sword shop and some shops selling fantastic hungarian attire made of leather and feeling and looking not unlike cowboy gear.
We have a huge meal of greasy chinese food at a funny restaurant that is run by a family who skype friends back home and include us in the picture. Then it is back on with the backpacks and back onto the bus.
Before we leave Casey goes to withdraw a little cash to pay for the hostel. He only needs a bit but misreads the ATM and accidentally withdraw 100,000 Forints or 400 Euros. Oops.
At the station we are approached by a cool but slightly overbearing girl who, dran in by our obvious musicianship (the new guitar case is Massive and hard to miss) tells us about her band and her own musical interests. It is still exhilirating, even after all these experiences and new people and random acquaintances, to be approached by a stranger and strike up a conversation so brilliantly. There is nothing quite like it.
On the bus, we speed towards Vienna, and the end of our Central European Metropolis Adventure. At the Vienna Westbanhof (the blog is going to start being increasingly in German starting Now so get out your phrasebooks) we are met by a guy named Guy. He is the son of Jan, who you might remember from Thorpe, and is teaching English in Vienna. We stay with him for two nights. Being English, and having experienced Essex, he is easily able to relate to us and we get along well. He invites us to go out with him and his friends and once again we are meeting people at rapid rates and having a fantastic time. The quantity and quality of the people we become best friends with that night is staggering. It is an interesting way to first see Vienna too. In darkness, in a strange part of town, at a huge party specifically for all the local exchange students and foreigners. There are Irishmen and Spaniards, Frenchies and even a girl from Essex who is suspiciously similar to the famous Ellis. Amazed at the versatility of our existence, we return to his apartment in the wee hours, unsure quite how it is that the world works.
We have a huge meal of greasy chinese food at a funny restaurant that is run by a family who skype friends back home and include us in the picture. Then it is back on with the backpacks and back onto the bus.
Before we leave Casey goes to withdraw a little cash to pay for the hostel. He only needs a bit but misreads the ATM and accidentally withdraw 100,000 Forints or 400 Euros. Oops.
At the station we are approached by a cool but slightly overbearing girl who, dran in by our obvious musicianship (the new guitar case is Massive and hard to miss) tells us about her band and her own musical interests. It is still exhilirating, even after all these experiences and new people and random acquaintances, to be approached by a stranger and strike up a conversation so brilliantly. There is nothing quite like it.
On the bus, we speed towards Vienna, and the end of our Central European Metropolis Adventure. At the Vienna Westbanhof (the blog is going to start being increasingly in German starting Now so get out your phrasebooks) we are met by a guy named Guy. He is the son of Jan, who you might remember from Thorpe, and is teaching English in Vienna. We stay with him for two nights. Being English, and having experienced Essex, he is easily able to relate to us and we get along well. He invites us to go out with him and his friends and once again we are meeting people at rapid rates and having a fantastic time. The quantity and quality of the people we become best friends with that night is staggering. It is an interesting way to first see Vienna too. In darkness, in a strange part of town, at a huge party specifically for all the local exchange students and foreigners. There are Irishmen and Spaniards, Frenchies and even a girl from Essex who is suspiciously similar to the famous Ellis. Amazed at the versatility of our existence, we return to his apartment in the wee hours, unsure quite how it is that the world works.
Our Australian friends depart early, and we set off alone into the city. We cross into Buda, and climb the long hill up to the Castle. We explore all its nooks and crannies, gazing constantly out at the city from various viewpoints.
The highlight of this expectation, rising above even the high palace walls, the soaring columns, the glorious copper statues, and the panoramic views, is the Fisherman's Bastion. The history of it I don't know, but it is an utterly splendid architectural triumph of white stone forming vast towers and battlements and beautifully shaped crenelations and rooves that burst jaggedly, yet elegantly from the bluff. It is not unlike Minas Tirith. We can't help staring, and wander up every tower and along every battlement of the impressive fortifications.
We go to the National Gallery, which is inside the castle. The art is uninspiring and relatively uninteresting, but we have great fun messing with the curators. In Budapest, they have developed the strange habit of having curators that follow you around, instead of gazing serenely from a chair in the gallery. Now this doesn't sound like a big deal, but try having a stange old women standing 2 inches behind you every step of the way for 2 hours, breathing down your neck while you try to enjoy, or at least take in, the art. One woman insists on ushering us through the exhibit at high speed, not allowing us to hesitate over a piece or turn back. We cleverly use military-007-like tactics, splitting up and ducking through a side door, so that she is confused and unable to harass us. It is, needless to say, hilarious.
Uninterested in variance, we have another meal of delightful mexican foods at Dos Gringos (we are regulars there now) and return to the hostel to change into our finest attire (which consists of two grubby white shirts worn under our standard layers of coats and scarves and doing nothing to change the image of two rugged and inelegant travelers) because we are going to the Opera! Now you are likely thinking "The Opera? That sounds a bit sophisticated for those two immature, uncultured backpackers." Well, immature and uncultured we may be, but the Budapest Opera House is world class, and tickets only cost 1000 Dollars each! (that would be 2US dollars, by the way). So there we are, incongruously wandering into the brilliant building of great columns, high ceilings of colorful murals, endless gold leaf and magnificent statues. It would be breathtaking even if there were no performance to be seen, and it is made more so by the swirling crowds of elegance that brush past us, fur and satin and jewels and pearls and beautiful girls and haughty ladies and serious men. We make our way to our seats, box seats, red velvet and gold, and settle in as the lights go down.
The opera is called The Queen of Spades (or Pique Madam) and is by Tchaikovsky who, though not renowned for is operas, wrote some damn good ones. The lights come up on a park, where children play and sing merrily while two soldiers gossip about their gambling woes. One, Herman, is obsessed with gambling, and is struggling to keep it under control. He is also madly in love with a girl that he met, but doesn't know her name. His companion talks about his new fiancee, and the fiancees mother, a mysterious old dame who apparently knows the ultimate secret to gambling (earning her the title The Queen of Spades). Enter the fiancee, Lisa, who, it turns out, is tragically the girl that Herman has fallen so hard for. He struggles to keep this hidden from his companion. The next scene features Lisa and her girlfriends merrily singing and dancing, but Lisa is depressed, due to the fact that she has fallen (somehow) in love with the man who she saw with her fiancee today. The friends leave, and Herman climbs through the window and professes his love in glorious soaring amorous chords. She declines and he insists. She declines again, he sings louder. She tries again, but sure enough she is wrapped around him and the lights descend on a scene that cannot quite decide whether it is romantic or disturbing (can we get a female opinion, please?). The next scene is, of course, a masquerade ball (what opera is complete without one?). It is irrelevant to the story, but utterly wonderful. Ballet dances spin across the stage in blue and pink, a golden clad couple of fairy-like creatures dance brilliantly, there are vast gowns and cloaks and little leotards and golden masks and incredible drama and beautiful music and dance. During the ball, Lisa's fiancee sings the highlight aria, a love song that insists that he loves her so much he will let her be taken by another if that is what she wants. It is poignant. And the story resumes. Herman finds himself alone in a room with the old lady (his lover's mother) and, giving in to his gambling obsession, insists that she tell him her secret. She refuses, he pulls a gun (forceful guy, right?) she swoons and dies of fright. Lisa then enters (killer timing, no pun intended) and realizes that her lover was just trying to get to her mom (many girls face this plight). In the next scene, the glorious lights and colors of previous acts are gone. The stage is empty, dark, desolate. Herman stands haunted in the center. Suddenly he hears a voice and the ghost of the old lady appears. Hauntingly (really, it was in fact very well done and extremely unsettling) she tells him that she has returned from the grave to tell him her gambling secret. The cards he needs to bet on are 2-10-Ace. The next scene featues a heartbroken Lisa, who sings a wrenching, mournful aria. Herman enters, and tells her he loves her and everything is ok, but then he begins to ramble about the cards etc and she realizes he is going mad. He takes off to the gambling house and she kills herself. The gambling house is spectacularly designed, with eerie red lights that give it a dirty, sinful feel. The men drink vodka and throw down cards and tell raunchy jokes. The ex-fiancee is the center of attention, until Herman enters. He bets vast money against the man whose wife he stole, and bets on the three cards the ghost told him to. He bets everything. The first card is, as it should be, a 2. The second is a 10. But the third is the Queen of Spades. Seeing the mockery the ghost has made of him, Herman goes truly mad and shoots himself and the stage descends into darkness.
The opera is 4 hours long. It is in Russian. Luckily it has subtitles but unluckily the subtitles are in Magyar. So we have to rely on our knowledge from reading about the story, and the beauty of the music. It is, however, rivetting, and utterly world class. During the intermission, we get drinks at the fancy bar and people-watch. The people are truly splendid, and we both fall madly in love with various super-sophisticated, elegant girls. I also make a friend in my box, an old lady who insists on giving me the best seat and then talks to me excitedly in Magyar until she realizes I can't understand. She also deftly sends me a tissue when I sniffle, but with such silence and secrecy that she seems like she is some sort of operatic secret agent. The applause lasts for ages.
We find ourselves back on Andrassy avenue late at night and, having been cultural and sophisticated enough for one evening, treat ourselves to burgers, cookies and frapuccinos. Midnight snacks are the best.
The highlight of this expectation, rising above even the high palace walls, the soaring columns, the glorious copper statues, and the panoramic views, is the Fisherman's Bastion. The history of it I don't know, but it is an utterly splendid architectural triumph of white stone forming vast towers and battlements and beautifully shaped crenelations and rooves that burst jaggedly, yet elegantly from the bluff. It is not unlike Minas Tirith. We can't help staring, and wander up every tower and along every battlement of the impressive fortifications.
We go to the National Gallery, which is inside the castle. The art is uninspiring and relatively uninteresting, but we have great fun messing with the curators. In Budapest, they have developed the strange habit of having curators that follow you around, instead of gazing serenely from a chair in the gallery. Now this doesn't sound like a big deal, but try having a stange old women standing 2 inches behind you every step of the way for 2 hours, breathing down your neck while you try to enjoy, or at least take in, the art. One woman insists on ushering us through the exhibit at high speed, not allowing us to hesitate over a piece or turn back. We cleverly use military-007-like tactics, splitting up and ducking through a side door, so that she is confused and unable to harass us. It is, needless to say, hilarious.
Uninterested in variance, we have another meal of delightful mexican foods at Dos Gringos (we are regulars there now) and return to the hostel to change into our finest attire (which consists of two grubby white shirts worn under our standard layers of coats and scarves and doing nothing to change the image of two rugged and inelegant travelers) because we are going to the Opera! Now you are likely thinking "The Opera? That sounds a bit sophisticated for those two immature, uncultured backpackers." Well, immature and uncultured we may be, but the Budapest Opera House is world class, and tickets only cost 1000 Dollars each! (that would be 2US dollars, by the way). So there we are, incongruously wandering into the brilliant building of great columns, high ceilings of colorful murals, endless gold leaf and magnificent statues. It would be breathtaking even if there were no performance to be seen, and it is made more so by the swirling crowds of elegance that brush past us, fur and satin and jewels and pearls and beautiful girls and haughty ladies and serious men. We make our way to our seats, box seats, red velvet and gold, and settle in as the lights go down.
The opera is called The Queen of Spades (or Pique Madam) and is by Tchaikovsky who, though not renowned for is operas, wrote some damn good ones. The lights come up on a park, where children play and sing merrily while two soldiers gossip about their gambling woes. One, Herman, is obsessed with gambling, and is struggling to keep it under control. He is also madly in love with a girl that he met, but doesn't know her name. His companion talks about his new fiancee, and the fiancees mother, a mysterious old dame who apparently knows the ultimate secret to gambling (earning her the title The Queen of Spades). Enter the fiancee, Lisa, who, it turns out, is tragically the girl that Herman has fallen so hard for. He struggles to keep this hidden from his companion. The next scene features Lisa and her girlfriends merrily singing and dancing, but Lisa is depressed, due to the fact that she has fallen (somehow) in love with the man who she saw with her fiancee today. The friends leave, and Herman climbs through the window and professes his love in glorious soaring amorous chords. She declines and he insists. She declines again, he sings louder. She tries again, but sure enough she is wrapped around him and the lights descend on a scene that cannot quite decide whether it is romantic or disturbing (can we get a female opinion, please?). The next scene is, of course, a masquerade ball (what opera is complete without one?). It is irrelevant to the story, but utterly wonderful. Ballet dances spin across the stage in blue and pink, a golden clad couple of fairy-like creatures dance brilliantly, there are vast gowns and cloaks and little leotards and golden masks and incredible drama and beautiful music and dance. During the ball, Lisa's fiancee sings the highlight aria, a love song that insists that he loves her so much he will let her be taken by another if that is what she wants. It is poignant. And the story resumes. Herman finds himself alone in a room with the old lady (his lover's mother) and, giving in to his gambling obsession, insists that she tell him her secret. She refuses, he pulls a gun (forceful guy, right?) she swoons and dies of fright. Lisa then enters (killer timing, no pun intended) and realizes that her lover was just trying to get to her mom (many girls face this plight). In the next scene, the glorious lights and colors of previous acts are gone. The stage is empty, dark, desolate. Herman stands haunted in the center. Suddenly he hears a voice and the ghost of the old lady appears. Hauntingly (really, it was in fact very well done and extremely unsettling) she tells him that she has returned from the grave to tell him her gambling secret. The cards he needs to bet on are 2-10-Ace. The next scene featues a heartbroken Lisa, who sings a wrenching, mournful aria. Herman enters, and tells her he loves her and everything is ok, but then he begins to ramble about the cards etc and she realizes he is going mad. He takes off to the gambling house and she kills herself. The gambling house is spectacularly designed, with eerie red lights that give it a dirty, sinful feel. The men drink vodka and throw down cards and tell raunchy jokes. The ex-fiancee is the center of attention, until Herman enters. He bets vast money against the man whose wife he stole, and bets on the three cards the ghost told him to. He bets everything. The first card is, as it should be, a 2. The second is a 10. But the third is the Queen of Spades. Seeing the mockery the ghost has made of him, Herman goes truly mad and shoots himself and the stage descends into darkness.
The opera is 4 hours long. It is in Russian. Luckily it has subtitles but unluckily the subtitles are in Magyar. So we have to rely on our knowledge from reading about the story, and the beauty of the music. It is, however, rivetting, and utterly world class. During the intermission, we get drinks at the fancy bar and people-watch. The people are truly splendid, and we both fall madly in love with various super-sophisticated, elegant girls. I also make a friend in my box, an old lady who insists on giving me the best seat and then talks to me excitedly in Magyar until she realizes I can't understand. She also deftly sends me a tissue when I sniffle, but with such silence and secrecy that she seems like she is some sort of operatic secret agent. The applause lasts for ages.
We find ourselves back on Andrassy avenue late at night and, having been cultural and sophisticated enough for one evening, treat ourselves to burgers, cookies and frapuccinos. Midnight snacks are the best.
The next morning we rise predictably late and return to the streets, this time wandering past the Houses of Parliament, an intricate structure that puts the English version to shame, with splendid red domes and white pillars and arches, all intricately carved and perched on the banks of the Danube. From there, after our obligatory doner kebab (we have thus far had one in every city in Europe), we head to the Szechenyi Baths, one of the true wonders of Budapest. There we meet the Ozzys, and under a cold white sky, we head into the intricate building with it's white and yellow walls. It is itself a splendid work of art, but within is something even more splendid. Four beautifully laid out turquoise pools sit in the center of the outdoor central courtyard, surrounded by beautiful architecture and exotic white marble statues. Vast amounts of steam billow off the boiling waters, which are naturally heated from a spring beneath the city and possessed of various medicinal qualities which have drawn the ailing wealthy from across Europe for centuries. We spend hours exploring this wonderland of fountains, powerful jets that give the ultimate neck massage, pools of various the temperatures, and a wonderful whirlpool that whips us madly around. It is equally luxurious and exuberant, and when we have "taken the waters" for about four hours and are utterly prune-fingered, we depart, and walk slowly down Andrassy avenue, back towards the hostel, utterly content, with flushed rosy cheeks and relaxed muscles and a wonderful mild sense of happiness. We talk happily with our newfound friends as we lead them back to Dos Gringos (our new hangout) and eat more giant burritos and nachos and quesadillas. That evening we stay in, playing cards and drinking wine that the Ozzys have brought from Rome. We stay up for hours talking and playing and making friends with other residents of the hostel, including two Dutch girls looking for a house in Budapest, a Nigerian guy living in Latvia, and a shy Chinese guy living in France. Hostels are wonderful places, we decide as we fall into deep sleep aided by the medicinal waters.
The next morning, we had barely rose and sat down to breakfast when we found ourselves locked in conversation with two amiable travelers. Thick Australian accents made them instantly good company, but they were a lot of fun and we liked eachother right off the bat. Though they were taking a tour in the afternoon, we promised to cross paths again. That day, we took part in what is fast becoming a favorite occupation. The bookshop tour. Budapest has an avenue almost exclusively devoted to bookstores, ranging from fancy high end ones to wonderful little antique places. Some have huge English sections, some have only a shelf or two. They are quaint and quiet and serious places for serious readers. They also provide wonderful shelter from the billowing snow outside. The books cost virtually nothing so Casey buys another Neil Gaiman book and I get a dog-eared copy of Mill on the Floss. Happy with our new purchases, we look for lunch and find the obvious choice in a Hungarian city: Mexican food. The cuisine, though, as usual, incongruous is irresistably attractive for two reasons. One: Mexican food is a big point of nostalgia, seeing as it is so ubiquitous back home and so hard to come by over here. Two: the restaurant, which is small, cozy and full of light and cool rodeo posters and cactuses and Wanted posters of Mexican bandits, is called Dos Gringos. Thats us, Dos Gringos. So in we go, and feast on incredible burritos and quesadillas, genially served and costing very little.
Satiated, we continue to wander through town. We find the vast covered central market, bustling stalls full of classic fresh meat and veg and fruit, dozens of tourist shops loaded with fine lace (Juliette Stubbs seriously needs to start shopping in Budapest), wine shops where the wine is sold in beautiful ornate bottles shaped like deer and bulls and fish, and pastry shops with massive fresh pastries for only 100 Forint (which is about 40 cents). I get a beautiful dark pastry of some sort of berry wrapped in sticky crust. Afterwards we find a cozy little cafe where we take refuge from the cold and read for a few hours, drinking steaming cups of thick, perfumed, deep red tea, a splendid blend of cinnamon, pear, and berries. Some of the finest tea we have ever consumed. There is also a complimentary massage chair. Needless to say we leave refreshed and relaxed. We return to the hostel and are reunited with our Ozzy's (Omar and Rachel, tragically Not Bruce and Sheila). They invite us out for dinner and soon we find ourselve merrily wandering into a very fancy Hungarian cuisine restaurant. We are ushered down wide stone steps into an elegantly decorated cavern, and we hand our coats to eagerly waiting waiters. Our table is the epitome of frivolity. We are brought complimentary glasses of sparkling Rose, and soon the wine is flowing like wine and the table is groaning under the weight of traditional Hungarian delicacies. The conversation flows eagerly and laughter frequently sends liquid spraying from noses across the table in utterly ridiculous merriment. We start with a huge plate of local cheeses and cold meats and vegetables, most of which are delicious but some of which we prefer not to remember, or to imagine their origin. Then come main courses, for me of Goulash, a delighfully warm and heavy stew, and for the others of variously chicken, beef, and salmon. Besides the vast enjoyment of a good meal (and the wonderful prices, considering the quality and surroundings), we are all in awe of our good fortune in such good company. Within moments our position as strangers is replaced by one of comrades and by the time we drag ourselves away from the table at 11:30 as the restaurant closes, we would all equally have called eachother friends. After the meal we are back out on the streets and find ourselves eventually at a bar, then a club, a huge courtyard converted into a great party, with various rooms in caverns below, full of music ranging from typically aweful dance music to some wonderfully incongruous rock tunes. We arrive back at the hostel after a long satisfying night and fall gratefully into bed, although the various excitements of the night make it hard to fall asleep too quickly.
Satiated, we continue to wander through town. We find the vast covered central market, bustling stalls full of classic fresh meat and veg and fruit, dozens of tourist shops loaded with fine lace (Juliette Stubbs seriously needs to start shopping in Budapest), wine shops where the wine is sold in beautiful ornate bottles shaped like deer and bulls and fish, and pastry shops with massive fresh pastries for only 100 Forint (which is about 40 cents). I get a beautiful dark pastry of some sort of berry wrapped in sticky crust. Afterwards we find a cozy little cafe where we take refuge from the cold and read for a few hours, drinking steaming cups of thick, perfumed, deep red tea, a splendid blend of cinnamon, pear, and berries. Some of the finest tea we have ever consumed. There is also a complimentary massage chair. Needless to say we leave refreshed and relaxed. We return to the hostel and are reunited with our Ozzy's (Omar and Rachel, tragically Not Bruce and Sheila). They invite us out for dinner and soon we find ourselve merrily wandering into a very fancy Hungarian cuisine restaurant. We are ushered down wide stone steps into an elegantly decorated cavern, and we hand our coats to eagerly waiting waiters. Our table is the epitome of frivolity. We are brought complimentary glasses of sparkling Rose, and soon the wine is flowing like wine and the table is groaning under the weight of traditional Hungarian delicacies. The conversation flows eagerly and laughter frequently sends liquid spraying from noses across the table in utterly ridiculous merriment. We start with a huge plate of local cheeses and cold meats and vegetables, most of which are delicious but some of which we prefer not to remember, or to imagine their origin. Then come main courses, for me of Goulash, a delighfully warm and heavy stew, and for the others of variously chicken, beef, and salmon. Besides the vast enjoyment of a good meal (and the wonderful prices, considering the quality and surroundings), we are all in awe of our good fortune in such good company. Within moments our position as strangers is replaced by one of comrades and by the time we drag ourselves away from the table at 11:30 as the restaurant closes, we would all equally have called eachother friends. After the meal we are back out on the streets and find ourselves eventually at a bar, then a club, a huge courtyard converted into a great party, with various rooms in caverns below, full of music ranging from typically aweful dance music to some wonderfully incongruous rock tunes. We arrive back at the hostel after a long satisfying night and fall gratefully into bed, although the various excitements of the night make it hard to fall asleep too quickly.
At 5oclock in the morning, which is terribly early when you have been not sleeping on a bus all night and it is very cold and you are in an unfamiliar city where they speak a harsh and gutteral foreign tongue, we arrived in Budapest. It was cold, very cold, and we had no idea where we were, or how to get to our hostel, or whether we would be able to get in at this hour. We were tired from a long, bumpy ride, and our bags weighed heavily on our shoulders, and it seemed hard to feel the spark of adventure burning within our frozen bodies. So we curled up on a bench in the bus station and waited, reading, shuddering whenever the door opened to admit a gust of freezing Hungarian air. We were not wallowing in self-pity, as you might imagine, simply waiting for light. And sure enough, within an hour the sky grew lighter, and we rose, with the vivacity and strength that a new dawn can give you, re-energized by stories of greater suffering (which we found within the pages of our various books), and set off. Of course the journey, along a clattering metro (the second-oldest in Europe, it really shows) and then through cold windswept empty streets, was not all that difficult, but we were releived when we pushed open the heavy wooden door of our new hostel, and crawled up the wide stone staircase of an impressive old building, and stumbled gratefully into the front-room of the hostel. We were welcomed by a bleary eyed night-shift concierge and were grateful for warmth and a place to set down our bags. Within a couple hours the place was alive with activity, as people woke up and helped themselves to complimentary bowls of chocolatey cereal (nothing live it to revive you). We settled into our new room and threw ourselves out into the streets.
Our first day in Budapest we spent simply getting the lay of the land. The city is divided into two halves (Buda, and Pest) and we lived on the Pest side. We crossed a bridge and wandered to the top of a mighty cliff that overlooks the city. It was a good place to start. First we saw the citadel (a relic of WWII militarization) and the various memorials (including a glorious statue of an angel holding aloft a golden garland) and statues of angels locked in combat with demons. But then we looked out, from the peak of the hill with snowy paths and trees winding below us, over the city. Though not as picturesque, colorful, and copper-clad as Prague, it is a city with a mighty sense of presence and a serious history. It has identity. The history includes Roman conquest, Mongol invasion, Turkish colonization, Islamic religious domination, and Christian re-domination. Then of course there is the combination of the two cities, forming a vast metropolis that is very bright and awe-inspiring and not at all a relic of an archaic past (save for the beautiful statues that litter the streets with character). So, looking out, we have at once a sense of place. We walk down the hill, past a mighty copper statue of Matthais, a past king of unknown story but palpable glory, the subject of dozens of paintings, sculptures, and memorials. Then we set out to Buda Castle, a dominating palace set overlooking the whole city. We explore some of the outskirts, including an abandoned courtyard and quiet, wintry walkways. Then we go down to the front of castle, promising to return at a later day, and cross the Chain Bridge. It is an older, smaller, more artistic Brooklyn Bridge, with mighty towers and flowing arcs of suspension. It is covered everywhere with lions, mouths agape. It is the famous first bridge that crossed the Danube river, which is itself a mighty flowing beast utterly unlike the docile Seine or the impervious Thames. The Danube is a real force, a wide, powerful channel that cleaves the city masterfully in two. On the far side of the river we are greeted by bright lights and glittering buildings with heaps of gold leaf. We pose next to statues (of a fat policeman, or a little nymph) and wander through the streets, struggling to get a sense of place. We go to St. Stephens Basilica, the huge and glorious centerpiece of the city. It is bedecked with gold in an attempt to out-do any cathedral we have yet scene, and it certainly does the job of inspiring awe. We see the disgusting shriveled hand of a saint, a rather disgusting, and yet beloved religious relic. And as we are leaving the cathedral we hear clear crystaline voices billow through the air, and fly among the high-vaulted pillars. It is a small choir, singing informally and apparently for their own pleasure and sense of reverence. They sing Ave Maria, Adeste Fideles, and a beautiful Amen. It simply adds to the glory of this awe-inspiring cathedral. From St. Stephens we hike up the main street, Andrassy Avenue, which is lined with important buildings, the Opera House, and various expensive shops. As we get farther up, the buildings fade away and the wide avenue is lined with bare-branched trees. Snow falls in delicate flurries as march onward, arriving at Heroes Square, another beautifully memorialized spot, with Grecian columns and heroic statues. It is all vivid and awe-inspiring, though much of the meaning is lost on us, ignorant as we are of history. We walk through the City Park as the weather clears, past another castle (this one finer and less grand, with beautifully opulent curls of stone and color). We arrive at a statues famously carved by Anonymous and depicting Anonymous. A massive cloaked figure lies across a vast thrown, gazing darkly from under a hooded brow. He holds a pen loosely in the fingers of his left hand. He is haunting and mysterious and, we find later, an inspiration for various writers and poets. We walk out of the park, arriving at the Museum of Fine Arts. We enter, thrilled to be able to explore it's vast collection for only two euros, and walk in awe through endless empty halls. The highlights are two pieces by Rodin, one in bronze called The Brazen Age, and another called Eternal Spring, a piece that makes your heart want to overflow. It is carved roughly from grainy white marble, and is left largely unfinished. It shows two lovers locked in fierce embrace, passionately kept within an eternal twilight of romance. Their bodies are indistinct, and the incomplete carving does not seperate them from one another, their bodies are left blending into one another. The rest of the exhibition is variously entrancing, and we leave with the intense satisfaction of knowing that every city in the world has a museum worth going to, all perhaps for different reasons and in different styles, but each paying essential homage to art.
Later, we go out for a beer and find a great little pub that is clearly a local place. Though it is full of light and laughter, they fall silent when we enter. They are apparently unused to strangers. But, the shock gone, they pour two generous pints in vast flagons and we sit upstairs listening to laughter drifting up and relaxing happily. We wander back to the hostel and cook ourselves a vast dinner of improvised Goulash/Chili/Soup in a bread bowl. It is delicious, but there is too much bread. We make friends with the girl who works the desk at the hostel. Drained of energy by a long day exploring in the fierce cold, we fall asleep early.
Our first day in Budapest we spent simply getting the lay of the land. The city is divided into two halves (Buda, and Pest) and we lived on the Pest side. We crossed a bridge and wandered to the top of a mighty cliff that overlooks the city. It was a good place to start. First we saw the citadel (a relic of WWII militarization) and the various memorials (including a glorious statue of an angel holding aloft a golden garland) and statues of angels locked in combat with demons. But then we looked out, from the peak of the hill with snowy paths and trees winding below us, over the city. Though not as picturesque, colorful, and copper-clad as Prague, it is a city with a mighty sense of presence and a serious history. It has identity. The history includes Roman conquest, Mongol invasion, Turkish colonization, Islamic religious domination, and Christian re-domination. Then of course there is the combination of the two cities, forming a vast metropolis that is very bright and awe-inspiring and not at all a relic of an archaic past (save for the beautiful statues that litter the streets with character). So, looking out, we have at once a sense of place. We walk down the hill, past a mighty copper statue of Matthais, a past king of unknown story but palpable glory, the subject of dozens of paintings, sculptures, and memorials. Then we set out to Buda Castle, a dominating palace set overlooking the whole city. We explore some of the outskirts, including an abandoned courtyard and quiet, wintry walkways. Then we go down to the front of castle, promising to return at a later day, and cross the Chain Bridge. It is an older, smaller, more artistic Brooklyn Bridge, with mighty towers and flowing arcs of suspension. It is covered everywhere with lions, mouths agape. It is the famous first bridge that crossed the Danube river, which is itself a mighty flowing beast utterly unlike the docile Seine or the impervious Thames. The Danube is a real force, a wide, powerful channel that cleaves the city masterfully in two. On the far side of the river we are greeted by bright lights and glittering buildings with heaps of gold leaf. We pose next to statues (of a fat policeman, or a little nymph) and wander through the streets, struggling to get a sense of place. We go to St. Stephens Basilica, the huge and glorious centerpiece of the city. It is bedecked with gold in an attempt to out-do any cathedral we have yet scene, and it certainly does the job of inspiring awe. We see the disgusting shriveled hand of a saint, a rather disgusting, and yet beloved religious relic. And as we are leaving the cathedral we hear clear crystaline voices billow through the air, and fly among the high-vaulted pillars. It is a small choir, singing informally and apparently for their own pleasure and sense of reverence. They sing Ave Maria, Adeste Fideles, and a beautiful Amen. It simply adds to the glory of this awe-inspiring cathedral. From St. Stephens we hike up the main street, Andrassy Avenue, which is lined with important buildings, the Opera House, and various expensive shops. As we get farther up, the buildings fade away and the wide avenue is lined with bare-branched trees. Snow falls in delicate flurries as march onward, arriving at Heroes Square, another beautifully memorialized spot, with Grecian columns and heroic statues. It is all vivid and awe-inspiring, though much of the meaning is lost on us, ignorant as we are of history. We walk through the City Park as the weather clears, past another castle (this one finer and less grand, with beautifully opulent curls of stone and color). We arrive at a statues famously carved by Anonymous and depicting Anonymous. A massive cloaked figure lies across a vast thrown, gazing darkly from under a hooded brow. He holds a pen loosely in the fingers of his left hand. He is haunting and mysterious and, we find later, an inspiration for various writers and poets. We walk out of the park, arriving at the Museum of Fine Arts. We enter, thrilled to be able to explore it's vast collection for only two euros, and walk in awe through endless empty halls. The highlights are two pieces by Rodin, one in bronze called The Brazen Age, and another called Eternal Spring, a piece that makes your heart want to overflow. It is carved roughly from grainy white marble, and is left largely unfinished. It shows two lovers locked in fierce embrace, passionately kept within an eternal twilight of romance. Their bodies are indistinct, and the incomplete carving does not seperate them from one another, their bodies are left blending into one another. The rest of the exhibition is variously entrancing, and we leave with the intense satisfaction of knowing that every city in the world has a museum worth going to, all perhaps for different reasons and in different styles, but each paying essential homage to art.
Later, we go out for a beer and find a great little pub that is clearly a local place. Though it is full of light and laughter, they fall silent when we enter. They are apparently unused to strangers. But, the shock gone, they pour two generous pints in vast flagons and we sit upstairs listening to laughter drifting up and relaxing happily. We wander back to the hostel and cook ourselves a vast dinner of improvised Goulash/Chili/Soup in a bread bowl. It is delicious, but there is too much bread. We make friends with the girl who works the desk at the hostel. Drained of energy by a long day exploring in the fierce cold, we fall asleep early.
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