Bookbinding Begins / Off To Italy

The great TV network ARTE is doing a lot of rock and roll retrospective this month, and a lot of that is about Elvis. I was watching a bit of it this afternoon but then it was time to run an errand.

Walking down the sidewalk, I heard an Elvis tune coming from an open window. I thought: It's a long time since your last day on Earth, Elvis...an even longer time since those days at Sun Records, and an even longer time since that day in Tupelo when you and your [soon-to-die] twin were born.

Well, hell. Everyone's atoms disperse sooner or later; there's no escaping that fact.

Yet here's your song, 35 years after you died, coming out of a window in Vienna.

Well, long live The King.

-----

I dropped off the paper to Thomas The Bookbinder this afternoon...told him basically what kind of book I want then said: "As for the rest, why don't you feel free to experiment and put your own artistic touches to the book? How about if I give you 20 Euro extra and you just do what you want?"

"Yah, great! I'll make a good book for you."

We talked about "art." I put the word in quotes because I don't know what "art" "is", and I don't think anybody else does, either. I know what a painting or a photo or a sculpture or a movie "is", but when do these things go from there to "art?" There's no hard and fast rule and therefore, to me, the entire thing is a bullshit construct. But to save time in conversation, I use the word when I mean "stuff you think up, then produce." Which, if you think about it, could be, literally, a turd. And most often is, at least figuratively.

I told him I posted his BUTTERBROT video appearance on this blog, and my paisan Mod, after seeing the video, talked about books and how cool they are and how beautiful they can be when thoughtfully produced. (I love the Bukowski books done by Black Sparrow Press, for example---cover design, printing, the whole shit.) Thomas said: "Ummmm, yah, there are bookbinders and I do that sort of work but I also sometimes creatively modify books in an artistic way. My mother is a painter and my father is a writer so yes, it is natural I should do this. For thirty years I have done this."

 I did something for thirty years once, but I only achieved an average level of competence and I haven't done it at all for five years or more. I sometimes wish I could be really good at something but it looks like I'll have to settle for average. That's how it goes---you won't hear John X songs coming out of a window in Vienna 35 years after I'm dead, that's for sure. And that's for the best, because there are way too many turds floating in the pool as it is.

I gave Thomas some money up front, he gave me a receipt, and I told him I'll call him when we return from Italy.

----

B and I are going to Italy until Sunday after next. So the blog is suspended until our return, when I'll do my best to catch up.

My buddy Will wants lots of pictures of Italian women. It's an inexpensive gift and won't crowd my suitcase, so I'll do what I can for him.

In The Rain

Went to the 1st District in a light rain. Had a beer at Cafe Alt Wien. A outlaw motorcycle club biker came in, with his wife or girlfriend, and three kids----one about 4, the other two infants. They sat with another guy. The biker held one of the infants on his lap and seemed quite the contented daddy. You never know.

Left the coffee house and saw my very first midget of the visit, an elderly woman crossing the street. I figure I had the drop on her, because I was approaching from behind, but then I realized it might be a trap so I spun around several times, checking my 6. She pretended she didn't notice my little dance. Midgets can be tricky---if you spot one, be on your guard.

Had a slice of pizza at Schwedenplatz, standing under the roof of the snack stand. A guy approached me twice, once asking for money, then later for a cigarette. I noticed he kept a big bottle of cheap wine in a nearby fountain, the running water presumably keeping the wine cool. He'd beg a bit, then return to the bottle for a hit, then beg again. He wore shorts, no shirt, and an overcoat. I wanted to take his picture but by the time I finished shoving the pizza into my mouth, he'd vanished. The guy running the pizza stand was, as usual, a Turk. He'd jabbered at the guy in Turkish and maybe scared him off, I don't know.

Roamed around. Twice people asked me for directions, as if I know WTF I'm doing here, myself. I could only help the second person, an elderly German woman who asked me, in the Stadtpark,where the famous gilded statue of Johann Strauss is. I'd just passed it so I walked her back to it. "Herr Strauss," I said. Then I vanished.

Walked around, caught the subway, ended up again at Cafe Rudigerhof. My second beer---or, as I think of it, my "rent" for sitting at the coffeehouse, writing----and then again to the subway for home. Waiting for the train, I noticed a junkie was being tended to by three ambulance workers, who were trying to convince him to go with them, but when the train arrived he shrugged them off and got aboard instead.

At the end stop, where everyone has to get off, the junkie was still sitting there, on the nod. The guy sitting across from him nudged him. "Last stop," he probably said. "Time to get off." But I guess the guy had already "gotten off" and was too high to know WTF.

I noticed two train drivers standing outside, one of them making a call on a cell phone. For the cops or an ambulance, I don't know. I felt sorry for the junkie. Thin, long hair, beard---he looked for all the world like pictures purporting to be of Jesus.

And, hell----maybe he was, testing us.

I bet we got an F.

Neusiedlersee

Monday afternoon we took off with our friend Margit for Neusiedlersee, about 50 kilometers from Vienna.

It's the second-largest steppe lake in central Europe and straddles the Austria-Hungary border, with most of the lake inside Austria.

Lots of grape vines in this part of Austria, and therefore lots of wineries...in fact, there's a TV show called Der Winzerkönig (The Vintner King) set in the town of Rust (pronounced "roost") and while in Rust walking around, we saw a lot of plaques on the walls of various establishments showing that such-and-such scene of such-and-such episode of Der Winzerkönig was shot at this location.

Lots of stork nests in Rust, usually built on top of chimneys (not sure how that works out for the storks when somebody lights a fire, but OK) and I saw a couple of storks in the nests.

I'd love to watch a stork build one of these giant nests.

We stopped at a place for a drink and a bowl of soup, then B sprung a little surprise on me: we were going to cross the lake on one of the big boats that ferry people back and forth, then catch a bus back to Rust.

Our boat was a double-decker. There was a bar on the main level if you wanted to drink during the 90 minutes or so it takes to cross the lake, but we spent all our time on the top of the boat, feeling the wind and sun. It was a nice day, temps in the high 70s I'd guess, but the wind was kind of strong and the waves were choppy----lots of sailboats and windsurfers out on the lake.

Through one of the many channels leading to the main body of the lake.

The lake is shallow and full of reeds along the shore. There are many channels leading out to the main lake and I assume they're kept clear by occasional mowing of the reeds---there are boats that do that kind of thing. 

Conditions on the lake make for challenging sailing; they occasionally have world championship events here...don't be fooled by the calm in the port. Enlarge pic and notice the head of a swimmer in the middle by the stern of one of the boats. A nude swimmer, as I saw when we cruised past his shiny white ass.

Relatively calm here, but out in the open the waves were choppy and it looked like some of these guys were hitting speeds of about 25 MPH or so.

There were several islands in the lake on the way to the opposite shore, near the Hungarian side.

Seagulls followed the boat but nobody threw them anything to eat, until I finally had mercy and broke up one of my Granola bars and tossed pieces into the air. The gulls didn't catch the pieces in mid-air but they had sharp eyes, diving for each piece as soon as they saw it hit the water.

This pic gives a better idea of the actual conditions on the lake.

My mind works in strange ways. Cruising along I wondered: How do they get these huge boats into the lake? They're too big to transport intact via the highway. I guess they transport the parts and build the boats right on the lake, is all I can figure out.

We docked on the Hungarian side of the lake then took another brief ferry ride back the same direction, but just to a nearby town (back in Austria) where we disembarked and then caught a bus back to Rust. The towns are close together and you can drive the perimeter of the lake, coming to a new town every few minutes or so but if you cross the lake by boat, it's a long trip. 

We found a heurige in a small town near Rust and had a couple of glasses of wine and some sandwiches (at a fraction of the price you'd pay in Vienna.) 

It started getting cloudy on the way home; Margit stopped the car so I could shoot this vista, with the Alps in the background.

A great place for a road trip, or biking, or hiking.
Suck factor: extremely low.

We got back about 8 PM. It was raining slightly. I walked to the heurige in the rain and brought back a couple of bottles of white wine. Good end to a great day.

Sunday Walkabout

About noon I headed out for another of my "follow your nose" adventures.

Took the subway to the 4th District, got out, and started roaming around. Pretty empty on Sundays, the streets are.... but there are a few places open where you can have lunch and / or a beer.

Then I roamed into the 5th, then took the subway again to the 10th, where I roamed around a lot. Then a couple of more subways (!) and finally I ended up at the Cafe Rudigerhof.

Here's some of what I saw:

Not something you see every day: An Auto-Union 1000.

No longer satisfied with being a mere tourist, I bought an Audi dealership.

Come on in sometime and I'll make you a real "John X" deal! Nobody beats our prices.

Then I strolled over to the Hell's Angels HQ. I helped the boys out a bit with some friendly advice: "Guys, it's 'Hell apostrophe s Angels', and 'motorcycle club' is two words, not one." That done, I convinced one of the guys to convert to Buddhism, convinced a second guy to "Stop equating your dick with your motorcycle----get rid of the Harley and buy a Vespa!" and suggested to a third guy that he'd be happier if he'd finally come out of the closet. My new friends thanked me with the traditional "Whacking of the New Guy with Pool Cues" and then we all had a beer together. Good times...good times.

At this park, the city provides these nice hammocks for the enjoyment of all.
There was sunbathing on a nearby grassy knoll.

Whacky street art: pasting the Big Bad Wolf's head onto a Ped-X sign.
And no, perv, the "ped" means pedestrian.

Shady patio, and Red Cup-type people. Cafe Rudigerhof.

The legends tell of a mysterious man who casts a long, long shadow.

He goes by the name of John X, and he can spout the bullshit of five ordinary men.

WTF? and The Minimalist Delivers

This afternoon we drove to B's old neighborhood to visit her parents.

On the way, we stopped off at the art supply place Thomas The Bookbinder had suggested to me. My goal: get paper for the blank book I'm going to have him make for me.

The store is called Boesner and it's a chain in Europe, and the store is just unbelievably cool. I can't begin to describe the amount of art and drafting supplies they have in there---every kind of paint, pen, marker, pencil, canvas----and of course, paper. Handmade stuff, textured stuff, all different colors, all different sizes, some cheap and some very, very expensive.

So B bought some nice wrapping paper and I bought 200 sheets of acid-free sketch paper, and some beautiful yellow paper to use as end papers. (If you look at any of the Bukowski books published by Black Sparrow Press, they all had a thicker, different-colored piece of paper at the beginning of the book, and at the end. Not sure if it serves any purpose but it's cool-looking to me, so I wanted one for my book.)

We get to the cashier and the WTF experience begins. The cashier says, looking at her computer monitor:

"Your name and address, please?" It takes me several seconds to figure out this is what she's asking.

"I'm not in your files; I'm a tourist from the US," I told her.

She says: "Well, I can put that information in now."

B and the lady talked in German and the gist was, she wasn't going to take my motherfucking money until I let her enter my name and address in the computer. I kept my voice more or less reasonable but I was about as pissed as I can get and I told B: "This is bullshit. I'm not giving anyone my fucking name and address. I want this paper. Here's my money. I'm ready to go." The lady was nice but she didn't budge. "Fuck this shit. Let's go," I said. I was ready to leave my shit behind and storm out.

But B gave me a look and started talking and the lady started typing, and I realized she was giving the cashier the name and address of her long-dead grandmother. I was still pissed at this bullshit of demanding my fucking name and address and I almost said, "NO, goddamit, NO! This. Is. Bullshit!" And maybe I should have. Writing this now, I'm pissed at myself for knuckling under, even with the scam of giving a fake name.

We got to the parent's house and told B's dad about the incident. He started getting hot and said: "That's illegal---they can't refuse to sell you paper if you don't give them your name and address!" He went in the next room and called one of his buddies who knows the rules and the guy confirmed it was bullshit---they have no right to demand that info.

So when we got home B emailed three different consumer protection departments and told them what happened. We'll see if they respond.

It's really too bad, because the store has some fantastic supplies, but that bullshit of "Show me your identity papers, comrade!" just doesn't do it for me. Since when did buying paper become a complicated process like buying meth precursor chemicals or explosives or nuclear materials? WTF?

----

Well, fuck. I calmed down enough to make this for supper. Turned out pretty good.

I subscribe to Bittman's "Minimalist" cooking videos via iTunes. It's free, and he has some great recipes.

Alte Donau Pedalboat Adventure

We drove over to the Alte Donau, rented a pedalboat, and had a grand time pedalboating around.

And what's the Alte Donau?

"The "Alte Donau" or "Old Danube" in Vienna is a dead end of a former river branch of the Danube, separated from the actual Danube by a dam. Since the Alte Donau has no direct connection to the main course of the river, it is a shallow lake that is popular as a recreational area. The Alte Donau is one of the very few attractions of the otherwise boring suburban district of Floridsdorf, the 21st district of Vienna. 

The Alte Donau is 1.6 square kilometres big and on average 2.5 metres deep; the deepest bits are 6.8 metres. The Alte Donau contains two islands, the Großes Gänsehäufel and the Kleines Gänsehäufel ("Big and Small Pile of Goose Shit"). The bigger one is what you normally refer to when you say "the" Gänsehäufel, since it holds Vienna's most legendary public lido. It is by far not the only lido of the Alte Donau.

In fact, the Alte Donau is something like the sea of the Viennese labourers and the typical 1920ies-working-class-pride can be felt at many spots. Other lidos include the Angelibad, the Eisenbahnerbad, the Arbeiterstrandbad, the Strandbad Alte Donau and the Bundessportbad - all in the Obere Alte Donau. In the Untere Alte Donau, you find the Gänsehäufel, the Polizeibad and the Straßenbahnerbad. Many of these lidos are owned and run by unions or representative groups for certain professions, such as policemen, tram staff or railway staff. This is typical for European countries with a strong socialist tradition.

The neighbourhoods of the Alte Donau are mostly Kleingartensiedlungen (allotment gardens, often with small houses that are permanently inhabited nowadays); the area around the UNO City has developed into a premier business area with several office towers. The Alte Donau is popular for dinghy sailing and windsurfing - according to local sailors, the office towers have changed the way winds "behave" in this area.

The old river course of the Danube can be easily detected on maps. The Danube left a few lakes just around the Alte Donau. Throughout the centuries, the Danube was rather frivolous in terms of floods - the course of the Alte Donau was the result of particularly disastrous floods in the 18th century. In 1870, after another pretty bad flood, Emperor Franz Joseph I ordered a proper training of the Danube."

Article taken from a travel website. My vote for "Coolest Island Name EVER" goes to the "Big Pile of Goose Shit" and my vote for "Greatest Presumption On The Part of An Emperor" goes to Franz Joseph I, who wanted the Danube "properly trained." Fuckin' emperors....

The pedalboat was fun. I guess I've been on one before, but it must have been decades ago and I can't remember with whom. But we pedaled our way around, staying on the water maybe 90 minutes or so, with some little excursions into coves, etc. Pics below:

B explained the public swimming and boating grounds this way: the working class needed a place for recreation, and for cooling off in the summer. It was feared they'd just sit around drinking otherwise. Most people were not landowners so public works projects like this were created for the enjoyment of all. It doesn't cost anything to visit the Alte Donau or swim. If you want to boat, sure, you have to rent one or rent a place to moor your personal watercraft. But anyone can come over, bring their dog, a good book, something to eat, and just sit and watch the sailboats go by, or swim (nude, too---there's a nude section). It like a huge public park, but with water.

I hope Americans take note of the mistakes the Austrians have made, and never allow the creeping specter of Socialism to gain a foothold. Public recreation areas for the working class---pfffffffft!

Yes, Comrade! I will divert precious monetary resources from our next super-necessary nuclear submarine, the USS Ann Coulter, to build a water park accessible to future generations!

We simply can't allow that sort of collectivist thinking, that Communism, in America. What would become of us if we did? How could we defend freedom when we're distracted with boating and swimming and sunbathing?

Plum Strudel

The neighbor lady has a Shiite-load of plums---a couple of buckets full. We took about half a bucket and B made plum strudel:

B made two of these, each about two feet long, and only used 2 teaspoons of sugar.
Nice, sweet plums. It might be fun to put them in the sun and make some prunes, if we had reliable sun.

They were still warm from the oven when I got home last night; had a piece then, and a bigger piece for breakfast this morning. Delicious!

Bike Ride + I Meet...THE BOOKBINDER!

A perfect day, weather-wise: about 75 F. Like a wonderful Spring day.

So we took a bike ride along the Danube Canal, ending up in the Prater, where we rode around awhile before heading back. We had a slight headwind on the return trip, but nothing the bikes and our legs couldn't handle. All in all we were out about three hours, with about two of those actually pedaling; probably went 12 or 15 miles.

Some of what we saw:

This great climbing wall is on one side of a building, along the Danube Canal.

Graffiti along the Danube Canal. Albert Hoffman, we salute you!

Urania. I love this building. We were lounging at a canal-side "beach" where they'd poured tons of sand.

The main path in the Prater. Closed to car traffic. Tons of cyclists, runners, rollerbladers, walkers.

People enjoying the sun in the Prater.

For my paisan Mod: the Al Pacino Pizzeria.

More graffiti, Danube Canal.

We got home about 4. I was pretty tired and my legs hurt a bit, but it was a refreshing weariness.

----

There's a kind of public access station here called Okto. They show DEMOCRACY NOW! which we watch a couple of times a week. Last week I saw a promo for a profile of a bookbinder, on a show they call BUTTERBROT.

So when the show came on Tuesday night I watched it and I found the dude fascinating---a combination of an old school craftsman / hippie / artist. Today after our ride, I got the idea to go into town and find the guy's shop.

And that's what I did. The door was open and there he was, working at his table. I walked in and told him I saw him on Okto and we started talking. His English was quite good, so I didn't have to stumble around with my shitty German. 

His name is Thomas and his story is, he was "from the hippie times" and didn't want to work in a corporate job so he took up the craft of bookbinding. He still does it by hand (video link below, so you can see for yourself) and works his own hours. His shop is a funky little workspace filled with old papercutters and presses. "That paper cutter is 80 years old," he told me, pointing to the machine I'd seen him use on TV a few nights ago. "The old one was 120 years old but it was too huge to fit in the shop." 

Indeed, it's a small shop...I'd guess maybe 400 square feet, with a loft upstairs (watch the video and notice the cool funky ladder he built to access the loft!) Thomas is an artist in his own right, and toward the end of the video you'll see some things he made. 

We talked about craftsman in the age of the computer and mechanization. "The old-time bookbinders are all retiring," he said. "I'm fifty, so I'll get all their business when they go. The young ones learn the trade, but they operate huge machines to do the binding. Look at the difference," he said, grabbing a couple of books.

He showed me two hardbound books, one commercially manufactured and the other one, his work. If you lay the books down with the cover facing up, the spine to the left, you'll see a little channel---a kind of a hinge point---where the cover swings open. The difference in his books are the depth of the channel, and the precise width of it, and the amount of space from the edge of the spine. "This is the weak link of the book, the place where it eventually begins to fall apart," he said. "Mine will last many, many, decades and that's useful if you read the book often."

He said most of his customers are "rich people who have nice books, but they sit on the shelves in their libraries." I pointed at one of his books----it was about 8.5 X 11, about 300 pages, black covers with a blue spine and blue corner protectors. "How much would you charge to bind a book that size?"

"Ah, about 40 Euro," he said. "10 more if you want gold lettering on the spine."

I had an idea. "Where can I get good quality paper? Acid free, archival stuff." He grabbed the phone book and showed me a paper shop. "OK. I'm going to buy some paper and have you make me a book," I said.

It was like going back in time, stepping into this guy's shop. He stopped what he was doing and talked to me for about fifteen minutes, and showed me his art, and helped me find a place to buy paper. He was very friendly and seemed like a guy who really loved his work. 

The videos below are Parts 1, 2, and 3 of Thomas' profile on BUTTERBROT. It's in German but that doesn't matter, because most of what you see is Thomas actually binding a book. Watch how he does everything carefully, with years of practice guiding his hands and eyes. Part 3 shows some of the art he's created; all three run about 30 minutes, total.

How can you love books, and love writing, and not have a guy like this make you a blank book?

Riding Around Town / German Language Frustration Blues

Today I did something I've always wanted to do---jump on the tram and just ride around, seeing where it takes me.

So I got on the subway, switched to another subway, and then got off at the stop that leads to the neighborhood where I took my "Deutsch im Park" lessons. From there, I took the first streetcar I could find. My idea was, if I saw something interesting I'd jump off...if not, I'd just ride to the end of the line and find another streetcar.

Which I did. When the first streetcar came to the end of its run, I got off and walked around until I found more streetcar tracks. I followed them until I came to a stop. That streetcar came, I got on, and rode it to the end of its run, which was Hietzing. Schönbrunn Palace is located in this district, and I passed it as we drove along. As usual, it was thick with tourist buses. No, thanks.

Waiting at that stop for the next streetcar, I took my only picture of the day:

Sometimes life's noises get to be a bit too much.

So I rode the next streetcar to the end of the line, then stayed on for the trip back. Along the way, a first-ever experience for me in Vienna: the streetcar was stopped at a light, and when I looked out the window, I saw somebody I knew! It was one of the teachers from the "Deutsch im Park" lessons. You can only exit the streetcars at the designated stops, not when they're stopped at a light, so I couldn't jump out and say hello. The odds of spotting someone you know in a city of 1.7 million people, when you hardly know anyone, are pretty slim.

I rode to the Westbahnhof. There's a cool old coffeehouse nearby called the Cafe Westend and I thought I'd stop for a cup, but I was hungry and dinner is kind of pricy there, so I walked along Mariahilfestrasse looking for a pizza joint. Found one, bought a few slices of veggie pizza, and sat there thinking about things.

Then home on the subway. At the last stop I bought B some flowers from the flower stand, then took the bus the final leg home. She liked the flowers, and I like public transportation. A lot.

----

One of the most basic things people do is talk. (It's also one of the most annoying things they do, but that's another story.) Talking is natural for us---when we're speaking a language or languages we know. 

After seven years of coming back and forth to Vienna, my German ought to be a lot better. But I'm a lazy student and grammar just kills me. Languages built from the ground up, quickly, have a logic and sense to them that old languages do not. I imagine learning Esperanto or Klingon would be a breeze compared to learning any other existing language. But German----shit, don't get me started.

Today I decided to start memorizing irregular verbs. The one I started with means "to stay." So I wrote on a piece of paper, in English: I stay, I will stay, I did stay, I will have stayed. I did the same for you stay, he/she/it stays, you (plural) stay, and they stay...also for the formal you (because German has that.)

In English it would be easy...you've seen it, above. But in German there are different ways of saying stay, different ways of saying will, and did, and every other fucking permutation. The word for stay is bleiben, but it can (and must!) also be said bleib, or bleibt, or bliebe.

So I only got through one word today. 

Still, this is good for you. You have to strain your brain once in a while. It keeps the neurons humming. In the US, it would probably be better to learn Spanish, since that's what we'll all be speaking in a hundred years anyhow (I'm not making a joke----how many Native Americans still speak their native languages? New people come in, their language dominates, and that's how it goes.) 

But I started with German as a second language so I'm sticking with it. Unless I blow my fucking brains out trying to learn it, of course.

Food, Glorious Food

My sister tells me there's a group of people called "Foodies." They like to watch cooking shows, buy the latest kitchen stuff, whip up meals, etc. Food is their hobby.

I am not one of them. My main enjoyment of food is in the eating of it, and the energy I derive from it. And by that I mean the nutrition the food provides, and the energy one enjoys when dining with others. Assuming they're not assholes.

There's a lot of mention of food in this blog, though, and partly it's because I see differences in the Austrian approach to food, and the Oklahoma approach to it, i.e., a difference of night and day.

Lately, also, I've become a bit more conscious of how food arrives on the table and mostly I don't like what I see. It's a direct consequence of 1) having a lot more mouths to feed nowadays, and 2) profit motive, but I'm really not liking how animals are treated on factory farms, and I'm really not liking genetically modified crops. I can't stop those processes on the larger scale. But to the extent possible, I can kind of control what I shove into my mouth, which I'm trying to do. For instance, I want to turn my entire back yard into a fruit and veggie and herb garden. I'm starting small but each year it will expand.

Also, I only want to eat free-range meat...from animals who haven't been artificially fattened up, or dosed on hormones, or filled to the brim with antibiotics. That will cost more, but maybe not. Maybe the price of organic meat will force me to eat less of the stuff, which is ultimately healthier in the long run.

This stuff takes time and won't happen overnight. My friend Debbie went vegetarian recently and seems to be doing fine with it. I gave it a tentative start before leaving for Vienna, but quickly fell off the wagon. The good news is, until I wean myself (if I ever do) it's fairly easy to get organic meat in Austria if you read the labels.

Last night B. made us an organic dinner:

Organic potatoes, homemade plum chutney (plums from the neighbor's garden), North Atlantic halibut.

And today, a kind of an overcast, gray day, we drove about an hour south of Vienna with B's dad to hunt mushrooms. Success!

We hunted mushrooms in these woods.

These tiny colorful mushrooms are edible, but too small to be worth the trouble.

Closeup of tiny mushrooms with fingertip for comparison.

A few of the mushrooms we found.

Finished with the hunt, we stopped to gather wildflowers in this meadow.
B stepped in cow shit and stunk up the car. Nice flowers, though.

These are two parasol mushrooms after cleaning but before cooking.
Note hand for comparison. You know what they say: big hands, big mushrooms.

Parasols after cooking. They were lightly breaded and then pan sautéed.
Also: veggies from the garden (center) and homemade plum chutney.

Chanterelles before cooking.

Chanterelles after cooking. With parsley garnish.

Steinpilz (also called boletus) after cooking.

So: a three-course mushroom dinner. It was delicious. Freshness counts, so go for it when you can.

It's an interesting and fun thing to eat food that came right out of nature, more or less the same food as someone might have enjoyed hundreds of years ago.

Thanks to B who cleaned and cooked all the mushrooms. I drank wine during this process, and did the dishes afterwards.

A Couple of Hours with Dragan

Monday, I met my Serbian buddy Dragan in the park. He was one of my fellow students from my "Deutsch im Park" lessons.

We talked for a few minutes, then he said: "I must buy cigarettes; can we walk?" So we walked to the Turkish marketplace, found a Trafik, and made the transaction. Back at the park, the discussion began.

I drew a crude map of Oklahoma on a 3 X 5 card. "Below is Texas, above is Kansas, right is Arkansas, left is New Mexico. The land is flat, except in a few places with small mountains. I live here"---I drew a dot in the middle of the map---"and it is the largest city. The other large city is here:" [dot for Tulsa].

We spotted a guy in a wheelchair, sitting at a table with some other guys. Though not a member of the class, he used to roll his chair up and join in sometimes. He's also Serbian, and also named Dragan. "He is gypsy," my buddy said. "Roma."

"Tell me about the Roma," I said.

"Eh, Roma come first from India. They live in many lands---Romania, Albania, Serbia. They have their own language, which is different from place to place but they understand. Also the language of the country they live. All Roma have two languages, at least."

"You can tell he's Roma by looking at him?" I asked, pointing at the other Dragan, who by now was in a discussion with a shirtless drunk. "Yes, sure," he said. "I know them."

It basically went on like this---we were practicing our German, but since Dragan is better at it, he was also teaching me. It started to rain a bit so he said, "I know Serbian cafe. We go there, yes?" So we went there, yes, and the place was empty except for us. The woman serving us chatted to Dragan in Serbian. "I want a Serbian beer," I said. "Tell me a good one to buy." So Dragan ordered us a couple. He taught me a Serbian toast which basically means, "To life."

It was raining like hell outside by now---we could see people rushing past the open door, umbrellas or newspapers covering their heads. Dragan whipped out a piece of notebook paper and turned it upside down so I could see it across the table. "This is my family," he said.

It was a drawing of a tree---not badly done, either. He pointed at the uppermost branch. "Here are my children." You could see their names written there. Further down the branch: "Here is me," with Dragan's name. A branch to the left of that: "Here is my brother." And on down to the trunk.

Dragan's history: When he was about 2 1/2 and his brother 8 months old, they went to live with their grandparents while the parents moved to Vienna. I don't know why, but the parents stayed in Vienna and the boys in Serbia. I guess it was to earn money to send home...

After WW II, the country of Yugoslavia was created but really it was never a country, just "A false country made by Tito." It included what is now Serbia, Croatia, Montenegro, Macedonia, etc. Dragan said subsequent leaders haven't been any better than Tito---worse in some ways, better in others, but "Still not good. They only think of themselves, not the people. Different men, same clothes," he said, pulling on his shirt.

"In the US," I said, "big business controls the politicians. Money, money, money!" He nodded.

Dragan's wife is still in Vienna visiting, but she's going back on Sunday. He told me they live in a small village of about 1000 people, where everyone kind of looks out for each other. Dragan prefers his children to live in a village rather than in a large city. He is not an unsophisticated man, or close-minded....he just thinks some aspects of the city aren't wholesome for impressionable kids. I get the idea that big cities in Serbia can still be pretty rough around the edges, unlike Vienna.

He's trying to get work here, and probably will. The problem is, you have to be in Austria at least a year before you get a work permit, unless a company can convince the government they really need your services. Meantime he lives with his mom, who is a longtime legal resident here, and waits.

"What work did you do in Serbia?" I asked.

"I was policeman."

"The police department might want you," I said. "You speak Serbian, Russian, German, and English. That comes in handy in Vienna." He shrugged, "Eh, I am probably too old. Maybe not as policeman, but maybe I work with them as interpreter." He's not yet 40.

He took out a paper and wrote some things down for me. German grammar. "These are modal verbs. You learn them. It will help you."

"Do you have any questions about English?" I said. Dragan said: "Yes, but next time, please." We'd been together about two hours. He had to meet his wife and I had to meet B's sister for coffee, so we walked in a gentle rain to the subway station.

"Do you know a song called HEY, JOE?" he asked.

"Sure. Jimi Hendrix."

"Yes. I am living with my mother and she has no computer. Will you get on computer and give me copy of the words to HEY, JOE?"

"I'll do it, man. I'll call you next Monday and we'll get together."

"Thank you!" We shook hands and went our separate ways.

I like Dragan. He seems like a good dude.

Sunday Hike: Vienna Woods

We met our friends Michi and Grete at their house in the 14th District. Object: a walk in the Wienerwald West.

Grete's sister joined us. We drove off to the woods, maybe 30 slow-driving minutes away, parking in a lot in the tiny burg of Sulz.im Wienerwald. Michi had a hiking map; we changed into our boots and took off.

The Austrians are very active outdoors. I've noticed this in areas blessed with great natural beauty, like the Rocky Mountain states----people just do things outside. They're brought up doing these things (B often "complains" of being "dragged up the ski slopes from the age of three.") Everywhere I look I see people in their 60s riding bicycles, jogging, all kinds of stuff.

Indeed, even though we were out in the woods, several times we passed individuals or groups on their hikes. Michi told me: "Grete and her sister, when hiking, must go for at least three hours or it isn't worth it to them." Sure enough. The other three were like mountain goats compared to us, walking at a fast pace. It was a humid day from Saturday night's rain but it didn't seem to slow the Austrians down...

Some of the things we saw:

An old house in the village of Sulz am Wienerwald

The hills are alive with the sound of copyrighted digital music, all rights reserved.

A huge meadow in the Wienerwald, with the Alps in the distance.

This is called a "cuckoo pint." Looks like tiny habanero peppers to me...
but habaneros don't grow in clumps like that, of course, and not in the forest.

Yes, another castle. Austria has more castles than McDonald's has "restaurants."

This one is Burg Wildegg.

Grete and her sister are retired. I asked them both if they miss their jobs. Answer: no. Even though they liked their jobs, they like not working even more. In my talks with them I learned they share my basic philosophy about retirement: 1) a year of freedom in your 50s is probably better than a year of freedom in your 70s, 2) how damned much money do you need, and will more make you happier? 3) you never know what kind of shit will hit the fan, so enjoy life while you can. 

Hey: I'm not against work, especially if you need to or like to. If you neither need to or want to, WTF? Get on with the business of living. Holding on for "just one more year" might be the biggest mistake you ever make.

The hike exhausted me, but I get the feeling the others were pretty wasted by the end, too. On the way home we stopped off at a place for dinner and drinks. I discovered this fancy drink:

It's called Pfirsich-Bowle. Do a Web search for the recipe. 
According to our friends, it's pretty easy to make. And delicious, according to me.

Making Wiener Schnitzel

I went out to B's parents house for a Wiener Schnitzel making lesson.

Traditionally it's made of veal, but we prefer pork. B's mom was using pork tenderloin, which she showed me how to cut in order to make it flat. I can't duplicate the instructions in writing---it's hard to explain how to transform a cylindrical piece of meat into a flat piece, but the butcher's shop will do it for you.

Here's basically how it goes. You need:

flour
breadcrumbs
a couple of eggs
veal or pork cutlet
salt
oil capable of taking high temperature or coconut oil or clarified butter

First, take a meat mallet and lightly tap the cutlets until they're about 1/2 or 3/4 inches thick. Lightly, I said---you're not Rocky Balboa slamming the shit out of a side of beef. Show some restraint.

Then lightly salt both sides of each cutlet.

In a frying pan put about 3/4 inch of oil. B's mom uses coconut oil. Let it get medium hot...on a scale of 1 - 10, about a 6. (As a side note, B's mom uses a pan that belonged to her grandmother and is literally about 100 years old. This is the exclusive schnitzel-making pan in her house, and it gives the flavor of the ages.)

You need three bowls. One for flour, one for a couple of beaten eggs, and one for fine bread crumbs.

First dip the cutlet into the flour, both sides. Then dip into the egg, both sides. Finally dip into the bread crumbs, both sides.

Then gently place the cutlets into the pan (hot grease, remember? No splashy-splashy.) They cook pretty quickly. After about a minute, check the color...when done, it should be a kind of golden brown. Flip the cutlet and do the other side. I'd say a minute and a half to two minutes MAX per side, depending on temperature of your pan, and thickness of the cutlets.

If you're just making a few schnitzels, you can cook them up and serve them immediately but if you're making a bunch, it's a good idea to heat the oven to about 200 F and put a dish in there. Put paper towels in the bottom to soak up excess oil, and as you cook each schnitzel put it in the oven to keep warm. Dab the tops with another paper towel and they won't be greasy.

Schnitzel cooking in a century-old pan. The one at bottom is almost done because it's the right color. Don't freak out over the dirty-looking stuff in the oil; it's just breadcrumb coating from previous schnitzels that fell off and are continuing to cook (burn.) Schnitzel if done right will be more or less uniform in color and definitely not burned anywhere.

Serve with a wedge of lemon and some potato salad. Or whatever.

It's not bad cold, either. We took some extra home and I ate it later with some Sambal Oelek, which is the Condiment of the Gods and no kitchen should be without it, praise its holy name. 

That modification is certainly not traditional Viennese cooking but hey---modify it as you will. Sprinkle some Parmesan cheese on it, add some spices you like, whatever.

----

My mom was hardly what feminists would describe as a liberated woman, but in her own way she was. When I was a young kid she insisted that I help her in the kitchen. At first I protested it was "women's work" but she told me: "If you like to eat, you need to learn to cook. There might not always be a woman around to cook for you and besides, the world's best chefs are men." (She was right about the first part. The jury is still out RE: the second part.) 

I pity men who can't or won't cook. These are the same bastards who fall apart when their woman (slave) dies or leaves them because they don't even know how to feed themselves. Inexcusable. Women, learn how to change oil in your car, and change flat tires. Men, learn how to do laundry and cook.

I really treasure all that time in the kitchen with my mom. I didn't like drying the dishes (no dishwashers back then, at least not in our house----we were the dishwashers) or peeling potatoes but it was fun learning from Mom. I got that same feeling today with B's mom, who was a very gentle and patient teacher.

Weinviertel Adventures

If you visit the Wikipedia link to Lower Austria, you see on the map that this federal state is actually at the top of the country, adding a very definite WTF? aspect to the geographical nomenclature of the place.

Notice also a kind of an island in the upper right corner. That's Vienna, which is both a city and a state. Not to be confused with the situation with Salzburg, in which there is a state called Salzburg that also contains within its borders a city named Salzburg. With Vienna, the city and the state are the same thing.

Now that you're confused, let me further confusify you by saying that we drove out of Vienna (and therefore into Lower Austria, which surrounds Vienna...get it?) to a section called the Weinviertel, or "Wine Quarter." Why does it have that name? Lotsa grape vines, therefore grapes, therefore wine.

Our destination: the Urgeschichtemuseum Niederösterreich, or as the website calls it The Museum of Prehistory of Lower Austria. 

The museum is contained within an old castle, and its grounds. Outside there are recreations of dwellings dating from prehistoric times up until the time of the Celts. Evidently there are a significant number of archaeological finds in Austria, proving that people have lived in these parts for many thousands of years. Check out this page for a photo slide show that gives you an idea of the different structures people may have used since before recorded history.

What they suppose a Celt lodge might have looked like.

The exhibits inside were just as impressive, including one that explains prehistoric mining.

The only bummer part for me was that the info was presented only in German, though you could rent one of those audio devices that will tell you what's what as you walk along, in your native language. Problem was, I didn't know about the existence of those devices and the lady selling the tickets didn't bother to mention it, either. I only learned about it when B mentioned seeing someone using one of the things.

That done, we drove to a nearby small town that had a pretty impressive health food store, where we bought rolls and cheese, which the proprietor gladly turned into sandwiches for us. Lunch finished, we drove through the countryside. Which I quite liked----mostly farmland with (of course) vineyards, wheat or hay, and millions of sunflowers that were so heavy with seeds that their heads drooped toward the ground instead of toward the sun.

As we'd drive through each village I noticed how quiet it was...I guess everyone was at work, or sitting in their gardens. There was basically no street life to be seen...the ghost villages of Austria.

Austria has working oil wells. B's dad told me today that Austria produces 25% of its own petroleum. The rest is imported. Not sure if that's accurate or not, but I sure enough saw some pumps in action:

Oklahoma in Austria? A rift in the time-space continuum.

I stumbled upon an interesting blog post from a guy who spent some time with one of the Weinviertel locals. Which is really the best way to experience a new place, if you can manage it.

Here's a video to give you a feel for the lay of the land, and the wine cellars:

Wednesday: Home to Vienna

This will be a short one, because 1) I'm tired today, and 2) all we did Wednesday, mostly, was drive and rest after driving.

We drove through the Lungau region of Salzburg at the start of our trip home. Beautiful area, not as mountainous, but lots of up and down driving at first.

Stopped in the town of Tamsweg on the recommendation of one of the guests of our B & B, who said there's a shop in town known for its selection of farmer-produced meats and cheeses. Sure enough, we found the place and bought an assortment of stuff for a later picnic lunch.

Tamsweg

Outside a bookstore in Tamsweg

Soon we left Salzburg and entered Styria, yet another of the Austrian federal states. We drove through the Mur Valley, a hot spot (or maybe I should say cold spot?) of winter sports. It being summer, though, I discovered another popular sport: motorcycle touring. I saw more motorcyclists, solo and in groups, than on any other leg of the trip. And it is a beautiful ride, the road paralleling the Mur River.

We stopped in a small town to eat lunch. We found a parking lot adjacent to a small wooden bike-pedestrian bridge that crossed the Mur, which was rolling pretty swiftly along. There was a little grassy area so we sat down and had a nice lunch, including our first taste of the bread we'd made yesterday in the wood-fired oven. Not. Bad!

Lunch. Pepper encrusted sausage, garlic encrusted sausage, and B's loaf of bread from the previous day at the Schule am Berg. Note elaborately-constructed letter B on the loaf, signifying claim of ownership. But in a startling example of socialism, I too ate from the loaf.

About an hour outside Vienna, we hit a tremendous thunderstorm. The kind of storm that makes you pull off the highway, which we and dozens of other people did. Sat there a while until things let up---but watching the crazy bastards zip past us, rushing headlong toward something unknown, was kind of sobering. There are no shortages of dumb-assess on this planet, I assure you.

Got home about 5:30 and spent the rest of the evening, and the next day, doing exactly NOTHING.