Wednesday, August 31, 2011

The Cats of Oia

Monday, our first night here, we were visited by a very friendly, very vocal cat.

She had a purr like a Harley-Davidson at idle, and she arched her back and quivered her tail and rubbed against us and meowed. So B poured her a saucer of milk.

Soon there were four cats on the terrace. None of them look as if they\re starving.

Tuesday morning I woke up and went out on the terrace. Before I could even open the door I heard our new friend's purr-box rumbling and a few chattered "Meow!"s.

Today, Wednesday, I woke up and B wasn't in bed. I went out on the terrace and saw the cat lapping at a saucer of milk, B looking out toward the caldera, all covered in fog, the sun not yet risen over the cliff east of us. Cat, woman, ocean, fog----a Zen painting.

I've taken a lot of pictures of the cat, and this one isn't the best, but here she is:

The queen of Oia.

 She oversees her kingdom, which is vast.
Photo by B.
 She expects food after already getting some.
Which makes her more cat than queen.

Tuesday: Driving Around The Island

We rented a car for two days so we could drive around, check things out. A new Nissan Micra that already has a dent in it.

A lot of people rent scooters and quads here, but they have their obvious disadvantages. Easy to park and manuever, but you're exposed to the blazing sun all day and can't carry much gear with you. And I have to say, there are some inexperienced people driving these things. It'll be a miracle if we go the entire week without seeing some skinned-up knucklehead who took a tumble...

We put a little gas in the car. 10 liters cost 17 Euro. I'll let you do the conversion.

The topography of the place is "rugged hilly." If southern Arizona had an ocean, and was composed of lava and other volcanic material, it'd be Santorini. Very few trees here, and a fair amount of cacti. But, surprisingly, grapes grow here, though not the neatly trained grapevines we're used to seeing. No, these just look like a low bush. The local wine isn't bad.

Amazingly, we stumbled on a fucking Mexican restaurant, of all places. We pulled in to take in the view from their patio, and pay for the view by buying a drink, but ended up staying for lunch because the owner, Mary, was such an interesting character.

Mary met her Greek husband (then boyfriend) in Colorado in the late 70s. Ten years later they married and then they moved here. About 18 years ago they started Senor Zorba's Mexican restaurant, with just 3 tables. Since then it's grown to be a good-sized place. Mary was a charming and talkative person, and gave us a lot of hints on what to see and what to avoid on the island. She and B talked Euro-politics as it relates to the ongoing Greek economic crisis and the corruption that pervades Greek officialdom.

We sat outside on the patio and the view of the water-filled crater was spectacular, probably the best ocean overlook I've ever seen, maybe better than the Amalfi coast in Italy. The food was pretty good and the conversation with Mary lots of fun.

 One view from the patio of Senor Zorba's Mexican (!) Restaurant

As we drove along we noticed a lot of houses under construction. They're all made of concrete, and many of them have a half-cylinder shaped roof---think quonset hut. Not sure why, if it's functional or aesthetic, but they seem to like these roofs here.

We drove as high up as we could go, and got a great view of the airport on one side and the flat agricultural area on the other side. The very top of the mountain housed a military installation of some kind.

 There are several villages on the island and not all of them
sit on cliffs overlooking the sea.

We found a beach. Accessing this beach required a long walk along a steep path up, then down to the beach. Again, not a sandy beach, but not rocky this time, either. The beach was kind of a fine lava gravel. The water wasn't too warm, but tolerable, and the beach was crowded with people mostly laying around...I'd say maybe 3% of the people were in the water at any given time. We each went in twice, separately, and then took off.

 A shot of our beach as we were leaving.
An hour before, there had been twice as many people.

We stopped off at what is probably the only supermarket on the island and stocked up on stuff to put in the fridge. You can buy stuff in Oia but only in small shops, like convenience stores, and it's overpriced.

On the way back we travelled a road we'd not yet seen, which is on the other side of the cliff where we live. There are several beaches along this stretch, at least one of which we want to try tomorrow. A young hitchhiker stuck his thumb out and we picked him up. Turned out he was half-Greek, half-British and was working here for the summer, but the rest of the time was living in Barcelona. You meet people like this a lot in Europe---mixed parentage, who speak two or three or four languages.

The young man gave us some information on the beaches and thanked us for the ride when we dropped him off. It was a good 8 kilometers or so he'd have had to walk otherwise.

We parked the car where we could, hoping it was OK to park there----the public lot was full, of course.

Then we schlepped all our groceries and swimming gear, etc. through the village and down the steep path leading to our place.

 A few shots I made in the morning, in Oia.

B made an excellent supper of (believe it or not) watermelon chunks with feta cheese and roasted almonds. Pretty. Damned. Good.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Monday: Zorba The Greek Lives On Santorini

It's been a long day. We woke at 3:30 AM (!!!!), left Vienna at 5:30 AM (!!!) and arrived on Santorini about 8:30 local time (they're an hour ahead of Vienna, 8+ hours ahead of the Central time zone in the US.)

A guy picked us up at the airport and drove us to the little town where we're staying, Oia.

Santorini is an island, the edge of what was once a huge volcano that blew its top. Read the info in the link above---interesting stuff.

All the houses are built into the side of the cliffs, so we're not staying in a hotel per se, but in what amounts to one of several houses our host owns. The guy is Zorba the Greek----silver hair, shirt always open to show his chest, deeply tanned. He speaks good English and is an accomodating host and is full of advice when you ask him questions:

"Is it best to rent a car from one of the places on the square?"

"No, they are Mafia! The cost is too high from them." And he whips out a brochure for another place, probably owned by him or his cousin.

"What restaurant do you recommend?" He looks at the list of restaurants on our city map and with a pen puts a checkmark by the ones he likes. "Someone in my family owns this one,"he says, "but I cannot recommend it because the food is not the best. You try these!"

And, like every Greek millionaire, he complains about his overhead and how the government is looking over his shoulder all the time, regulating his various businesses and charging too much tax, which the Greeks are notorious in avoiding in any case. But a charming guy nevertheless.
A view of the town of Oia, on the island of Santorini.

A good place to develop your leg muscles.


The town is quiet until about 9:30 AM, when the tourist busses start rolling in and the (very) narrow sidewalks are jammed with people taking pictures, coming in and out of the souvenier shops and galleries, and visiting the various restaurants .This goes on for the next 12 hours or so. I guess they all come from the cruise ships anchored here and there around the island. So I got most of these people-less photos by luck, simply because we arrived before the daily tour groups.

You hear every language here, mostly English and Italian. And Greek of course, but I think they're in the minority as tourists.

There are several beaches around the island but today we walked to the closest one, about 1.5 kilometers away. It's a downhill walk, which made us concerned about the walk back---all uphill. You can rent scooters and quads here as well as cars, and there are a lot of these things zipping around. Though Europe requires cyclists to wear helmets, almost nobody here does. And gasoline will cost you about $10 a gallon.

The beach where we swam. The water was a bit rough but warm.
It was a rocky beach but they were all smooth stones, not uncomfortable to walk on or lay on.
When the waves came in, you could actually hear the stones in the water roll a few inches as the waves receeded.

We stayed several hours and talked for a while with a German guy who comes here every year (his brother  owns a house here.) The walk back was long and steep but not as bad as we thought it would be, and by then the sun was lighting things differently so I got some decent photos when we arrived back at our house.


Note the steep-itude and distance to the water.

The view from our terrance in the afternoon.

I find it impossible to describe just how beautiful this place is. It's overwhelming, really---living on a cliff overlooking the water-filled crater of an ancient volcano, the villages on the other side of the crater lit in the setting sun...an astounding place to spend a week of your life.

And, credit where credit is due: none of this would have been possible without the generosity of B's parents, who funded this trip. They have two daughters and never had to pay for an expensive wedding, so I guess they felt they were getting off easy by sending us on a trip like this as a wedding present. We thought they were insane to spend this much on a gift, but we're grateful they did.

Also, thanks to B who made all the arrangements, finding the perfect place to stay and a flight directly from Vienna to Santorini. She really should have been a travel agent...

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Santorini

Freedom from Vasili on Vimeo.

Where we'll be next week.
It appears to be a place that does not suck.
We shall see.

Nostalgia

The temperature dropped yesterday....started off kind of hot but by mid-afternoon was cloudy, windy, and even a bit chilly. A light rain began around 7, when we left the house to catch a movie.

Midnight In Paris is Woody Allen's latest. Set in Paris, it's about a guy nostalgic for a time never knew: 1920's Paris. Through some magic or another, he finds himself able to visit that era after midnight each night, becoming more and more drawn into that world and the people who inhabit it, like Hemingway, Picasso, Gertrude Stein, etc. He has to decide if he wants to stay permanently in that era, or stay in the present day with his insufferable, shallow financee.

But it ends with the man realizing (to steal a line from a popular song of decades ago) that "these are the good old days." If (my interpretation) you don't waste these "good old days" in what Buddhists might call Wrong Living. And what is Right Living? You have to figure that out for yourself. In the movie, Gil realizes he's engaged to the wrong woman and while standing on a bridge across the Seine, meets a woman he'd encountered several times before at an antique dealership. It begins to rain. They both like walking in the rain, and walk off together.
---
We're going to Greece tomorrow morning for a week.

Depending on the reliablility of the hotel's internet connection, I'll try to post daily updates.

If you don't hear from me for a week or so, it means the connection is poor.

Or that we've decided to go back in time and live in ancient Greece.

Next stop: Santorini

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Friday: A Swim & An Evening Out

Another hot day. Again, we went to the swimming hole for a cool dip or three.

B's folks were there, and also some friends of theirs---a guy who used to work for B's dad, and the guy's wife.

Between swims, we learned something interesting from the guy: there are large discount grocery chains here that offer great travel deals (!) The catch is, these deals come and go quickly, and are only for certain dates. But sometimes you can get astounding deals amounting to 80% off, or more. You might get five nights in an Italian health spa, or a cheap flight to India, if your schedule is flexible enough to allow you to take advantage. A good thing to remember for my next visit.

This nice, relatively empty little lake is just the thing on a hot summer day
in air conditionless Europe.

Wait. I keep saying "my next visit," but the next time I come to Vienna, it'll be to live here. Speech habits / patterns are hard to break...it took me a couple of months after we got married to stop calling B my girlfriend and begin referring to her as my wife. Sometimes I'd use both terms interchangably in the same conversation, which surely confused people who didn't know me.
----
After our swim B went home and met my friend D for dinner and conversation. His father sent along a bottle of the tasty Slovakian liquor he'd introduced me to when we visited their home. A most welcome gift!

Conversation went all over the place---politics, human behavior, Austrian and American idioms, D's upcoming trip to Ireland, etc. It was one of these conversational jam sessions where so much information flies back and forth that afterwards, you remember you had a great time but can only remember certain specifics conversational threads off the top of your head...

After the sun went down the temperature was more pleasant. There was a subway station nearby where we could catch our trains but D suggested we walk to a farther station and enjoy the breeze and the sights on this pleasant evening. As we walked along, D pointed out several buildings and related the interesting stories having to do with their histories.

Every so often I stopped to take pictures:

I shot this through the window of a nice cafe.
Doesn't this look like a great place to grab a drink and read a paper or meet with friends?

Consumerism doesn't do it for me, and I'm not into shoes.
But I did think this impressive display of costly footwears was photo-worthy.

Windows in a passageway.
Had I timed the shot better, you'd have seen the entire blurry image of
a horse carriage passing on the cobblestone street, instead of just the back of the carriage.

We went to the U4. He stood on his side of the tracks and I stood on mine, waiting for our trains. We talked a bit back and forth across the 40 feet or so separating us, and I took a couple of shots of him.

My train came first. We waved goodbye. He's off to Ireland soon, and we're going to Greece.

It seems strange to even write that: He's off to Ireland soon, and we're going to Greece.  

Doesn't seem to be the kind of life I would have imagined for myself, somehow. Well. You never know.

Friday, August 26, 2011

Goodbye, School Friends / A Night At Cafe Rudigerhof

Today was the last class....kind of sad. I've enjoyed the routine of going to class, seeing the other students, studying.

The homeless African guy was back at the U4 station this morning selling his papers. I pressed a coin into his hand, said good morning, kept walking.
---
At the school, we got our test results. Of 88 possible points, I got 79. I'd have done better but I made a stupid mistake on one of the segments---you were supposed to say what object the person HAS, but I thought I was supposed to say what object they were LOOKING FOR, so I wrote the sentences wrong. Still, I passed, which means if I want to go to the next level I can. Unfortunately I'll have to wait until my next visit---upcoming events make it impossible for me to start school again next month.

We had one final lesson (separable prefix verbs---oy vey!) then the teacher gave a little speech in which she told us we'd been a good group and she'd had a good time. I think she was being honest----we have a friend who tells us many of these German teachers have students who have traumatic pasts, and sometimes the mere mention of an innocent word can trigger fits of crying in class because it reminds the students of some horror in their past. None of that with our group...

As a gift, I gave the teacher a bottle of wine and the Canadian guy gave her a box of chocolates. She seemed touched.

After class, a few of us hung around in the hallway for a few minutes, not really wanting to be done with our togetherness. We exchanged contact info, but I've done that often enough to know how it'll go---no contact will be made and we'll vanish in the haze of each others' memories as we go our separate ways.
---
I got lunch at a pizza place. Mixed neighborhood, lots of immigrants, old guys meeting and sitting at the tables or on nearby benches, speaking languages I didn't understand (that is, not English.)

Time came to pay. The bill was 8 Euro. I gave the waiter a 20, he gave me 2 back, and made like he was finished. "Excuse me, I gave you a 20..." I couldn't tell if he was trying to cheat me or if it was an honest mistake, but I had the feeling it was the former. I got the proper change and crossed that restaurant off my list of places to eat.
----
Having a routine this past month, I've noticed certain things as I walk along. One was the image of an old lady who lives across from the school, looking into a mirror while standing close to her window on the 2nd floor; I've seen this several times. She spends a lot of time gazing into that mirror, looking for---what?

She was there again this morning so I ran upstairs to the classroom, and took a shot downward from the 3rd floor, into her apartment...
Her morning ritual. She stares into the mirror for several minutes.
What is she hoping to see---or not see?

---
We drove to Cafe Rudigerhof in the evening to meet our friends K and U.

Even after dark the city held the heat of the day. We sat outside on the spacious patio, eating and talking about things.

Part of the patio at Cafe Rudigerhof.
This is only about a third of the available seating space outdoors.
Not bad business for a Thursday night...

Some of the topics discussed over dinner and drinks:

PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION IN THE US: K was in Philadelphia for a week, then in NYC for a few days. He said: "They say public transportation in the US is no good, but it works very well in these cities. Efficient, reliable. But the stations and the trains are not attractive." In Vienna, there are crews of people who board the trains and sweep up, the trains are frequently washed, etc.

THE "SPEAK GERMAN" REQUIREMENT FOR IMMIGRATION: K didn't see the neccesity, but I do. If you're going to live in a place, learn the fucking language----period. But he says: "There is no need to force them. If they do not learn the language, they will not be able to get good jobs and this is motivation enough." Thing is, many immigrants aren't looking for a "good" job, they want ANY job, because any job is better than what they faced back in Kosovo or wherever. Also, forcing immigrants to learn German is one way to force vieled Muslim women more into the mainstream of society---which I think many of them want, but without being required to assimilate at least in some ways by law, these women can and often are kept virtual prisoners within their sub-community.

BUSINESS ON PARADE: K works at a small manufacturing plant owned by his family. The company has been in business many years. A few years ago, they were forced by EU regulations to move their operation from a building they owned, to a more modern building they had to rent. The enormous cost of doing this put the operation in financial trouble and it's been struggling ever since.

For the sake of privacy I won't say what they manufacture, but basically there are two lines of products: one that is very tightly regulated and controlled, and the other which is a lot less regulated. When the news came that they would have to move to continue producing both products, K suggested they stop producing the overly-regulated product and concentrate instead on the less-regulated product, so they could stay in their old, paid-for, low-overhead facility, because it could comply with existing regulations pertaining to the less-regulated product. But he was outvoted so they moved, borrowed a lot of money to make the expansion, etc.

So now they need a buyer. It's not as if they're producing obsolete products like manual typewriters, or something. Their products are in demand and they have contracts to produce these products for large retailers. But there's a "grow or die" thing in business and the question is: What happens when every small company or family farm that used to exist gets bought up (or killed) by, say, Google or Walmart? What does the One True Company then become "absorbed into?"

I thought of Thomas the Bookbinder, and how he's managed to make it by binding books for thirty years. He did it by contracting, not expanding. He went small, not big. Low overhead, and he's in an essentially unregulated business. No employees. Equipment that needn't be updated every two years. A cottage industry.

It was a good evening. We all agreed hard times, they might be a-comin' soon, so better drink up and laugh while the drinkin' and laughin' is good.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Seasick Steve

A guy named Jools Holland has a television show in England. Jools used to be with a group called Squeeze (you'll remember their big song "Tempted") and is a pretty damned good piano player in his own right, but his big contribution to the world of music is his show, which showcases a lot of great musicians you've never heard of.

A guy I'm glad I discovered on Jools' show is Seasick Steve. Below, the ex-hobo plays with John Paul Jones (who used to be the bassist for a band called Led Zeppelin) and some wildman drummer who I'd like to meet some day.

Notice Steve's weird cobbled-together "guitar." He's known for these home-made instruments.

Steve playing solo on a guitar with only three strings (!)  

Read Steve's bio. One thing about America, it produces some truly interesting eccentrics we can be proud of.

When you've got some spare time, get on YouTube and search Jools Holland's clips. Great talent on his show.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Wednesday: German Test

I studied until 10 PM last night for today's test.

On the way to the school, passing through the U4 subway station, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a 1 Euro coin. I've been giving the friendly, smiling homeless man who sells the newspapers a Euro each week, just for the sake of my own karma, and in appreciation for his friendly smile.

But for the first time in a month, he wasn't there. I missed seeing him. Hope he's there tomorrow...
----
I ride one stop and transfer to the U6. While waiting for the train, I heard the same message I've been hearing since I got here, an announcment in German and English about the temporarily shortened U6 route (due to construction.) The English announcement said something to the effect of "reaching your final destination," and I thought: What's my final destination? What's anyone's "final destination?"

Star dust, maybe. Disincorporated atoms that attach themselves to molecules later on. Parts of us end up as a dog turd, a diamond, an ancient manuscript, or in the air that flies into Rick Perry's nose when he inhales. But of course, Rick Perry has never inhaled...
----
The test was simple. Possible perfect score is 88 points, and you only need 44 to pass (!)

She allowed about an hour for the test but most of us finished in less than 30 minutes. We get our scores tomorrow.

Those of us who finished early gathered in the hall. I found myself with the three Africans---a man from Nigeria, a man from Gambia, and a woman from Congo. All very nice people, and they all speak English as well as at least one other language.

Africans have it a bit tough in Europe. Europe isn't used to outsiders but for the last forty years or so there have been more and more outsiders streaming in. Hell, the Germans are swarming into Austria because their universities are filling up and they can't get admitted there, so they come to Austria. Which annoys the Austrians. But at least the Germans have a common language (allegedly, according to B) and aren't noticeably different. The Africans like me because I make it a point to greet each of them every day in a friendly way, accept their handshakes, smile and laugh with them. I grew up around African Americans and am comfortable with black people, and I think the Africans find it a relief not to have to wonder if somebody dislikes them just because they're outsiders. Hell, I'm an outsider. We all are, in this class...
---
After class, I stood outside talking with my Serbian classmate. He's the 2nd oldest geezer in class, me being the oldest geezer.

His wife is Serbian by birth but has Austrian citizenship. They're newly married. She's been here 14 years. But Goran, he can only visit 90 days at a time then he has to go outside the EU (in has case, back to Belgrade) then re-enter for another 90 days. Same with me. Neither of us is a citizen of an EU country, though Serbia is trying to get in.(I'm not holding my breath that they'll admit the US to the EU, however.)

"Goran---next time I come here, if I'm not a legal resident yet, I'll stay 90 days then go back to Belgrade with you. You can show me around. We can get drunk, then come back to Vienna and re-start the clock."

"Ah, Mr. John, I do not drink alcohol!"

"Don't worry. I can drink enough for both of us."
----
Goran took off. A few minutes later B pulled up. We were on our way to the swimmin' hole. It's another hot day in Vienna.

We went there, laid around, read, I studied some German and talked to B's mom and dad, we swam.

The most noteworthy thing to me was the behavior of the fish. They swim just under the surface and you can see them clearly. There are large carp about 2 feet long, as well as little fish, like minnows. They're constantly cruising for food and when one of the swimmers decides to throw some fish food in the water, it churns like it's boiling, the fish are so frenzied.

I was eating a sandwich. I tossed a couple of breadcrumbs in and noticed something:

The lucky fish closest to the offering was quick to grab the breadcrumb. But nearby fish noticed his sudden move toward the food, which in turn caused them to race for the crumb, which by then had already been gulped down. But then fish further out noticed this action and reacted to it in turn, moving in a kind of mini-frenzy, hoping they'd stumble upon a crumb or be able to intimidate the smaller fish who were hoping to latch on. This whole chain of events took maybe two seconds, and it was for one fucking crumb.

I repeated the process several times, fascinated by it, because it reminded me of something.

I thought: "Huh. A feeding frenzy. Just like that fucking Wall Street."

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Tuesday: Sievering

After class today, I went to a Chinese place for lunch, then took the bus out to Sievering.

But it's been almost-Oklahoma hot since Sunday--and almost no air conditioning here, remember--so I wasn't too interested in roaming around too long. Got a few pics (below) then came home, took a shower, and am going to spend the evening studying for my German test tomorrow (the school's test to see if you can enroll in the next class, not Austria's test to see if you know enough German to get residency. Two different tests.)

B told me some of Vienna's richest people live in Sievering.
Judging from the size of this place, perhaps.

A mofo can't even take a pleasant walk without have to deal with MIDGETS.

I love this old French beater.

Sculpture on a pillar at the church in Sievering.

Sleepyheads of Vienna, if I catch you snoozing in public, I shall photograph you.
This is your first and only warning.

I love this statue of a grape-harvesting guy
with his grape-harvesting basket on his back.

Small sculpture in front of a commercial establishment.

A moped with a wine barrel on the back.
An indispensible bit of gear for the urban cyclist.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Another Bike Ride / Visit To Friends

Saturday afternoon, a bike ride along the Marchfeldkanalradweg. Which is a poly-syllabic word meaning "Morava Plain canal bicycle path."

The canal was built for the farmers as an irrigation canal. It runs through a district in Northern Vienna before continuing out into the countryside. The good thing for us, and hundreds of other people, is that they built a path along the canal for bicyclists. So off we went.

The canal isn't always this straight; often it curves and twists.

We caught these deer running from one planted field, across an unplanted field, only to hide in the next planted field on the other side. Beautiful animals.

We stopped several times to ask directions in town before finding the path along the canal. People were friendly but they didn't always give accurate directions. B's father says most people simply don't know how to give concise, accurate directions. He, and B, should have been navigators by profession----I've never known anyone more fascinated by maps or in knowing where they are precisely at any given moment than B and her father. They're like human GPS devices.

It was a wonderful ride in perfect weather along the canal and surrounding farm fields. We saw onions and pumpkins and corn and lots of sugar beets in the fields.

We rode maybe 20 kilometers or so and came to a town called Deutsch Wagram, where we caught a train back to Vienna. And on the train, shortly after boarding, we were visited by the conductor who checked our tickets. Which were in order. Except, our bikes also had to have tickets, and they didn't. WTF?

Cost for each human to ride back to Vienna: 3.60 Euro. Cost for each bike: 5 Euro.

B and the conductor got into a philisophical discussion about this, the conductor explaining that the 5 Euro fee was good all day, not just for a ride back to Vienna. It was also notable that, while bikes were allowed on the train, there's no convenient place to put them once inside---you just hope the train isn't crowded as hell (which it wasn't---it was pretty empty, in fact) when you decide to climb aboard.
----
After a brief rest, we took the car to visit our friends I and E in their new house.

Previously, they'd been living for 26 years in a fine old apartment. They really liked it. But the owner convinced them to move out, because the place was rent controlled and he knew he could sell it for a fortune once he got them out of there. (When they'd first moved there, the rent was cheap. And more or less stayed that way. And the landlord started smelling money, but in some cases their hands are tied, and then they have to play ball, or else. I like this system!)

And how did he convince them to move out? By giving them 80,000 Euro to do so. Which sounds like a lot, but he'll get 400,000 Euro when he sells the place, so WTF.

Anyhow, with heavy hearts and a now-heavy wallet, they moved out and bought a house in a nice part of Vienna, then spent a bunch of money renovating it. And it really is a beautiful place---four floors, basement - attic, and a nice yard in back. New deck, retractable sunscreen roof, etc. Very Euro-modern and beautiful.

But after months of hassling with craftsmen and the architect and etc. etc. they're pretty tired and ready to be done with it. This is the story I hear every time somebody tells me about a renovation----Jesus, what a hassle.

But they get a nice view of this neighborhood in Vienna...

After a couple hours visiting with I and E on their deck, we drove home and had a good meal: pizza.

And watched a movie on TV about how insipid modern television is. The irony wasn't lost on us.

Societies Compared, Part 1

Below are images from the front pages (not well-hidden back sections) of two Austrian newspapers, Der Standard and Kurier.

I have to emphasize that these are not tabloid papers, such as the British SUN or American NATIONAL ENQUIRER, but in fact are well-respected dailies. Der Standard is considered a more liberal paper, Kurier a more moderate paper.

One of the local radio stations, FM4, sponsored a music festival and at this festival, a German photographer asked for volunteers to pose nude for one of his photo projects. The volunteers took off their clothes and arranged themselves as the photographer directed in an open area near the festival.



The issue here isn't nudity, per se, but rather society's reaction (or non-reaction) to it.

I'll let you imagine for yourself the reaction that would result in your community should photos like this appear on the front pages of daily papers, displayed openly on newsstands (where---gulp!---children could see them. The children...the children...[wring hands, clench teeth, be afraid, look for someone to lash out against])

I could give a shit about nudity one way or the other---you want to be nude, be nude. You want to wear clothes, wear clothes. I just think it's interesting that Austrian mainstream newspapers will run pics like this on the front page, and will refrain from pixilating the "naughty bits."

Saturday, August 20, 2011

Great Italian Cooking

A year or so ago, I stumbled upon Gianni Mota's website.

This guy is a great cook and he shows you how to do it right, Italian style. I love his videos.

I've prepared several of Gianni's recipes. Fantastico!

Friday, August 19, 2011

Friday: Consulate Visit & Wandering In The Woods

I found out I can get a "criminal record" document (required by the Austrian government for immigration) from the US consulate. This saves me the hassle of trying to get one from the US by mail or fax.

I took the subway down to the Stadtpark, then looked around until I found the place, on the 4th floor of a nice building. Inside the entrance, two armed civilian guards carrying Glocks, both Austrians. I had to run my backpack and camera bag through an X-ray machine and go through a metal detector. They kept my bags and gave me a reciept for them. No cameras or cellphones inside. But they were friendly, unlike a lot of security people in the US who always seem uptight and sometimes just plain fucking rude.

You go through a thick steel door. There's another armed guy on that side of the door. The guy told me: "Go to window 1." I walked back there and found there were 7 or 8 windows, all plainly numbered, with thick glass partitions.

"I need a criminal record document," I told the lady, an Austrian.

"Fill out this form but don't sign it," she said. "Then give it back to me." It was a simple form---name, date and place of birth, passport number, citizenship (!), address of last residence in the US.

I passed the form back. "Now go to window 3, and pay the fee." At window 3 I was served by a pleasant American lady with only one arm. I paid the $50 fee. "Now take your receipt to window 2 and you'll get your report."

At window 2, there was a pleasant young American guy on the other side of the glass. "I'm your witness for this document," he said. (Evidently, they'd checked my criminal history while I was paying the fee and found none.) "First, please sign here." I signed. "Raise your right hand and swear and affirm the following is true:" And then he said something like, "Do you swear you haven't lied on this form?" or similar. I said, "Yes," and that was that.

But during this process I thought of George Carlin's hilarious routine called "Swearing On The Bible":

Here's another one of these civic customs: swearing on the Bible. Do you understand that shit? They tell you to raise your right hand, place your left hand on the Bible. Does this stuff really matter? Which hand? Does God really give a fuck about details like this? Suppose you put right hand on the Bible, you raise your left hand. Would that count? Or would God say: "Sorry, wrong hand! Try again!" Why does one hand have to be raised? What is the magic in this gesture? This seems like some sort of a primitive voodoo mojo stick. Why not put your left hand on the Bible, let your right hand hang down by your side? That's more natural. Or put it in your pocket. That's what your mother used to say. "Don't put your hands in your pockets!" Does she know something we don't know? Is this hand shit really important? Let's get back to the Bible: America's favorite national theatrical prop. Suppose the Bible they hand you to swear on is upside-down. Or backwards. Or both! And you swear to tell the truth on an upside-down backwards Bible. Would that count? Suppose the Bible they hand you is an old Bible and half the pages are missing. Suppose all they have is a Chinese Bible, in an American court! Or Braille Bible, and you're not blind! Suppose they hand you an upside-down, backwards Chinese Braille Bible with half the pages missing! At what point does all of this stuff just break down and become just a lot of stupid shit that somebody made up? They fucking made it up, folks! It's make-believe!

I took my "I have never been to prison" document and walked out. I have to give credit: the people were friendly and courteous and the whole thing happened really fast. John X likes it smoooothe, and it was.
-----
In the afternoon, B and I drove to a nearby town to take a hike in the woods. It started off being a hot, humid day but by the time we got out there, the sky darkened somewhat and the wind picked up a little, and that kept the humidity at bay.

We wanted to find mushrooms, but we weren't really in a remote area and we figured the locals had probably picked the place clean already. We did find some mushrooms, but they weren't the edible variety.

Sometimes I shoot things just because the colors are, uh, colorful.
We parked near this house before entering the woods.

Mushrooms. According to B, not edible.

I noticed these white flowers in a field with no other white flowers,
but plenty of other colors. Take time to notice the flowers once in a while.

This was the site of a small pond where B's family visited many years ago.
This little boy was feeding the fish, who were going crazy: all you can eat!

On the drive home, we stopped at another small pond where there's a simple restaurant.
Close-up of flowers and in the background, a man walking the shore.

Garlic creme soup. Creamy, and, um, garlicky.

We found no mushrooms in the woods, but on the way home we stopped at a roadside stand and bought some boletas. 

B sauteed them and served them with boiled potatoes and parsley. I drank a cheap white wine. Delicious.

Thursday: Bureaucracy (But It Could Have Been Worse)

Thursday afternoon, we went down to the offices to submit paperwork for my immigration to Austria.

The office is closed in mid afternoon and reopens at 3:30, so we arrived at 3 to stand in the inevitable line. Sure enough, there were a hundred or more people in line ahead of us.

The office handles all sorts of matters, not just immigration. But there were very few people in line who looked like native Austrians. Most looked like they came from Turkey or Albania or Africa or other places, and we saw more than one woman wearing the traditional Muslim veil and robes. We were lucky in a way because a lot of people are still on vacation----another couple of weeks and it might have been a disaster.

As it was, things went more or less smoothly. They opened the doors. There were windows at a counter, like at the post office. You went to a free window, told them the purpose of your visit, and they gave you a number (No number: no service. No exceptions!) Then you waited in line to take the elevator up to the 5th floor, or walked up there if you were more gung-ho about it.

There, you sat down along with 150 other people and watched a screen. The screen showed your number, and the room you were supposed to go to. When your number came up, you got up and went to the office and began the process.

Our lady was nice, but at first she didn't want to accept the documents until I'd taken my offical language test, which is a few weeks off. But then for some reason she decided she'd start the process based on the fact that we'd informed the testing agency I want to take the test (we had a copy of the form I sent in.)

WOMAN: Photocopy your documents and then bring the copies back to me, please.
US: Where do we photocopy them?
WOMAN: In the waiting area, there are two machines...

There were two machines, but one was kaputt (your vocabulary word for the day), probably due to excessive button-pushing by an army of over-zealous Serbs, Albanians, Ukranians, Turks, or possibly Americans whose stack of documents choked the machine. The surviving machine had a line of people waiting, so we frantically starting digging for coins to feed it, finally finding some. (The trick was not to fuck around when it came your turn, because the line was getting longer and the clock was ticking---the office was about to close for the day.) Ten minutes or so later, we finished, then returned the copied documents and waited among the poor, the tired, and the huddled masses for our number to come up again.

The number came up after ten minutes or so. We went in and saw another woman. She took my fingerprints, then sent us upstairs to pay a fee of 80 Euro. We paid, and took the receipt back downstairs.

WOMAN: Now we need a copy of B's credit report, and proof that John has passed his language test---when that happens---and a statement from the US regarding your criminal record. [or lack thereof, in my case. So far.] And then we will begin to process this case.

And here the woman saved us a big hassle----she told us the US consulate could provide the "criminal record" document. Our research had led us to believe we'd have to get it from my local police department, or the State of Oklahoma, or the Federal government---faxing stuff back and forth, etc. Nope. Go to the consulate and they'll have what we need, said the lady.

I have to say the entire process went more smoothly than we'd expected. Or feared, as the case may be. Of course things haven't really started, as such----we've just delivered most of the papers they needed: certified translations of our marriage documents, my birth certificate, her birth certificate, my passport, her residency papers, etc. When we deliver the other papers, I guess they start the ball rolling. After that, who knows?

The whole thing took a couple of hours, plus many hours of preparation beforehand, mostly by B----researching what they'd need, gathering the stuff, having the English-language papers translated, making phone calls, etc. etc.

It's a hassle moving to any country. Still, I think it's easier here than trying to get a US "green card."

As I told my German-school classmate while we were waiting for our respective trains home after class, a guy from Canada whose sister resides in the US, "Getting a US green card is like trying to break into prison."

He gave a knowing smirk of agreement. Then our trains arrived. He jumped on his, I jumped on mine.

Somehow or another, we're always taking a train (metaphorical or otherwise) some damned place.

I Just Dropped In & Saw What Condition My Condition Was In

Wednesday after German class, I ran an errand near the school. It was a beautiful day, like Spring----temps in the high 70s, sunshine, people dining outside at the many restaurants in the working-class district where the school is...a really enjoyable walk through the district on my way to the subway.

A couple of long subway rides later I was visiting B's sister R at her place. Unfortunately she wasn't feeling too well so our visit was a bit subdued and shorter than planned, but it was nice seeing her anyhow.

But now I had time on my hands. What to do? I thought: I'm going to visit Thomas The Bookbinder.

Thomas describes some of the art he created

So, another couple of subway rides later, I walked into his shop.

Usually he's alone in there, but this time he had another visitor, a tall, thin guy about 65 with a neatly trimmed silver beard and long silver hair hanging down from under his cap. Thomas said to his friend (in German): "Hey, here's the mailman from America!"

The friend, F, greeted me with a gentle handshake. Both guys were smoking, and I noticed F's fingers were stained light brown from years of holding burning cigarettes. Thomas offered me coffee, then went in the back to prepare a cup.

I spent a few minutes getting to know F, who turned out to be a retired stonecutter---as in, he operated equipment that sliced huge slabs of granite into gravestone-sized pieces. 

I think I mentioned in previous posts that Thomas' tiny shop is a throwback to a different era----the machines he uses in his trade are hand-operated, built like tanks, and some are very old...in fact, when he came back with the coffee, talk turned to his "newest" machine, a huge papercutter he recently acquired. It's only 30 years old. We spoke a mixture of German and English, and I kind of startled myself by being able to say what was on my mind mostly in German.

ME: That's a sturdy-looking machine, Thomas...
F: Thomas is in love with the machine.
ME: I can see why---it looks like a quality piece of equipment, built to last a couple hundred years...
F: No, I mean he is in love with it, like it is a woman. It is all he talks about! "My papercutter, my papercutter..." When we are not here, I think he sleeps next to it at night. Perhaps he makes love to it.
THOMAS [animatedly]: My machine would never accept someone like me as it's lover. But look at the quality! The company went out of business and I got the machine for a good price and---

...and he went on for several minutes about the beautiful, sturdy, precise, elegant, etc. papercutter, which looks a bit like a large table saw (without the saw blade sticking up) with a six-foot long lever on one side, like papercutters you see in offices (only this one weighs about 800 pounds and the blade is razor fuckin' sharp---to show me, Thomas sliced the edge of a piece of paper, making a thin strip about half a millimeter wide. Precision. Or, it would easily amputate a leg if you wanted it to.)

I envy Thomas his work life. He enjoys his work and only does as much of it as he wants to, not more. His shop is open Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 2 PM (or so) to whenever the hell he wants to stop----usually only a few hours. F and Thomas have been friends for a long time. And like old friends will do, there's a lot of teasing going on between them.

ME: Thanks for the coffee....but you guys were visiting together. Maybe I'm interrupting your work...
F: He has only worked thirty minutes all day, and then we started visiting! It is no problem!
THOMAS: No, ja, why should I work more than that? I'm having coffee and a cigarette. Hey, let me show you something...

He removed a CD from a beautiful paper sleeve. Turns out he'd made the sleeves and played on the CD, a limited edition of 500 hand-signed copies. He put the CD in the player and skipped ahead to track 8, which featured Thomas on what he called a flute---but he showed me the thing and it was about four feet long and looked like the tube was made out of thick-walled copper tubing.

The cut was described as a blues number but to me it had more of a jazz feeling to it, with a bass, electric guitar, drums, and Thomas on his giant flute. Actually pretty good music...

THOMAS: So how can I do things like this CD, or my other projects of art, when I would have to work all the time?
F: Yes, I think people work too much. What is the point of it? If you have enough to eat and smoke----
ME: Yeah, no shit. Thomas, you're lucky, doing this work that involves creativity and craftsmanship, in your own place with no boss standing over your shoulder...
F: Yes, and it is my job to come here to make sure he does not work too many hours. I do this by making him give me coffee...
ME: When I move to Vienna, maybe I can be the apprentice here. I'll sweep the floor and run some errands and that kind of shit, and maybe you can teach me rudimentary bookbinding.
THOMAS: First, I have to see your sweeping skills. F, where is the broom? FIND IT!
F: John, if you are his apprentice, then he will only work thirty minutes a week. It is a bad idea.

The shop is small, maybe the floor space of a good sized bedroom, with a loft above for storage of paper and equipment, built by Thomas. I noticed he's always barefoot...

I thought: this must have been what it was like when cities were filled with mom-and-pop businesses, (not vapid multi-national big-box retailers of bullshit) where friends could just drop by once in a while and shoot the shit with the proprietor, have a smoke, have a cup of coffee, talk about the world...

An old woman walked in with a book.

WOMAN: This is the book I mentioned earlier.
THOMAS: Yah, OK! I see. All right, what color for the cover?
WOMAN: Well, what colors can we choose from...?
THOMAS: Red, green, blue, green, orange, black of course---

They jabbered about this for a few minutes, then with that done, the four of us stood around talking, like it was the village post office. The old woman turned her attention to F and started talking to him.

THOMAS: John! Let me give you a close look at my papercutter.

So we went over there and he showed me the thing in great detail, showed me where you oil the moving parts, lifted the heavy but perfectly balanced lever that holds the blade...

...then he showed me his back room, where he has a shower and sink and countertop and rudimentary cooking equipment. That way "If I want to lock the doors and work until midnight I can, and then clean up or cook dinner or even sleep here if I am heavily involved in a project."

After about fifteen minutes, we went back to the old lady and F. The old lady left with a friendly goodbye and F's eyes widened and he exhaled deeply, exasperated.

F: Yes, I thought she would never stop talking to me!
ME: What was she talking about?
F: What was she NOT talking about?!
THOMAS: I knew this would happen. So I left F to take care of my customer's psychological needs.
F: And for that I should have one more cup of coffee.
ME: But that's the beauty of it, that we all have time to talk to each other and listen. Everyone else is so fucking busy all the time. Maybe the old lady is lonely and it made her feel good to talk to you.
F: Next time I will feel good, because she will listen to me talk for fifteen minutes about my cat, and also my hemheroids.
ME: Better her than us.

I spent two hours with these guys, laughing and bullshitting and philosophising and talking music and painting and culture and the madness of the modern world, which neither Thomas or F takes at all seriously.  Finally I said: "I'm gonna say goodbye for now, fellas..."

THOMAS: Come again. Bring your broom! (laughter from Thomas and F.)

I left the place thinking of all the unusual people I've met in my life, some of whom have become good friends, and how lucky we are that eccentric and free-spirited people walk among us.

But it seems they're getting harder and harder to find, somehow...
-----
I got home and B said:

"We've been invited to join R and M at Kino am Dach (Movies on the Roof). We meet them at 8:30 and the movie starts at 9." I was tired from my long day but I wanted to meet R, who is a professor and his wife M, who works for the UN.So I made a quick supper for myself and tried to gather some energy.

The main library in Vienna.
The round thing at the top is a restaurant; dine indoors or out.
Behind the restaurant is where we saw the film under the stars.
The pyramid-like structure is pretty impressive.

Here's a view from the top.
As you approach the edge you don't see the steps until you're close;
it looks like you're approaching an unprotected edge of a roof with a sheer drop.
We met them at the restaurant, had a quick drink, then sat down for the film---Jim Jarmusch's NIGHT ON EARTH. It was in the original languages, (English, French, Italian, and Finnish) with German subtitles. The film consists of five stories involving taxi drivers, set in Los Angeles, New York, Rome, Paris, and Helsinki. 

So I understood the first two segments, but the last three required some reading of subtitles in German, about 40% of which I understood. I'd seen the film before (with English subtitles for the foreign parts) so I knew what was going on. Good film. My favorite sequence was the one set in Rome, where Roberto Benigni causes his passenger, a priest, to drop dead from a heart attack due to Benigni's constant jabbering about his sexual conquests.

It was a warm night, and even in the middle of town with all its light pollution, you could look up and see the stars.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Tuesday: Lunch & A "Huh!" Moment

After my German lessons this morning, I met B and our friends D, his sister N, and their parents for lunch at one of our local restaurants. We sat outside under an arbor covered with grape vines, and nice purple grapes; the proprietress explained that the grapes would be harvested in late September and made into wine...

A pleasant lunch and then we walked back to our place for ice cream and coffee. Good conversations, and it eventually came around to the US and the madness thereof----the crazy political candidates we have, the failure of the people to realize how shitty they have it (and their willingness to continue enduring this shitty existence), the money spent on two bullshit wars spanning ten years, the lack of universal health care in the US....

...and I realized I just don't give a shit about the place any more, and I haven't in years. Fuck it.

I don't wish harm on anyone, and I don't hope for bad things. I. Just. Don't. Care.

So, crumble to dust, or rise again and be "Number 1." It's all the same to me. I'm tired of watching your drunken antics, America. Live or die, come or go, good or bad----I don't give a shit.

Bukowski wrote: "Humanity, you never had it from the beginning." I tend to agree.

So I've scratched "the fate of America" off my list of things to think about.

An Interesting Man

Found two posts about a very interesting man who lives (and it seems he really lives, not just exists) in northern New Mexico:

Found: A Hero In The Hinterlands and the follow-up, What Does A Whole Human Being Look Like?

Monday, August 15, 2011

Monday: Two Walks

This morning I ran an errand and, being close to the Danube, strolled down after my errand to see what I could see.

It was a beautiful, sunny day (at first; later the rains came) and I'd say about 78 degrees F. Perfect.

I think this building houses offices devoted to river sciences of various sorts.
Note bridge on the right, with the beautiful lions;
this is one of the most photographed bridges in Vienna.

Different view of the same building with mooring post and wild flowers in the foreground.

A man enjoying the sunny morning on the bank of the Danube.

A rose growing by a building which houses a rowing club.

B was busy much of the afternoon organizing her office, so we didn't go anywhere until mid-afternoon, when we took a hike in the vineyards just north of her house, about a kilometer or so behind us. It was still sunny and bright and a bit warm, but that changed...

We walked a different way to the vineyards and came upon this modern house.

A bit further on, thousands of grape vines.

Vienna from the vineyards.
Enlarge this view and note white building in the center bottom,
where the mown path seems to lead.
That's the building in the pics above where I was this morning.

Note three tributaries of the Danube: 

On the right, the Danube. Center, New Danube. Left, Old Danube.
Don't ask me what the difference is. I can never keep this shit straight.

On the way down it started to get dark.
Storm clouds were coming in behind us.
Here, a view across the Danube to Vienna's 21st District.

These grapes are about ready to harvest.
They're tasty, too. I know because I stole one and ate it.

We made it back home without getting rained on, but about thirty minutes later it started coming down.

B made an excellent supper for us: little raviolis and a fresh tomato / cucumber salad.