It was a red-letter week in terms of correspondence. On Monday, after sleeping through my Internship, I found an missive in my mailbox from one Mr. Henry Leung, all the way from California, perhaps having flown over China and the mighty Pacific. This of course called for a large cup of coffee at Aida, the retro-tastic chain coffee house with the same color scheme as the bathrooms and kitchen of the house I grew up in on 58th street: Nifty Fifties Pink and Brown. And, I'll admit, as wonderful as the letter itself was, I was just as amped about seeing my name on the envelope, above this crazy foreign address that still makes absolutely no sense to me.
And then, on Tuesday, after a glorious day with the chit'lins and an afternoon of pure unbridled malaise, what should I find but a package from Ariel, containing, as described in her own words: jeans, a letter, a few pieces of candy. And what jeans! Glorious, American, Old Navy Jeans! Without those dratted holes in the attractive inner thigh region (it's called friction, friends. Maybe you have been blessed with regular-sized hips, but I'm an Okie with a pelvis just begging for birth. I can't put it less weirdly than that)! This also called for a large cup of coffee, at another Aida cafe, in the middle of a rainstorm.
And I'm only blogging now because, goddammit, there are words in me and they want to get out somehow. We had some new age "group chat" about our expectations, goals, blah de blah, and I was the only one in the room who didn't list "Improving My German." Because, truthfully, and maybe it's Herr Mosburg's fault from back at Booker T, but German has never inspired me. I joked about it with Rob, saying this German business wasn't one of my priorities, but then, I didn't know what my priorities actually were, which was probably a problem. But he said, "Well, reading and writing are up there, aren't they?" And that's true. Being bilingual would be great, sure, but I haven't got the Itch to learn it, the way I do with writing. And that's what it is - call it passion, call it a rare literary disease, but right now it's like a mosquito bite that I'm sure would probably heal fine if I'd stop nagging at it, and then I could go on and become a happily mediocre Grown Up who sometimes remembered her wild delusions of writerly grandeur (see also: My Father), but I'm young and stupid and full of wild ideas and there are few feelings better than a good scratch when you've really got an itch, metaphorical or physical. Which is probably why Penny is so happy all the time.
Speaking of tiny dogs, it was also a red letter week in terms of them. Annie and I went on a late night dessert hunt following a dinner of waffles (we are very healthy beings) and headed to the Votiv Park Cafe, a little local joint where the lone waiters are an old man and an adolescent boy, where the Sachertorte is handmade, and where there was a tiny dog running around, being typically Austrian and indifferent. So I leaned down and scratched it, and it took a shine to me and hopped up on the seat and stayed there. Exciting stuff, I know, but Dog Withdrawal is one of those things they don't tell you about in all the Culture Shock Bullshit.
And speaking of tiny things, let me give you a profile of some of my favorite citizens of Vienna.
Felix. 9 years old. Looks exactly like he'll grow up and be the lead singer of Frog Eyes. Makes a point of reminding me about his English Great-Uncle every time we interact, but also asked me how to spell my name when we were learning "I like" and "I don't like" so he could announce, "I like Rachel." So great.
Lottie. 8 years old. Actually, she is Rory Pavach from Hammyton. It's downright freaky. Translated the entirety of "Where is Spot?" for my benefit when we read it this week. I learned the word for "turtle" and then they quizzed me on it.
Kid Whose Name I Do Not Know, but he's probably 10 years old. Very impressed by my sneakers. Also asked me if I liked Guns N' Roses.
Kid As Tall As Me Though He Is 10 Years Younger. Actually that is just disturbing to me.
There's more - the tiny Indian boy, the girl who speaks immaculate English already, the Raised By Indie Parents boy with his blazer and bandanna around his neck, the ones with glasses and lisps, pretty much any one who says hello to me in the hallways, and so on and so on. They're pretty great, altogether, though I wish I didn't have to get up at 7 to teach them, because I'm mostly dead by the time noon rolls around.
And that's the news from over here. I'm looking forward to: seeing The Go! Team next week, eating a banana with some Nutella tomorrow, running around in the Springtime weather, deplaning in Oklahoma and waking up at 6 a.m. for a week from jet-lag, having my first legal drink in America, finally perceiving this wealth of time as the rare opportunity it is.
24 April 2008
20 April 2008
i'll have the weekend, light on epiphanies, please.
It was and it wasn't, to be honest, but I'll make a meek attempt at avoiding existential anguish this time around, head more towards the "WHOO STUDY ABROAD BLOG" post. Something to enjoy while your latest NPR Podcast downloads - speaking of which, I'm addicted. Nothing like a nice hour of This American Life while I'm riding through the hills of Bohemia on a bus, highlighting Jerry Springer's former political career and the evolution of Appalachian nuns. Really. Dude, I do go to a liberal arts college, and that does make me unique and chill. Srsly. But, as for that last pseudo-meltdown, I apologize for going bonkers on the internet - I have a written journal which I'd been neglecting when we last spoke, you being the wide cyber audience, me at my microphone/keyboard, and I just got back from buying a new notebook since I have a mere 30 pages left in the old one (being the Italian Leather one we got for being National Book Foundation campers back in '01, when I was a wee 14 year old).
So! Prague Part Two, then. Our program went on a most-expenses-paid trip to Prague this weekend, which was grand aside from the weather, which was gray and rainy until we left, but did provide some nice sunnage for the 5 hour ride back to Vienna. Last time I was in Prague (and can we all just take a minute like I just did to acknowledge the mere ability to truthfully start sentences with phrases like that, and hopefully not writhe in our seats with jealousy and/or self-loathing), it was all party and people and madness - the city was a terrible, incomprehensible maze of consonants and Czech, and it still was, this time around, but it definitely upped itself a few notches for approachability. I mean - I like Prague. I've decided that. It's a lot more exciting than Vienna - as I said to Rob, Vienna is all 18oos imperial, and Prague is more 1904. I think I lean towards 1904. Feasted our eyes on some Art Nouveau, sampled Czech beer on Central's bill, took in all the sights on a massive tour around the city (which was unbearable solely for the never-ending rain), basically touristed as well as we could, but Prague, unlike Vienna As Far As I Know It, doesn't make you strive towards having a massive night.
For instance: Saturday night, after a good hour and a half lying in our hostel beds drying out from the rain, we headed to a restaurant for a feast, since we weren't footing the bill. It may seem childish to order Beef Tartar as an appetizer solely because it's the most expensive option, but when it's not your wallet doing the work, and when it's being paid for by the same people who didn't tell you any of the things you actually needed to know about living in Europe (such as the need for an Austrian bank account to do laundry in an actual washing machine - I'm getting pretty good at old-fashioned sink laundry, doo-rag and all), a "free meal" means soup beforehand, schnitzel for dinner, strudel for dessert, beer to wash it down and coffee afterwards. We were pretty much dead with sheer calorie intake by the end of it, but man - I have not eaten that well since The Diner. So we go out to take the Czech streets, knowing the exchange rate is for once on our side, and we literally stumble into the main square, with those Gothic towers and that Astronomical Clock and all that. Our chosen bar turns out to be the best idea ever, since there's a live band playing 1920s standards - clarinet, standing bass, a drum kit with only a snare and a cymbal, trombone, trumpet, and banjo - and I proceed to order a Bloody Mary and pretend we're the Lost Generation. Awesome.
On the way back to our hostel, liberally liquored after a Pina Colada (which was a Lotta Colada, really), Prague proves itself to be as surreal as ever. First, a black man in a pirate outfit, just chilling outside. Then, some people shouting in English: "YOU HAVE SEX AT HOME?!" "You're so loud." "I'M SHORT!" "That's why." Also, though I wasn't there to here it: "Fuck you, you logical being!" Lastly, three guys in head-covering Mickey Mouse masks, looking sinister and bizarre. All this in addition to the drag queen wielding a dildo we saw the night before. When we make it back to the hostel, the madness continues - two British dudes, drunk off their skulls and searching for a lighter, which, of course, I had. So I gave one of them a light, tried to get rid of him, only to have his friend come barging into the room - fortunately not my room, but room of other Central kids - and it was awkward and disturbing until I re-learned what I'd discovered in Oslo - British people are awesome. So, for the next hour and a half or more, wasted British fellow babbles with us, having as weird of a night as we are. Truthfully, I was tickled because he called me "quick" and "clever" which are things that I take for granted at Hamilton since Hamilton itself is supposed to be proof of such attributes - but a compliment's a compliment, and it was nice. The next morning we saw him and his band of British mates leaving the hostel in full Smurf attire, blue paint and all. A better ending I could not have invented.
I bought myself a cigarette case, because if I'm going to keep up this retarded habit, I might as well look classy doing it, and I was playing with it all the way back to Vienna, listening to Beirut (of course) as Bohemia rolled by. It was a nice weekend, really, and though a phone call to my family killed my buzz a bit afterwards, I went to bed at peace.
And that is the news for now, darlings. Back to wasting time and washing my socks in the sink.
So! Prague Part Two, then. Our program went on a most-expenses-paid trip to Prague this weekend, which was grand aside from the weather, which was gray and rainy until we left, but did provide some nice sunnage for the 5 hour ride back to Vienna. Last time I was in Prague (and can we all just take a minute like I just did to acknowledge the mere ability to truthfully start sentences with phrases like that, and hopefully not writhe in our seats with jealousy and/or self-loathing), it was all party and people and madness - the city was a terrible, incomprehensible maze of consonants and Czech, and it still was, this time around, but it definitely upped itself a few notches for approachability. I mean - I like Prague. I've decided that. It's a lot more exciting than Vienna - as I said to Rob, Vienna is all 18oos imperial, and Prague is more 1904. I think I lean towards 1904. Feasted our eyes on some Art Nouveau, sampled Czech beer on Central's bill, took in all the sights on a massive tour around the city (which was unbearable solely for the never-ending rain), basically touristed as well as we could, but Prague, unlike Vienna As Far As I Know It, doesn't make you strive towards having a massive night.
For instance: Saturday night, after a good hour and a half lying in our hostel beds drying out from the rain, we headed to a restaurant for a feast, since we weren't footing the bill. It may seem childish to order Beef Tartar as an appetizer solely because it's the most expensive option, but when it's not your wallet doing the work, and when it's being paid for by the same people who didn't tell you any of the things you actually needed to know about living in Europe (such as the need for an Austrian bank account to do laundry in an actual washing machine - I'm getting pretty good at old-fashioned sink laundry, doo-rag and all), a "free meal" means soup beforehand, schnitzel for dinner, strudel for dessert, beer to wash it down and coffee afterwards. We were pretty much dead with sheer calorie intake by the end of it, but man - I have not eaten that well since The Diner. So we go out to take the Czech streets, knowing the exchange rate is for once on our side, and we literally stumble into the main square, with those Gothic towers and that Astronomical Clock and all that. Our chosen bar turns out to be the best idea ever, since there's a live band playing 1920s standards - clarinet, standing bass, a drum kit with only a snare and a cymbal, trombone, trumpet, and banjo - and I proceed to order a Bloody Mary and pretend we're the Lost Generation. Awesome.
On the way back to our hostel, liberally liquored after a Pina Colada (which was a Lotta Colada, really), Prague proves itself to be as surreal as ever. First, a black man in a pirate outfit, just chilling outside. Then, some people shouting in English: "YOU HAVE SEX AT HOME?!" "You're so loud." "I'M SHORT!" "That's why." Also, though I wasn't there to here it: "Fuck you, you logical being!" Lastly, three guys in head-covering Mickey Mouse masks, looking sinister and bizarre. All this in addition to the drag queen wielding a dildo we saw the night before. When we make it back to the hostel, the madness continues - two British dudes, drunk off their skulls and searching for a lighter, which, of course, I had. So I gave one of them a light, tried to get rid of him, only to have his friend come barging into the room - fortunately not my room, but room of other Central kids - and it was awkward and disturbing until I re-learned what I'd discovered in Oslo - British people are awesome. So, for the next hour and a half or more, wasted British fellow babbles with us, having as weird of a night as we are. Truthfully, I was tickled because he called me "quick" and "clever" which are things that I take for granted at Hamilton since Hamilton itself is supposed to be proof of such attributes - but a compliment's a compliment, and it was nice. The next morning we saw him and his band of British mates leaving the hostel in full Smurf attire, blue paint and all. A better ending I could not have invented.
I bought myself a cigarette case, because if I'm going to keep up this retarded habit, I might as well look classy doing it, and I was playing with it all the way back to Vienna, listening to Beirut (of course) as Bohemia rolled by. It was a nice weekend, really, and though a phone call to my family killed my buzz a bit afterwards, I went to bed at peace.
And that is the news for now, darlings. Back to wasting time and washing my socks in the sink.
13 April 2008
writers writing about what they write about when they write.
oh you wouldn’t want an angel watching over /surprise, surprise they wouldn’t wannna watch / another uninnocent, elegant fall into the unmagnificent lives of adults. - The National, "Mistaken for Strangers"
it's been a long time since i've felt Just Happy but i do now. i think that simple happiness is something that has tended to elude the both of us, but right now i don't feel bored or itchy or important or anything. it's a relief. - my best friend from high school, message to me, April 8th.
I'll tell you the tangible parts of this first, in hopes of making some semblance of sense. I had a good weekend; an indulgent, over-priced dinner at the lone T.G.I. Friday's in Vienna, solely for the nostalgia of good old American Restaurantism, hallucinating that we were actually on 41st and Yale, that I could walk out to my Oldsmobile and drive the three miles home with my iPod roaring and Marlboro smoke drifting out the window. Annie and I partook of the unspeakably awesome Natural History Museum, a steal at 3.50 Euros, with dinosaur bones and epic architecture and 100 year old taxidermied animals, including a walrus, and let me tell you, walruses are really fucking big. Drinks on Thursday and Saturday, little smoky cafes where we talked about death and our siblings and god knows what else. Saw The Third Man today, after taking the tour on Friday, seeing all the locations where they filmed. And then I came home, digging around online and uncovering a wealth of "publisher's blogs," detailing the perils of the business of books, the boring work-world of words, and felt shattering doubt come storming through the window like a crazy, malicious wind.
Because, really, what am I doing. What the hell do I think I'm doing.
Do you know about my State project? Well, let me tell you. It's the dumbest idea I've ever had, up there with novel-length Harry Potter fanfiction, with running three campus organizations at one time, with that time I tried to do Atkin's and nearly crashed my car driving home from Booker T due to lack of blood sugar. The gist is this: 50 pieces of sudden fiction, truncated stories no longer than 4-5 pages, one per state, ala Sufjan Stevens (I know, I'm a hack). Yesterday I finished California, and, after recycling a pair of exercises from workshops past, I've nudged this little monster of mine to 17 pieces, clocking in at 55 pages, 1.5 spaced, 12 pt. font. Fascinating stuff, I know, but this bastard of mine is the first real "project" I've ever undertaken - something with a set beginning and end, something that lets me read Wikipedia all day and push myself to experiment, something that makes me feel like I'm doing something real and actual and worthwhile. I received a 2.5 grand school-funded grant to go on a road-trip across the American West this summer with another Hamilton student, to hypothetically help me finish this thing. It's going to be my thesis, when that time comes. And it's ridiculous.
And I feel the nightmares coming on, feel everything my best friend is telling me not to feel - itchy, bored, and important - so I dive into the bathroom for a hopefully chemically-soothing cigarette, looking out the window at the building across the street. Most of the time, the building's windows are dark, but every now and again I get a peek in someone's nursery or living room. Tonight, the library was lit up - a room of shelves, all those volumes, and all I want, all I think I want, is one of them to have my name on it, to sit collecting dust somewhere. If I'm lucky, someone will underline some phrases I wrote, dog-ear a few pages, scribble a note in the margins. And this is the same kind of panic, happy at times with the sheer hugeness of my hopes, impossible with the enormity of possibilities, that makes my palms sweaty when I go to Gardner's Used Bookstore in Tulsa, when I went to Strand in New York - all those books. All these people. It just starts a string of questions I can't finish: What? Why? How?
But tonight, I'm wearing my Feel Better Sweater, and I'm smoking, when I hear the most tremendous sneeze that echoes all down the street - this is sneezing at the level of my Dad, an explosion of allergies, epic and cranium-shaking. And I poke my head out of the window and look down at the sidewalk 4 floors below, but there's just a leashless dog and his hip chick of an owner. And then I look up, and there's a man standing on the balcony of the top floor of the building across the street, and he waves, and I wave, and then he sneezes again and goes inside.
So I just started laughing.
I sometimes think that my sense of humor might be the only thing rallying me through the days when I sleep too long, the afternoons when I'm glued to the computer, the nights spent alone. So I have that to be grateful for - and being away from Campus Bureaucracy, away from Tulsa Claustrophobia. It just swings so much. But the saying goes: This too shall pass, which I've always liked, because it means Hold Your Breath and Savor It, or Don't Worry, Tomorrow Is On Its Way Already.
But this is what I do when I ought to be reading things in German. So much for bilingualism, no?
EDIT:
Much better now, courtesy of a Nutella-and-banana sandwich and a day spent with the little 'uns at the Vienna school, in the lovely 18th district where there are sidewalks and trees and it feels like a neighborhood (my district just feels like a district). I made up 3 new verses to Head Shoulder Knees and Toes, and while some of the kids make me want to yelp and run away, it just makes the nicer ones all the much nicer. After Crazy Class - 30 something 2nd graders, a screaming teacher, one of those mandatory I'm-going-to-whine-like-a-dog-until-you-call-on-me-students - I have Nice Quiet class, where there was a birthday today, so all the children sat around the cake and said their wishes for tiny Paul, who looked about 7 though he was turning 10. Then they cut up the cake, and I was just wandering around the classroom, trying to stay out of the way, learning new words in German, when there's a tiny tug on my shirt hem and tiny Paul is asking me if I'd like a piece of cake. It was about the most adorable thing in the world.
So I'm not nuts, not yet, at least. Registered for my Senior Year classes and it's going to be baller - Lit Theory, PRISON WRITING (with Doran Larson OH SWOON), Murder Madness and Mayhem Russian Literature, and an independent study. Also got my housing in order and I'm in a suite, thank god. And, finally, I'm doing my laundry at someone else's dorm because this is getting a little gross (BUT KARLI AND ARIEL ARE SENDING ME OLD NAVY JEANS AND THAT IS WHAT I CALL TRUE BLUE.) The end.
it's been a long time since i've felt Just Happy but i do now. i think that simple happiness is something that has tended to elude the both of us, but right now i don't feel bored or itchy or important or anything. it's a relief. - my best friend from high school, message to me, April 8th.
I'll tell you the tangible parts of this first, in hopes of making some semblance of sense. I had a good weekend; an indulgent, over-priced dinner at the lone T.G.I. Friday's in Vienna, solely for the nostalgia of good old American Restaurantism, hallucinating that we were actually on 41st and Yale, that I could walk out to my Oldsmobile and drive the three miles home with my iPod roaring and Marlboro smoke drifting out the window. Annie and I partook of the unspeakably awesome Natural History Museum, a steal at 3.50 Euros, with dinosaur bones and epic architecture and 100 year old taxidermied animals, including a walrus, and let me tell you, walruses are really fucking big. Drinks on Thursday and Saturday, little smoky cafes where we talked about death and our siblings and god knows what else. Saw The Third Man today, after taking the tour on Friday, seeing all the locations where they filmed. And then I came home, digging around online and uncovering a wealth of "publisher's blogs," detailing the perils of the business of books, the boring work-world of words, and felt shattering doubt come storming through the window like a crazy, malicious wind.
Because, really, what am I doing. What the hell do I think I'm doing.
Do you know about my State project? Well, let me tell you. It's the dumbest idea I've ever had, up there with novel-length Harry Potter fanfiction, with running three campus organizations at one time, with that time I tried to do Atkin's and nearly crashed my car driving home from Booker T due to lack of blood sugar. The gist is this: 50 pieces of sudden fiction, truncated stories no longer than 4-5 pages, one per state, ala Sufjan Stevens (I know, I'm a hack). Yesterday I finished California, and, after recycling a pair of exercises from workshops past, I've nudged this little monster of mine to 17 pieces, clocking in at 55 pages, 1.5 spaced, 12 pt. font. Fascinating stuff, I know, but this bastard of mine is the first real "project" I've ever undertaken - something with a set beginning and end, something that lets me read Wikipedia all day and push myself to experiment, something that makes me feel like I'm doing something real and actual and worthwhile. I received a 2.5 grand school-funded grant to go on a road-trip across the American West this summer with another Hamilton student, to hypothetically help me finish this thing. It's going to be my thesis, when that time comes. And it's ridiculous.
And I feel the nightmares coming on, feel everything my best friend is telling me not to feel - itchy, bored, and important - so I dive into the bathroom for a hopefully chemically-soothing cigarette, looking out the window at the building across the street. Most of the time, the building's windows are dark, but every now and again I get a peek in someone's nursery or living room. Tonight, the library was lit up - a room of shelves, all those volumes, and all I want, all I think I want, is one of them to have my name on it, to sit collecting dust somewhere. If I'm lucky, someone will underline some phrases I wrote, dog-ear a few pages, scribble a note in the margins. And this is the same kind of panic, happy at times with the sheer hugeness of my hopes, impossible with the enormity of possibilities, that makes my palms sweaty when I go to Gardner's Used Bookstore in Tulsa, when I went to Strand in New York - all those books. All these people. It just starts a string of questions I can't finish: What? Why? How?
But tonight, I'm wearing my Feel Better Sweater, and I'm smoking, when I hear the most tremendous sneeze that echoes all down the street - this is sneezing at the level of my Dad, an explosion of allergies, epic and cranium-shaking. And I poke my head out of the window and look down at the sidewalk 4 floors below, but there's just a leashless dog and his hip chick of an owner. And then I look up, and there's a man standing on the balcony of the top floor of the building across the street, and he waves, and I wave, and then he sneezes again and goes inside.
So I just started laughing.
I sometimes think that my sense of humor might be the only thing rallying me through the days when I sleep too long, the afternoons when I'm glued to the computer, the nights spent alone. So I have that to be grateful for - and being away from Campus Bureaucracy, away from Tulsa Claustrophobia. It just swings so much. But the saying goes: This too shall pass, which I've always liked, because it means Hold Your Breath and Savor It, or Don't Worry, Tomorrow Is On Its Way Already.
But this is what I do when I ought to be reading things in German. So much for bilingualism, no?
EDIT:
Much better now, courtesy of a Nutella-and-banana sandwich and a day spent with the little 'uns at the Vienna school, in the lovely 18th district where there are sidewalks and trees and it feels like a neighborhood (my district just feels like a district). I made up 3 new verses to Head Shoulder Knees and Toes, and while some of the kids make me want to yelp and run away, it just makes the nicer ones all the much nicer. After Crazy Class - 30 something 2nd graders, a screaming teacher, one of those mandatory I'm-going-to-whine-like-a-dog-until-you-call-on-me-students - I have Nice Quiet class, where there was a birthday today, so all the children sat around the cake and said their wishes for tiny Paul, who looked about 7 though he was turning 10. Then they cut up the cake, and I was just wandering around the classroom, trying to stay out of the way, learning new words in German, when there's a tiny tug on my shirt hem and tiny Paul is asking me if I'd like a piece of cake. It was about the most adorable thing in the world.
So I'm not nuts, not yet, at least. Registered for my Senior Year classes and it's going to be baller - Lit Theory, PRISON WRITING (with Doran Larson OH SWOON), Murder Madness and Mayhem Russian Literature, and an independent study. Also got my housing in order and I'm in a suite, thank god. And, finally, I'm doing my laundry at someone else's dorm because this is getting a little gross (BUT KARLI AND ARIEL ARE SENDING ME OLD NAVY JEANS AND THAT IS WHAT I CALL TRUE BLUE.) The end.
11 April 2008
nobody's reading this but then again it is spring.
Or: What A Little Booze and Sunshine Can Do.
Also or: A New List of Addictions.
As of today, Friday, April 11, exactly three months and 11 days since I landed in Frankfurt and exactly 2 months and 20-odd days before I return to Patriotic Soil, I am addicted to the following (in addition to cigarettes but I'm not going to list those unless I already did whoops):
Crackers: I'm on what I like to call The Cracker Diet. Crackers are cheap. Crackers do not go bad, at least not as dramatically as bread does. Crackers are also delicious with just about anything, such as cheese, honey, and more cheese. Also, cheese. I have apertifs for dinner. I'd like to amend my earlier statement about the Horrors of Dining Alone by adding that this experience is only dreadful when in the greater social context of A Restaurant. When it's in a Kitchen with Food You Prepared Yourself Even If It's Only Crackers and Cheese Again Because You Are Pretending to Be An Adult Now, it's glorious.
Doodling: Yes I could be paying attention and learning some German but I would much rather draw tiny caricatures of myself dressed like Robin and horribly drunk. I'm getting fairly good at it, too.
SUNSHINE AND NICE WEATHER: Makes a load of difference. This is Minor-Field, beer in the afternoon, laze away outside weather, when lying on some grass is an activity that can occupy most of the day. It's great. In fact, that's where I'm going now, before we reconvene for THE THIRD MAN TOUR which is going to actually explode my mind.
Also or: A New List of Addictions.
As of today, Friday, April 11, exactly three months and 11 days since I landed in Frankfurt and exactly 2 months and 20-odd days before I return to Patriotic Soil, I am addicted to the following (in addition to cigarettes but I'm not going to list those unless I already did whoops):
Crackers: I'm on what I like to call The Cracker Diet. Crackers are cheap. Crackers do not go bad, at least not as dramatically as bread does. Crackers are also delicious with just about anything, such as cheese, honey, and more cheese. Also, cheese. I have apertifs for dinner. I'd like to amend my earlier statement about the Horrors of Dining Alone by adding that this experience is only dreadful when in the greater social context of A Restaurant. When it's in a Kitchen with Food You Prepared Yourself Even If It's Only Crackers and Cheese Again Because You Are Pretending to Be An Adult Now, it's glorious.
Doodling: Yes I could be paying attention and learning some German but I would much rather draw tiny caricatures of myself dressed like Robin and horribly drunk. I'm getting fairly good at it, too.
SUNSHINE AND NICE WEATHER: Makes a load of difference. This is Minor-Field, beer in the afternoon, laze away outside weather, when lying on some grass is an activity that can occupy most of the day. It's great. In fact, that's where I'm going now, before we reconvene for THE THIRD MAN TOUR which is going to actually explode my mind.
06 April 2008
bad nights and good days.
Subtitled: A Weekend Worth Writing About.
My lone class was canceled on Friday, which gave me ample time to have what Annie probably rightly diagnosed as a complete and total blood sugar crash, wherein I, after sitting at my computer for far too long looking at such worthwhile sites as Where The Hell is Matt (and not the Kanye Grammy performance which if you have not seen MUST BE CHECKED OUT), have a smoke and then realize I'm about to fall over and am sweating and what feels a lot like dying. So then I ate something and realized my Just Don't Eat for Long Stretches Because It Is Expensive and I Am Broke and Overweight Anyway strategy was pretty fucking stupid.
But then! I met up with Pat Hodgens, a fellow Hamiltonian en route from his program in somewhere near London to a week-long farm stay in little town Austria, and we had coffee at this divey little coffeeshop that you would never suspect is completely awesome. I went there the first time on Wednesday night, when the tables were cramped and the waiters overworked - we asked if we could see a menu, and the tuxedo'd man just shouted "THERE IS NONE." But we also got secret Buechteln donut-cakes and pretended we were not lost Americans. Connie, one of Annie's visiting compadres, led us there before she departed for India - which just reinforced my loserly idea that everyone is having grander adventures than I am, which was, in turn, why it was so nice to see Pat, who is suffering the same Study Abroad Malaise and Confusion that I am. What are we supposed to be doing here, exactly? Aren't our lives supposed to be changing on a daily basis, and shouldn't we be having perspective-warping epiphanies when walking down the street? Why do we spend so much time missing our dogs, cheap beer, and readily-edible snacks? Other than being fantastic company for an afternoon, it was awesome to see Pat solely as consolation, because try as we might, not every single moment is going to be world-imploding. And maybe that's the realization we'll all end up having.
After a dinner of Doeners, Annie and I saw Juno, a nice little film and infinitely nicer when I wasn't seeing it by myself in Oslo and with a plastic cup of beer more fitting for a baseball game than a movie. Snagged some fancy ice cream and called it a night, due to sleepiness more than anything, and I was snuggled up in bed dreaming away when my roommate barged in at who knows what hour - not unusual, really, but this time she wasn't exactly alone. And though I might sleep through tornadoes at home, I was unhappily unable to drown out the noises of the hanky-panky going on in the bed on the other side of my room. Freshmen, take heed: do not have sex in the room when you're roommate is "asleep." Unless your roommate is actually, certifiably dead, as in not amongst the living, has perished, is a corpse, she will certainly, definitely hear you, no matter how quiet you're trying to be. It sucked. It really, really sucked. And I have not seen my roommate - or rather, heard my roommate - since, as she has disappeared for a day now.
But, on the plus side, so as not to deal with awkward morning encounters, I ran from the dorm on Saturday morning (after, of course, slyly scoping out and consequently judging this random dude - for some reason it would've been one thing had he been some dashing Austrian prince, but he was pudgy and had a neck tattoo and I was more than happy to never see him again) and stayed out as long as possible. Went to a nearby cafe and wrote for a while (my friends have taken to calling it "Pulling A Rachel" - I remember the same phrase had a completely different definition once, namely leaving a party without saying bye to anyone), told the awful tale of the night before to Annie, collected the boys and set off for The Third Man Private Collection.
I read an article about how certain areas of the world had a tourist boom following filming there - kids are gung-ho to ride the "real Hogwarts Express," nearly every native in Salzburg hates the Sound of Music - and I initially thought "HOW RIDICULOUS" until I remembered I came to Vienna because of a movie. I think I've seen The Third Man at least a dozen times since that fateful first viewing in Intro Film class Freshman year, and I'm going to go see it again as soon as I can (there's a theater here that plays it twice a week, year-round). I'm obsessed with Orson Welles and have his picture in my wallet (where a real photo of a real boyfriend ought to be). So, yes, I did kind of explode while we were at the Collection - we got to watch a scene from one of the original film strips, played through a 1936 projector, in addition to the approximately one million posters of the film, bios on all the actors, a room devoted to Post WWII Vienna to give a better context for the film, and souvenirs including a mug that reveals Harry Lime's face when you pour something hot into it (I didn't buy one, but I might). So awesome. If you haven't seen it yet, you really, really should, or better yet, you should wait until I'm available and we can watch my trusty copy together. That goes for everyone.
Satiated, we nabbed a bite to eat at the Naschmarkt and headed for the Reisenrad, the gigantic ferris wheel of Third Man fame, where Harry and Holly meet in the scene that made me fall in love with Young Orson Welles forever. I've been on the Reisenrad once before, in 2006 when Matthew and I ran around Vienna for one exhausting weekend, but it's still awesome - you can see all of Vienna from the windows, though we spent most of the ride shopping for rides in the surrounding Prater amusement park. Again, I have to go back with the script in hand, so I can threaten to kill my former best friend and say "old man" a lot and then deliver that kicker of a line about the Renaissance and cuckoo clocks (SERIOUSLY YOU GUYS HAVE TO WATCH THIS MOVIE). Instead, we rode some rides - my first 'dizzy mouse' roller coaster, next door to the Super 8 Bahn which was probably not as frightening as all my screaming made it seem, and then a gigantic spinning swing thing that lets you see pretty much all of Europe with naught but a bar between you and the rest of the world. Unfortunately, we were weeping by the end of it, not with emotion but merely with wind, because it's really damned windy on the top of the world. Annie, because she is batshit crazy, rode some horrible spin-you-in-all-directions-including-upside-down-while-strobe-lights-and-German-techno-are-playing
ride called EXTAZY - reminded me of The Himalaya at Bell's, solely for the awful air-brushed murals all around it. R.I.P., Bell's Amusement Park. I don't know what the hell Tulsa was thinking.
So amusement parks are great, and so is beer, because we had some sushi for dinner and actually found a bar, for once, under the U6 Line, where we talked about outer space for the better part of an hour and then managed to return ourselves home via Night Transportation. I was tipsy enough to run into the flower-beds of City Hall and snag a daffodill, because even though my jacket has multiple phony pockets, it does have ample space for a faux boutonnière. I had to spell-check that one, just for the record.
I think I'm watching The Godfather tonight with fellow dormitory-mates, and tomorrow I've got to teach English to small children. Indeed!
My lone class was canceled on Friday, which gave me ample time to have what Annie probably rightly diagnosed as a complete and total blood sugar crash, wherein I, after sitting at my computer for far too long looking at such worthwhile sites as Where The Hell is Matt (and not the Kanye Grammy performance which if you have not seen MUST BE CHECKED OUT), have a smoke and then realize I'm about to fall over and am sweating and what feels a lot like dying. So then I ate something and realized my Just Don't Eat for Long Stretches Because It Is Expensive and I Am Broke and Overweight Anyway strategy was pretty fucking stupid.
But then! I met up with Pat Hodgens, a fellow Hamiltonian en route from his program in somewhere near London to a week-long farm stay in little town Austria, and we had coffee at this divey little coffeeshop that you would never suspect is completely awesome. I went there the first time on Wednesday night, when the tables were cramped and the waiters overworked - we asked if we could see a menu, and the tuxedo'd man just shouted "THERE IS NONE." But we also got secret Buechteln donut-cakes and pretended we were not lost Americans. Connie, one of Annie's visiting compadres, led us there before she departed for India - which just reinforced my loserly idea that everyone is having grander adventures than I am, which was, in turn, why it was so nice to see Pat, who is suffering the same Study Abroad Malaise and Confusion that I am. What are we supposed to be doing here, exactly? Aren't our lives supposed to be changing on a daily basis, and shouldn't we be having perspective-warping epiphanies when walking down the street? Why do we spend so much time missing our dogs, cheap beer, and readily-edible snacks? Other than being fantastic company for an afternoon, it was awesome to see Pat solely as consolation, because try as we might, not every single moment is going to be world-imploding. And maybe that's the realization we'll all end up having.
After a dinner of Doeners, Annie and I saw Juno, a nice little film and infinitely nicer when I wasn't seeing it by myself in Oslo and with a plastic cup of beer more fitting for a baseball game than a movie. Snagged some fancy ice cream and called it a night, due to sleepiness more than anything, and I was snuggled up in bed dreaming away when my roommate barged in at who knows what hour - not unusual, really, but this time she wasn't exactly alone. And though I might sleep through tornadoes at home, I was unhappily unable to drown out the noises of the hanky-panky going on in the bed on the other side of my room. Freshmen, take heed: do not have sex in the room when you're roommate is "asleep." Unless your roommate is actually, certifiably dead, as in not amongst the living, has perished, is a corpse, she will certainly, definitely hear you, no matter how quiet you're trying to be. It sucked. It really, really sucked. And I have not seen my roommate - or rather, heard my roommate - since, as she has disappeared for a day now.
But, on the plus side, so as not to deal with awkward morning encounters, I ran from the dorm on Saturday morning (after, of course, slyly scoping out and consequently judging this random dude - for some reason it would've been one thing had he been some dashing Austrian prince, but he was pudgy and had a neck tattoo and I was more than happy to never see him again) and stayed out as long as possible. Went to a nearby cafe and wrote for a while (my friends have taken to calling it "Pulling A Rachel" - I remember the same phrase had a completely different definition once, namely leaving a party without saying bye to anyone), told the awful tale of the night before to Annie, collected the boys and set off for The Third Man Private Collection.
I read an article about how certain areas of the world had a tourist boom following filming there - kids are gung-ho to ride the "real Hogwarts Express," nearly every native in Salzburg hates the Sound of Music - and I initially thought "HOW RIDICULOUS" until I remembered I came to Vienna because of a movie. I think I've seen The Third Man at least a dozen times since that fateful first viewing in Intro Film class Freshman year, and I'm going to go see it again as soon as I can (there's a theater here that plays it twice a week, year-round). I'm obsessed with Orson Welles and have his picture in my wallet (where a real photo of a real boyfriend ought to be). So, yes, I did kind of explode while we were at the Collection - we got to watch a scene from one of the original film strips, played through a 1936 projector, in addition to the approximately one million posters of the film, bios on all the actors, a room devoted to Post WWII Vienna to give a better context for the film, and souvenirs including a mug that reveals Harry Lime's face when you pour something hot into it (I didn't buy one, but I might). So awesome. If you haven't seen it yet, you really, really should, or better yet, you should wait until I'm available and we can watch my trusty copy together. That goes for everyone.
Satiated, we nabbed a bite to eat at the Naschmarkt and headed for the Reisenrad, the gigantic ferris wheel of Third Man fame, where Harry and Holly meet in the scene that made me fall in love with Young Orson Welles forever. I've been on the Reisenrad once before, in 2006 when Matthew and I ran around Vienna for one exhausting weekend, but it's still awesome - you can see all of Vienna from the windows, though we spent most of the ride shopping for rides in the surrounding Prater amusement park. Again, I have to go back with the script in hand, so I can threaten to kill my former best friend and say "old man" a lot and then deliver that kicker of a line about the Renaissance and cuckoo clocks (SERIOUSLY YOU GUYS HAVE TO WATCH THIS MOVIE). Instead, we rode some rides - my first 'dizzy mouse' roller coaster, next door to the Super 8 Bahn which was probably not as frightening as all my screaming made it seem, and then a gigantic spinning swing thing that lets you see pretty much all of Europe with naught but a bar between you and the rest of the world. Unfortunately, we were weeping by the end of it, not with emotion but merely with wind, because it's really damned windy on the top of the world. Annie, because she is batshit crazy, rode some horrible spin-you-in-all-directions-including-upside-down-while-strobe-lights-and-German-techno-are-playing
ride called EXTAZY - reminded me of The Himalaya at Bell's, solely for the awful air-brushed murals all around it. R.I.P., Bell's Amusement Park. I don't know what the hell Tulsa was thinking.
So amusement parks are great, and so is beer, because we had some sushi for dinner and actually found a bar, for once, under the U6 Line, where we talked about outer space for the better part of an hour and then managed to return ourselves home via Night Transportation. I was tipsy enough to run into the flower-beds of City Hall and snag a daffodill, because even though my jacket has multiple phony pockets, it does have ample space for a faux boutonnière. I had to spell-check that one, just for the record.
I think I'm watching The Godfather tonight with fellow dormitory-mates, and tomorrow I've got to teach English to small children. Indeed!
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