Singing hymns while marching is always a risky undertaking. The physics of it produces some unwanted and embarrasing complications, and no congregation that I have yet observed, no matter how musical or devout, has surmounted them with any success. But today a miracle happened.
The good Lutherans of St. Matthäus were invited one Sunday by their Catholic neighbours down the street to take part in a joint-service, with the first half taking place in the Lutheran chapel, and the second in the Catholic. At half-time, as we processed down the sidewalk, someone in the middle of the train felt moved by the Spirit and began to sing a hymn. One by one the rest of us joined in, until the whole procession was singing as one. Well, for a while, anyway. Strung out along the block as we were, hindered by imperfect human time-keeping and by the finite speed of sound on a windy day, different tempos began developing up and down the line. The hymn began to wobble like a slinky. The phase-shifts became so long that the vanguard of the parade would be wrapping up a verse right as those at the caboose-end were just gearing up to start it. And we knew it. That awful communal embarrassment that ensues when a group realizes that a spiritual moment has started to collapse, like a failed round of applause that one brave person tries to jump-start but then awkwardly withdraws when no one else joins in, leaving the unapplauded person feeling like a dope.
And now for that miracle I promised. Too much of a bad thing became a good thing. The temporal gap between front and back grew exactly long enough that in one magic instant the hymn became a canon! We sensed it instantly and seized upon it. We began singing in a round, first in two voices, then in three. It was flash-mob harmony. In a positive feedback loop, the resonance grew in strength. Each mini-chorus could hold down its own part with confidence, and by the time the doors of the Catholic church came into view, the whole procession was bellowing praises to God, in perfect discipline, a choir of hundreds conducted by the unseen Spirit.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Monday, December 17, 2012
Christmas in Salzburg
Christmas traditions here are almost identical to those back home, but we are enjoying some of the Austrian nuances of the holiday. We've traded off stockings on Christmas morning for stuffed boots on December 6th. German Christmas hymns are more vivid and fun for kids than traditional English ones, I find. (Hark the Herald? Who's Herald?) But if you really want a German-style Christmas, you decorate your tree with lit candles instead of electric lights! We're trying it this year, keeping that 10-litre bucket of holy water close at hand.
Salzburg does Christmas markets better than anywhere I've seen. The warm glow of the booths selling hand-crafted ornaments, the jaw-dropping, jaw-killing array of sweets, the ever-present brass quartet, the gentle snow that seems to know to begin falling as soon as you enter the market, and the smell of the chestnuts and the Glühwein (a hot spiced wine that soothes a sore throat like nothing else)—it puts us all in a warm, nostalgic haze. And so the euros slip from our pockets, booth after booth, like angels ascending to heaven.
The children are all old enough to want to gift one another for Christmas, and so everyone is hiding gifts from everyone else. Cracks are appearing in the disguise, though, like when a giver is caught reading the book he/she had meant as a present—often by the recipient. Or like poor Cornelia, who knit adorable caps and vests for Bettina's stuffed mice. Cornelia had meant them as a present and hidden them accordingly, but a nosey Bettina discovered them in the drawer—twice. After the second discovery, Cornelia gave up and just handed them to her.
There is a larger disappointment, though. In a country as Catholic as this and with a history so interwoven with that of the Church, I'd been expecting a feistier resistance to the commercial monolith. But here as in North America, the dominance of secular Christmas is thorough and unquestioned. Jesus has been relegated to Sunday mornings, when the pastor reminds us yet again that He is the reason for the season.
Salzburg does Christmas markets better than anywhere I've seen. The warm glow of the booths selling hand-crafted ornaments, the jaw-dropping, jaw-killing array of sweets, the ever-present brass quartet, the gentle snow that seems to know to begin falling as soon as you enter the market, and the smell of the chestnuts and the Glühwein (a hot spiced wine that soothes a sore throat like nothing else)—it puts us all in a warm, nostalgic haze. And so the euros slip from our pockets, booth after booth, like angels ascending to heaven.
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The children are all old enough to want to gift one another for Christmas, and so everyone is hiding gifts from everyone else. Cracks are appearing in the disguise, though, like when a giver is caught reading the book he/she had meant as a present—often by the recipient. Or like poor Cornelia, who knit adorable caps and vests for Bettina's stuffed mice. Cornelia had meant them as a present and hidden them accordingly, but a nosey Bettina discovered them in the drawer—twice. After the second discovery, Cornelia gave up and just handed them to her.
There is a larger disappointment, though. In a country as Catholic as this and with a history so interwoven with that of the Church, I'd been expecting a feistier resistance to the commercial monolith. But here as in North America, the dominance of secular Christmas is thorough and unquestioned. Jesus has been relegated to Sunday mornings, when the pastor reminds us yet again that He is the reason for the season.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Church math
The family-Sunday service at St. Matthew's is a smash. Happy hymns with guitars (very non-German!), kids doing the readings, kids dancing in the aisle. The gospel and sermon are on Jesus's instruction to forgive 70 times 7. How can a pastor in a service full of elementary school children resist asking the obvious question? Three guesses who raised her hand and answered. "Vier hundert neunzig!"
Tea time with tantes
It's 3:15, we have aunts coming for tea at 4:00, and somewhere in the apartment there is a sock lying on someone's bedroom floor. That's enough to put Therese and me in drill-sergeant mode, and we scrub the entire apartment left, right and sideways. I do dishes. Therese vacuums. The three children whine about the unfairness of being made to do their 5%. Getting them to do it is more work than doing it myself (and they know that—it's part of their strategy), but at 3:58 the place is spotless, the dining room arrayed for a tea party Jane Austen could write about.
Our Austrian aunts are very aunt-like: cheerful, doting on the children, and of course bearing a two-ton chocolate cake, wrapped in a box with a ribbon. After cake and tea I politely excuse myself to go entertain the kids, whose interest in the conversation waned once their cake plate was scraped clean.
We play my patented "What Do You Want?" game, which has to be one of the dumbest games ever invented in the history of fatherhood, but the kids make me play it again and again. (It's basically an excuse to throw giggling children into a pile of pillows on the bed.) Even Cornelia, who's immersed in her paint-by-number, gets sucked in. "Hey guys, stop making me laugh, I'm trying to concentrate." To which I retort, "Stop making us concentrate, we're trying to laugh."
Our Austrian aunts are very aunt-like: cheerful, doting on the children, and of course bearing a two-ton chocolate cake, wrapped in a box with a ribbon. After cake and tea I politely excuse myself to go entertain the kids, whose interest in the conversation waned once their cake plate was scraped clean.
We play my patented "What Do You Want?" game, which has to be one of the dumbest games ever invented in the history of fatherhood, but the kids make me play it again and again. (It's basically an excuse to throw giggling children into a pile of pillows on the bed.) Even Cornelia, who's immersed in her paint-by-number, gets sucked in. "Hey guys, stop making me laugh, I'm trying to concentrate." To which I retort, "Stop making us concentrate, we're trying to laugh."
Home-grown Parcheesi
Remember the board game Parcheesi? I loved it as a kid, and Bettina's just the right age for it. I could order the game from Amazon...Nah! We've got cardboard and markers! With some memory-jogging from Google Images, we draw up a board in an afternoon and get in two games before dinner. If we'd ordered it, we'd still be waiting.
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 And when you get tired of that, there's always playdough. |
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Thanksgiving international style
Our English-speaking church in Salzburg hosted an international Thanksgiving.
As Canadian delegates, we felt it our patriotic duty to make Nanaimo bars. The kids and I had made them the day before. (They're supposed to "age"). They came out a bit rough around the edges, clearly a home-job and nothing you'd sell in a bakery, but good enough for a pot-luck where no one knows what they are anyway.
But what a hit! The moment I set them out, I was descended upon by a flock of admirers who took a great sudden interest in all things Canadian and wanted to know exactly what was in them, especially that yellow stuff in the middle, and whether they might please sample one for quality assurance. I shooed them away, seeing as we hadn't said grace yet, let alone started the main course.
Well, grace couldn't come soon enough. The first two turkeys were gutted within ten minutes, and Therese volunteered me to carve the next one. I found a knife and a pan to set the slices in, but the latter was wholly unnecessary; a flash-queue formed at my elbow as soon as I started slicing, and I spent as much time serving the turkey as carving it. Not part of the original job description, but it was fun nonetheless.
Cornelia loaded her plate with enough desserts to feed three people, but she was inspired and finished the whole set. Therese stayed for clean-up crew (anything to avoid bedtime child-duty), while the girls bussed me home, seeing that their tired father needed to be put to bed.
As Canadian delegates, we felt it our patriotic duty to make Nanaimo bars. The kids and I had made them the day before. (They're supposed to "age"). They came out a bit rough around the edges, clearly a home-job and nothing you'd sell in a bakery, but good enough for a pot-luck where no one knows what they are anyway.
But what a hit! The moment I set them out, I was descended upon by a flock of admirers who took a great sudden interest in all things Canadian and wanted to know exactly what was in them, especially that yellow stuff in the middle, and whether they might please sample one for quality assurance. I shooed them away, seeing as we hadn't said grace yet, let alone started the main course.
Well, grace couldn't come soon enough. The first two turkeys were gutted within ten minutes, and Therese volunteered me to carve the next one. I found a knife and a pan to set the slices in, but the latter was wholly unnecessary; a flash-queue formed at my elbow as soon as I started slicing, and I spent as much time serving the turkey as carving it. Not part of the original job description, but it was fun nonetheless.
Cornelia loaded her plate with enough desserts to feed three people, but she was inspired and finished the whole set. Therese stayed for clean-up crew (anything to avoid bedtime child-duty), while the girls bussed me home, seeing that their tired father needed to be put to bed.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Serious silliness
"It's the mayonaise bus!" says Bettina as the white 28-bus approaches our stop. She loves how the Salzburg buses come in multiple colours. Some mornings we ride the ketchup bus. Other days we ride the lime bus, and if we're lucky we get a blackberry bus. And when we're tired of riding mayonaise buses, we'll call the white bus a marshmallow bus instead.
We get the sillies at the park, too. The girls like it when we run races and I accidentally on purpose mess up the count. "On your mark…GO!" is perhaps their favourite. But they were not amused when we were about to race to the tree and back, and I said, "We'll start on the count of seven. Ready? One…SEVEN! GO!" I'd neglected to mention I would be counting by sixes. They made me start over.
Friday, November 23, 2012
What passes for poetry around here
The older girls have gotten into making up tricked-you-into-thinking-it-would-rhyme verses. They'll write things like
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Sugar is sweet
And so are...marshmallows.
or
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
All the king's horses and all the kings men
Couldn't put...out the fire.
Or this one, to the tune of It's Raining.
It's drizzling, it's sizzling
The old man is fizzling
He fell into a pot
And he got too hot
So he had to be rescued by...Ralph.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
We have beggars here, too
The mornings are growing colder. The beggar on the sidewalk is holding his coin cup with his hands pulled inside the cuffs of his sleeves. Bettina and I see beggars often along this stretch, but this particular sight tears at my heart. I have no small bills to offer him, and we pass awkwardly by. Bettina asks me why beggars beg. She already knows that money comes from people working, and I explain as best I can. Something about the double cruelty of not being able to work and having no family or friends to turn to. "Can we give him some food, Daddy?" That's an excellent idea. There's a grocery store right here. Bettina will be late for kindergarten, but this is education, too. We go in, and she helps me pick out some things—bananas and a bag of rolls—and we walk the half-kilometre back to where the man is crouched. I speak to him and Bettina holds out the items to him. He takes her hand and kisses it. His smile is half toothless, but Bettina does not recoil. She's too young to be afraid, too wise not to smile back. Jesus was right; sometimes kids are wiser than the rest of us, we who have perhaps just seen too much, who have forgotten just how insulated, tepid and comfortable we really are, how afraid we are to go near anything less comfortable than ourselves.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
The jeans that escaped the gallows
Last week Cornelia's favourite pair of jeans sprung a hole at the knee that was too big to pass inspection at the door. I handed down the death sentence. She appealed it. She got out the sewing kit, cut a denim oval from another pair of jeans awaiting a donation run (my own pair, it turned out), stitched her name onto it for emphasis, and patched her jeans with it. The donor tissue was a match, and the graft held. It's as if she were descended from an Oma who lived through the post-war or something.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Auf deutsch!
The kids have learned as much German at the public library as they have at school. Back in Waterloo, you couldn't beat Cornelia or Vanessa into picking up a German book. Now they devour them. They got over the hump by reading German editions of books they already knew in English: Calvin & Hobbes, Ramona Quimby, Garfield, Chester, The Smurfs, and now recently Harry Potter. Cornelia has now re-read the first six Harry Potter books in German.
My own German, I fear, is about as fluent as it's going to get, which is to say, not very. At least in this area, I'll settle for living through the accomplishments of my children.
My own German, I fear, is about as fluent as it's going to get, which is to say, not very. At least in this area, I'll settle for living through the accomplishments of my children.
Parenthood in the big city
Living in a dense city centre has been a windfall for Therese and me as parents. North American suburbs are designed to make every destination in the city — school, shopping, church, parks, doctors offices, music lessons — far away and dangerous to get to outside the fortress of a steel automobile. Thus, kids in suburbs can't go many places unescorted, making it harder to teach them independence.
The densely knit neighbourhoods of old European cities are a welcome foil to this model. Because the buses are so frequent and so kid-friendly (a computer-voice announces each stop), Cornelia now braves the city bus to the library and home again on her own. The first time we let her do it (and I admit I was anxious as hell), she came home beaming, almost trembling, with self-satisfaction.
We often send Vanessa with 10 euros and a shopping list to the corner grocery store, which she can walk to in under three minutes. And she loves it! She begs to be sent. "Mom, we're out of sliced almonds. Do you want me to go to the store?"
Their school is just as close, so the girls can walk themselves there and back each day. At 11:47 sharp every morning, whether I've gotten any work done or not, that (damned) door bell rings, and I push the buzzer to let the girls in. From inside the apartment, I hear the street door click open, then the echo of their foot falls as they climb the stairs. I make them lunch, send them to do their homework, then boot Cornelia back out the door for her second half of school. (But not Vanessa, since she only goes half-days. And it's killing me.) With two heavy doors and two flights of stairs between her and the street, I feel safe leaving Vanessa at home while I go pick up Bettina from kindergarten. Bettina hates being picked up, which of course is a great sign. But we miss an awful lot of buses on account of it.
The densely knit neighbourhoods of old European cities are a welcome foil to this model. Because the buses are so frequent and so kid-friendly (a computer-voice announces each stop), Cornelia now braves the city bus to the library and home again on her own. The first time we let her do it (and I admit I was anxious as hell), she came home beaming, almost trembling, with self-satisfaction.
We often send Vanessa with 10 euros and a shopping list to the corner grocery store, which she can walk to in under three minutes. And she loves it! She begs to be sent. "Mom, we're out of sliced almonds. Do you want me to go to the store?"
Their school is just as close, so the girls can walk themselves there and back each day. At 11:47 sharp every morning, whether I've gotten any work done or not, that (damned) door bell rings, and I push the buzzer to let the girls in. From inside the apartment, I hear the street door click open, then the echo of their foot falls as they climb the stairs. I make them lunch, send them to do their homework, then boot Cornelia back out the door for her second half of school. (But not Vanessa, since she only goes half-days. And it's killing me.) With two heavy doors and two flights of stairs between her and the street, I feel safe leaving Vanessa at home while I go pick up Bettina from kindergarten. Bettina hates being picked up, which of course is a great sign. But we miss an awful lot of buses on account of it.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
The Music!
Salzburg is perhaps best known for its classical music. (Sorry, folks, but The Sound of Music is for tourists.) I knew that before we came, of course, but only after attending several concerts did I see why: the people here value it. Every concert in the city sells out, every night. In four concerts by different groups in different venues, I have yet to see an empty seat. One example: I took Cornelia to a Sunday matinée concert of Mozart and Brahms, expecting the usual 200-300 people in plaid and denim that you'd see at a similar Sunday event in Waterloo. Not so. The hall of 2,500 was filled to the last seat, everyone in formal attire, champage served at intermission. Cornelia and I found our seats and wondered why no one had taken our tickets yet. Did we skirt the gate without knowing it? Oh no, it's honor system, explained the couple seated next to us. Just like the bus system. I love this country.
After the performance I chatted with one of the performers, whom we know from church. I asked her what other gigs she does during the week. "Oh, this is it," she said. This orchestra is full-time?! That a city of barely 140,000 can (and will) support a 100-piece orchestra at full-time salary is hard for a Canadian mind to fathom. And there's about ten such groups in the city, with innumerable small groups in between. There is, however, no hockey team.
The performance itself was wonderful. I was worried Cornelia might be bored with the long, ponderous program, but she had a great time. She was amused by the peculiar tradition of holding applause until the end of the final movement of a piece. Perhaps it's a symptom of the age demographic in the room and its corresponding health issues, but we both laughed at the pent-up communal coughing fit that ensues at the close of each movement. In her words, "Oh, so you cough after movements 1, 2 and 3, and clap after movement 4?" You got it, kid.
The middle piece of the program was by Fazil Say, a "modern" composer. And we all know what that means. ("Get the cat off the piano!") I made myself stay open minded, and the effort was worth it. The eclectic mix of percussion and a host of instruments I'd never heard before — ever heard a theremin? It's apparently the only instrument that you play without actually touching it — made the piece fun for me, though still challenging for a 9-year-old. The latter observed, "It sounded like five different composers wrote five different pieces and played them all at the same time." Thankfully the final symphony by Brahms was beautiful (as only Brahms can be) and refreshingly normal.
After the performance I chatted with one of the performers, whom we know from church. I asked her what other gigs she does during the week. "Oh, this is it," she said. This orchestra is full-time?! That a city of barely 140,000 can (and will) support a 100-piece orchestra at full-time salary is hard for a Canadian mind to fathom. And there's about ten such groups in the city, with innumerable small groups in between. There is, however, no hockey team.
The performance itself was wonderful. I was worried Cornelia might be bored with the long, ponderous program, but she had a great time. She was amused by the peculiar tradition of holding applause until the end of the final movement of a piece. Perhaps it's a symptom of the age demographic in the room and its corresponding health issues, but we both laughed at the pent-up communal coughing fit that ensues at the close of each movement. In her words, "Oh, so you cough after movements 1, 2 and 3, and clap after movement 4?" You got it, kid.
The middle piece of the program was by Fazil Say, a "modern" composer. And we all know what that means. ("Get the cat off the piano!") I made myself stay open minded, and the effort was worth it. The eclectic mix of percussion and a host of instruments I'd never heard before — ever heard a theremin? It's apparently the only instrument that you play without actually touching it — made the piece fun for me, though still challenging for a 9-year-old. The latter observed, "It sounded like five different composers wrote five different pieces and played them all at the same time." Thankfully the final symphony by Brahms was beautiful (as only Brahms can be) and refreshingly normal.
Friday, September 28, 2012
The joy of watching European ballroom champions!
A day I've been waiting for all month! The 2012 European 10-Dance Championships are in Salzburg this year. I scooped up a ticket as soon as the first posters went up.
Before today, I had always thought that ballroom dancers at this level were so polished, so impossibly perfect, as to be indistinguishable to all but the judges; that judges alone could spot the split-second differences in foot work, floor craft, angles and timing that separate 1st place from 6th. But watching from the bleachers, I am delighted to see that this is not so. As the semi-finalists, and then the finalists, are announced, I find that my own preferences matched the judges' 90% of the time! Meaning, they could just have well have given me a judge's clipboard and gotten similar results — and for a lot cheaper, too.
I feel sorry for the spectators who paid 1400 euros for a floor-side VIP table and the six-course meal; from their ground-level view, they have, ironically, the worst view in the house because of the foot-high placard ads that surround the dance floor. My cheapskate 85-euro seat in the bleachers gives me a far better view.
Even so, the best view of the dancers is off stage where the dancers warm up before their heat. I sneak under the bleachers to watch them. They are literally within arms' reach of me. Their precision, their incredible speed and the intricacy of their choreography hits me full in the face. If they weren't right before my eyes, I'd have sworn it was enhanced by CGI effects!
Even so, the best view of the dancers is off stage where the dancers warm up before their heat. I sneak under the bleachers to watch them. They are literally within arms' reach of me. Their precision, their incredible speed and the intricacy of their choreography hits me full in the face. If they weren't right before my eyes, I'd have sworn it was enhanced by CGI effects!
Saint Therese, meanwhile, in a noble act of magnanimous adult sacrifice, has taken the children to the kiddy-rides carnival — for the whole day — so that I may enjoy this once-in-a-lifetime experience. Marry well, people. It is my number-one advice to young adults today. Marry well.
Why you don't take the kids out to eat in Europe
I'ts a gorgeous almost-fall day. So after school, we pack up the swim suits, perhaps for the last time this year, and bus to Lake Salzachsee. In full sunshine and a mountain breeze, I dive into the lake and casually observe that the temperature of the water on this fine September day feels just a touch — WHOA, THAT'S COLD! ("He's all right, folks. Cancel the ambulance. He's still moving.") Inspired by dad's brave example, the kids swim and run and squeal until the sun sets.
Watching the kids burn so many calories has made me ravenously hungry. I dumbly suggest we eat out tonight. In my malnourished state, I have forgotten that we are not in Canada anymore; we are in Europe, where restaurants cater, as a rule, to adult couples and tourists. Having changed at home, we're seated at a charming Austrian homestyle restaurant. And yet all of us are grouchy. I am wondering why no one is having any fun. Then it hits me: not only are there no kids' menus, but the kids can't even make sense of the adult menu, seeing as it's printed in this medieval Hear Ye! type face. The waiter had simply rattled off two things the chef could make for the kids — in a rapid dialect which the kids couldn't understand — and we'd chosen for them. Right off the bat, half the fun of eating out for a kid is gone. To fill the time in between, there is nothing for them. Crayons and drawable placemats? Shirley temples with crazy straws? Nope. North American inventions, not known here.
And they are taking their sweet time in the kitchen. Honeymooners will happily gaze over the table at each other for 45 minutes, but kids famished from swimming all day won't. Bettina is falling apart with hunger and boredom. Therese is starting to grumble, too. I hand out pretzel sticks from our bag just to prevent a mutiny.
Praise heavens, the food is truly delicious when it finally comes, and everyone's moods improve. In this sense, I suppose the 20 extra gourmet-minutes the chef spent primping the meal were worth it, but this dad has learned his lesson.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Nature Still Makes The Best Toys
In the past three months, Vanessa has developed into the family athlete. From which generation in the family tree she inherits this gene, fully dorment in her two hapless parents, we cannot tell. But whatever the source, Vanessa knows no greater joy than when she is climbing. Trees. Boulders. Ropes. And her favourite is rock-climbing walls. It's the first thing she heads for at any playground. So as a weekend treat, I take the kids to a rock-climbing gym I found in Salzburg. 
Three jaws drop when we enter the gym. Some of these walls are five storeys high. Most are meant for pros, to be attempted only with ropes, harness, and a spotter on the ground. But enough of them are kid-friendly to be worth the hefty admission. The girls climb hesitatingly at first but grow bolder when they learn to trust the foam-padded floor beneath them.
Time for a picnic lunch. As luck would have it, a beautiful brook empties into the Salzach river just outside the rock-climbing gym, with miniature stone beaches on either side of the delta. Instant playground! We'd paid 26 euros for two hours of indoor rock climbing, which required shoe rental. We paid 0 euros for an equal amount of outdoor rock climbing and river play, all in bare feet. Which was the better deal? Watching them play in the river with timeless abandon reminds me yet again that the best things in life are free, that unstructured play is the best play, and that even in the G6 wireless age, nature still makes the best toys.
Three jaws drop when we enter the gym. Some of these walls are five storeys high. Most are meant for pros, to be attempted only with ropes, harness, and a spotter on the ground. But enough of them are kid-friendly to be worth the hefty admission. The girls climb hesitatingly at first but grow bolder when they learn to trust the foam-padded floor beneath them.Time for a picnic lunch. As luck would have it, a beautiful brook empties into the Salzach river just outside the rock-climbing gym, with miniature stone beaches on either side of the delta. Instant playground! We'd paid 26 euros for two hours of indoor rock climbing, which required shoe rental. We paid 0 euros for an equal amount of outdoor rock climbing and river play, all in bare feet. Which was the better deal? Watching them play in the river with timeless abandon reminds me yet again that the best things in life are free, that unstructured play is the best play, and that even in the G6 wireless age, nature still makes the best toys.
School Here Is Neat
The children just love their schools! They're speaking German to their peers and teachers without hesitation. This is the moment we've been working towards since last December. For me, it's the crowning achievement of the sabbatical so far.
In utter defiance of their parents' genetic heritage, both older girls even like gym class! I am relieved. If ever there was a setting where language barrier could cause an embarrassing mistake with the consequent shame and tears, gym class, with its quickly barked instructions from gruff whistle-blowing coaches, rushed locker-room changes before and after, and unfamiliar games with unfamiliar rules (which the native kids all know of course), would be it. But the girls are taking it all in.
One routine new to all of us is that the 4th graders walk home for lunch, then walk back to school in the afternoon. Cornelia likes it, actually. Luckily I am sufficiently unemployed to be able to greet them at home each day and make lunch for them. What full-time or single parents do is a mystery.
In utter defiance of their parents' genetic heritage, both older girls even like gym class! I am relieved. If ever there was a setting where language barrier could cause an embarrassing mistake with the consequent shame and tears, gym class, with its quickly barked instructions from gruff whistle-blowing coaches, rushed locker-room changes before and after, and unfamiliar games with unfamiliar rules (which the native kids all know of course), would be it. But the girls are taking it all in.
One routine new to all of us is that the 4th graders walk home for lunch, then walk back to school in the afternoon. Cornelia likes it, actually. Luckily I am sufficiently unemployed to be able to greet them at home each day and make lunch for them. What full-time or single parents do is a mystery.
REGISTRAR WARS
EPISODES I-III: THE PHANTOM MENACE
It's the Wednesday before school starts. Time to get the girls registered. We'd have gladly done this in August if anyone in Salzburg had been behind a desk during the summer vacation season.
But this morning we finally get in touch with the school principal. "Oh, your kids aren't Austrian?" the principal says. "We can't register you here, then. Immigrants are registered by the clerk at the municipal building."
Fuming, Therese calls the municipal building. "So sorry," says the receptionist. "The registrar only holds hours on Monday afternoons from 1:00-4:00pm. Come see us in five days."
"BUT SCHOOL STARTS ON MONDAY MORNING!!!"
"Well," he says, "the kids will only miss the first day. The first day isn't all that important."
The sheer ignorance of this statement defies description. Cornelia and Vanessa are frightened enough as it is, starting a new school in a foreign country. On top of this, they are now to miss all the 1st-day introductions, the rules-and-expectations talk, the where-is-the-bathroom talk, the seating assignments, everything.
Well, next up is Bettina. Kindergarten is optional in Austria, but spots are fiercely coveted. We've been looking all summer without success, and by today it's come down to the brute-force action of calling every kindergarten in the Yellow Pages, starting with A. Therese locks herself in the back room with the phone book for an hour, with no luck.
EPISODE IV: A NEW HOPE
Two days of painful waiting. On Friday we meet the principal, who in a welcome change of heart, offers to let Vanessa and Cornelia attend the 1st day of school "under the radar" even though they won't actually be registered by then. Little Vanessa lights up like a Christmas tree when she sees her 2nd grade classroom. Her nervousness is gone, replaced by true excitement! It is a joy to watch her glow.
With renewed energy, we buy school supplies and pack for one last getaway to Lake Weißenbach. The sunshine matches our ebullience. After a hearty swim in the lake, we get the best news of the month: one of the dozens of kindergartens Therese called on Wednesday calls back, offering Bettina a spot! If we drank, we'd have popped the cork. As it is, we unscrewed the sparkling apple juice and clinked cups all around.
EPISODE V: THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK
Up at 6:30. Breakfast, backpacks, hair, teeth, jackets, and out the door for the kids' first day of Austrian school! Vanessa enters the bustling 2nd-grade classroom, searching nervously for a desk with her name on it. Frau Doppler (as in Effect) spots us right away, greets us kindly and finds Vanessa a desk. Vanessa is practically levitating. Should I stay with you awhile or go? "Go," she says. So I leave her in able hands, cast a wistful glance back and head home.
Three hours later (the 1st day is short), I pick up the most elated kids you ever saw. They buzz all the way home over how neat it was.
But our joy is short lived. We are met at home by a livid Therese, who had been at the municipal building to register the kids. She'd been in the queue for an hour before being told, "Why didn't you bring the children? I have to see them in person in order to register them." (As if parents registering fake children for school were a regular menace.) So back home she'd come to meet us. She drags the kids back to the registrar, waits ANOTHER hour in the queue and is told, to her incredulity, that Vanessa, because she is born in December not September, is to be placed in Grade 1! "BUT SHE'S ALREADY FINISHED GRADE 1!" Doesn't matter, the lady says. This chart clearly states that any child born in THIS month goes into THIS grade. And this woman will not be reasoned with. She is a cog, entrusted with no professional judgment, unable to move 1 inch from what is printed in her binder. Sign here, please, she says.
Therese and I are apoplectic. At the lady. At Salzburg. At the Iron-Curtain-like mindset of the bureaucracy here. At ourselves for taking on this sabbatical that has cost us so much anxiety, along with untold hours of preparation and legwork.
Our only hope is the kind principal at Vanessa's school. With the one signature she denied us at the very beginning, she could resolve this mess. I volunteer to speak with her in the morning. Of course it would be easier if Therese, being the native speaker, took this on, but she has taken on enough. It's my turn to bear the brunt. I begin formulating in German what I will say. I better get this right. If we hit another dead end, we're aborting this mission and flying home.
EPISODE VI: RETURN OF THE JEDI
At 8:30 a.m. I knock on the principal's door. I'm not nervous. I've rehearsed my explanation, and it comes out smoothly. To my delight, the principal is on my side from the get-go! She promises to call that silly registrar's office at once and straighten things out. She signs the papers herself, after all! Vanessa is back in Grade 2.
The relief is indescribable. The road is clear at last.
For our victory lap, we get to take Bettina for her first kindergarten visit. We would have signed her up regardless, for this is the only opening we've found, but we have a better reason than that. This kindergarten is a dream. Smiling, happy teachers, a huge green garden for outdoor play, lunches supplied by an organic caterer, and a newly renovated play area remove all doubt. Bettina knows the first-day drill. Without a trace of hesitation, she seats herself at the Playdoh station next to two other little girls and begins making green pizza. The last death star is destroyed! Let the sabbatical begin.
It's the Wednesday before school starts. Time to get the girls registered. We'd have gladly done this in August if anyone in Salzburg had been behind a desk during the summer vacation season.
But this morning we finally get in touch with the school principal. "Oh, your kids aren't Austrian?" the principal says. "We can't register you here, then. Immigrants are registered by the clerk at the municipal building."
Fuming, Therese calls the municipal building. "So sorry," says the receptionist. "The registrar only holds hours on Monday afternoons from 1:00-4:00pm. Come see us in five days."
"BUT SCHOOL STARTS ON MONDAY MORNING!!!"
"Well," he says, "the kids will only miss the first day. The first day isn't all that important."
The sheer ignorance of this statement defies description. Cornelia and Vanessa are frightened enough as it is, starting a new school in a foreign country. On top of this, they are now to miss all the 1st-day introductions, the rules-and-expectations talk, the where-is-the-bathroom talk, the seating assignments, everything.
Well, next up is Bettina. Kindergarten is optional in Austria, but spots are fiercely coveted. We've been looking all summer without success, and by today it's come down to the brute-force action of calling every kindergarten in the Yellow Pages, starting with A. Therese locks herself in the back room with the phone book for an hour, with no luck.
EPISODE IV: A NEW HOPE
Two days of painful waiting. On Friday we meet the principal, who in a welcome change of heart, offers to let Vanessa and Cornelia attend the 1st day of school "under the radar" even though they won't actually be registered by then. Little Vanessa lights up like a Christmas tree when she sees her 2nd grade classroom. Her nervousness is gone, replaced by true excitement! It is a joy to watch her glow.
With renewed energy, we buy school supplies and pack for one last getaway to Lake Weißenbach. The sunshine matches our ebullience. After a hearty swim in the lake, we get the best news of the month: one of the dozens of kindergartens Therese called on Wednesday calls back, offering Bettina a spot! If we drank, we'd have popped the cork. As it is, we unscrewed the sparkling apple juice and clinked cups all around.
EPISODE V: THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK
Up at 6:30. Breakfast, backpacks, hair, teeth, jackets, and out the door for the kids' first day of Austrian school! Vanessa enters the bustling 2nd-grade classroom, searching nervously for a desk with her name on it. Frau Doppler (as in Effect) spots us right away, greets us kindly and finds Vanessa a desk. Vanessa is practically levitating. Should I stay with you awhile or go? "Go," she says. So I leave her in able hands, cast a wistful glance back and head home.
Three hours later (the 1st day is short), I pick up the most elated kids you ever saw. They buzz all the way home over how neat it was.
But our joy is short lived. We are met at home by a livid Therese, who had been at the municipal building to register the kids. She'd been in the queue for an hour before being told, "Why didn't you bring the children? I have to see them in person in order to register them." (As if parents registering fake children for school were a regular menace.) So back home she'd come to meet us. She drags the kids back to the registrar, waits ANOTHER hour in the queue and is told, to her incredulity, that Vanessa, because she is born in December not September, is to be placed in Grade 1! "BUT SHE'S ALREADY FINISHED GRADE 1!" Doesn't matter, the lady says. This chart clearly states that any child born in THIS month goes into THIS grade. And this woman will not be reasoned with. She is a cog, entrusted with no professional judgment, unable to move 1 inch from what is printed in her binder. Sign here, please, she says.
Therese and I are apoplectic. At the lady. At Salzburg. At the Iron-Curtain-like mindset of the bureaucracy here. At ourselves for taking on this sabbatical that has cost us so much anxiety, along with untold hours of preparation and legwork.
Our only hope is the kind principal at Vanessa's school. With the one signature she denied us at the very beginning, she could resolve this mess. I volunteer to speak with her in the morning. Of course it would be easier if Therese, being the native speaker, took this on, but she has taken on enough. It's my turn to bear the brunt. I begin formulating in German what I will say. I better get this right. If we hit another dead end, we're aborting this mission and flying home.
EPISODE VI: RETURN OF THE JEDI
At 8:30 a.m. I knock on the principal's door. I'm not nervous. I've rehearsed my explanation, and it comes out smoothly. To my delight, the principal is on my side from the get-go! She promises to call that silly registrar's office at once and straighten things out. She signs the papers herself, after all! Vanessa is back in Grade 2.
The relief is indescribable. The road is clear at last.
For our victory lap, we get to take Bettina for her first kindergarten visit. We would have signed her up regardless, for this is the only opening we've found, but we have a better reason than that. This kindergarten is a dream. Smiling, happy teachers, a huge green garden for outdoor play, lunches supplied by an organic caterer, and a newly renovated play area remove all doubt. Bettina knows the first-day drill. Without a trace of hesitation, she seats herself at the Playdoh station next to two other little girls and begins making green pizza. The last death star is destroyed! Let the sabbatical begin.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
I'm Too Old For Exams!
Today I'm off to Berlitz to take my B1-level German language test, requirement number 12,906 for my residence visa. Bettina sits quietly with her coloring books while I am examined for 45 minutes by a language teacher. (You know, the kind that wear half-moon reading glasses around their necks by a string of beads?) Only in the heat of the moment do I realize that I have not taken a timed test in 14 years! And I am out of practice. I haven't done this since graduate school, but the stress is instantly familiar: the furious erasing; the frantic glances at the clock that grow in frequency in inverse proportion to the time remaining; the hollow feeling in the pit of the stomach; the fatalistic choice between A and D. I'm too old for this! I feel like the over-the-hill Rocky as he's getting whupped by Mr. T. The worst feeling is that I know my German is better than this, but this examiner will not know it. "They're asking all the wrong questions!" my inner 15-year-old protests. "If only they'd ask me about the things I know!"
How many times have I counselled a student with tears in her eyes and a D+ on her test, "Anne, you'll have more success on the next test if you'll invest [I love that word] 20 minutes a day on your homework, ask me lots of questions during lessons, and come to me more often for extra help," dismissing her piteous claim that she just "blanked out that day" as so much drama. Today in the examination room I remembered that it's not always just drama. I have been on the other side of the teacher's desk for too long.
Bettina and I eat lunch by the river, my B1 certificate fresh in my bag. Time to go pick up her sisters from horseback riding. I find them at the drop-off spot with empty ice-cream cups in their hand. "They bought us all ice cream!" they say with chocolate-smeared grins. A clever maneuver on the part of the day-camp staff to plump up the reviews the kids bring home to the parents who will decide whether to fork over the dough for the next outing. Or maybe they're just nice people. Regardless of the truth, I force myself to think the latter. "Stay Canadian!" I remind myself.
How many times have I counselled a student with tears in her eyes and a D+ on her test, "Anne, you'll have more success on the next test if you'll invest [I love that word] 20 minutes a day on your homework, ask me lots of questions during lessons, and come to me more often for extra help," dismissing her piteous claim that she just "blanked out that day" as so much drama. Today in the examination room I remembered that it's not always just drama. I have been on the other side of the teacher's desk for too long.
Bettina and I eat lunch by the river, my B1 certificate fresh in my bag. Time to go pick up her sisters from horseback riding. I find them at the drop-off spot with empty ice-cream cups in their hand. "They bought us all ice cream!" they say with chocolate-smeared grins. A clever maneuver on the part of the day-camp staff to plump up the reviews the kids bring home to the parents who will decide whether to fork over the dough for the next outing. Or maybe they're just nice people. Regardless of the truth, I force myself to think the latter. "Stay Canadian!" I remind myself.
She's Got Her Mother's Good Looks
Therese is off to Bratislava to deliver a talk and come down with a cold. Big kids are on a day-camp outing, leaving Bettina and me alone for a D3, our code for Daddy-Daughter Day. I take her to the Thursday farmers' market for a 4-year-old education on bargain hunting and shopping-list management. Bettina proudly crosses off each produce item on the list, like Toad does in Bettina's favourite Frog And Toad story. With her maternally inherited good looks, Bettina charms one fauning vendor after another. One hands her a free strawberry. The next one gives her a free pear. At the next booth she gets a free croissant. (They certainly didn't hand me anything.) By 8:30a.m. she's practically had lunch. I should take her with me to the bank.
No More Relatives! Finally A Day To Ourselves!
A week of visiting in Berlin. The kids are tired of being sent off to Find Something To Do while mom and dad engage in adult chinwag with one set of old friends after another. A full week in Berlin, and the five of us have yet to do anything together as a family. Today we aim to remedy this with a morning of sight seeing in the Berlin city centre.
All of us are in high spirits—there are no guests to entertain, no opinions to solicit from friends over what to look at next, no advice from well-meaning mothers-in-law to parry. It's just us.
Therese takes us to lunch at Mövenpick, which I'd always thought was just another American ice cream brand marketed with a contrived European name. But no! Mövenpick is a full-service restaurant complete with sauces, table cloths and wine lists.
Sadly Therese must leave us after lunch for her conference talk, but the fun has just begun. Mövenpick has a fantastic play area for kids, where Bettina discovers a bin full of My Little Ponies with the requiste combs. She is in little-girl heaven.
In the same bin, Vanessa finds a toy gorilla. (What else would you expect in a box full of ponies?) She holds the gorilla to my face and says in her deepest gorilla voice, "Clean your room!" in allusion to her favourite Calvin and Hobbes comic, for one of the best laughs of the day.
But the best entertainment lies outside, in front of the aquarium, and for once it's not a playground—at least not in the usual sense.
The kids, fueled by two hours of intense, physical imaginative play, literally sprint the three blocks to the subway station, leap frogging one another and prodding one another on to ever faster speeds.
Therese takes us to lunch at Mövenpick, which I'd always thought was just another American ice cream brand marketed with a contrived European name. But no! Mövenpick is a full-service restaurant complete with sauces, table cloths and wine lists.
In the same bin, Vanessa finds a toy gorilla. (What else would you expect in a box full of ponies?) She holds the gorilla to my face and says in her deepest gorilla voice, "Clean your room!" in allusion to her favourite Calvin and Hobbes comic, for one of the best laughs of the day.
But the best entertainment lies outside, in front of the aquarium, and for once it's not a playground—at least not in the usual sense.
There's a heap of flag stones assembled haphazardly into a fountain. The kids beg me to let them climb on it. Seeing no VERBOTEN signs, I give them a hesitant "o…kay", expecting at any moment to be barked at by some grumpy city authority figure. But not only are we not run off, other kids draw inspiration from the sight of us up there and join in! In five minutes, a whole school yard of kids is climbing and drawing on the rocks with chalk-like stones. It's now 5pm, and I have to drag them back to Oma's house.
The kids, fueled by two hours of intense, physical imaginative play, literally sprint the three blocks to the subway station, leap frogging one another and prodding one another on to ever faster speeds.
On the first leg of the subway home, I show Cornelia how to get around a big city with a subway map, and once in the station, how to find your platform. We're hungry and beat---a perfect segue to one last lesson! I invite Cornelia and Vanessa to go buy us some salami buns from a snack stand on the subway platform. They're scared, but they work up the nerve to approach the cashier and order. "Zweimal Semmelbrötchen mit Salami, bitte." Hot dog, she did it! I'm so proud of them, and so are they. The tasty buns, the successful navigation through the scary Berlin subway system, and a surprise, chance meeting with Therese on the last platform ("Hermione! Where'd you come from?!") make a perfect ending to a perfect day.
Friday, August 31, 2012
How Did We Canadians Get So Puritanical?
Oma drives us to a lake for a swim. Vanessa and Bettina are pleasantly amazed to learn that children are allowed to swim naked, and they gladly take the opportunity. Prepubescent girls swim with just trunks, and some of the women even walk around topless. (We're still talking about lakes here). And no one seems to care. There is no ogling and no finger pointing. Why can't North Americans learn to be so easygoing, especially in regard to things that matter so little?
Europeans view nakedness from Adam's and Eve's perspective (before the apple): there is nothing shameful or dirty about it. You'll often see parents taking young kids for a tree-pee at the playground. Uncircumcised boys, letting it fly as nature intended. Our own kids take full advantage, and no one looks twice. It is as refreshing as it is relieving.
Alcohol and tobacco are viewed in the same spirit. Beer on the bus? No problem! Mixed drinks at the public swimming pool? No problem! And if you forgot to bring your own, there's a cash bar, right between the change rooms and the ice cream stand, where you can order yours. In Europe, beverages are beverages. There's nothing special about alcohol -- it's just another ingredient you put in, like Yellow 5.
The lackadaisical attitude toward smoking is just incredible,
especially for a culture that is otherwise so progressive, well educated, and politically invested in science. In terms of tobacco, Europe is about where America was in the 1970's. Cigarettes are still advertised on billboards and on TV, and they're available in vending machines where any kid can spend his allowance. I think it's their fast-food.
You'll see the occasional McDonald's here, but the #1 retail outlet in Austria is by far Tabak Trafik, a convenience-store chain famous for its wall-to-wall selection of cigarette brands.
Europeans view nakedness from Adam's and Eve's perspective (before the apple): there is nothing shameful or dirty about it. You'll often see parents taking young kids for a tree-pee at the playground. Uncircumcised boys, letting it fly as nature intended. Our own kids take full advantage, and no one looks twice. It is as refreshing as it is relieving.
Alcohol and tobacco are viewed in the same spirit. Beer on the bus? No problem! Mixed drinks at the public swimming pool? No problem! And if you forgot to bring your own, there's a cash bar, right between the change rooms and the ice cream stand, where you can order yours. In Europe, beverages are beverages. There's nothing special about alcohol -- it's just another ingredient you put in, like Yellow 5.
The lackadaisical attitude toward smoking is just incredible,
You'll see the occasional McDonald's here, but the #1 retail outlet in Austria is by far Tabak Trafik, a convenience-store chain famous for its wall-to-wall selection of cigarette brands.
Berlin and the 2-Storey Grocery Store
We've been home for three whole days. Well, that's just too long! Time for another road trip. How about Berlin? It's only a day's train away. We've packed 7 hours' worth of kids' entertainment for the train (books, cards, Connect-4, math journal papers), which sounds like a lot unless your trip is 8 hours, or in our case 9, making the last hour of the trip a veritable whine fest. The kids were getting whiney, as well.
We perk up when we reach the Berlin Hauptbahnhof and see Oma waiting for us on the platform. The kids fall upon her like they hadn't seen her in 100 years, though it's only been about 100 hours.
Then it's midnight-grocery-shopping before the stores in Berlin, by law, must close for Sunday.
Ever seen a two-storey grocery store? This one has a stairless magnetic escalator that you and your shopping cart can ride between floors. These Germans have thought of everything.
We perk up when we reach the Berlin Hauptbahnhof and see Oma waiting for us on the platform. The kids fall upon her like they hadn't seen her in 100 years, though it's only been about 100 hours.
Then it's midnight-grocery-shopping before the stores in Berlin, by law, must close for Sunday.
When the Honeymoon Ends, the Real Sabbatical Begins
Therese is feeling dispirited and overwhelmed today by the administrative tree trunks that keep falling in our path. This time it's the utility company getting our address wrong, requiring yet another call, letter, or e-mail which will be ignored along with all the others Therese has written to banks, real estate agents, internet "providers", contractors (the last tenant left us a water-logged floor), and civil authorities since our arrival. Yesterday it was the Austrian police having no clue where in Salzburg I could get fingerprints taken, which the Canadian police need in order to run a criminal-record check on me, which the Austrian authorities need in order to complete my visa application. Round and round we go.
I'm in a funk today, too. Therese is at the university, and I can't think of anything to do with the kids. The play room -- spotless as of last night -- is a junk heap after just two waking hours. Cornelia has a cold. The dishes are piled high. The kids are still not dressed and generally look like orphans. Living abroad is not just a year-long romantic get-away. It is hard work at times, some days full of thrills, some days are like watching the lawn grow, just like at any other stage of life.
After a tedious morning of moping (and mopping), I finally get out of the house with Bettina and Vanessa on our way to Mt. Gaisberg. I have Bettina to thank for the idea; she saw my screen background and said, "That's Gaisberg! Daddy, can we go there today?" Why, yes we can! Two points for the four-year-old!
The blue sky and jolly moods of my two mini-companions infuse me with new energy. The view from the mountain peak never gets old; it's spectacular every time. The girls take in a gasp when a hang glider suddenly swooshes over us, not 30 feet over our heads.
Looking over the valley, Vanessa realizes out loud that the horizon is not a fixed place; it looks different to each person at each height. I just love these synaptic moments in my children. They make the vagaries of fatherhood all worth it, hair knots and all. And there are more moments to come on this trip! Waiting for our return-bus to push off, the kids are gagging on the smoke of the bus driver who's having one before taking the wheel. Why do people smoke, Daddy? Insert loving, fatherly explanation of nicotine, pleasure synapses and addiction, and the tragic cautionary tale of their grandfather who smoked at 17 already and whose life was cut short as a result. Is that why everyone was crying at the funeral, Daddy? How I love them both.
I'm in a funk today, too. Therese is at the university, and I can't think of anything to do with the kids. The play room -- spotless as of last night -- is a junk heap after just two waking hours. Cornelia has a cold. The dishes are piled high. The kids are still not dressed and generally look like orphans. Living abroad is not just a year-long romantic get-away. It is hard work at times, some days full of thrills, some days are like watching the lawn grow, just like at any other stage of life.
After a tedious morning of moping (and mopping), I finally get out of the house with Bettina and Vanessa on our way to Mt. Gaisberg. I have Bettina to thank for the idea; she saw my screen background and said, "That's Gaisberg! Daddy, can we go there today?" Why, yes we can! Two points for the four-year-old!
The blue sky and jolly moods of my two mini-companions infuse me with new energy. The view from the mountain peak never gets old; it's spectacular every time. The girls take in a gasp when a hang glider suddenly swooshes over us, not 30 feet over our heads.
Looking over the valley, Vanessa realizes out loud that the horizon is not a fixed place; it looks different to each person at each height. I just love these synaptic moments in my children. They make the vagaries of fatherhood all worth it, hair knots and all. And there are more moments to come on this trip! Waiting for our return-bus to push off, the kids are gagging on the smoke of the bus driver who's having one before taking the wheel. Why do people smoke, Daddy? Insert loving, fatherly explanation of nicotine, pleasure synapses and addiction, and the tragic cautionary tale of their grandfather who smoked at 17 already and whose life was cut short as a result. Is that why everyone was crying at the funeral, Daddy? How I love them both.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Former Home Towns Are Former For A Reason
The girls are bouncing like rubber balls with excitement. Opa waves us goodbye from the platform as our train pulls out of Salzburg Hbf (short for Hauptbahnhof = train station, but which the kids jokingly pronounce "hibbbff") towards Passau, Germany, where we lived for much of 2005. The ride through the bright, rolling countryside is smooth like only a German train can be. Seriously, you could perform eye surgery while riding on these trains.
This visit presents a challenge for Therese and me as parents, for there is no real agenda and no dominating attraction; we're here mostly to bring back the memory of having lived here. In practice this means a lot of dragging tired kids through crowded streets and pointing at things.
"Look, Cornelia, there's the statue you used to climb on as a toddler."
"That's really great, dad. Can we move into the shade?"
At the end of one such tour, we climb to the Oberhaus Castle above the Danube river which cuts the city in two. The climb is exhausting for all of us, but the hope of the Oberhaus Café's world-famous Linzertorte (a hazelnut-raspberry cake)
We recuperate over a delightful dinner at the home of old friends. While the adults prattle on about the Salzburger public theatre and its funding needs, the girls discover these heavy granite balls in the back yard; meant as ornamentation to go with the garden gnomes, the kids use the balls as grist mills to smash currant berries into pulp. Ostensibly this is to provide the birds with currant jam to spread onto their breakfast worms, but we know what's really involved: this is all about watching red things go splat.
On the train ride out the next day, Cornelia and I discuss the merits and demerits of public pay-toilets, a maddening and ubiquitous feature of Passau and much of Germany.
Escape is in order! To the topaz lakes, wild-flower meadows, and surround-sound mountains of Weißenbach where Therese's parents own a 1/3 share (complicated, story best saved for a fire-side chat over brandy) in a summer lake-side home. Weißenbach provides a refreshing taste of pure enjoyment after our tedious, more-dutiful-than-pleasurable visit in Passau.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Summer tobogganing
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Smoke That Somewhere Else
No such etiquette exists in Austria. People light up right in the bus shelter where the girls and I are sitting. The girls cough and whine, and the smoker takes absolutely no notice. If it bothers you, you're the one who's expected to move away.
I'd grumble less if the smoking rate in Austria were that of a civilized country, but these people are everywhere! I looked up the stats, and my guess was close: nearly half of Austrian adults smoke.
My annoyance level at any given man-made irritant is given by the general formula
The rudeness and frequency of Austrian smokers are both double what they are in Canada. Worse still, my tolerance for smoking is close to 0, which, as the divisor of the fraction, makes the final product enormous indeed.
\
Sunday, July 29, 2012
July 27 The Girls' Inner-German Comes Out
The kids and I have made a pact that we speak English at home but must speak German while on outings, even if Therese is not with us. Previous attempts to enforce this have been unpopular. But today at the zoo something has clicked. As if by magic, the girls begin speaking German, not just to me, BUT TO EACH OTHER! They have never done this in their lives before today. Now, I didn't say it was good German. We're destroying conjugations, mutilating word order, mangling tenses, and it is pure delight. I don't correct them in any way -- just let it come out and relish the moment.
Something has obviously started to switch over in their brains. The immersion is sinking in. Ironically, I think Therese's absence is a catalyst for the reaction. Perhaps we are simply too accustomed to our nine-year habit of Therese speaking German to the kids while all other communications get conducted in English. Therese posits later that it's my attempt to speak German that inspires the kids to brave it themselves. "If poor old Dad can do it and flub it without embarrassment, maybe we can, too."
May it last!
Friday, July 27, 2012
July 24 Austrians Do Swimming Pools Right
Introducing the freibad, an outdoor public swimming park found in just about any German/Austrian city. Think water park + Olympic swimming pool + grassy picnic areas + playground + soccerfield, all for about $5 per person. Unlike American water parks which charge $20 and up per head, freibads are subsidized by the city, so you think nothing of packing up and taking the kids on a whim, perhaps even several days in a row if there's a heat wave on. Canada, are you listening?
The girls consider swimming just about the world's greatest treat. They've both recently learned to swim and are just in heaven in the water. For hours on end we play Capture-And-Escape, Throw-Daughters-Mile-High, and Dunk-The-Monster. (Guess who's always the monster.)
July 23 And Now Back To That Great Day I Promised
The jerks at the bottom of the mountain long forgotten, we enjoy a wondrous panoramic view of the countryside from the peak of Mt. Geisberg, a view that includes the mighty Festung Hohensalzburg castle, now meek and toy-like when seen from a mile above. Vanessa and Cornelia both remark upon the irony of seeing the castle and the Kapuzinerberg in miniature from above after having declared just days ago from the peaks of those structures how small everything else had looked surrounding them.
The peak itself is a marvel of nature, a sweeping meadow of wild flowers that delights us as much as the view below it.
Later in the afternoon, I teach Cornelia the meaning of negative and fractional exponents, which she absorbs with her usual dexterity.
July 23 They Tried And Failed To Ruin Our Day
It's a heavenly day. Therese suggests we take a tour bus up to the peak of Mt. Geisberg where we'd seen hang gliders floating the day before. We'll enjoy the view, and hike back down on our own. That's the plan, but an unexpected evil is awaiting us.
On the city bus to the base of the mountain, two men are sitting behind us. They start muttering something about us and snickering. I can't understand them, but Therese does. As both we and they get off the bus, Therese tells me in English that they'd been making fun of her appearance. I debate whether to approach them and tell them off, but Therese, reading my mind and ever the wiser one, stops me. They just want attention. Don't give it to them. They're not worth it.
Unfortunately, this is not the end of it. We walk to where we'll catch the tour bus that takes us to the peak, which comes in 30 minutes. When we turn around, we see that the men have followed us. They get right in our faces. Grinning stupidly, Jerk #1 says, "Do you speak English?" They must have heard us talking as we deboarded.
"What's that to you?" I snap back.
They proceed to mock us to our faces, making obscene gestures and cussing us out in ridiculously broken English, using whatever words they'd picked up from bathroom stall walls. We yell back, using more grammatically complex constructions than they can apparently understand, for they just talk over us, ignoring everything we say and simply repeating their six-word cycle of insults. Cornelia, Vanessa and Bettina are cowed behind us.
I am on the verge of snapping. Every nerve in my body wants to lash out. Jerk #1 is within easy range. I could land a hard punch before he knows it, perhaps hard enough to take him out, dropping the ratio to 1-to-1, where I might have even chances, provided Jerk #2 is not armed, and is not a habitual street brawler, which I certainly am not. That's a lot of if's, and I don't dare risk it, not with our kids presenting such easy targets. If I get entangled with one, the other one could go after them.
And so Therese and I stand there and ignore them, praying they'll just get bored and leave. They eventually do. They swagger away, giving one other a congratulatory high-five, clearly proud of themselves for having successfully terrorized a family with young children.
Thankfully the kids were not phased, as they understood too little, and they play at the nearby playground until the bus comes. Therese and I console each other, reflecting that we will have a better day, a better year and a better life than either of those two men. Who will they cuddle with tonight? What hope do they ever have for satisfying careers like the ones we enjoy? Who will care about them enough to visit them when they're old, or even mourn their passing? How many accomplishments, joys and deep friendships can they look upon with fondness and satisfaction, as Therese and I do in abundance? Even if they find a woman desperate enough to marry them, when will their kids ever say to their friends with pride, "That's MY dad! He's the best!" Victory is ours. It was ours before they ever saw us.
As if to spite them, the ride up the mountain and the panoramic views from the peak are breathtaking, like nothing the girls or I have ever seen. Those two men, now still at the bottom, tried to ruin our day, but in this they have failed. God is good, and the beauty of God's creation shines all around.
On the city bus to the base of the mountain, two men are sitting behind us. They start muttering something about us and snickering. I can't understand them, but Therese does. As both we and they get off the bus, Therese tells me in English that they'd been making fun of her appearance. I debate whether to approach them and tell them off, but Therese, reading my mind and ever the wiser one, stops me. They just want attention. Don't give it to them. They're not worth it.
Unfortunately, this is not the end of it. We walk to where we'll catch the tour bus that takes us to the peak, which comes in 30 minutes. When we turn around, we see that the men have followed us. They get right in our faces. Grinning stupidly, Jerk #1 says, "Do you speak English?" They must have heard us talking as we deboarded.
"What's that to you?" I snap back.
They proceed to mock us to our faces, making obscene gestures and cussing us out in ridiculously broken English, using whatever words they'd picked up from bathroom stall walls. We yell back, using more grammatically complex constructions than they can apparently understand, for they just talk over us, ignoring everything we say and simply repeating their six-word cycle of insults. Cornelia, Vanessa and Bettina are cowed behind us.
I am on the verge of snapping. Every nerve in my body wants to lash out. Jerk #1 is within easy range. I could land a hard punch before he knows it, perhaps hard enough to take him out, dropping the ratio to 1-to-1, where I might have even chances, provided Jerk #2 is not armed, and is not a habitual street brawler, which I certainly am not. That's a lot of if's, and I don't dare risk it, not with our kids presenting such easy targets. If I get entangled with one, the other one could go after them.
And so Therese and I stand there and ignore them, praying they'll just get bored and leave. They eventually do. They swagger away, giving one other a congratulatory high-five, clearly proud of themselves for having successfully terrorized a family with young children.
Thankfully the kids were not phased, as they understood too little, and they play at the nearby playground until the bus comes. Therese and I console each other, reflecting that we will have a better day, a better year and a better life than either of those two men. Who will they cuddle with tonight? What hope do they ever have for satisfying careers like the ones we enjoy? Who will care about them enough to visit them when they're old, or even mourn their passing? How many accomplishments, joys and deep friendships can they look upon with fondness and satisfaction, as Therese and I do in abundance? Even if they find a woman desperate enough to marry them, when will their kids ever say to their friends with pride, "That's MY dad! He's the best!" Victory is ours. It was ours before they ever saw us.
As if to spite them, the ride up the mountain and the panoramic views from the peak are breathtaking, like nothing the girls or I have ever seen. Those two men, now still at the bottom, tried to ruin our day, but in this they have failed. God is good, and the beauty of God's creation shines all around.
July 22 Church Shopping, Take #2
Second attempt is a success! Today we try an interdenominational English-speaking church. Cozy modern chapel. People of all colours of the rainbow are there. The liturgy is comfortable and familiar and makes me wistful for my Episcopalian days. The sermon is poignant, if 10 minutes too long. And a greeting! At the door! In fact, the pastor invited us to stand and introduce ourselves during announcements.
Communion is conducted in-the-round, with all holding hands. Wonder Bread and grape juice hits the spot, and the soul. At fellowship, Therese and I get to talk to adults besides each other for the first time in 10 days. The cookies and cakes are yummy, too. In the name of lunch, we have to restrain the girls with quotas. Vanessa meets another 7-year-old girl who is also named Vanessa. We'll be back.
Communion is conducted in-the-round, with all holding hands. Wonder Bread and grape juice hits the spot, and the soul. At fellowship, Therese and I get to talk to adults besides each other for the first time in 10 days. The cookies and cakes are yummy, too. In the name of lunch, we have to restrain the girls with quotas. Vanessa meets another 7-year-old girl who is also named Vanessa. We'll be back.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
July 20 Boring Stuff For Adults
We visit the Dom cathedral, a marvel of architecture and sculpture that has Therese and me in rapture and has the girls, in dutiful conformity with the rules of the family-sight-seeing genre, hanging on our arms like chimpanzees, mewling, "Can we just gooooooooooo now?"
To extend their torment and ours, we go next to the Salzburg Museum's new exhibit on the history of Alpine art. We get in free on our newly minted museum-member family pass, and it is just as well, for the exhibit is as obscenely dull as the description on the flyer had promised it would be. Hell, even I was bored. The freeness of the admission offers us a guiltless escape to the ice cream parlour, a deft move that restores the faith of the children in their parents' judgment.
To extend their torment and ours, we go next to the Salzburg Museum's new exhibit on the history of Alpine art. We get in free on our newly minted museum-member family pass, and it is just as well, for the exhibit is as obscenely dull as the description on the flyer had promised it would be. Hell, even I was bored. The freeness of the admission offers us a guiltless escape to the ice cream parlour, a deft move that restores the faith of the children in their parents' judgment.
July 17 The Castle
Seventh straight day of rain. We venture once again to the old city, this time to climb to the Festung Hohensalzburg, a medieval castle that dominates the city for miles around. No foreign army ever breached it, and it's easy to see why: horses can't climb sheer cliff. The climb is hard on the girls and on Therese who is grumpy most of the day. The views over Salzburg, however, are even more spectacular than those from Kapuzinerberg. We decide to take the cog-train back down instead of walking, the best parental judgment-call we made all day.
July 16 Cornelia's First German
The girls and I spy out another amazing playground. Incredibly, it is even cooler than the first one we found. A giant turn-table you can lie on while your siblings spin you, wooden mini-cabins with ramps leading up to them, slides set into a hill so that you get to the top by climbing the hill instead of a ladder, spin-till-you-puke carousels, the works.
We get back just in time to get Cornelia to SommerLeseClub, a summer reading club for kids held at the library that I secretly signed her up for when she wasn't looking. The idea is to get her to speak some German to other kids without Therese or me pushing her in the back and whispering "Go on, now. Say something."
She is understandably nervous and says very little on the bus ride there. Only three other girls are in attendance, but the two group leaders are friendly and get Cornelia talking right away. "Ich heiße Cornelia. Ich bin aus Kanada," are her first two utterances. The group leader asks her, "Super! Verstehst Du schon alles?" ("Great! Do you understand everything we're saying?") and Cornelia nods with a smile. Fist pump!
With that, I leave her in good hands for 90 minutes. When I come to pick her up, she skips out of the room with an ear-to-ear smile. She takes me by the hand and declares her wish that the club could meet twice a week instead of just every other week. She says to me, "I discovered I really can speak German if I have to and nobody there knows English." I just about die of pride. She bubbles with excitement all the way home.
We get back just in time to get Cornelia to SommerLeseClub, a summer reading club for kids held at the library that I secretly signed her up for when she wasn't looking. The idea is to get her to speak some German to other kids without Therese or me pushing her in the back and whispering "Go on, now. Say something."
She is understandably nervous and says very little on the bus ride there. Only three other girls are in attendance, but the two group leaders are friendly and get Cornelia talking right away. "Ich heiße Cornelia. Ich bin aus Kanada," are her first two utterances. The group leader asks her, "Super! Verstehst Du schon alles?" ("Great! Do you understand everything we're saying?") and Cornelia nods with a smile. Fist pump!
With that, I leave her in good hands for 90 minutes. When I come to pick her up, she skips out of the room with an ear-to-ear smile. She takes me by the hand and declares her wish that the club could meet twice a week instead of just every other week. She says to me, "I discovered I really can speak German if I have to and nobody there knows English." I just about die of pride. She bubbles with excitement all the way home.
July 15 A Heavenly Mountain Hike
Perhaps nature can do what church this morning could not, namely to freshen our souls and offer rest from the week's labours. After church we take a delightful hike through the foot paths of Kapuzinerberg, the mini-mountain that overlooks the city centre and the obligatory pastoral river that all European cities are required to own. We've never seen such stunning views. The sun comes out just in time for our descent, providing us a sparkling, dew-soaked tunnel of tree cover to walk under all the way down.
July 14 Expanding the Beach Head
Four days in, and our fearless Schattman explorers have conquered the bus system, a weekly farmer's market, the public library, a network of key playgrounds, the cheapest places to shop, the girls' soon-to-be school, and a great kids' museum.
Tomorrow we try church. There's a classic t-shirt for Austrian tourists that reads THERE ARE NO KANGAROOS IN AUSTRIA. Well, we've also just learned that THERE ARE NO MENNONITES IN SALZBURG. So we're looking around for the "next best thing".
In searching for churches, I feel like Tom Cruise in Rain Man, as he's trying to order in dinner over the phone for his autistic brother, who will only eat tapioca pudding for dessert on Wednesdays. "Oh, and uh, tapioca pudding. You got tapioca pudding?" "No, sir, we don't." "Well, then just bring the closest thing."
Behold, we find a church on the web that just might be the "next closest thing": a break-away Catholic church that seems marketed towards disgruntled ex-Catholics. It's gay-friendly. Communion is open to anyone. The pope is not always right. Divorcees and mixed families are welcome. How bad can it be? Let's give it a try.
Tomorrow we try church. There's a classic t-shirt for Austrian tourists that reads THERE ARE NO KANGAROOS IN AUSTRIA. Well, we've also just learned that THERE ARE NO MENNONITES IN SALZBURG. So we're looking around for the "next best thing".
In searching for churches, I feel like Tom Cruise in Rain Man, as he's trying to order in dinner over the phone for his autistic brother, who will only eat tapioca pudding for dessert on Wednesdays. "Oh, and uh, tapioca pudding. You got tapioca pudding?" "No, sir, we don't." "Well, then just bring the closest thing."
Behold, we find a church on the web that just might be the "next closest thing": a break-away Catholic church that seems marketed towards disgruntled ex-Catholics. It's gay-friendly. Communion is open to anyone. The pope is not always right. Divorcees and mixed families are welcome. How bad can it be? Let's give it a try.
July 10 D-Day
Today we leave our dear Canada behind! Nerds that we are, we dutifully arrive at the airport 3 hours ahead. And what finer way to kill time than dinner at the Toronto Airport Swiss Chalet! Well, for starters, how about an aircraft that is free of mechanical problems, the kind that keep 300 people in their seats on the tarmac for over an hour before the 8-hour flight even begins?
The kids sleep well on the over-night flight, including Bettina, who sleeps in my lap all "night." Bettina and Cornelia both throw up during the descent, one right after the other. But we're here, on another continent. A new, if inauspicious, beginning.
The kids sleep well on the over-night flight, including Bettina, who sleeps in my lap all "night." Bettina and Cornelia both throw up during the descent, one right after the other. But we're here, on another continent. A new, if inauspicious, beginning.
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