Well I'll Be Dog

Reward

2007-06-06T15:27:00.000+01:00

One Romanian leu or an Italian postcard to anyone who can make a moped look cool. Cute or classy are not acceptable substitutes. Bonus points if you can also manage imposing. In the latter event, I feel certain the Romanian police would appreciate your advice. Their moped officers failed to inspire the requisite fear and awe. And I can't count the number of times a cool-looking Italian guy has totally ruined his image by hopping on the back of his moped and puttering away. All anyone in this country ever seems to do is eat, shop, and drink. With all that disposable income, can't they afford a bit more cool?

Showing those Wiccans, racists, and gamblers who's boss

2007-06-01T16:14:00.001+01:00

Prominently displayed in an internet cafe in Sighisoara, transylvanianist of Transylvanian towns and home of Vlad Tepes, otherwise known as Dracula:

"The Catacombs does not permit the visiting of sites containing explicit sexual material, games of chance and the occult or that promote discrimination. Clients breaking this rule will be asked to leave. Thank you for your understanding!"

Items found on Romania's most mystifying English menu

2007-05-31T18:48:00.001+01:00

Chicken breast breast
Chicken breast calf
Garf saddle

In which we see Bucharest, get lost, get lost again, find ourselves homeless, and sweat. A lot.

2007-05-30T15:22:00.000+01:00

I vowed we would not set foot in a taxi at any point during our trip. We would hoof it, take public transportation, or die trying. Which is how we found ourselves on an express bus crammed full of sweating Romanians, jockeying for elbow room the 18 km from the airport to the city. The bus started out full and got fuller at every stop. By the time we finally got off, I was bathed in sweat and fervently regretting the morning's wardrobe decision. We arrived at the hostel hot, tired, and grumpy.

The next morning, after a walk through what we were to discover was only one of Bucharest's many beautiful parks, we set out with all our luggage to find the next night's hostel (it was apparently a popular travel weekend). A quick bus ride took us to the metro, which took us to another park, where we would catch a final bus to the hostel. I consulted my directions and then steered us across the street so I could change my shoes

I felt pretty good. I knew where we were, I knew where we were going, and we hadn't gotten lost once. Flip-flops on and blister-inducing Chacos stowed away, I went to check the directions one more time. Directions which were now nowhere to be found. Frantic and thorough searching. Still no directions. Retracing of steps to where I last checked them. Still no directions. Shamefaced admission that missing piece of paper contained directions to every hostel we were staying at in Romania. Still no directions.

No matter. I remembered the bus number and I was certain I would recognize the stop and street names when I saw them. We boarded bus 104 and I watched as each stop was announced on the handy scrolling sign. I recognized none of them. When we reached a metro stop I knew something was wrong. There was no metro stop anywhere near the hostel.

We got off, and I consulted the world's worst map of Bucharest, courtesy of Let's Go. We had been on the right bus, just heading in the wrong direction. I took this opportunity to study the much larger map hanging at the metro station. I identified the correct stop, as well as the probable route to the hostel, based on what I remembered. I should note that the part of the city where we were headed is not actually on Let's Go's useless and poorly labeled map.

Back on the 104, this time in the right direction. When we reached our stop, I started to feel reassured. I found the street I remembered from the directions and we started down it, looking for the street the hostel was on. The neighborhood looked less promising with every block. The buildings were either empty, under construction, or only just met the definition of "building". I finally noticed that we were no longer on the right street. Retreat.

On the way back, walking down the other side of the street, I found a street sign that looked familiar. I had a vague recollection that the house number was 74. Sure enough, this street had a number 74. It would have been perfect, if only house number 74 had been a hostel and not some sort of ad agency. It also would have been nice if the surrounding houses had looked a bit more reputable and a bit less like semi-permanent gypsy camps.

My feet hurt. My back hurt. Alice looked like she was about to tip over from the weight of her top-heavy pack. And now it appeared that our hostel did not actually exist.

We walked around a bit more, giving the blisters time to really set in. After an only marginally refreshing lukewarm 7up, we found ourselves by a bus stop and I made an executive decision (something I had been doing the entire trip). We would take the bus to the train station (where I was pretty sure it was headed), where we would buy a phone card and call around to other hostels. Sure, they had almost all been full when I'd tried to book a room weeks ago, but something was bound to have opened up, right? And if that didn't work out, the train station would give us a central point from which to make new plans.

On the bus, we miraculously found seats, and by the time we were nearing the metro stop where all the confusion had begun a few hours earlier, the bus was even fairly empty, a rare occurrence on one of Bucharest's 122 (yes, 122) bus lines.

At this juncture, I should mention that at no point during the day had we actually purchased a bus ticket. It wasn't that we were cheap, it was just that we didn't know how. The hostel had run out and our attempt the previous day had resulted in magnetized tickets good for the express bus but useless on the other buses, which took little strips that looked something like generic raffle tickets. We were schwarzfahring, as they say in German.

So it's a good thing I was feeling particularly eagle-eyed, because I noticed right away when a man in a blue collared shirt with an electronic pad at his hip edged his way into the crowd waiting to board the bus by the middle door. I've never actually been controlled on an Austrian bus, but this guy had the look of a train conductor. Fortunately, we were sitting right by the back exit.

"Alice, we're getting off here," I said, grabbing her pack. As I sometimes make executive decisions without warning, she was prepared for this one. We hopped right off, and I like to think we didn't even look suspicious.

We had avoided getting controlled, but now we were lost, without housing, weighted down with luggage, and very sweaty. Naturally, Let's Go's map was no help at all. I steered us in the direction where I thought the train station should be and was relieved to discover a sign for the station but nonplussed when I realized it pointed to a street that positively could not be right, as it led right back where we'd come from. I paused to consult and subsequently curse Let's Go's map.

Plan B was to find a phone card and pay phone. The first part was easy; a nice woman at a nearby kiosk sold me one, but shook her head when I asked about a phone. In desperation, I asked after the train station and she pointed down the street. Not the street the sign pointed to, I'd like to add.

A block later we found a pay phone and the train tracks. I called the closest hostel and was informed that they did indeed have beds free and we could show up whenever we wanted. We hightailed it over, passing the train station and getting lost only once.

Checking in, the receptionist asked for our passports. When I pulled them out, the directions to the non-existent hostel fluttered to the ground. It's okay, we didn't really want to stay there anyway.

So it goes

2007-04-12T15:53:00.000+01:00

"No wonder kids grow up crazy. A cat's cradle is nothing but a bunch of X's between somebody's hands, and little kids look and look and look at all those X's..."
"And?"
"No damn cat, and no damn cradle."

Here's to Kurt Vonnegut.

When in Slovenia...

2007-03-20T15:10:00.000+01:00

When one lives in a rather provincial town in a somewhat provincial country, where prices are nonetheless incongruously inflated relative to the aforementioned provinciality, where does one go for a much-needed haircut?

Eastern Europe, of course.

More specifically, Slovenia. That’s right, I crossed international borders just for a haircut. In my defense, I made this trek solely because a friend was already going, and I figured I might as well keep her company and save a few euros at the same time. And hey, when else will I have the opportunity to get my hair cut in Slovenia?

2:15 My friend picks me up, twenty minutes late, as usual. She’s French and speaks almost no English, making German our lingua franca. In other words, she tells me long stories in German and I reply with broken sentences and half-finished ideas.

2:30 We stop at Burger King for lunch. I watch my friend polish off a double Whopper while I eat a kid’s meal. I take a moment to ponder the European perception that all Americans subsist on extra-large portions of fast food.

3:05 We finally hit the road. My friend explains that she thinks she remembers where to go. I begin to worry.

3:28 After my friend’s fourth rhetorical query concerning direction, followed by four seemingly arbitrary navigational decisions, I continue to worry. My friend calls her roommate for directions.

3:45 We reach a roundabout. One sign very clearly marks the way towards Slovenia. The other points to some sort of unidentified border. My friend follows the latter. I fight my natural tendency towards back-seat driving and keep my mouth shut.

3:53 After driving through rural Austria and half way up a mountain, we reach a border. Border control consists of a small hut and one very bored looking official. It occurs to me that while Slovenia is a small country, this is probably not the primary Slovene-Austrian border.

3:54 The bored official confirms that we have stumbled across a secondary border, intended for EU residents only. As I am not an EU resident, we turn around and head back towards the main road.

4:03 We return to the roundabout. As politely as I can, I point out the sign indicating the road to Slovenia.

4:08 We reach the Slovenian border. I have forgotten my passport. The Slovenian border guard is not inclined to take my Austrian residency permit in its place. I hand him my Georgia driver’s license. He looks like he’s trying not to laugh. My friend bats her eyelashes and pleads in German. The border guard goes to consult with his Austrian counterpart.

4:09 The guard returns and tells us we can go through, but we must return through the same checkpoint by seven o’clock. We enter Slovenia.

4:18 We arrive. I have to be back in Austria by 7. After a few quick calculations, figuring in my friend’s poor navigational skills and apparent belief that punctuality is for suckers, I resign myself to being late.

4:21 The salon. Considerably less hip than anywhere I’ve gotten my hair cut in the states. I observe a girl with an unfortunately androgynous bowl cut running amuck in the waiting area. I fervently hope she got her hair cut somewhere else.

4:23 My friend and I consult with the man who appears to be running the show. In German, of course. At least it’s not Slovene. He asks if I want color. I look at the color samples hanging on the back wall and note that only about half of them have ever occurred in nature. I decline.

4:25 My friend tries to explain what color she wants her hair to be and how she wants it cut. I watch and begin to worry again.

4:36 The man in charge collects me from the waiting area and sends me to get my hair shampooed. Without asking me anything about how I want my hair cut first. I continue to worry.

4:41 Hair washed and looking bedraggled, I sit down in front of the mirror. I have found a picture of a model with a shoulder-length bob and I explain in my best German that I want a similar shape, only with slightly shorter bangs. The stylist seems to understand. I worry a little less.

4:55 Half way through the hair cut, the stylist asks me to stand up. Once I figure out what it is he wants me to do, I comply. He spends several minutes circling me, snipping bits of hair here and there. I cannot fathom why I need to be standing for this, and I spend the time unsuccessfully trying not to start worrying again.

5:01 I am losing an alarming amount of hair. The stylist seems unconcerned with the fact that I really had very little hair to begin with. I remember my unfortunate decade-long experiment with bangs, during which the cowlicks on either side of my forehead produced an astounding antigravity-effect. I am concerned.

5:06 The stylist collects approximately a dozen round hair brushes, none of which have been sterilized in the past several weeks. I wonder why he needs so many.

5:08 He needs so many because as he blow dries my hair, he periodically wraps some around a hair brush and affixes the brush to my head. At one point I find myself with two hair brushes stuck to my head and one at work.

5:15 Done. It’s not the best haircut I’ve ever had, but nor do I look like I grew up behind the Iron Curtain. I call it a victory and sit down to watch the progress on my friend’s hair.

5:23 My friend tries to explain her desired cut to a young woman whose German is about as good as mine. Now that I no longer have to worry about my own hair, I focus on worrying about my friend’s.

5:35 I alternate between watching my friend’s haircut anxiously and watching the clock anxiously. I calculate how long it will take us to get back to Austria. I add fifteen minutes for my friend to get lost. Then I add another fifteen minutes for her to be late. It does not look good.

5:44 The stylist begins to blow dry my friend’s hair. I watch in fascination as she employs more and more round hairbrushes in the process. I start counting the number of hair brushes stuck to my friend’s head.

5:47 The hair brush count tops out at eight attached to my friend’s head and one at work. I wonder how I ever managed to blow dry my hair with only one hair brush.

5:55 Finished. We pay up and leave. My friend wails that she looks like a poodle. “Zu viel Volum.” Privately, I think she looks about how she did when she went in, only a bit blonder.

6:15 Slovene-Austrian border. The Austrian guard looks askance at my lack of passport. We explain that we just popped over the border for a hair cut. The guard asks a bit huffily why we couldn’t get our hair cut in Austria. We seem to have offended his sense of national pride. We giggle and he lets us through.

6:16 My friend narrates all the times she has crossed international borders under dubious circumstances. I am especially concerned with her account of driving into Germany with a car full of drunk girls, not entirely sober herself. She explains that she told the border guard a pack of lies and he let her in no problem. I start to worry again.

6:38 Just when I think I may make it back to town on time, my friend informs me that she wants to stop and say hello to her roommate’s mother in a town about 40 kilometers outside the city. I re-resign myself to being late.

7:12 My friend drops me off at my destination, less late than anticipated, and speeds off, probably to talk another public official into bending the rules for her. At least she’ll have plenty of volume to aid in the hair-tossing and eyelash-batting.

And where did I need to be at 7 o’clock on a Tuesday night? The local Irish bar, for a bi-weekly poker tournament with a bunch of Austrians…

Born on a mountaintop in Tennessee...

2007-02-19T15:30:00.000+01:00

Prague, city of Old World culture, meets a modern-day Davy Crockett. Only I find it unlikely that this guy killed him a bear when he was only three.

This week's important cultural questions

2007-02-06T11:30:00.001+01:00

Is it wrong that whenever I eat Wiener schnitzel, I can't help thinking how much better it would taste with ranch dressing?

Does explaining to my students the original meaning of "pimp" and watching understanding dawn as they make the connection to 50 Cent count as an instructional breakthrough?

How does one respond to the student who asks if the US still has a problem with child slavery?

Would American schools allow a student to wear a necklace with a large marijuana leaf-shaped pendant? Is it possible that Austrian school officials don't recognize it?

Why are Austrians so enamored of the Red Hot Chili Peppers?

I get pierced. Again. Against my better judgment. Again.

2007-02-02T18:57:00.000+01:00

I faint. When I try to give blood, when the doctor forcibly removes blood, when I get a TB test, when I get a real shot, when a needle looks at me funny, or when a member of my family gets a shot, I faint (you think I’m kidding about that last one. I’m not. Ask my sister). And I don’t faint in any sort of ladylike antebellum swoon. All the color drains from my face, I mumble, “I don’t feel so well,” I sit down, and then everything goes black. The next thing I know, I’m on the floor with my legs in the air and several health care professionals staring down at me anxiously. Or I’m under an emergency shock blanket while a Red Cross nurse takes my pulse and kindly suggests that I not attempt to give blood. Ever again.

So it should come as no surprise that I fainted when I got my bellybutton pierced shortly after I turned eighteen. The surprising part is that I made it all the way out to the car and started driving before announcing that I felt dizzy, at which point I pulled over, switched places with the passenger in the front seat, and promptly passed out, effectively terrifying everyone in the back of the car.

Given my consistent cowardice and weak constitution, what sort of cockamamie reasoning led me to believe it would be a good idea to pierce my nose?

Maybe it was all the cute little nose studs you see Austrian girls wearing. Or the fact that those nose studs appear even more adorable in contrast with the heavily-pierced kids whose lip ring, septum piercing, eyebrow ring, and gauged ears make them dangerously vulnerable to anyone with a large magnet or a pair of tweezers and a mean streak. Whatever the reason, I managed to convince myself that a hole in my nose would be worth the pain, nausea, and unconsciousness that would likely accompany the process.

I dutifully looked up the German for “faint” and informed the tattooed guy at the piercing place, once he figured out what exactly it was I wanted, that I would probably pass out. He rolled his eyes. Ten minutes later found me sitting in something akin to a dentist’s chair, eyes tightly shut so I wouldn’t see the needle sticking out of my left nostril, explaining in broken German that I didn’t feel so good.

And then I passed out. After one of the dreams on speed I always have when I faint, I plodded my way back to consciousness to find two tattooed arms elevating my legs. Everything came back into focus, including the models of pierced genitalia mounted on the wall across me. Mr. Tattoos sprayed something cool on my arms and explained to me several times that I was having a problem with my “Kreislauf.” I stared at him and tried to remember where the hell I was and why a strange Austrian man was holding my ankles.

After a series of highly professional revival maneuvers, including force-feeding me a sugar tablet, Mr. Tattoos inserted a much smaller and more attractive piece of metal in my nose. I stumbled out onto the waiting room couch while my British friend described my unpleasant pallor and just how I had twitched while I was out.

My mind no longer consumed with anxiety over the actual piercing, I could begin to worry about infection. I asked Mr. Tattoos what I should do to take care of my new puncture, and he handed me a sheet of instructions. In English. Sort of.

Care tips for a fresh piercing

Fundamental:
The cure time of a piercing is and this one very strong of the respective piercing place Endogenous body’s defenses dependent. It is therefore difficult to make general statements over the duration of the cure. Fälschlicherweise think that they can take out without problems and reinstate her jewelry any time some people. It is, however, fact that the jewelry permanently should be worn within the first months. The infection risk at the Piercen is minimal if you work sterilely and cleanly and the care primarily is taken seriously correspondingly after this. Our experience shows that most problems on the following factors have to be led back:

1. Oral contact or touch with dirty fingers!
2. Use of a cleaning agent to which the body negatively reacts.
3. Inadequate or improper care.

Is valid generally:
An adequate and consistent care determines speed and Problemlosigkeit of the healing process. Exaggerated care works soich just as negatively from like on the cure to little care. Never moving piece of jewelry as long as crusts are on it still.

I feel so much better now.

They're multiplying

2007-01-31T17:59:00.000+01:00

Remember this?

It appears to have spawned:

This of course begs the question, what will spring from the union Space Invaders Against Homophobia and Space Invaders Against Sexism? Space Invaders Against Anti-Semitism? Space Invaders Against Racism? Space Invaders Against Sexist Homophobes? Or just Space Invaders Against Straight White American Men?

I've said it before and I'll say it again

2007-01-29T09:39:00.000+01:00

I can't seem to get out of the South for love nor money.

The Austrian term for "shotgun wedding"? "Kärntnerisch Hochzeit" or "Carinthian wedding," after the province where I'm living.

If this isn't the Mississippi of Austria, I don't know what it is.

Most likely causes of death while in Austria

2007-01-25T15:07:00.000+01:00

1. Asphyxiation during housefire. To get in or out of my apartment, you have to go through two doors, one or both of which are locked at night and can only be unlocked with a house key. Likely scenario should a fire occur: me fumbling with my keys while my landlady stands behind me screaming in German as we both gasp for air before slumping to the floor.

2. Intentional hit-and-run. Austrians do not appreciate jaywalkers.

3. Second-hand smoke.

4. Run over by a train when I finally get tired of the smarmy sign at the train station informing me that walking over the tracks is forbidden and jump out onto them just to show the sign who’s boss.

5. Alcohol poisoning after some Austrian (or Brit, for that matter) drinks me under the table.

6. Run over by bicyclist after failing to move to the inside of the sidewalk because the music from my iPod drowned out the sound of the warning bell.

7. Embarrassment following any one of the many awkward moments resulting from imperfect German and an unfortunate tendency to smile and nod.

8. Drive-by-shooting, since I do live in the bad part of town. Wait, wrong town. Wrong continent. Scratch that.

People who should never procreate, and the pets that can't escape them

2007-01-24T12:13:00.001+01:00

You’re kidding, right? I’m pretty sure that dog would never in a million years wear that hood, but I’d sure like to see someone try to force it to.

It’s not that I have a problem with the fact that people take their dogs *everywhere* here (malls, trains, supermarkets, restaurants, and cafes, like the one where I took this picture). I mean, it seems a bit unhygienic to me, but when in Rome and all… I’m just pretty sure shoving a dog into a get-up like that qualifies as animal abuse. Is there an Austrian chapter of the ASPCA?

Cultural exchange

2007-01-22T14:49:00.000+01:00

I missed a call the other day from an American phone number, area code 323. Whoever it was didn’t leave a message, and I was dying to know who in the States a) knew my Austrian cell number and b) would call from an actual phone and not with Skype.

An hour and a half later the phone rings again, and this time I hear it in time to answer.

“Hah-low?” booms an unfamiliar male voice. “Seed-nee?”

“Ja,” I say uncertainly. Maybe it’s not an American number after all. “Das ist Sydney.”

“Hah-low,” the voice repeats. “Es ist MAHN-fred.”

Manfred? Do I know someone named Manfred? The name sounds familiar. I’m getting an image of a man, mid-forties, overweight and balding. The details start to sharpen: gold chain, fedora, moustache, inexplicably haggard eyes. And cigarette smoke. Suddenly I smell stale cigarette smoke.

Oh. That Manfred.

Shortly after I arrived here in October, I had a brief gig with a private language school that desperately needed someone who spoke American English. They paid me under the table to give ten hours of private help within two weeks to this guy who was about to leave for America on business.

Whatever I expected, and I didn’t expect much, it wasn’t a cross between a cowboy and every sleazy Eastern European you’ve ever seen in a bad movie. Manfred.

Manfred digs tunnels, and he is very good at what he does. When somebody somewhere in the course of putting in a subway or whatever else you need a tunnel for discovers the ground is too soft and the tunnel keeps caving in, they call Manfred’s boss, who calls Manfred. He high-tails it to the work site and employs his expert knowledge of rebar and other structural reinforcements to patch things back up.

The way he told it to me, he traveled all around the world, spending weeks or months in the Philippines, Brazil, Germany, Ukraine, Iran, or wherever else a tunnel needed digging. He would work twelve-hour days six days a week until the job was done and then take his overtime pay and blow it on several weeks R and R. His hobbies seemed to be limited to drinking, traveling, and fishing. I was careful not to ask what he did with his time off in the Philippines.

He’d been in Seattle for three months the previous spring, which was where he’d learned English, and was scheduled to leave for LA at the end of October. He’d picked up English pretty quickly, but was still a bit mystified by some of the slang used around the construction site and had talked his company into paying for private lessons to brush up before his re-entry into American society. That’s where I came in – a bona fide American, college educated, upper-middle class and fully prepared to explain the ins and outs of a Los Angeles construction crew.

We would meet at the language school every few days and make painful small talk for about twenty minutes. Then Manfred would tell me in his halting English about some experience he’d had in Seattle and ask me to explain it. Why did the checkers at the supermarket always have to make conversation with the customers? Talk, talk, talk, it slowed things down too much. And why wouldn’t the girl at the coffee shop he went to every day drive out to Mt. St. Helens with him?

I’d do my best to answer his questions, and then after about forty-five minutes, Manfred would start to fidget and suggest we go outside for a smoke. He’d have a cigarette in his mouth almost before we got out the door, and we’d walk the length of the parking lot while he smoked and pointed to various parts of the building or the nearby cars and ask for their English names.

A favorite topic of conversation was the classification and naming of different sized rocks. How big was too big for gravel? And what did you call something bigger than gravel but not bigger than your fist? What should he say when he needed a rock about this big (holding his hands about six inches apart)? What about this big (pointing to a rock on the ground)?

Bit by bit, I learned more about him. He showed me photos of his house, his brother, his girlfriend, her daughter. He lived right near the Slovenian border, and when he needed cigarettes or wanted to go drinking, zip, he’d pop across. He had a noise and accompanying gesture to indicate driving which suggested to me that zipping and popping were not just idle word choices.

In his past lives, Manfred had been a downhill skier, ski instructor, car mechanic, and had worked with explosives, although I was never quite clear in what capacity. Now, he seemed to be happy with his nomadic tunnel-digging existence, although he looked forward to retirement, when he would be able to sit around and fish all day.

We would talk for about an hour and a half, he would tell me to write down two hours on the log and then give me a lift home in his BMW, which had seen better days and sported an inconspicuous hammer and sickle on the front bumper. During our last meeting, he asked for my phone number and said he’d give me a call when he was back in Austria in December and tell me all about Los Angeles. I never heard from him.

Now here he is, calling all the way from LA. We chat a bit in German; he asks how I’m doing and whether I like Austria. I tell him I’m fine and Austria is lovely. How is he? Gut. How is Los Angeles? Kalt. Minus two today. I am intrigued by this piece of news, and also a bit guilty, since I told him before he left that Los Angeles would be fairly warm compared to Austria.

And how is work? Work is work. It goes on.

Try as I might, I can discern no particular reason for this phone call. He apologizes for not calling when he was in the country, but he was only here for four days. He tells me he will be back in mid-April and when he finds out I won’t leave until the end of May, assures me that he will call when he returns.

Have I seen much of Austria yet? Not too much, just Salzburg, Vienna, and Klagenfurt. I tell him how much I liked Ljubljana, Slovenia’s capital. My German is wearing thin at this point, but I think he is pleased, and tells me that when he gets back, we’ll drive down to Ljubljana. An image of the trip flashes before my eyes. I’m in the passenger seat holding on for dear life as Manfred drives hell-for-leather towards the Slovenian border. I decide it could be fun.

Manfred asks for my email address and I give it to him, trying my best to spell out my last name in German. We have some confusion over i’s and e’s and I doubt he has managed to get everything straight. I’m impressed that he’s gotten the hang of the whole email thing; he could barely turn the computer on back in October. I try to imagine what kind of email he will send. My money is on brief and to the point, although I can’t begin to fathom what that point will be.

And as abruptly as it began, the conversation is over. Manfred promises again to call in April and to email me in the meantime. I say goodbye, opting for “ciao” over “tschüss” (German for “Cheerio!” Can be made even more twee by saying “tschüssi!”) or the particularly Austrian “wiederschauen.”

I picture Manfred sitting in some extended-stay hotel in Los Angeles after a ten- or twelve-hour day, flipping through the channels and eating Chinese take-out straight from the carton. I find this prospect momentarily depressing, until I remember that he spent some time in Iran, where according to him, there was absolutely nothing to do. No TV, no radio, no drinking, no girls. He’s in LA. What better place for an Eastern European tunnel-digging cowboy?

I appreciate the sentiment but remain perplexed

2007-01-19T12:01:00.000+01:00

Found on the corner of St. Veiter Ring and Bahnhofstraße in Klagenfurt. Still waiting for the invasion.

Burning question of the day

2007-01-18T12:58:00.001+01:00

Does the Starbucks in Vienna put inspirational messages on its coffee cups like the ones in America? Must find out. Maybe I can find the German equivalent of this gem:

The Way I See It #197

Life is a school for angels. Love is the Teacher, so do your homework without fear. Death is merely graduation.

- Jeffrey Kuehl, Starbucks customer from Wilmette, Illinois

Words that should be reintroduced into common parlance (first in an occasional series)

2007-01-17T14:55:00.000+01:00

Bully (synonyms: awesome, sweet, far out, crackerjack, kick-ass, nifty, swell, radical, ace, phat, groovy, wicked)

First of all, let’s tighten the definition a bit. Bully: adjective or exclamation expressing extreme approval.

But what distinguishes “bully” from “cool” or “cute” or “fly”?

Bully has more testosterone, more good ol’ boy spirit, more raw muscle. A good rule of thumb: Bully should only be used with reference to situations, people, or objects about which former president Teddy Roosevelt would express approval (full disclosure: I totally stole this from John Dos Passos. But Dos Passos is dead and therefore wholly unhelpful in reviving obscure adjectives, so I’m picking up where he left off).

Things Teddy Roosevelt would find bully:
Guns
Large dead animals, especially tigers and rhinoceri
Trust-busting
Big sticks
Panama hats
Stuffed bears
Canals
Moustaches

So, one might say, “That’s a bully new gun you’ve got there,” but not, “That’s a bully sewing machine.” (Still up for debate: Roosevelt’s feelings on modern handguns. Can one say, “That’s a bully Glock you just shot that guy with”?)

Other possible uses:
“It was really bully the way the Justice Department took Microsoft down.” (I know, but we’re not concerned with the accuracy of these statements, just whether TR would approve of the sentiment.)

“We’ve done a bully job reducing corruption in Latin America.” (See above.)

“That’s a bully stick there. But why are you whispering?”

Granted, using “bully” takes a bit more effort than just breaking out the standby adjective of your choice (personally, I like “top-notch”). But I think you’ll find the return well worth the investment. “Bully” puts a little more swagger in your step, makes you want to improve Central American infrastructure, take on Tammany Hall, and shoot big game. You may feel the urge to comb your recently more luxuriant moustache.

(Warning: acting on any of the sentiments provoked by the use of the word “bully” may result in mauling, machine politics, and/or yellow fever. It might also lead to a Nobel Peace Prize, but that’s less likely. Use “bully” only where appropriate.)

Why Austria will never produce country music stars

2007-01-16T15:00:00.000+01:00

As European nations go, Austria might seem to have a lot more potential than most for honky tonk tunes, given its hillbilly accent, agrarian tendencies and passion for drinking, not to mention the obvious pairing of a nation of white people with a genre of music dominated by white people. Besides, polka’s got a lot in common with Cajun music, and didn’t Hank Williams make “Jambalaya” a hit? So why won’t the Klagenfurt Heuwagen be the next Louisiana Hayride?

I’ll tell you why:
1. Schnapps will never have the same ring as Jack Daniels Tennessee Whiskey.
2. While chaps and lederhosen may both technically qualify as leather legwear, you just can’t ride the range in leather half-britches and knee socks. Cowboys don’t wear knee socks.
3. Think of every country song you’ve ever heard that mentioned a pickup truck. Now imagine it was a Volkswagen Golf instead.
4. Willy, Johnny, Hank, Merle, Buck, Waylon vs. Lukas, Florian, Alexander, Fabian, Marcel, Tobias (and no, I am not making that up. Those were six of the ten most popular Austrian names in 2006).
5. “I knifed a man in Feldkirchen just to watch him die” doesn’t quite cut it.
6. Austrian patriotism. Instead of Merle declaring, “When they're runnin' down my country, hoss, / They're walkin' on the fightin' side of me”, Florian would sing, “If you’re runnin’ down my country, man, / I find I must respectfully disagree.”

It’s possible that with the addition of more whiskey, bigger cars, a few more guns, and a crop of manlier-sounding babies next year, Austria could have a bright future as the new center of country and western music. But until then, it looks like the nation’s musical fame will have to depend on that Mozart guy.