Seriously, though, clowns are freaky

I'm continually amazed by how much crap my Tracker is capable of holding. Spatially it's deceptively small, so I always feel like I'm driving a clown car that's going to explode at the next stop light, spewing clothing and housewares all over the highway.

As you might have guessed, the drive to Houston is commencing here in a few hours. My mom and I are loading up the cat and the crap and descending on my new apartment and Half Price Books for some fun good times.

If you're in Houston and wondering when I'll be available for play, the answer is "Monday night." I'll hit town Friday afternoon, but my mom has priority until Monday morning at 7, then work, and then you can monopolize me to your hearts' content.

See you soon.

You were annoying in high school. Not much has changed, eh?

I just got back from my five-year high school "reunion." I use sarcastic quotation marks because a) five years isn't nearly long enough to require a reunion, and even if it were, b) most of these people still live in Wayne. How reunited do they need to be?

But I went, because hey, free drinks. Also, I thought, what the hell, free opportunity to make fun of many people at once, which was totally what happened.

Of course, the deal at these things is that everybody is happy to see everybody else, but basically falls back into old cliques and is catty about all the other cliques behind their backs (or possibly to their faces, as the night gets older and the drinks get harder). I was no exception; I just sat around with a couple of girls that I actually liked in high school and talked about how much fatter everybody is now. Because damn, Dunklau, you don't just have a spare tire, you've got a spare 18-wheeler goin' there. And you were a jackass in high school.

So this was the conclusions I drew: everybody's fatter but nobody's really changed.

I wasn't nearly as popular then as I was tonight. Or maybe I just felt more popular, because I realized that I truly I don't give a shit now what those people think, so I feel free to speak my mind. That certainly wasn't the case five or six years ago. It was sort of an amazing quiet epiphany. Of course, in high school I didn't have the advantage of alcohol to loosen my tongue, but still, the liberation from worrying about what everybody was saying about me was nice.

However, I'm not mourning the five years that separates me from another night of drunken mockery. I'm not that smug.

However, I still wave my hand in front of my forehead to indicate that I think someone is insane, like this:

So I've been back in the U.S. for just over a week now, and I don't think my brain is any less confused than it was before I left Austria.

I was, in fact, correct. The reverse culture shock is a bitch. Several times a day, I find something that makes me pause in confusion: country radio stations, saying the "Our Father" in English, hearing somebody talk about soccer, constantly getting the z and y keys mixed up when I'm typing (not to mention endless searches for the umlauted letters). The grocery store threw me for a major loop the other day. It's so big. Is it really necessary to have an entire aisle (which, by the way, is a terrible word for ESL speakers to have to learn) of cereal? We could certainly get rid of Waffle Crisp, at the very least.

I want to speak German all the time. I want say "Grüß Gott" when I walk by somebody on the street. I think it's weird when people say "Hi" to me, especially if they're old. I expect a more formal "hello" or "good afternoon."

Actually, walking by somebody on the street hasn't been happening too much. I admit, I'm doing a lot of hiding. I don't want to talk to people and have to sum up my trip in a few neat sentences. I don't know what my favorite thing was, I don't know what I missed the most, and I don't know when I'm going back. In some ways, I want to hold the experience just for me. On the other hand, I can't stop talking about it when I'm hanging out at home. Fortunately, my family doesn't seem to mind too much that every other sentence out of my mouth starts with "In Austria...."

Getting reintegrated is a process of slow degrees, evidently. I'm mostly over the jet lag, and I can control the impulse to speak German. Now I'm working on getting used to the imperial system of measurement and more casual means of address. Maybe next week I'll be ready to hang out with friends who've known me longer than eight months.

You say goodbye, I say hello (hello, hello). I also say: shut up Paul McCartney, nobody believes your poorly thought out heroin excuses.

Anyway.

This will be my last post from Austria, barring me either a) not being lazy and posting from Vienna tomorrow (doubtful), or b) getting stuck here by an airline strike (it's happened before). It will probably be my last post for at least a week or so, because the computer connection at my parents' house is dodgy at best, and I want to take a little time to digest everything before I start full speed again.

So...I don't have any deep words of reflection on what I've learned, or pithy observations on transition and change. All I feel right now is a stab in the gut that I can't take all the people that I've come to love here home with me, and a budding anticipation for seeing all the people I already loved there again. "All I feel." As if that weren't enough.

When I grow up, I want to be an ex-pat

Well, I'm almost packed. I sent a 14.02 kilo box of books to Houston yesterday; this afternoon I crammed the stuff I'm not taking into a box to leave for next year's assistant. (Hi, E.!) Most of what's left I've smushed into my well-travelled black suitcase. I still have some significant cleaning left to do in my room, and I have to figure out how to get my shoes into the one square inch of space that's left in my suitcase, but I could probably be ready to leave in less than an hour.

The idea of leaving Stegersbach gets more dreadful as every hour goes by. Today I abmelded; this is basically the process of dergeistering with the government. I no longer officially live in Stegersbach.

On the way home I stopped one last time in the town's sole bookstore, the one where they always seem to find it strange that I just want to browse. It's a good technique, though, because I'm almost always guilted into buying something. Today was no different, though I kept it small (see 'one square inch of space' comment above).

Tonight I have the last choir outing, a performance of Volkslieder in Bad Tatsmansdof. Tomorrow I will say goodbye to my teachers, and Saturday morning I will get on a bus to Vienna and I won't come back.

I'm not ready.

I just want to pinch its cheeks and ruffle its hair

Sometimes Austria is so cute I can hardly bear it.

Today was a holiday (Pentecost), so of course Gertraud picked me up for the traditional enforced marching.

Today was one of the most beautiful days we've had since I've been here, so Gertraud decided to march me and her boyfriend through the Kellerviertel (cellar quarter) in Heligenbrünn. It's a tiny little town that's filled with these straw-roofed, clay-walled huts that were used (are used?) to store wine barrels. They are adorable in their quaintness. As a result of these huts, the town is also filled with Heuriger, so naturally we stopped to have some Uhudler (a fruity red wine that's a specialty of this region; it tastes kind of like strawberries) and salad. After that we walked bergauf (uphill) along the vineyard and back to the car.

This would have been fine if it wasn't a surprised forced march; I was wearing sandals and capri pants, so I wasn't actually prepared to be tromping through the grass and straw that they lay alongside the grapes. My feet have blisters and my ankles are scratched.

Of course, that wasn't the end of the enforced marching. As we were driving back towards Stegersbach, Gertraud turned around in her seat and said, "Have you ever seen the lake at Rauchwart?" I, stupidly, told the truth and said, "No." So then we had to go march around the lake, which was not a small little pond. We did see a swan, though, and about seventy million tadpoles.

Mostly the day brought home to me how much I'm going to miss Austria. Houston is not big on either lakes or Catholic holidays, so the enforced marches are going to be severely curtailed. Also, nobody in Houston is likely to buy me red wine on a regular basis just because I speak English. I miss my friends and I'm ready to see them, but why can't Texas be as cute as Burgenland?

Well, my cheeks are pink

Most embarrassing German-as-second-language mistake I've ever made:

During a conversation about the division of household chores, I said this sentence:

Wer macht hier das Wichsen?

Which I thought meant, "Who does the polishing here?"

Of course, "to polish" is the archaic form of wichsen, which has fallen completely out of use. What does wichsen mean in today's German?

To masturbate.

Bill Bryson I’m not, but I did try to avoid overdoing the landmine jokes

So here, finally, is the novel-length story of last weekend’s Ausflug, which, as you know, consisted of a trip to Pula, Croatia, by way of Ljubljana, Slovenia. If you make it to the bottom you get a prize.*

I met two other teaching assistants and the friend of one of the aforementioned in Vienna, where we rented a car (a blue Ford station wagon that we named Lorelai) and took for Köflach on Wednesday night to pick up one other assistant.

A short excursion on the subject of our renting a car: this was possibly the most brilliant decision we made all weekend, apart from the one where we actually went to Croatia instead of some other, more banal corner of Europe. About 95% of our suggestions during the trip were concluded with the words, “Hey, we have a car! This will be no problem.” We weren’t constrained to stay in the city center, to depend on public transportation, or to carry our crap with us all the time. Admittedly, parking was sort of hell (I will never, ever, ever own a station wagon if I can do anything short of selling body parts into white slavery), but my word, the freedom was delicious.

The drive itself was relatively smooth, all things considered. The things under consideration are, of course, the fact that 1) I was the only person who could drive a stick, and 2) I am, at best, a marginal driver. Perhaps the best moment of the drive was when we were crawling along in bumper-to-bumper traffic outside of Ljubljana, swearing at the asshole drivers who kept flying by on the shoulder. Our swearing turned to cheers when the semi in front of us, the driver of which was apparently watching the assholes out his rear-view window, pulled suddenly into the shoulder, forcing a tiny purple car to slam on the breaks and slide into a guard rail. Nobody was even close to getting hurt, but their shiny car did get an impressive scratch on it. Served them right. There was much appreciative honking from other cars in the vicinity.

But let me back up a bit and tell you about Ljubljana, which may be the cutest city in the whole entire world. As you (should) know, Slovenia entered the EU on May 1, 2004, and was the richest of the 10 countries that joined. It shows in their capital, which is absolutely charming, with its cobblestone streets, pedestrian-friendly center, and relatively small number of annoying American tourists. Our first encounter with the locals was heartening—we were parking at a spot near the center of town around noon, and a UPS man stopped to welcome us and offer us his extra parking token. Besides being super sweet, it was also fortuitous, since we didn’t have any Slovenian taler at that point. Then we had the largest pizzas ever for lunch, at a cute little café that overlooked the blue-green river running through the center of town, and before we left, we had the best apple ice cream I’ve ever eaten in my life.

We knew Croatia was going to be fantastic when, upon driving out of the longest tunnel I’ve ever seen (cost of use: $3.50), the vista of green mountains and blue, blue water sprawled like a reclining goddess in front of us and stayed that way for the next 60 miles as we made our way down to the tip of the Istrian peninsula, where Pula is located. Not that you would ever be able to figure this out without a map, because the Croatians suck at signs. The Austrians are generally quite good; the Slovenians are acceptably competent, but the Croatians wouldn’t know what to do with a sign if somebody handed them one with explicit directions written on the back using the shortest possible words. It took us an extra half hour to find our hostel, even after we stopped to ask for directions, because we didn’t figure out for fifteen minutes that the street markers were small green posts with the words written on them in twelve-point gold type. Needless to say, they were useless even after we did find them. We forgot this minor annoyance completely when we found the hostel, though. It was right on the water. And by “right on the water,” I mean, “we could open our door and throw things into the Adriatic.”

Thursday night we decided to hit the grocery store for dinner because we were tired and they took credit cards—we had neither patience nor Croatian money. We bought bread, wine, and dried apricots, and proceeded to get drunk and watch the sun sink into the azure.

Friday morning we had our first adventure: parking in the Eastern European style, namely half on and half off the sidewalk. I think this might be the stupidest parking system in the world, because not only does it leave pedestrians no place to walk, but it’s hell on tires. Anyway, we parked in downtown Pula, got cash, bought stamps (you’re welcome, Mom), and then started following the only signs in the entire town of Pula. They pointed toward the first century A.D. Roman amphitheatre, and I’m sure it was probably the Romans’ idea to put them up. Anyway, the amphitheatre in Pula is the second largest in the world. I presume the Colisseum is the largest, but my fact-checker is on vacation, so who knows. Anyway, it was surprisingly complete, considering it was a) old, and b) in Croatia, which doesn’t have the most peaceful history in the world.

After that we bought postcards to go with our stamps and then located a bistro for lunch. Let me insert a word about wine, here. I had wine at every meal in Croatia, except for breakfast where I had either sweet tea or “cocoa” that tasted like it was made by dipping a spoon of Nutella in lukewarm milk. The wine on the Istrian peninsula is very, very good—fruity but not too sweet, and absurdly inexpensive (and I’m speaking as someone who’s lived in Austria the last eight months, where you can’t buy a bottle of wine that costs more than 10 Euros). However, they serve red wine cold. I don’t know why—no other beverage in all of Europe is served properly chilled, but the red wine in Istria was practically shivering.

Friday afternoon we had our first beach adventure. I use the word “beach” lightly, because the shore in Croatia is rocky. There’s no sand whatsoever. Friday’s beach was large rock slabs that actually weren’t too bad for sunbathing, as long as you avoided the parts that were sharp like coral. We lolled about for a good two hours, finishing off the apricots and throwing longing glances at the water. Although the air temperature was a solid 25 or 26 degrees, the water had to be hovering around 17 at the highest. We tried to tough it out—John actually made it into the water because he had to pee—but after I stopped being able to feel my toes as I was inching in, I gave up and went back to my beach mat, which had been purchased the previous evening for 8 kuna (~1 Euro).

Friday night we had dinner at the Hotel Milan, which had been recommended to us by a waiter in downtown Pula as the only decent restaurant in town. It was in the only three-star hotel in town, so that made sense. We spent three hours there, alternately chatting up the cute waiter (who made fun of us for not being able to decide on dessert—we ended up getting one of everything) and complimenting each other on shrimp denuding technique. I adore fish, as you know, and Croatia is the ideal place to eat it. It’s cheap, and John found sand in his calimari—an acceptable level of freshness, I feel.

Saturday morning we decided we had seen all that Pula had to offer and decided to head up the coast a tad to Rovinj, which was purported to have excellent beaches. After another parking adventure (mmm, burned rubber), we found out that Rovinj was celebrating its summer-opening carnival that evening, and that there were 10 km of beaches waiting for us. We headed for the beach.

I don’t know if the sun had fried our brains or what, but somehow we decided that the water was not quite as cold on Saturday as on Friday, even though we were several kilometres north of where we had been. I managed to get in up to my waist, but got back out after I sliced the hell out of my toe on a rock. Mixing my feet and bodies of water is evidently always bad (some of you will remember the famous “Shell Imbedded in Foot While Tubing” Incident of 2000; plus, I cut the arch of my foot while shaving my legs in the shower the other day). The beach on Saturday was composed of small, sharp pebbles which evidently did not bother the two small naked Austrian children that were allowed to run amok until the little boy fell and cut his knee. Austrian parents—so permissive. We, on the other hand, had to either hobble-hop like a rabbit that needed hip replacement, or wear shoes at all times. I chose the latter after the former almost landed me on my ass in the water.

Saturday night was a real adventure. The parade was not kidding around—it started with a baton corps, followed through with a batallion of children, all wearing giant paper flowers on their heads, and finished up with drunken, costumed revelers. I got my hand kissed by a man in a blue hat with giant feathers coming out of it, and some crazy old lady put smears of brown shoe polish on all of our faces. You can imagine how that looked. The best moment, though, was when three Croatian kids, all about seven or eight, rode up to my four loud, somewhat embarassing, beer-drinking friends, and made very distinct “you drunken American bastards” gestures to them. Sometimes the designated driver gets a little bit of karmic reward.

We made it back to Pula Saturday night just in time to hit up our favorite grocery store one more time, picking up stuff for breakfast. We had to be back in Vienna by 5 so I could catch the 7 p.m. bus back to Stegersbach, and since the bus company is evidently run by Nazis, I didn’t want to be late. Therefore we had decided to leave by 7 a.m. in case we hit traffic or weather or something. However, the drive home was nearly ideal (I will admit that my driving companions annoyed me to the point that I was deliberately trying to make them car sick going around curves in the mountains) and we made it back to Vienna by 4:30, in plenty of time for the bus.

All in all, I think this might have been the luckiest vacation I’ve ever been on. I found out after I got home that the weather had been horrendous nearly the whole weekend in Austria. We had no problems with the car, amazingly, and everybody we met was charming or at least amusing, excepting one jerky café waiter who was easily ignored. For plunging half-prepared into a country that’s not renowned for its tourism, the whole thing was ideal. As I said, I’d totally recommend that you go there, if I didn’t want it gunked up by a bunch of annoying American tourists next time I go back, so stay away.

*By “prize,” I meant, of course, “insult.”

You know what's cool? Croatia is cool.

I have lots and lots to tell you about the trip to Croatia, which was practically perfect in every way, but the internet is down in the internat. I'm using the computer in the office, so I don't have time to make a complete report. But rest assured, as soon as TelekomAustria gets off its ass and figures out the problem, you'll know what the what was.

I promise not to wander into any unmarked fields, Mom

I'm off to Pula, Croatia, for four days of lying around on the Adriatic Coast. I will probably get a sunburn and I will almost certainly bankrupt myself. More on my return.

As soon as I have a niece...
I'm totally going to read her
"Advice to Little Girls" by Mark Twain every night before bed, even if I have to call her long-distance to do so. "If at any time you find it necessary to correct your brother, do not correct him with mud—never, on any account, throw mud at him, because it will spoil his clothes. It is better to scald him a little, for then you obtain desirable results. You secure his immediate attention to the lessons you are inculcating, and at the same time your hot water will have a tendency to move impurities from his person, and possibly the skin, in spots."

Things that should be covered in the Geneva Convention

Is there anything in the world more unpleasant than a cold shower? I mean, probably, but first thing in the morning it's about as close to torture as I ever want to be, really.

For some reason the hot water was out this morning at the internat when I went to take a shower at 9 a.m. Taking a shower wasn't really optional, as I was going to brunch in a five-star hotel and had skipped showering the day before (it was Saturday; leave me alone). I let the water run for a solid 15 minutes, begging it intermittently to "warm up, damn you!" It refused. Finally, it was getting on towards 9:30 and I couldn't really screw around anymore on the (slim) chance that my ride would actually be on time.

I don't know if you've ever taken a cold shower—if you haven't, don't—but the minute you get in the shower, you become the Hunchback of Notre Dame, complete with bell-ringing motion as you try to get the showerhead pointed anywhere but at you. Of course, in my shower, any variation from a military "at attention" pose is just asking for a concussion. Basically I turned into a whirligig trying to avoid having cold water on any one part of my body for longer than five seconds. I rinsed my hair by bending my back into a perfect C shape, because there's nothing I hate more than cold water between my shoulder blades.

This was also the shortest shower I've ever taken, clocking in at somewhere under 3 minutes. And as you know, I hate being wet, so I'm kind of the queen of short showers anyway. But this morning I reached new levels of efficieny, and there was even a razor involved at one point. My arms are still, amazingly, attached to my body.

I don't know if I really learned anything from this experience, other than that I tend to take hot water for granted. And that the next time somebody really pisses me off, I'm going to disconnect their water heater, because I can't possibly think of a better, crueler revenge than that.

Hummenah, now?

I have lots of thoughts, but rather than give them to you one post at a time, I'll just make one big messy post, mmkay?

• Caramel ice cream is always disappointing, and I know this, but somehow it has become my emergency fall-back flavor—the one I choose when I don't have time to think of something else.


• I broke one of my cardinal rules of life today: never buy capri pants. However, these were cheap, comfortable, and decorated with shiny silver studs. I plan to wear them with shirts that have 3/4-length sleeves and tell people I stole my clothes from a dwarf.


• My teacher Heinz cracks me up. He was supposed to be helping at the café counter at the school party last night, serving cake and coffee, but mostly he just sat around and talked to me and a couple of other friends. He joked at one point, "I can't just sit and watch while women work...so I look away." I had heard the line before, but it's about 10 times funnier when delivered to two women through a mouthful of stolen cake.


• Number of times I've heard the line "I hate students" or its German equivalent in the past two days: 8. Number of those times it was coming from my own mouth: 2. Remarkable restraint on my part.


• I've decided I'm going to start saving up my change to buy a house in Stegersbach. I can get a decent two-bedroom for approximately $50,000. They'd probably even throw in the resident chickens for that.


• Best ads I've seen lately: Raiffeisen's series of Hermann Maier ads. One has him lounging shirtless against a black background, promoting "MaierFire," a men's fragrance, and the other has him in a suit, baseball cap, and goofy grin, standing in front of a plane with "fly maier" painted on the wing (slogan: Fly Maier, Fly Higher). The idea is that Raiffeisen is the bank for all your business needs, but I just like the fact that they're a) making Austria's greatest, most beloved athlete look like kind of a goober, and b) they're making rhymes in English.


• Does anybody else have an irresistable urge to call Eric Bana "Eric Banana"? No? Just me? All right.

Note to Self: must stop the constant disappointed sighing

Reading 17 essays on the same topic, any topic, is bound to get boring pretty damn quickly. If the essays are on advertising and written by teenagers with a shaky command of the English lanugage, it's not only boring, it's depressing.

Matura grades are due on Monday, so I've been helping my teachers by looking over the composition parts of the written tests (the other parts are business letters and text analysis). It's pretty clear that some of the students just memorized their essay before the test, seeing as they're suspiciously...well, not error-free, but less full of errors than they should be. These are also the essays that fail to address seven of the ten required points. Suprisingly enough, they don't receive failing grades, because my teachers are so permissive in their grading that an unconscious first former could probably squeak by with a four.

So this is what I learned about advertising today. Comments from me in parentheses.

Printing was invented in the 17th century. (Not the fifteenth as you were probably mistakenly informed in school.)

Advertising uses techniques like words or sounds. (Also, existing is a common technique.)

In some words, this advertising causes that the consumer believes to get more of a product than it ever can do. (Hello, Babelfish translator.)

Artists and drawers then produce ideas for pictures and drawings. (My nighttable has two drawers and it's never once produced an idea.)

Invading the culture of the people is the aim of this brand of advertising. ("Invading the culture of the people" sounds like some sort of Communist plot out of a 1960s B-movie.)

Advertising is veining. (Plus, arterying!)

Brands are produced through famous personalities. (This was followed up with some talk about David Beckham. What brand has David Beckham created? Infidelity for Men?)

So yes, I am now fully informed about the joys of advertising and the sorrows of teaching English as a second language. I did give three 1s and several 2s, which my teachers will probably honor, but I doubt they'll hold up my five 5s. They probably just don't want to spend another year reading the same terrible handwriting and tortured grammar. Especially since next year's batch looks to be even worse.

Self-editing is very important

Backhanded compliments I wanted to give in the past week:

To a teacher at the HAK: "I like your new haircut. It makes you look less like a mad scientist."
To a supervisor at the internat: "If you weren't so hot, there's no way you'd have a girlfriend."
To one of my students: "You could be fantastic at English if you weren't such a screw-up."

Well, I think it's funny, anyway

I don't know if you're tired of me quoting my students or not, but they seriously make me laugh all the time. This little gem came from a role-play debate today about whether schools should ban candy and soda.

Student playing parent of overweight student: My child is fat. It's really overweight.
Student playing gym teacher: You have to beat your child.
Student playing parent of overweight student:Yeah! I do beat it!

Stop overweight androgynous child abuse!

Adorable or testosterone overload?

So Friday night my Betreuungslehrerin (she of the sudden soccer games) dragged me off to her Dorf to watch the Maibaumausstellung. Basically this is an excuse for the men of the village to tie together two impossibly long tree trunks and then stick them in the ground using a crane. However, it's based on an interesting tradition. Families with eligible young women used to put the trees in their yard on May 1, and then the boys would go around and see who had a tree, and mating would ensue (more or less). The town would also put one up, and the night before it went in the hole, the town's young men would have to guard it all night against raids by the neighboring town's boys, who would try to steal the tree and sell it into slavery or something.

The little pine-tree bit on the end of the town's connected trunks is dressed up with red and yellow and white ribbons (to represent Burgenland, I think) and a random doll figure made of pants and a shirt stuffed with old newspapers. I think it was supposed to be either a guy or a bear in pants climbing the tree, but it was hard to tell from the angle I was looking at. Why it was on there is anyone's guess—represting the desperate, love-starved young men of former eras, perhaps? Some thinly veiled reference to sex? Probably.

After it's decorated, everybody from the town comes to see if anybody will be crushed to death when they set the tree up, which is a likely possibility considering the number of small children allowed to run wild and the fact that there is free beer and wine for everybody. The whole setting-up process takes about 20 minutes, during which six men hold the trunk, one guy runs the crane, and two hundred people criticize and drink beer. After they get it in the hole, they put in the shims and then they force people into service, pounding them in place with sledgehammer while the children run back and forth underfoot, apparently bored with the now non–life-threatening crane. In St. Michael the mayor was forced to do a lot of the work, because people kept saying, "Well, what else is he good for?"

Of course, the tree didn't end up entirely perpendicular to the ground, so it kind of hovers threateningly over the roof of the nearby restaurant/hotel. Nobody seems too concerned about this, despite the fact that two years ago a strong wind came along and caused thousands of dollars of damage to that very roof by repeatedly smacking the Maibaum right into it.

So we did that, and then we went and ate the largest bowls of fruity ice cream you've ever seen at the one café in town. A solid evening's entertainment, I feel.

You needed an election for that?

As most of you probably don't know, the Austrians had presidential elections on Sunday. The SPÖ candidate, Heinz Fischer, won by three and a half points.

This was totally the most pointless election I've ever seen in my life.

The Austrian president doesn't actually do anything. It's just a ceremonial position. He's actually sort of like the Queen of England—he can supposedly influence policy, but he never really does. Still, there was a four-month long campaign for the office, complete with arguments about who was giving away cookies illegally and who misused a Pink concert to promote herself (Fischer and Ferrero-Waldner, respectively). The Austrians seem to feel that it's necessary to have a special election just for this position, and then they get all wound up when the voter turnout is "only" 70,6%.

Sometimes I don't understand this country.

Wild weekend

This weekend was fun good times, mostly because I was out and about randomly. Okay, that's a lie. This weekend was good times because the kids had a golf tournament and the internat was empty. Whatever.

Anyway, my Betreuungslehererin called me at 11:15 on Saturday and said, "I come pick you up in 20 minutes." I said, "Uh. Okay." So she did. We did some bumming around Güssing, but the highlight of the day was the local soccer game.

If you know me at all, you know I like sports but think soccer is BOR-ing. Not golf-level boring, but definitely snooze-inducing. This was not a problem Saturday, because the ref was completely malcompetent. Halfway through the first half, one of our players was unjustly red-carded and we had to play the rest of the game at a disadvantage. And then, with the score tied 4-3 and the other team making increasingly more aggressive shots on goal, the ref made them play SIX extra minutes for no apparent reason. He's lucky the other team didn't score, or he would have seen hooliganism in action.

Anyway, soccer of course leads to drinking, and we congregated at the local Gasthaus after the game for wine and analysis of referee stupidity.

Last night I went to the welcome barbeque for the Croatian exchange students. I got a few nice strokes to my ego from people commenting on how much my German has improved. I also got the weirdest door prize/souvenir ever: it's a book with a photo from every house in Neuberg (a small village near Stegersbach) in it. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Laugh at it, mostly.

Then I came home, prepared a lesson on Canada (please note, 3HAS class: moose and elk are not the same thing), and went to bed. Fantastic.

Saint or paraiah, hard to tell

Comedian Eddie Izzard has a line about Adolf Hitler that I just love: "He was a vegetarian and a painter, so he must have been going, 'I can't get the fuckin' trees...damn, I will kill everyone in the world!"

Austrians do not think this line is funny.

I can't really figure out what the attitude toward Hitler is, actually. Jokes, in any form, are right out. I get called "the Grammar Nazi" a lot at home, but that would be a serious insult here. I have no idea how they handled the Soup Nazi when Seinfeld was on.

So Hitler is not funny. He is serious. Very serious.

But that doesn't mean that he's really hated.

I think the Austrians are aware they're supposed to hate Hitler. He gets compared to Bush a lot, so there must be some hatred. Sometimes, though, it's Bush that comes out the worse in that little race. (Which brings to mind a Margaret Cho quote: "George W. Bush is not Hitler. But he could be if he fucking applied himself.")

Anyway, I think there's actually a good bit of ashamed admiration floating under the ostensible wrath and disgust for Hitler. Not that they want him to return, or even to admit that he was, in fact, born in Austria, but a sort of, look-our-boy-is-the-most-hated-man-in-history, it's-not-having-the-empire-back-but-it's-something attitude.

In the end, I think that's the reason there's so much anti-Bush/anti-America sentiment here. Austria and Germany have been held up for so long as the examples of how government can go terribly wrong that they're defensive, even of Hitler. They're tired of being the whipping boys, so they're all too happy to point fingers at the U.S.

I have to admit, this attitude annoys me. I feel like the best thing for them to do would be to say, "Look, clearly we're not the world experts on good government, because...yo. But, hey, we're trying to do better and you're hurting our feelings," instead of this constant barrage of "Americans are stupid and so are you."

Live in the now

I updated my links section, so if you want to waste a little time at work (and who doesn't), try to figure out what's new and what's gone. I'll give you a prize if you're able to tell me.

I'm going to kill you, Charles Dickens

I swear, if he weren't already dead...

I took the practice test for the GRE Literature this weekend. My results were sort of disappointing (although better than the person who owned the book before me). I mean, I'm not going to be stuck going to BFE U., but I'm not getting into Cornell, either.

Here is the problem that I have: I'm actually a very poorly read English major. (I think I've posted about this before, but I'm too lazy to go look for it.) I read a lot, but I read a lot of crap. I read children's books and random stuff in German and romance novels and whatever's on the NY Times Bestseller List. I mean, reading Vernon God Little and The Lovely Bones isn't bad for me, but it isn't helping me get into grad school, either.

A list of things I'm ashamed to admit I've never read:

The Odyssey and The Illiad I was supposed to read them both at various points in my educational career and just never did. I bought The Odyssey a few months ago, determined to read it. It's gathering dust on my shelf.

Anything by Henry James.

Or Edith Wharton.

Or really any American author who wrote before 1960. That includes Faulkner, Hemingway, and Fitzgerald (but not Steinbeck).

Tess of the D'Ubervilles. This wouldn't be a particular tragedy except it keeps popping up at odd moments in my life and I have to be all, "Uh, yeah. Never got around to it."

Joyce's Ulysses. I tried when I was in Dr. Doody's Engl. 364, but after about 100 pages I was so annoyed by frickin' Bloom that I put it down. I got an A on the paper about it that I faked my way through, though.

Othello. Obvious.

I'm sure there are other things that will occur to me after I post this, because every time I see a list of great books I have to cringe and admit that I haven't read nearly as many as I should have.

A rant

What is your obsession with me wearing socks? Stop oppressing me. Look, it's 65 degrees outside; I don't think it's unreasonable to wear flip-flops to school. I am not going to get another cold. Yes, I realize that I was sick over Easter, but that's not because my toes fell below an acceptable average temperature. No, that was because I drank out of my mother's orange 7-Up, despite knowing that she was ill. I was thirsty, leave me alone. Flip-flops are not going to kill me.

And on that note, going outside with wet hair has never killed anybody who lives below the Arctic Circle. I went outside with wet hair AT NIGHT when it was BELOW FREEZING this winter, and I never got sick or had all my hair break off at the root. And even if I had, it would have been sort of a blessing in disguise, because have you seen my hair?

As much as I enjoy hearing you say, "If I were your mother, I wouldn't let you go outside like that," please note: 1) you are not my mother, and 2) my mother gave up on controlling my footware and hairstyle a long time ago. So settle down.

Things that made me laugh this morning

—My teacher Heinz, on the major problem with Austria: "We don't have peanuts here."

And evidently they can't import them, either.

—Me, on why my students hate America: "It sounds like sour grapes to me."

This made me laugh largely because my students had NO. IDEA. what the hell I was talking about. And also because I was right.

Alien Jazz Hands

Quick question: Does anybody think Bruce Willis looks bizzarely old in ads for The Whole Ten Yards? He's only 49, but I'm afraid the alien masquerading as his loose neck skin is going to jump out of the poster and eat my face.

Women of a certain age...

Should really just give up on the blue hair dye, I think.

I went to Mass this morning, and while it was a lovely (if monotone) service, I was highly distracted by the hair of the woman in front of me. This woman was approximately 60 years old and accompanied by two teenage boys that I took to be her grandsons. She had the typical old-lady haircut: short and curly. However, it was not the typical old-lady color. Underneath, at the nape of her neck and near her skull, it was a steel grey. Fine. But then there was a layer of platinum, a little dulled by time, I assume.

And then there were the random swipes of turquoise, punk-rock blue over that. I was mesmerized.

And this is not atypical of women in Austria. Evidently it's some sort of law that when you reach 50, you have to dye your hair some sort of outrageous, clearly unnatural color. The most popular choice seems to be maroon. I can't tell you how many 70-year-old women with maroon hair I've seen in the past week alone. Nobody's hair is maroon! This is not a hair color that occurs in nature! At least with black you have a chance of convincing the very young or the very naive. With maroon, you're pretty much wearing your post-midlife crisis on your sleeve. Er, head.

The whole thing became a kind of running joke when my family was here. We kept encouraging my mother?who is very cool, but possible the most conservative woman on the planet?to get flaming purple hair. Every woman that we saw with appropriately horrific hair was suggested as inspiration.

I have to go with platinum and turqouise. It's just that classy.

More running and swearing than I've done in the past year

So my parents and youngest sister were here last week, which is why the blogging has been dodgy. Having your family come visit you is way less stress than anybody else, because they're used to seeing you screw stuff up. And I, of course, managed to screw things up royally Sunday night.

Saturday morning, as we were walking past the Secession, I turned to my parents and said, "I'm going to check the bus schedule quick. There's only one bus running back to Stegersbach on Sunday night, and we can't miss it." I think you can see where this is going, right?

So I checked the schedule and confirmed that the bus left at 7:15 p.m., as I thought. We went about our business.

Sunday night rolls around, we've eaten at the Chinese buffet as my sister demanded, and checked our email on the way back to the hostel to pick up our bags. We leave the hostel at 6:45, giving us half an hour to get to the bus stop, which is, after all, only five subway stops from where we were staying.

Of course, we ended up having to wait for trains both at Westbahnhof and at Volkstheatre where we transfered, and got to Karlsplatz (the closest station to the Secession) with five minutes to spare. We probably could have made it if I had followed the signs to the Secession instead of the signs to the interregional trains, but I didn't. I got completely turned around. Eventually I said (internally, because my mom doesn't let me swear), "Fuck it, gonna have to run." So I dashed upstairs, got oriented above ground, and started running in the direction of the bus, overnight bag bumping against my side all the way. I crossed against two lights, which is a deadly dangerous thing to do in Vienna, and, miracle of miracles, caught the bus.

My parents and sister hadn't been able to keep up with me as their bags were significantly heavier and they had no clue where I was going. So, one foot in the door of the bus, I asked the driver if he was going to Stegersbach.

"Yes, right now. Let's go, lady."
"My parents and sister are right behind me. They're coming."
"I don't care. It's 7:15. I have to go."
"Please!" I was practically crying by this point. "They'll be here in just a second."
"It's 7:16! I have a schedule! I don't care!" And with that he started moving the bus forward, regardless of the fact that my foot was still on the first step.
"Fine. Thank you," I sa?d, fighting to keep a sarcastic edge out of my voice. "We'll try to catch up with you at Matzleinsdorferplatz." Keep in mind that I'm insanely wound up and German is not my first language, so the fact that I could spit out "Matzleinsdorferplatz" is fairly impressive.

I dashed down the street looking for a taxi. A woman who had been standing on the bus before I got there, arguing with the driver, followed me, but I ignored her. I found a taxi, explained the situation in rapid and probably semi-incoherent German, and climbed in. The woman tried to climb in with me, asking if she could ride on someone's lap or something, just to get to Matzleinsdorferplatz. She was stubborn. "Please, just on your lap. I need to get on that bus, too."

I said, "Look, I'm sorry, there won't be room."
"Please, try to understand."
I was getting impatient. I dug in my wallet for five Euros and gave it to here. "Take another taxi," I said, and climbed in, shutting the door behind me.

Of course, by the time we waited through three red lights and found my parents, there was no way the taxi driver could catch the bus. We piled out at Matzleinsdorferplatz (thank goodness that's the last time I have to type that) and who should be standing there but the woman from the bus.

"He's gone," she said.
"I figured," I replied, "but we had to try."
"I didn't have enough money to get on the bus. I was short by three Euros," she commented.
"Ugh. Well, he was an asshole, anyway."
"Yeah, he was, and you handled the situation like an angel," she said.
"Thanks. It's good to hear it wasn't just me."
She kissed my cheeks and walked away.

So after my father listened to me rant about the bus driver using words my mother clearly does not approve of, we decided that we would go to S?dbahnhof, the southern train station, and see if we could either catch a train (another long shot, I figured) or figure out how to rent a car in a country where nothing is open on Sunday.

When we got to the train station (which I did by riding "black"?my 72-hour subway ticket had expired forty minutes earlier), I got a little jolt of hope when looking at the giant schedule board of trains: there was one leaving for Oberwart at 20:32. Fantastic. That would get us within 20 kilometres of Stegersbach?close enough to take a taxi.

I walked up to the ticket counter, waited for the man in front of us to finish. Then I had to throw a nasty look at the guy who cut in front of us in line. I didn't say anything, though, because he had three kids with him. Anyway, I finally made it to the window, and said, "Four tickets to Oberwart, please."

"What train?"
"The 20:32."
"I suggest you look a little closer," the man?Helmut, according to his name plaque?said.
"Oh, that's arrivals. Rats. Is there anything going to Oberwart tonight?"
"Just hang on, I have to look. For God's sake."
"Oh, I'm sorry, I understand."
"I know you understand, but I don't understand you." Helmut was starting to get on my nerves, and it was apparently mutual. "There's a train in three minutes."
"Okay, four adults. Which track?"
"For God's sake! I have to look!"
"Sorry," I said again. I mean, is it unreasonable to assume that information is displayed on the same screen?
Helmut printed the tickets. My father was going to pay with his credit card, but I preempted him with a 50-Euro bill, figuring that would be faster. This prompted another "For God's sake!" from Helmut.
"Track sixteen," he said, after he finished shaking his clasped hands at me.
"Thanks," I said dryly, and grabbing the tickets, I turned to my parents and said, "Run."

We caught the train and even managed not to screw up our transfer in Wiener Neudorf, but only because the conductor caught us going up the stairs in the direction of the wrong track and pointed us to the right one. In my defense, he had orignally told us the train was leaving from track 1 when it was actually leaving from track 2.

Arrival time in Oberwart: 9:45 or thereabouts, just as the station was shutting down. Next task: find a taxi. There were, of course, no phone books in the phone booths at the station, so I told my parents I would walk down to the post office, which was in sight of the station. There are phone books and phones in the lobby, and I thought it might be open since it's separate from the main post office.

No such luck.

I had to walk to a bar three blocks away and ask a less-than-thrilled-looking bartender for the number of a local taxi. She gave it to me, and I called. The driver told me I would have to wait ten minutes before he could come get us. I wanted to laugh. "That's absolutely not a problem," I said. I saved my giggles until after he'd hung up.

From that point on, things went mostly fine: the taxi arrived, had room for all of us and our luggage, and didn't mind going to Stegersbach and then back. The ride cost us ?30, making the total cost of the fiasco ?90, only about ?20 more than catching the bus on time would have, plus we didn't lose the money from the hotel we'd reserved in Stegersbach.

Of course, I was completely traumatized by the entire experience, even more so when we ran into the asshole bus driver at a Heuriger the next day. He didn't recognize me, but I called him many dirty names under my breath.

Strange things that happened today

1. My father bought olives with garlic stuffed in them, and he liked them. Ew.

2. My sister had fake makeup applied by a hyperactive two-year-old girl who only spoke Slovakian.

3. I resisted the temptation to eat ice cream for the second day in a row.

4. We ate dinner out of a mini-wheelbarrow. And it was good.

5. My knees did not explode, despite the literally MILES and MILES we walked today.

6. A man tried to sell me a spoon with a windmill on top.

7. A little old woman at the train station talked to me for fifteen minutes, including extensive commentary on how young my mom looks despite the fact that she's had four children.

Live from Vienna, home of hurty knees

Quick update from Vienna. My parents and sister got in last night, which means we have been playing the "let's be touristy Americans" game all day. This game involves my father wearing sandals and my sister taking pictures of buses and ducks and things like that.

However, I will say that the Vienna Zoo is good times, because we saw at least three different animals doing...bathroom things, including a full-grown elephant. Also the polar bears. So there was that, and a baby lemur, and really, can you ask for more?

Senioritis: Not just for Americans anymore

I'm supposed to teach the 5A twice a week, Monday and Wednesday. I see them approximately every other week, as it works out. I'm actually supposed to be there right now, but as half of them have decided to stay home and the other half is watching a project presentation in the library, I'm sitting in front of the computer instead.

When I was in high school, I started having senioritis in the middle of my sophomore year. This is because the majority of my friends were seniors, I was taking a couple of senior classes, and above all, I disliked high school intenesely. I did everything I could to get out of class, from joining the speech team to claiming I needed an extra period to take classes at the local college. I tried to skip over classes entirely (something the administration was not so thrilled about—and actually remains bitter about to this day, I found out recently), and I started looking at colleges. My attitude was, "Get me out of here as quickly as possible."

My kids aren't really doing it the way I did it. They're mostly doing the classic senioritis, and as a teacher, I want to smack them and say, "You're not graduated yet, you know."

Guess that explains why my teachers were so impatient with me in my last two years of school.

Maybe it was just because it was late and I was tired

These jokes seriously cracked me up when my sister called and told me them last night at midnight:

1. Why does Snoop Dogg carry an umbrella?

Fo' drizzle.

2. What does Snoop Dogg use when he does his laundry?

Ble-atch.

Broccoli chic

I actually have a lot to tell you, but I'm still sorting it out in my head, so I'll just give you a run down of what happened yesterday at lunch.

Stefan, who normally sits at my table, and Philipp, who normally does not, decided it would be a good idea to build a tower on the table out of plastic cups. This left us without anything to drink out of, but they were unconcerned.

Anyway, things were all peachy keen until, in the middle of eating our broccoli cream soup, somebody from the first table threw yet another plastic cup at the tower, scattering cups with an impressive amount of noise, considering. Of course, a good number of the cups landed in soup bowls, and Stefan ended up with broccoli cream soup on his sweater. I was less than sympathetic.

Then an argument broke out over who was and was not a virgin, and the cup incident was forgotten.

Dear Women of Vienna:

It is not, under any circumstances, acceptable to wear track pants with high heels. Even if they are satin track pants.

Which brings me to my second point. It is not acceptable to own satin track pants.

Love,
Good Taste

Okay, at this point it's stopped being funny

Yeah, that's the third damned pair of slippers in a month. I'm going to booby trap the next pair, and then we'll see who's an idiot.

Spring is here! La la la la la la!

It's 75° here. Especial thanks go to my friend Sabine, who brought on this heatwave by painting her toenails last week.

Mostly I wanted to bring to your attention this article about introverts, which I find to be hilarious in the extreme. "For introverts, to be alone with our thoughts is as restorative as sleeping, as nourishing as eating. Our motto: 'I'm okay, you're okay—in small doses.'"

Mental midgetry, alive and well

To the ass clown who stole my new €0.79 pair of slippers:

Why? If you were so desperate for slippers, I would have given you a Euro to go buy your own pair. Gah!

Cold boiled potatoes: a sign of a healthy intellect

Today I'd like to explain to you the phenomenon that is Austrian salad.

When you eat in an Austrian restaurant, most entrees come with salad. This is not, however, your tame American iceberg-lettuce-and-ranch-dressing concoction.

Austrian salad comes on a salad plate, but that about ends its resemblance to anything you might find in the U.S. The plate is piled high with items that are only vaguely related to salad, including cold boiled potatoes, pickled red (or sometimes white) cabbage, cold corn kernals, shredded carrots, cucumber slices, tomato crescents and perhaps stuffed into a little wedge in between all that, a few leaves of romaine lettuce. Then the whole thing is covered with some sort of tangy dressing that resembles oil and vinegar but isn't, and you sort of look at it and go, okay, the chef was cleaning out the refridgerator, wasn't he.

I actually think the whole thing is some sort of disguised personality test: people who don't eat the cabbage are reserved, unadventurous, people who don't eat the lettuce are bold and refuse to comply with traditional boundaries, etc. I don't eat the tomatoes and the cucumbers, which means I'm intelligent and refuse to do things against my will, like eat gross stuff.

Notes from the weekend

Can it please stop snowing before I go insane? Six inches twice in one week is really just more than enough, thanks. Where was this snow in December? I wish it would go back there, frankly.

To whoever stole my house shoes: when I find you, I'm going to beat you to death with them.

I watched Schuh des Manitu last night. It's a parody of old western films, somewhat in the style of Blazing Saddles, but funnier. Why is it funnier? Two words: Flaming. Indian.

You wouldn't think that an Irish pub in eastern Austria would be the best place to get hot chocolate, but you'd be wrong.

How to get your bedroom to smell fantastic: buy 1/2 litre glass bottle of strawberry juice, drop it off window sill. Half-ass the clean up. You will cut both of your feet on minescule overlooked shards of glass, but the room will smell like strawberries for weeks.

Things that will never fail to make me laugh:

The beginning of “Easy (Like Sunday Morning)” where the singer says “Bring the lights down…this is for all the ladies in the house,” in this pseudo-pimp voice

The fat bird/fat guy comment my brother made five years ago, as recounted by me

Jim Gaffigan’s manatee voice

When Tex forwards me emails with his own sarcastic comments added at the top

My students’ inability to differentiate between w and v

The bit at the end of Pirates of the Caribbean where Johnny Depp says, “Well, I think we’ve all reached a very special place here: spiritually…ecumenically…gramatically.”

Bobble-head Jesus (especially the one at JMP, who has a Cornhuskers sticker on his toga-thing and is constantly trying to convert our bobble-head Houston Rockets)

My mom when she complains about the Bedazzler her mother got her for Christmas at some point in the eighties

Applying the phrase “cheese-eating surrender monkeys” to the French

The fact that some words in German can have three of the same letters in a row since the new writing reform. Example: Schifffahrt (boat ride).

The difference between a big country and a little country

Americans know how to have a political scandal. We've got presidents who lie about sex, drugs, and weapons of mass destruction. We've got media watchdogs like you wouldn't believe, and a public just waiting to sink their teeth into the nearest offender. We can do multiple scandals at once. We're flexible.

Austria doesn't so much understand that whole process. The biggest political scandal going right now is that the Finance Minister's homepage was suspiciously financed. A webpage! This has been in the news daily for months, people. Did he get the money from blah and does he have to give it back and will he go to court and yadda yadda yadda. I mean, good tenacity on the scandalmongering here, kids, but seriously, let's think about topic a bit.

Yet more proof that I am an ewil, ewil person

I spent yesterday in Oberschützen serving as a juror for a language competition. I think I did my job fairly well, as the best girl won and we only had to fiddle with the scores once to make it happen. However, I think I spent most of my free time yesterday making fun of language mistakes.

I will be the first to admit that speaking a second language is damn hard, and I don't do it perfectly by any stretch of the imagination. However, there are certain mistakes that, even after five months of hearing them, crack me up immediately.

The biggest one is the v/w confusion. For some reason, 95% percent of my students think they live in a willage and watch telewision while drinking wodka. I don't get it. It's not like V makes a "w" sound in German—in fact, it sounds like "f." They should be saying "fillage," "telefision," and "fodka," which is not nearly as funny. Thank God they're all confused so I can get a good laugh.

Mistake of the day: we were talking about gay marriage, and one of my students wanted to know what "civil onions" were. I immediately pictured two onions in tuxedos, shaking hands and bowing. Heh.

Things I say far too often in class:
Seriously, I have said all of these things in class on multiple occasions since I started teaching, and some of them I say multiple times per hour.
—Right?...Yes. Okay.
—Pull yourselves together.
—Comments? Questions? Complaints?
—Put a cork in it.
—Excellent. Very good. Okay.
—Who wants to read? ... Okay, rephrasing. Who is willing to sacrifice himself so the rest of the class doesn't have to?
—Hello?
—Okay, what is going on back there?
—All right, moving on.
—I know, it's crazy when you have to do work in class.
—Hey. Hey. HEY! English! (or "Listen, please!")
—Uh...okay. Sure.
—The next person to say "no" is going to come up here and sing a song.
—Okay, yes or no? Yeeeessss or noooooo. Some sign that you're alive? Anything?

You're a Faschingskrapferl

Today is Faschingsdienstag, known to the rest of the world as Carnival or Mardi Gras or Fat Tuesday or whatever the Chinese name for it is. For some reason this is sort of a non-entity of a holiday in the U.S., unless you live in New Orleans, where's it's just a disgusting entity. In Europe, it is the Thing. It's Halloween and Thanksgiving and New Year's Eve all rolled up in one.

Stegersbach had a parade this afternoon. It was kind of the worst parade I'd ever seen, which made it, of course, the best parade I'd ever seen. There were (I'm not exaggera8ging here, as M2 would say) ten floats, and all of them looked like they had been thrown together by drunken gnomes. These same gnomes were evidently driving them, because it was the slowest, most confused bit of float coordination imaginable. At one point the road was divided by a little island/lane marker thing, and of course half the floats went around on the left and half went around on the right, and then they couldn't get back in a straight line again and everything was stalled for half an hour.

However, this general idiocy was compensated for by the insane number of people running around in elaborate costumes, both in the parade and as bystanders. Best part, though? You know how in American parades they throw candy to the kids? Yeah, in this parade they were handing out liquor to the adults.

Politically Correct

Today I taught two lessons on the Democratic primaries, and I was well prepared since I've been following the developments since October. I don't talk about politics much otherwise, and definitely not in this forum. But that doesn't mean I don't think about them. Thinking about them is probably unavoidable.

I'll admit, political discussions annoy the crap out of me. I suspect it's because they tend to be overly simplified, i.e. "The Republicans are evil and the Democrats are good and that's the way it is, forever and ever amen," or whatever. Or people embrace just one issue—abortion is a big one, as is the economy—and vote based on that, regardless of other equally important issues. Right to life? Republicans are making a mockery of the phrase with their insistance on enforcing and expanding the death penalty. I don't pretend to understand the economy, but I don't think the Democrats are going to be able to just manufacture money and jobs by providing tax breaks to manufacturers. They're not going to suddenly move back home and start paying a fair wage. It's not that simple.

And that's the point. Nothing is simple in politics, and it annoys me when people try to make it that way. Even trying to explain the election system to a bunch of 18-year-olds who are relatively intelligent is frustrating, because it's complicated and confusing.

I have a largely liberal outlook: I reject the death penalty, and I support gay marriage, affirmative action, stricter gun control, and environmental protection. But I don't reject Republicans outright, because they make a lot of good points. I have decided what I have decided on each individual issues, and I want everybody to stop trying to convince me. I'm not going to vote for anybody on your say-so. In fact, anything you say is just going to make me contrary. Like Edwards? I'm voting for Kerry. Like Bush? Good for you. Still voting for Kerry. Like Kerry? I don't want to hear about it.

Wanna talk about the weather? Computers? My students? Anything but politics, please.

Use the force, Luke. No, force in pounds.

I cannot get used to the metric system. I've already complained about not being able to figure out how much of a fever I was running because the damn thermometer was in Celcius. I have a hard time talking about the weather because of this. For the past week I've had to describe the weather in English, and it seriously always comes out like this: "It was beautiful—50...uh, 10 degrees the whole week." Does 10 degrees sound like beautiful weather? I submit that it does not. (Frankly, neither does 50, but it was February in England, so...)

Also, how many apples are in a kilo? I don't know. I ended up with 6 1/2 pounds of blood oranges once because I forgot to convert from metrics. Needless to say, I couldn't eat them all before they went bad. The metric system is wasteful!

Distance measurements are just as bad. Somebody mentioned today that running 40 kilometres would be a marathon. I was like, 'Uh, no, Hopalong. A marathon is 26.6 miles.' Fortunately that was only in my head. Still, it seems odd to me. Marathon. 26 miles. How hard is that? Just quit with the kilometres business. Quit with metrics all together. Come to the dark side of Imperial Measurements and be happy. The two countries that use the imperial system have ruled the world. Coincidence? I doubt it.

Brilliance in (British) advertising

I have a new favorite commercial.

My favorite commercial used to be the Jetta one where the guy licks the doorhandle, but it's been replaced. Replaced by another car commercial, actually.

It starts out with a warning: this commercial contains nudity from the very beginning. If you are easily offended, look away, etc.

Then the scene opens on an elderly naked woman driving a yellow Mini, with an elderly naked man in the passenger seat. They drive down the road, and come upon a middle-aged naked man running down the side of the road. The elderly naked man leans out the window of the mini brandishing a giant fish, and whacks the runner across the ass with it just as the runner turns around to hit the car with his own fish. The elderly man pulls himself back into the Mini, says "That was a good one" to the woman, and they drive away as the slogan "It's a Mini adventure" appears at the bottom of the screen.

Hilarious.

Change of plans (a.k.a. Update your website, bitches)

Evidently there's nothing to do in Stratford-on-Avon, to the point that the hostels are closing down without telling anybody. So instead of spending the next two days there, I'm off to Oxford to do God only knows what. Hopefully I'll still be able to make a day trip to Stratford, because it was sort of half my whole reason for coming here.

Bath has been solid good times, which I would write more about here if I wasn't trying to use a retarded keyboard where the keys require approximately the force of a jet-propelled elephant to depress. I guess that's what you get for checking your email at McDonald's.

No adventures, just good times

So far, so good, although by saying that, I'm probably cursing myself completely. I made it to London on Saturday night, found a hostel, and crashed. Yesterday I did fun touristy things—kicked it at the Tate and slavered over William Blake's prints for awhile, and then wandered over to Piccadilly Circus and saw The Reduced Shakespeare Company do The Complete Works of Shakespeare (Abridged). This latter was highly enjoyable, including as it did several "Janet Jackson's Boob" jokes. And when they performed Hamlet backwards, one of the included Satanic messages was "George Bush is a genius." Anyway, then I went to the cinema and saw Elephant, which I've been wanting to see forever. After that freaked me out sufficiently, I went back to the hostel and crashed, fully satisfied with London and ready to move on.

So now I'm in Bath. I've already been to the Jane Austen Center and done a little light sightseeing. I plan to do a bit more before I retire to catch up on sleep so I can get up bright and early and do the übertouristy bus tour of the city.

Before I run off again, I'd like to thank the weather gods for their compliance with my request—it's mild and NOT RAINY here. And also, I would like to admit that I probably have a book addiction problem. I have bought 10 in the past two days. Help!

Into the wild blue yonder

I don't have anything particular to say, just wanted to let you know that I'll be taking off for London tomorrow evening, and hopefully I'll make it to Bath and Stratford-upon-Avon before I come back on Friday. If you have anything you desperately want from England, send me an email. I'm sure I'll be checking it at some point.

No, Suz, I can't send you a Magnum bar. They don't ship well.

Things that probably aren't a good idea

I got a bike on Tuesday. It's a purple 21-speed with a bell and a shelf-thing on the back. My big goals now are a) buy a basket for it and b) avoid falling off in front of anybody.

Note that I didn't say "avoid falling off." That's because I like to make goals that are somewhat attainable. Before Tuesday, I hadn't ridden a bike in well over 10 years, and it's only by the sheer grace of God that I don't have skinned knees or a broken wrist as we speak. As it is, I freak out when any of these things happen while I am riding the bike:

—I have to ride off a curb
—I have to ride around a puddle
—I have to ride through a puddle
—I have to turn a corner
—I have to ride in the street
—I have to ride on the sidewalk
—I have to go down a hill with a grade of more than 1°

Lance Armstrong I'm not, is all I'm saying.

But do I wear a helmet? No, I do not. Paging Darwin.

It's a dying art

I was writing a letter last night (maybe to you, but I'm not making any promises), and I have to say, letter writing is way cooler than email. Not that I don't adore email, but seriously, how insanely wound up do you get when you see your name handwritten on an envelope in your mailbox?

That's why I find it so sad that letter-writing is a dying art. My mother and I have a whole running list of things that are dying arts, and letter writing is on it, along with making good pie crust, sewing, good penmanship, and baking bread by scratch. (M4's personal motto is something like "Down with bread machines and their...convenience.") I'd like to note that I have at least attempted all of those dying arts. I'm not good at the first two, but penmanship, letter writing, and bread baking, I have cold.

So write me a letter, and make me happy. Or buy me a bread machine, whatever.

Never let it be said that I'm not random

I was thinking about this in the shower the other day.

How many people actually follow the whole "lather, rinse, repeat" directions? Because I am not about repeating. Of course, I'm not about anything that keeps me in the shower longer than absolutely necessary, but repeating just seems pointless if you don't have like, concrete in your hair or something.

Um, thanks?

The weekend I went to Melk to see James off. James is the British guy we forced to hang out with us Americans at the training session. He's moving to Russia, so he was having a going away party. Anyway, interesting stuff that happened:

—Stopped in Vienna long enough to buy the coolest, most European shoes I've ever owned. They're green and yellow, and instead of laces they have a strap that zig-zags back and forth across the top until it velcros under my ankle. MaryT would call them "ath-leisure" shoes. Super comfortable and cute.

—Spent several hours discussing the weird shit that happens at school, including those kids who, as soon as you walk into the classroom, put their hands up and say, "Frau Professor, I forgot my sheet!" Good work, genius. You're actually supposed to try to hide that. Also, teachers, if you've known about a test since, say, October, please inform your assistant sometime BEFORE the five minutes prior to the test that she isn't needed. Thanks.

—Got the best/funniest compliment ever. James evidently told his friend that I'm "the only person who can outwit" him. This made me think two things: "aaww!" and "nice ego, jackass." Seriously, though, no faster way to my heart than to tell me I'm witty. I'll love this kid forever.

—Bought plane tickets to England. Well, technically I did that today, but I'm going to spend Feb. 7-14 in England, probably London, Bath, and Stratford. Whatever. I'm super nervous about travelling alone, but it will be fun times of me making all decisions with no argument.

As much as I bitch and moan...

I know I've spent a lot of time complaining about my students. Yes, they're lazy and tactless and uninterested—most of the time. But I do have one class that's absolutely fantastic.

My 3AK (the equivalent of juniors) class is outstanding. They're not the smartest kids in the world, but they're consistently enthusiastic. This is the class where the boys tease me about "goulash songs" because of something I read with them in an article two months ago. The girls in the back row do that thing where they nearly dislocate their shoulders trying to get my attention.

They read whatever I want them to with minimal moaning. They're the only class that I trust to do group work, because they all actually participate in whatever nutty task it is, be it making up a new environmental holiday or rating tourist attractions in the U.S. They don't swear at me under their breaths, they don't stare off into space (too much), and they don't talk when I'm talking, for which I could kiss every single one of them.

So I'm just saying, my life is not always as hard as I make it out to be. I see the 3AK one and a half times a week, and they're always fun to be around. Whether they make up for the bad behavior of the 4BK is another story entirely.

Even when I'm asleep...

...you can't out-control me.

I'm a very picky sleeper. It might be because I'm also a rather uncertain sleeper prone to attacks of insomnia, but whatever the reason, I have to have things the way I like them before I can sleep, and there are very specific rules for how things should be set up.

1. Sheets Regular old cotton ONLY. No jersey, no flannel, no satin, no whatever-else-you-can-think-of. Cotton is the only thing that stays reasonably cool without sticking. (I've never slept on satin sheets, but it seems like they would stick if you got too hot. Do they stick? Who knows about this? Help me out here.) Also, NO top sheet. I'm a restless sleeper (one of my friends called me "feisty" after a sleepover once), and it's only going to end up tangled around me, or down at the bottom of the bed interfering with my foot movement. Not acceptable.

2. Pajamas I hate pajamas and don't usually wear them, largely because of the tangling issue mentioned above. Good thing I have my own room.

3. Pillows Two, or one that's high enough so that when I lay on my side, my neck is roughly in a straight line. Pillowcases follow the same rule as sheets, with the additional caveat that there be no seams or ribbons or decorations on them to annoy me and put weird creases in my face. I look strange enough already; I don't need extra help from my bedclothes.

4. Foot freedom People who tuck in blankets, sheets, and comforters are either mentally impaired or unable to feel their feet. Doesn't it bother you when the blankets are squishing down your toes? I'm not a letter; I don't want to sleep in an envelope. My feet MUST be able to get out from under the blanket. They get hot.

5. Breathing If I can't breathe, I can't sleep, although I think this is true of most people. What actually annoys me is if I'm breathing ON some part of myself (usually an exposed arm). And when I say "annoys," I mean "makes me insane to the point of tearing off body parts just so I don't have to feel my own breath." I think being breathed on, either by myself or by others, may be one of my top five pet peeves.

Those are the sleeping rules. Oddly, I don't care so much about room temperature (I can self-regulate by sticking my feet out of the blankets) or ambient light (whatever, close your eyes) or noise. But if everything else isn't exactly right, I tend to lie awake for hours, composing blog entries JUST LIKE THIS ONE.

School is funny

"He goes to the fridge and eats someone. Then he surprises his wife with parents."
—One of my students describing a series of pictures

"We're doing drugs."
—My teacher, upon being asked what we were doing in class that day

I'm alive

If you were wondering. I'll be going back to work tomorrow, trying infect as many of my kids as possible. Payback's a bitch.

Screw You, Dante

I have decided that the ninth circle of hell, instead of being Frozen in Ice, is actually Being Sick in a Foreign Country. First of all, you're thousands of miles from home, so there's absolutely no chance that your mom is going to come and feed you flat 7-Up, banana popsicles, and Children's Tylenol (grape flavor only, accept no substitutes).

Second, you can't possibly figure out how sick you really are, because the damn thermometer is in Centigrade and you think in Farenheit. I mean, you're smart enough to make the conversion, probably, when you're not suffering from a SPLITTING headache.

Which leads to another thing. You cannot get aspirin or some equivalent drug in this country, because the pharmacist hides them all behind his eight-foot-high counter, and then looks all cock-eyed at you when you ask for them and offers you pumpkin seed pills with goat cheese oil or something. Not okay!

Mostly I just want my own bed, my own drugs, and my own flat 7-Up. Is that so much to ask?

Evidently so, Satan.

Pressing Question

I have semester break coming up in a little less than a month. I get a week off, February 7 to February 15. I'd like to take a trip during that time. All things considered, it will probably be the most significant bit of traveling I do while I'm here. So the question is, where do I go? Things to consider: I'll be traveling alone, I only have a week, and my budget is somewhat limited. Here are the options I've come up with so far:

England (Bath and Stratford-on-Avon would be included)
Dublin
Stockholm
Lisbon

I'm open both to other suggestions and to comments on these possibilities.

A little piece of advice

This is one big lesson I've learned in the past three and a half months: don't give the students any ammunition, because they will shoot you dead before you can blink.

Of course, knowing this and following it are two entirely different things. I woke up late today, and walking into class 20 minutes after it's started is not the best way to maintain authority. Especially since it was my class of rowdies. They all—every single one of them—said "Ooooooh!" in that sarcastic teenage way when I walked in.

So I gave them a pop quiz.

I win.

Hey, God, it's me. No, not Margaret.

I don't know whose bright idea it was to dump a foot of snow on Vienna today, but let me tell you, it wasn't funny. I spent the entire day trying to shop for presents with one eye closed because it had been pelted repeatedly by GIANT STINGING SNOWFLAKES. My feet were wet, my ears were cold, and my knee hurt from where I twisted it multiple times slipping on the slick slush.

I'm aware I've been complaining about the weather in Burgenland lately, about how it's all dry and colder than a rude phrase that doesn't make sense (Witch's tit? The hell?), but I have not been complaining about how my life is a little lacking in the irony department, so I feel like snow in VIENNA while I'm trying to run errands OUTSIDE is a little uncalled for.

Gah.

Dear...Entire English-Speaking World

You absolutely CANNOT use "of" after the word "hadn't."

No, you can't.

No, you can't. Not even if it's "had not."

Also, not after "would" or "off." Mmm-kay? Peachy.

Kisses,
Erin

New Year's Resolutions

I usually don't make New Year's Resolutions, because I know that I won't keep them, and then I'll feel guilty, and if there's one thing I don't need, it's to feel guilty more often than I already do.

But this year I figured I'd give it a whirl, just to be bold and adventurous.

So without further ado, may I present:

Erin's 2004 New Year's Resolutions

Re: Books I will make a monthly book budget and stick to it. In aid of this resolution, I will remind the Houston Public Library that I have not, in fact, had The Sun Also Rises since August, and make them reinstate my library card.

Re: Cooking I will not, on any given day of the year, eat cereal for all three meals. I will concede that there is no practical difference between "pasta" and "noodles."

Re: Blogging I will worry less about the comments I get (or don't get), and more about posting interesting blogs. I will not blog just to blog. I will back up my blog somewhere.

Re: Teaching I will stop telling Peter in the 5A that he is "talking his fool head off." I will come up with a scheme to make the entire 3G talk.

Re: Major Life Decisions I will finally decide whether I want to be a teacher, a professor, or a therapist. I will not discount options because I think they might be "too hard." I will not decide to study social work just because it will get me out of taking the Literature GRE.

That's really quite enough, I think, considering my past rate of success at keeping resolutions.

Please, like you've never kissed anybody a foot shorter than you are.

I don't know what you did, but I feel like for the first time in my life I did New Year's Eve (Silvester, here) up right. I watched fireworks in the cold, I drank champagne, and at midnight I was kissed by a tiny Austrian man with spiky hair.

2004 is so gonna be my year.

Stupid things I do on the internet late at night:

Accurate? What do you think?

You Are Pale Turquoise #AFEEEE

Your dominant hues are green and blue. You're smart and you know it, and want to use your power to help people and relate to others. Even though you tend to battle with yourself, you solve other people's conflicts well. Your saturation level is low - You stay out of stressful situations and advise others to do the same. You may not be the go-to person when something really needs done, but you know never to blow things out of proportion. Your outlook on life is bright. You see good things in situations where others may not be able to, and it frustrates you to see them get down on everything.

The Spacefem.com HTML Color Quiz

"Those French. They have a different word for everything."

As far as I know, we English speakers don't have a good word for somebody who drives against traffic on the highway.

German absolutely has a word for it: der Geisterfahrer.

Two questions:
1) Is this happening so frequently that they needed to make up a specific word for it?
2) Does said word need to be so specific that it applies ONLY to people driving the wrong way on the autobahn, and not to people driving the wrong way on, say, Berggasse in Stegersbach?

Kinds of tea currently available Chez Moi:

Marillen (Apricot)
Wintergenuß (Apple-cinnamon)
Winterzaber (Cinnamon-orange-rum)
Hütenzauber (Cinnamon-rosehip-rum)
Karamel
Heiße Liebe (Raspberry-vanilla)
Waldbeeren (Raspberry-blackberry)
Blutorange
Pfefferminz
Früchtetee

Come here, I'd like to remove your larynx

I went to a friend's house today for coffee. She has a 10-year-old son, and he had two friends over. They were running around, playing hide and seek and screaming. Damn, I had forgotten how annoying kids can be.

Note to self: no procreation. Ever.

Ugh.

Sorry about this mess. I'm trying to get the links to be a less headache-inducing color, but it's just not happening. I'll keep working on it.

Die Reste der Welt steht auf übergewichtigen alten Männer...gut. Aber die Kinder bei uns glauben an mich. Das Christkindl.

Dude. Christmas in Austria makes you seriously reconsider bulimia as a valid lifestyle choice.

I've basically done nothing but eat since 4 p.m. on December 24. I've had salmon, duck, roast beef, 12 pieces of toast, Kaiserschnitte (a crazy-rich layer cake), cold cuts, pickles, Marillenknödel (apricot dumplings), regular Knödel, pears with Preiselbeerensauce (like cranberry sauce), apple stuffing, stewed red cabbage (How much do I love red cabbage? Totally. Totally much.), pear compote, fruit cake (and let me just say a big "bleh" to that one), tea, hot chocolate, wine, orange juice, soda, and more cookies than Nabisco produces in the average year. At one point last night I walked into the bathroom and just looked at the toilet longingly.

Because the thing is, you can't refuse food here. If you try, you'd better have an iron will unrivaled by that stupid dog, because one way or another, these people are going to try to force you to eat. They'll use guilt. They'll lead by example. They'll get other people to help them. They'll sneak it onto your plate when you aren't looking. I kid you not. They're wily, and they won't quit until you've passed out at the table. Only then are they satisfied.

Next up, New Year's Eve. I hear there's a fondue planned. If you love me, send me a lovely ipecac cocktail.

Right up the nose, I tell you

A quick addendum to the shower post:

I actually broke my shower this morning. The little thing that holds up the shower head snapped in half, and now the shower head won't stay up there. I have to hold it in one hand or lay it on the termperature controller item (which, of course, throws the temperature off YET AGAIN).

The shower gods are clearly punishing me.

Fröhliche Weihnachten wünsche ich euch

Unless you're Jewish or Muslim or something else that's not with the Christmassy fun times. In that case, I wish you a nice day.

I don't know if you've ever been away from home for Christmas. By away from home, I mean not physically separated from your primary place of residence, (i.e., celebrating at Grandma's), but away from family or friends and the familiar rituals of your usual holiday celebrations.

Let me tell you, it's weird.

And I'm not just talking about the homesickness. I am, of course, absurdly homesick, but even when I step away from the emotional to look at the rational, it's strange. I'm spending about 90% of my mental energy on comparing Christmas traditions between Austria and my house. "We don't put candles on the tree, we don't eat fish for Christmas—although, good work, no objections there, go fish—lebkuchen is better than gingerbread, only Philistines open presents on Christmas Eve, and what is up with having midnight mass at 10 p.m.?" The other 10% of my mental energy is going to making sure my stomach doesn't explode. If you were wondering.

I almost wish I could get a nice case of temporary selective amnesia so I could stop comparing and just do. And also so I could focus more on digestion. Seriously, people. I sampled 10 different kinds of dessert tonight. ("Where are the sugar cookies and candy canes here, Leute?") If my stomach doesn't go on strike, my pancreas is going to.

But anyway, I just wanted to say that, as much as the Austrians know how to do Christmas up right—it is, after all, the country where "Silent Night" was written—I miss being at home with you.

Special note to my family: don't think that just because I'm not there to do the numbers this year that I won't be doing it next year and every year for the REST OF MY LIFE. Thank you, that is all.

Plus, hello? Skank!

I kind of want to kick Christina Aguilera's skinny, over-exposed ass for recording a song called "Everybody's Home for Christmas." Patently untrue and unnecessarily hurtful!

Ugh!

My next great endeavor

I was in Vienna yesterday, doing some Christmas shopping and general hanging out with friends. It's absolutely brilliant having Austrian friends, becasue they know all the best places to go, including the Running Sushi restaurant on Donauinsel. This is possibly the best thing I've ever seen. I assume we have something equivalent in the States, but seriously, where? Because they should be all over the place: you pay a flat fee and then you get to eat as much sushi (or, in my case, food that's not, you know, gross) as you want off a conveyor belt that goes past your table. Everything's in small portions so you get to try a ton of stuff without wasting everything. And you don't have to get up to get it, like you would at a normal buffet.

How is this not the restaurant that ate New York? It's got everything Americans like: vast quantities of food and no exercise. I'm totally starting one of these restaurants as soon as I get back to Houston. I think mine will be all about dessert. People will go into sugar shock every single day. I'll be the bane of diabetics everywhere, but who cares? I'll be rich!

I hope not sporadically!

Just wanted to let you know that the blog might be getting a little dodgy as far as regularity goes—not that it's been the picture of consistency lately. But with school out now, I'm going to be bouncing from place to place and maybe doing a bit of travelling, so the updates may be a) sporadic and b) weird. But you're used to this.

Top Five Best Christmas Songs

1. God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
2. I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas
3. Carol of the Bells
4. It Came Upon a Midnight Clear
5. I'll Be Home for Christmas

Appearing nowhere on this list: "Last Christmas," by Wham.

Because it's the Christmas song from hell, that's why.

I think I've just severed my Achilles tendon

I don't know if I've mentioned this, but my shower is approximately the size of a coffin. Seriously. I think it's 3x3x7. Maybe.

For somebody who already finds the process of showering annoying (ugh to being wet), this makes things almost unbearably difficult. I'm constantly knocking the shower head down, causing it to spray straight up my nose—funny the first time, but significantly less amusing the 645 times after that.

I can't shave my legs without twisting into a shape vaguely resembling a pretzel. (I wear pants a lot.) I can't lift my arms to shampoo my hair without cracking an elbow against the wall. I've learned to tread carefully when stepping out of the shower, because usually there's a significant amount of water on the floor from where I've knocked the door open with a knee at some point.

Worst of all, though, is the temperature control. It's one of those ones where you turn it to the left to get warmer and to the right to get colder, and you have approximately 1° of "just right" vs. 179° of "really fucking hot" and "fantastically freezing," as Eddie Izzard puts it. I cannot TELL you how many times in the course of a 10-minute shower I end up with burnt shoulders or frozen fingers. Sometimes simultaneously.

I never thought I would miss my shower at home, which had absolutely no water pressure and needed at least 10 minutes for the water to warm up to bearable temperatures. But it was a shower/bath, and that's a luxury I won't take for granted again.

Ah have found mah people

I have pretty decent manners, most of the time. I have mastered European-style dining (fork in left hand, knife in right--although I still stubbornly put my napkin in my lap), I don't belch in public, and I say please and thank you when necessary.

I do, however, tend to talk with my mouth full. I realize that this is unattractive in the extreme, as well as prohibitive to understanding, but I don't care. It's too much bother to wait until I'm finished swallowing to spit out my all-important opinion.

And I'm surrounded by 8 million people who feel the same way.

Oh, Austrian mothers say, "Red nicht mit vollem Mund," but they don't mean it. They probably say it when their own mouths are full of schnitzel or Sachertorte. I actually think talking with your mouth full probably improves pronunciation in German, especially with those glottal ch sounds.

So we all just sit around saying whatever we please whenever we please, with an accent improved by Braten and Kraut, and nobody cares. It's like utopia or something.

Good going, geniuses

If you want proof that the Austrian government isn't really any smarter than the U.S. government, check this out. We had two teachers retire on December 1 because of it. Idiots.

Total Crap, is more like it

I got sucked into watching Total Recall on T.V. last night (I know, you all saw it ten years ago; I want to talk about it now), and I have to say, it's clear that S. wasn't working on this movie in her Fact-Checker Role, because it's riddled with errors.

While I enjoy the scene at the end where Ah-nuld and his girlie get blown out onto the surface of Mars and their eyeballs start bulging out of their heads from lack of oxygen, I'm a little curious as to how they aren't FREEZING TO DEATH, as the average surface temperature on Mars is -60° C. After they magically get an atmosphere, they stand around and kiss in their shirtsleeves. In reality, their tongues should freeze together and leave them permanently attached, which I think would be a fitting fate.

Although if you think about it, everybody in this movie seems to be suffering from the symptoms of hypothermia: irrational behavior, clumsiness, failure to act like a human being.

-ly is our friend

German doesn't have adverbs in the same way English does. I never noticed this before I started teaching English, but it makes for some particularly hilarious constructions when my kids try to figure out the difference between good and well. Example from class today:

"That was a really good made movie!"

This is a perfect sentence in German: "Dieser Film war echt gut gemacht." In English, it provokes some interesting facial contortions for me to avoid laughing outright.

You know that's like, flat and stuff, right?

As I understand it, net lights are supposed to save you the trouble of placing Christmas lights neatly on your bushes and trees and whatever else.

This is not how the Austrians understand net lights. Here, net lights are most commonly found draped against walls, making random squares of equidistantly spaced white lights. There's no rhyme or reason to it. They just hang there. My internat is a chief offender, with net lights hanging out the window in two separate spots on the building, which is otherwise unadorned. It looks SO random. I love it.