Super-Schnee

So, it's been snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing

 

and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing

and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing

so we made a snowman

 

named Bernard

 

but then it kept snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and now Bernard looks like

this.

I'm Actually A Princess, Part II

I hope you guys still like me when I come home, because I am starting to think this whole "I'm-a-princess" thing is actually real.  Vienna is spoiling me rotten and I am quite receptive to it.

So here's the story of my latest royal adventure: Friday night we decided to go ice skating.  Of course, not just any old ice skating rink would do.  Instead, we went to the aptly-named "WIENER EISTRAUM 2009" in front of the Rathaus-- literally, the Viennese Ice-Dream.  Sounds promising, no?  

Let's just say if I had my way, I would have named it the Wiener Awesome Fantastic Sherbert Pony Sparkle Magic Candy Fantasy Bubbles Fairy Unicorn Twinkling Fireworks Popsicle Giggle Love Fest Palooza 2009.  And here's why:

Fantastic, no?  I've always maintained that I was a deprived child because I've never been to Disney World, but now I'm not so sure.  I kind of feel like Cinderella's castle is just okay in comparison.  Anyway, it was just magical.  There were loudspeakers playing ABBA and Grease and Lionel Richie, just the lightest snow falling from the sky, and little booths selling piping hot cider and punch.  

The best part, though, is that it's not just a circular rink.  Instead, there are ice-covered pathways leading off the rink and all over the lawn so you can take romantic little turns about the park.  It's much more exciting than regular ice skating!  See?

Anyway, it was certainly a lovely night.  The sad news is that I still have to go to school and wait for the streetcar in the cold (it's been frrrrrrreezing here) since apparently I'm not a real princess.  But sometimes it's just hard to remember.  

I guess that's all for now.  Thanks for all the Valentine's wishes, by the way.  I love you!

-Princess Whit

Hee hee.

Die Kinder

Okay, I know I talk about how stinking cute the little kids are all over Europe, and I really am just going to have to start taking clandestine snapshots so you'll know what I mean.  But until then, bear with this description of THE HAPPIEST PART OF MY DAY.  Oh my gosh, it was so great.

I was on the U-Bahn going home from my German class mid-morning.  When the subway makes its first stop, I look out on the platform and see a looooong line of tiny, bundled-up ADORABLE kids standing with two teachers.  As the doors open, my heart leaps as they start filing into my car.  The teachers strategically place them four-deep on the seats meant for two, and they sit wide-eyed with their legs sticking straight out in front of them, bundled in their little striped scarves and tights and puffy jackets and little wool hats with ear flaps.

The ones who don't get seats stand clutching the poles and each others' hands, chatting in adorable little-kid-German as they wait for the train to start.  And then, when the doors finally close and the train leaves the platform, they let out this darling little chorus of delighted surprise.  "Whoaaaaaaauuuuuuwheeeeeeeee!"  Giggle giggle giggle.  

Needless to say, I giggled too.  It was so great and I have been positively walking on clouds since then.  Eeeeee

On Tapa The World.

Now that's a good blog title.  Oh man.  I am funny.

Anyway, it's time for part two of Whitney's Whirlwind Adventure!  After adieuing Mike & co. in Bordeaux, I hopped on a train or three and made my way slowly but surely down to Barcelona.  I was getting a little tired of being a lone traveller, so imagine my great joy when I ran into the arms of these lovely ladies in the train station!  

Nikki, of course, is my Wiener-in-crime, and Elizabeth is my charming friend from TU who is studying in Barcelona for the semester.  She is quite the excellent tour guide and led us around the city.  We saw everything from a giant park that looks like Candy Land  (really!) to beautiful churches to a wonderful market with brilliantly colored fruits and vegetables and sheep heads and cow stomachs and piles of candy and little dried unidentifiable objects.  We also made our way down to the port, where of course I got some juggling action in:

 

Even just walking down the street was an adventure.  There were palm trees growing out of the middle of the sidewalk, chicks and ducks and rabbits in cages for sale, tropical-colored buildings, street performers, beautiful brown-eyed Barcelonean babies, and-- my personal favorite-- when the hills got too steep, there were escalators to help you out.  Awesome.  Unfortunately, the escalators where nowhere to be found on Friday when Nikki and I decided to tackle a nearby mountain (hill?) when Elizabeth was in class.  It ended up being a beautiful walk, though, with this view from a park along the way.

YES.  But somewhere among the tapas, chupito bar, beachside clubs, paella, "hot chocolate" (by which I literally mean "chocolate bar melted in a mug," AHHH), Metro rides, finding out via Spanish facebook that my brother is engaged (!!!), bizarre German hostel roommates, and other such Espanish adventures, we ran out of Barcelona-exploring-time and it was time to haul our buns to Madrid!  

And who else was waiting for me in Madrid than...

EMILY!!!  My media naranja.  We rejoiced, obviously.  And probably obnoxiously, but I couldn't help it.  Despite our overwhelming desire to top off a day that had already included a mountain-climbing and a plane-riding with a Spanish-style all-nighter at the clubs, we instead pooled our money for sustenance (read: almost entirely cookies) at the grocery store next to the hostel.  And the rest of our night looked like this:

 

Chomp chomp chomp blah blah blah.  It was perfect.  The next day was full of touristically responsible sightseeing-- the royal palace (through the bars, of course, seeing as how we didn't want to pay), the Almudena Cathedral ("an uncertain hybrid styles," the guidebook said.  "Weeeeird," we said), and lots of Goya paintings at the art museum.  Fully making up for our previous night in, we also fully (mm-hmm) embraced the Madrid clubbing-till-the-morning spirit.  It may or may not have been a good choice.

The next day was the most perfect day of the whole trip, though.  We went to the Parque del Retiro, which is the most lovely place I have ever seen.  Passing a darling man playing the accordion, we climbed up the steps into a park pathway flanked by trees that looked like giant pieces of broccoli.  The park is HUGE and was filled with jugglers, bikers, tarot card readers, rollerbladers, popcorn booths, street vendors, dancers, clowns, and bands that were positively getting their groove on in the most wonderful way I have ever seen.  We were standing around watching this great combo play "When The Saints Go Marching In" when a little girl escaped from the crowd, and, wrapped up in her little striped hat and puffy pink coat, stood in front of the band and pretended to play the guitar and danced with the clarinetist.  My heart promptly exploded.  

We spent the better part of the afternoon walking and juggling and people-watching there, finally ending up on these big steps that look out onto the little pond where wonderfully European couples were rowing around in little boats and exhibiting impressive amounts of PDA (often simultaneously) (I think it's mandatory in Spain).  When we finally tore ourselves away, we shed a few tears and decided to cheer ourselves up with CHURROS AND CHOCOLATE.  Which is, by the way, the most delicious thing.  EVER. 

A final goodbye to the Euro-mulleted hostel owners was followed by a final trip to the Metro station, where a shabby man sat on a folding chair and played 'O Sole Mio on his violin before we said our adioses to Miss Emily.  And then a red-eye flight to Barcelona was followed by another sad goodbye to Elizabeth, which was followed by a grrrrrreat night on the airport floor, which followed a 4 a.m. wake-up call, a flight back to Vienna, and-- surprise!-- the first day of real classes.  It was a little bit of a long day.  But it is so very good to be back and to shower without flip flops and to not wear the same socks for the fourth day in a row (I guess I miscounted when I was packing.  Whoops).  

I don't have anything else to say.  The end!  You can look at the rest of my pictures here if you are so inclined.  Bye!  

Freedom Fries

Hallloooo! Bonjooooour! I am in France! The journey here was very exciting and involved taking a train from Vienna to Budpest (on which I got in trouble for accidentally sitting in first class, whoops), a plane from Budapest to Paris (on which I thought I was ordering an apple turnover and instead ended up with a lukewarm pastry filled with some bizarre ground meat salad, whoops), and finally a train from Paris to Bordeaux (on which I was seated next to a woman who decided it was a great idea to bring the meanest, smelliest, rhinestone-collar-wearing bulldog with her on the three hour trip, whoops). But at last I am here and I am terribly happy about it.

Mike lives in the most darling French flat with the most darling international roommates in the most darling neighborhood in all of the darling city of Bordeaux. (Side note: I am also easily charmed. Obviously.) One of my favorite parts of the apartment is the fireplace. Please be impressed by the sheer multitude of wine bottles it has collected:


Very French, no? Anyway, we have been having a wonderful time being very French for the past couple of days, so I've decided to compile a quick list of all these very French things I have done.

1. Visited important Bordeaux landmarks, like the cathedral and the bell tower and a museum or two. We climbed all 231 tiny, spiraling stone steps to the top of the bell tower and (after taking a moment to finish wheezing/stop being dizzy), enjoyed a wonderful view of Bordeaux:


2. Went to a lovely riverside market where merchants were selling baskets of fresh fruits and crates of stacked vegetables, sausages hanging on strings, crepes bubbling on skillets, shrimp and crawfish simmering away in giant cast-iron pans, big wicker baskets of bread, fresh cheeses piled on top of each other, whole fish laying open-eyed on ice, little plates of pastries... just in case we weren't charmed enough, they decided to go ahead and throw in a little man playing an accordion while gorgeous trench-coat-wearing French parents with their beautifully brown-eyed and overbundled children ambled by. I was disappointed not to see Madeleine and her twelve little boarding-school friends traipsing along in two straight lines.

3. Witnessed a student protest! Mike's classes have been conveniently canceled during my trip because the university students and teachers are striking against a new government policy about allowing teachers to conduct research alongside teaching their courses. On our way home from the store, we literally just stumbled across a huge group of tangly-haired, pea-coat wearing, freedom-loving French students waving their textbooks and cardboard signs in the air as they marched by chanting and hollering. It was quite revolutionary.


4. Went to the sweetest little antique shop in the whole wide world. I could have stayed there all afternoon-- it was tiny and narrow and just dripping with big, plastic baubles, pearls, gemstones, rosaries, and shelves stuffed with pocketknives and pipes and shoehorns, stacks and stacks of old dusty books, piles of yellowed postcards and prints and photos, baskets of little cloches and kid gloves and silk scarves, racks upon racks of fur coats and stoles... it was just wonderful.

5. Saw a woman walking a dog that was carrying the woman's umbrella in its mouth. I don't know if this is necessarily French, but it was so sweet and quaint I just had to tell you about it.

6. Went (speaking of sweet and quaint) to this little bakery in Hilary's neighborhood where there is an old grouchy mustached baker who makes these beautiful loaves of bread that are shaped like seahorses. No one else was impressed, and they insisted that we just buy baguettes instead, but I think they were the most beautiful things I have ever seen in my whole life. I didn't want to take a picture, though, because Monsieur Mustachio was so grumpy.

7. Had a wine and cheese party. I made Mike take this picture of me walking down the street after we went to the store because HELLO how French can you get? Baguettes? Check. Wine? Check. Cute little old building in the background? Check. Cobblestone street? I know you can't see it, but check. I don't know how much more French you can get without wearing a beret and speaking French (both of which I have so far failed to do. But there's still time!)


8. Greeted people by kissing them on both cheeks. YES! I mean OUI!

Anyway, hopefully I can go out and buy a striped shirt and a little red neck scarf before I leave tomorrow, but even if I fail I would say this has been quite the successful sojourn to Bordeaux and I will be sad to leave. Luckily my next arrival is Barcelona, so hopefully I will get to update you with some Spanish adventures soon. Bissoux!

Things That Do Not Mean The Same Thing

There has been lots going on lately-- mostly getting ready to travel to France and Spain during our break that begins Saturday-- but no big noteworthy stories.  (All seems pale in comparison to the ball!)  Not wanting to abandon my loyal readers, of course, I thought I would present you with the first few entries in an ever-growing list.

Things That Do Not Mean The Same Thing

Breaking the Language Barrier, One Pepperoncini At A Time

1. "Pfefferoni" does not mean the same thing as "Pepperoni."

Nope.  Nope nope nope, it doesn't mean "pepperoni" even a little bit.  We learned this the hard way, naturally.  Terribly famished and equally thrilled to find a very cheap, very close pizzeria right down the street from our apartment, one night we decided to order a giant pepperoni and mushroom pizza.  We got a great kick out of sounding like we had both a speech impediment (just try saying "pfefferoni!") and an affinity for old pizza (the mushroom pizza is called "Pizza Funghi!").  Imagine our great surprise when instead of this: 

we got a pizza full of these:

Mmmmmm, pepperoncinis.  It was a taste explosion.  And by taste explosion, I mean that I suffered a little bit.  But it was a good laugh, and now we know better.  We've also discovered that one must order a Pizza Salami to get pepperoni and a Pizza Paprika to get bell peppers.  Furthermore, when the waiter says "Do you want me to take care of that?" he doesn't mean "Do you want me to wrap that up for you?", rather, "Do you want me to feed that to the kitchen workers?"

2. "Ich bin heiß"does not mean the same thing as "Mir ist heiß."

I mean, technically they do.  "Ich bin heiß" means "I am hot."  "Mir ist heiß" means "It's hot to me."  Same thing, right?  Unfortunately, "Ich bin heiß" is pretty taboo in normal conversations.  Far from indicating body temperature, it doesn't even mean "I think I'm a sexy mama."  Nope. It's reserved from those very special times at which you want to let someone know that you're feeling exceptionally frisky (!).

I don't really know what's up with these temperature-related words, though.  You can't say "Ich bin warm" either, even if you're feeling warm... unless you feel like hitting on another person of the same gender.  And if you say "Ich mache dich kalt" ("I'll make you cold") you're threatening to murder someone!

3. "I love dogs" does not mean the same thing as "I love other furry animals."

Let me elaborate.  Dogs are welcomed guests in many cafes, bakeries, shops, train stations, et cetera.  The Viennese are very fond of this canine companionship and take their pups pretty much everywhere.

However, due to the weather, the Viennese also stay pretty bundled up during the winter.  For some, this means a cozy fleece or a giant hand-knit scarf or one of those puffy jackets.  For others, however, it means a couple of good old-fashioned skinned animals.  Mmmmm.  

Seriously, though, floor-length fur coats and matching hats are pretty much the uniform for any rich Wiener over the age of forty.  It doesn't really bother me that much, but it does kind of look funny when someone dressed head-to-toe in fur is toting around her little chihuahua in her purse.  

It's an interesting paradox.  One, I've found, best mulled over when viewing the following picture:

Hehehe.

I'm Actually A Princess

Disclaimer: Times New Roman is not even close to capable of expressing the amount of joy that is still seeping from every pore in my body, despite that I got fewer than three hours of sleep last night/had to take a German test today that would make even Lawrence Welk cry/think I have contracted consumption.  I will try my very best to describe the singular most fabulous thing that has ever happened to me, but I don't know how successful I will be.  Especially because I'm already exhibiting great linguistic ridiculousness, and I'm only in the first paragraph of this post.  Like the phrase "a test that would make even Lawrence Welk cry."  What does that even mean?  I am obviously still a little addled in the brain from so much excitement.

I digress.  Anyway, as a point of reference, January and February are the months for "ball season" in Vienna.  There are lots and lots of balls open to the public, from fancy balls like the Opera Ball (which is broadcasted live cause it's so darn fancy and where, we just found out, a private box costs 17,000 € !) to balls hosted by local charities or organizations.  Seeing as balls involve (1) dresses, (2) dancing, (3) attractive European men in tailcoats, my heart was of course set on attending at least one during the semester.

It just so happens that my charming roommates felt the same way, so we asked around and decided to buy tickets to the the Ball der Wiener Philharmoniker.  (That's the Vienna Philharmonic Ball for all you English-sprechers out there.  You know I just like typing "Wiener.")  It's a little more expensive than some, but the Wiener Philharmonik is stinking playing, and plus we'd heard that the dance hall was beautiful, so we thought it would probably be worth it.  So we got ready and, in our gowns and heels, oh-so-inconspicuously hopped on the trusty U-Bahn like the poor college students that we are.  

Several blocks, one Straßenbahn stop, two U-Bahn stations, and several more blocks later, we had finally arrived.  So it turns out I would have paid TWO GAZILLION EUROS to go.  

The Musikverein, which is where the ball took place, is old and gold and carved and sparkling and marbled and red-carpeted and chandeliered, and it has angels painted on the ceiling and little cherubim heads sticking out of all sorts of nooks and crannies in the most charming way.  I guess they thought this wasn't fabulous enough for the ball, so they decided to make hundreds of bouquets of giant pink lilies,  and then drape every balcony with long green garlands just absolutely dripping with yellow and pink roses.  I have never seen anything more majestic in my entire life.  

In the very middle of the hall is the dance floor, with a raised stage on one side that housed the Wiener Philharmonik as well as a wonderful jazz band, and also a line of chairs for Very Important Wieners like the Vice Chancellor and the Minister of Something and so on and so forth.  Around that is a raised section of tables where people can sip wine and comment on the copious amounts of lime-green ostrich feathers on Secretary Umlaut's wife's ballgown.  Above that are two more balconies that allow for a great birds-eye view of all the waltzers down below.  

Just being able to look at the dresses was well worth the ticket price.  If there is one thing European women don't know how to do, it's how to be inconspicuous.  The fake eyelashes abounded.  The updos defied gravity.  (So did the old-lady cleavage, but that's a story for another day.  Yikes!)  The diamonds and pearls and jewels weighed down earlobes and wrapped around necks eighty times and covered every finger and wrist.  There were slits up to here and hoop skirts out to there and dresses in every color of the rainbow (and definitely a few colors not found in nature).  Ostrich feathers, rhinestones, tulle, sequins, flowers, and the occasional dead animal were fair game for dresses, shoes, hairdos, and purses.  In-cred-i-ble.  

For the first hour or so of the ball, we just sat up on one of the balconies, totally transfixed by the beautiful, graceful waltzers below.  Apparently the Viennese exit the womb knowing how to waltz, so they've had much more practice than we have and just look absolutely stunning doing it in large groups.  See for yourself:

The orchestra was great and played all sorts of waltzes and cha-chas and foxtrots and polkas and tangos.  And somehow, everyone was good at dancing all of these.  We were totally in awe.  All of a sudden, the conductor made an unintelligible (but certainly enthusiastic) announcement in German, and the crowd went wild.  The pandemonium that followed I can really only describe as the Cha Cha Slide, Vienna-Waltz-Style:

And then, just when we thought things couldn't get any crazier, everyone started inexplicably run-dancing in a giant circle around the dance floor.  

At this point, we obviously couldn't let the Wieners have any more fun without us, so we found our way to the dance floor and into the arms of various charming dancers all night long.  I would love to tell you that I simply melted into the tender but sure grip embrace of a charming Austrian prince, but, truth be told, about 85% of the people I danced with at least twice my age, and about 40% were probably closer to three times it.  Not that I'm complaining.  You know how I feel about older men.  

The five of us made friends with Johannes and Matthew, who, besides being excellent dancers, are bona fide young Austrians and therefore have no choice but to be our best friends for the rest of the semester.  I also danced with a wonderful man who works for the opera and sang along to the songs and taught me how to polka.  And then I danced with a charming (but kind of sweating a lot) man who spun me in so many circles I though I was going to ralph.  And then I danced with an adorable man who, as the music started, said "I sink dees is a tango.  I don't know how to tango.  Ve shall improfise."  And improfise we did, as I smiled apologetically to the several dozen couples we plowed down in our attempt to make our way across the dance floor.   

But the very best dance partner of all was Franz, who is a very kindred spirit and probably the love of my life.  Before you get excited, let me first say that Franz is at least seventy years old and has grandchildren.  But Franz is also a charmer and a stellar dancer.  When my friends and I had finally made our way downstairs and I was standing at the edge of the dance floor watching, I moved aside to let an old man in his military dress uniform walk by.  But instead of going up the stairs, he held out his hand and said, "Möchten Sie tanzen?"  Um, YES I want to tanzen!  

Once I had recovered from the pure thrill of, oh, you know, WALTZING at a BALL in VIENNA with a MILITARY MAN with the VIENNA PHILHARMONIC ORCHESTRA playing the BLUE DANUBE, I tried to make conversation with Franz.  "I speak terrible German," I said in terrible German.  "I speak terrible English," he said in terrible English.  And then we laughed and continued waltzing and it was absolutely nothing less than wunderbar.  

I really think that it was probably the best night/morning (the ball lasted until 5-- of course we stayed the whole time) of my entire life.  There are so many more little things that I want to talk about, like the fact that everyone had really nice shoes, and that this really cute boy danced with his mom all night, and that there was a jazz singer, and that even old people lasted until 5 a.m., and that I have never seen such a concentration of white-tie-wearing, fabulous-European-cologne-wearing, suave European men anywhere, and that the orchestra played an arrangement of the YMCA and Franz didn't know what it was.  But I suppose I've already said an awful lot, and if you stuck with it till the end, you're a real trooper.