To Dirndl or Not to Dirndl

“You have to wear your dirndl,” says the man to me. Then he pauses and adds, “You know what that is - right?”

“Of course,” I reply. “It’s the cleavage dress.”

I don’t know what it is, but my Vorarlberg experience has taught me that men LOVE the dirndl. We are talking all men – young and old. Initially I could not comprehend what would have women happily running around in a traditional dress that also required an apron. The skirt is long, the sleeves are often ruffled. The whole thing is incredibly girlie and seriously old fashioned. But what the whole get up does allow for is a spectacular showing of cleavage.

Let me stop here as I have a bit of confession to make - I am actually considering buying a dirndl. I know, clearly I have lived here too long for such a thought to even enter my mind and perhaps am in need of some sort of Austrian assimilation intervention. I think in some ways I just want to walk around in one - see what it feels like. Will I feel old school and old fashioned? Maybe a little sexy? Though that seems hard to believe - there is an apron involved after all. What exactly is it that keep women wearing them? Or why men love seeing a woman in one? In many ways, I have to think that for a man the dirndl is like watching a woman in maid uniform, a little bit of dress up fun perhaps? I don’t know what it is, but a woman wearing a dirndl is clearing exciting for a lot of Vorarlberger men.

But –do women find lederhosen hot on men? It’s a good question, because most often when the woman is wearing her dirndl, the man will often accompany her in his lederhosen.

Let me help you with the lederhosen visual. Man in leather knickers with suspenders, shirt embroidered with flowers, knee high socks and hopefully no hat walking towards you.

It’s not happening is it?

Where there are dirndl’s – there are certain to be lederhosen. Its part of the whole thing they have going on here. And the man who invited me to his wife’s 40th party and told me to wear a dirndl – you can rest assured that the men are being told to wear their lederhosen.

I dont know for certain if I will actually one day don a dirndl, but I have to admit; somehow knowing men will be prancing around in their lederhosen makes the whole dirndl thing seem a lot more reasonable. And maybe even a little fun...







Ps. here are a couple links – one for the dirndl and the other lederhosen.

http://www.google.co.uk/search?q=dirndl&hl=en&rlz=1I7ADFA_enAT420&prmd=imvns&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=3JyIToi7K8e4hAfusYHUDA&ved=0CDMQsAQ&biw=1350&bih=651

http://www.google.co.uk/search?hl=en&rlz=1I7ADFA_enAT420&q=lederhosen&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.,cf.osb&biw=1350&bih=610&wrapid=tlif131757768029610&um=1&ie=UTF-8&tbm=isch&source=og&sa=N&tab=wi

You Can't Say That Here

“You can’t say that here,” said the fellow in my office.

When I asked why, his reply was simply, “you just can’t.” And with that, he left.

First let me paint the scene. The temperature outside was 30 degrees Celsius. My office was about 35 degrees. My face was covered in perspiration. The clothing I had decided to wear was completely inappropriate for the heat. And, although I can handle soaring temperatures with little problem, this day was a definite exception. With hours left in my work day, I contemplating how I would both make it – and cool down.

That’s about when my visitor walked in and inquired if I was “cranky.” To which I replied, “No, I’m just really hot.”

A few days later while enjoying both a coffee and the blazing sunshine, I was once again feeling the heat. It seemed the perfect moment to ask my friend about my colleague's comment.

“You can’t say that,” was my friend’s quick comment. “Especially at work.”
For the most part, I know that I am forgiven the seeming misuse of statements and phrases. I may go so far as to say that my friends and colleagues are amused when I make them. But it also works both ways. Like the word “toilet.” Here in Austria people often excuse themselves to go to the “toilet.” When I rented my flat I told someone one I had one and a half bathrooms to which they replied “You have one bathroom and a toilet.”

At home we do not say this word in polite conversation. In fact, many would say it is more acceptable to swear, than use the word “toilet.” I literally cringe every time I hear it. To even write it in this blog makes me feel uncomfortable. I keep thinking ‘I sure hope my mother doesn’t read this one.’ I know my discomfort with this word is a source of amusement to those close to me here.

But so it goes. I’m learning. By trial and error. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I am off to the pool. It’s another beautiful 30 degree day and I am, well, you know…

I came. I weighed. I conquered.

I bought lemons today. Oh yeah. I rocked this whole Austria thing big time. For months I have been terrified of the produce section – but today no longer.

This past week I shared with someone from the office how intimidated I was by the produce department. The weighing in and tagging prior to the cashier hadn’t worked out so well for me in the past and lead to some pretty embarrassing moments. He took his time and explained the process. Produce on the scale. Type in number that is displayed on the items sign. Sticker comes out. Place on bag with produce.

Got it.

But first I needed cash and I had none so off I went to the bank machine to use my Austrian bank card for the first time.

Not good. The English language button was nowhere to be found and my attempt to logically select the right buttons was failing miserably. The machine kept spitting my card back. No money. This was a bit of a problem. I needed food and a pair of shoes was calling my name. So I did what any other person in my predicament would do. I went to my favorite bakery and ordered a cappuccino to go and pondered my options.

That’s when I heard “hey American girl!”

Seems walking around with a coffee is not a very Austrian thing to do. Nonetheless, that cappuccino proved to be the perfect Segway for a little bank machine tutorial. Money now in hand I decided it was time to head to the busy Interspar and stock up my weeks groceries.

First stop produce section. I circle the area. I decide to only try one thing just in case I did it wrong – one oops is much less embarrassing than 10. So I decide on lemons. Just three little lemons. I bag them and begin searching for the machine. Instantly I panic. There is a line up at the weigh scales. I nearly bail, but instead go back to the lemon sign and double check the number. “You can do this,” I silently assure myself.

My turn arrives. Place on scale. Check. Push button. Hmm…where is the tag? Nonchalantly I start examining all sides of the machine. I start looking for an enter button, something, anything that I could have overlooked. Nothing. Just before I am about to walk away I notice the sticker. I place it on the bag and head to the till. Reading the label I think whatever it happens to say does not look much like the word “lemon.” Should have taught us lemon in German class I think.

In the end, my lemons were accepted at the till. It was a euphoric moment for me. I paid for them with the money I took from the bank machine.

Today there is an extra bounce in step as well as a renewed sense of pride. And I will likely share this anyone and everyone who is misguided enough to ask me how my day went. And why not? I conquered the heck out of it!

Queen of Consumption

Family. Food. Friends. Food. Easter. Even more food.

Am I complaining? Not a chance. Life doesn’t get much better than this. Everywhere I turn in the kitchen and pantry I can see my favourite foods. Two meals out of three are sure to be either a wonderful comfort food from my youth or a tantalizing culinary experience.

Don’t even get me started on the baking.

I am home. And by home I mean enjoying the pampering and fuss that a mother seems only to be able to do when she hasn’t seen her daughter in over three months. My primary responsibility is to devour and enjoy what is put in front of me. I’m worthy of the task.

So busy was I enjoying my role as the Queen of Consumption that I failed to notice anything else around me. One could say I was rather focused.

All this came to a screeching halt one fateful afternoon. “Let’s go to the gym,” says my son with 1% body fat. So off I went.

While at the gym I caught my profile in one of those ginormous mirrors that fitness clubs seem to line every available wall with and had what can only be called a Buddha moment.

Surely my shirt was all bunched I thought and smoothed it out over my stomach. Nope. Maybe it is the angle I am standing in I decide and reposition myself. Nope, not that either. I smooth my shirt again and ponder how many hours of hard core cardio it will take to right this most undesirable turn of events. A lot I decide.

I’ve never really experienced “going home” to my parents before. It’s certainly a time filled with love, comfort and quality time. Although I miss my parents dearly, it is also pretty cool to be able to enjoy this new experience. Sure it is calorie laden, but that’s okay, next time will pack some stretchy pants…

Orange Envy

Over two months in and I have to say it is the grocery store that causes me the most grief. I love fruits and vegetables. The problem is I don’t know how to buy them.

A week back I put some oranges on the store conveyer belt. Not a big deal – right? At home in Canada they just weigh those suckers for me, enter in how much I owe and I am on my way.

Not here.

The cashier stopped, examined my oranges and said something to me at warp speed in dialect riddled German. I am completely clueless except that there is a problem with the oranges and she is not very happy with me. Everyone around is now watching and wondering how the orange issue is going to turn out. The cashier continues to stare at me as she picks up the phone to call someone.

Excellent. She was calling back up. This wasn’t going to get embarrassing at all.

At this point I declared that I no longer wanted the oranges while at the same time pausing to scan the rest of conveyer belt for any other possibly awkward produce moments. Fortunately the rest of my selection was straight forward.

Days later I share my produce story with a fellow at work. Being ever so helpful, he launched into the most complicated explanation of how I must select, weigh and tag my produce prior to the till. At the end of my verbal tutorial he decided that these produce machines were in fact so incredibly complicated that I should make every effort to avoid them. After his explanation I was inclined to agree.

Heading Home

This evening as I was packing up, I announced “I can't wait to get home.”

Truth was I was tired and happy that the day was coming to an end, but my comment was met with raised eyebrows. My co-worker had assumed that I was on the next plane back to Canada. In that moment it hit me, I was calling home a teeny tiny hotel room when I was in actual fact homeless.

Of course this caused me to ponder the facts. My home in Kelowna was about to become someone else’s and I was still in the process of securing a flat to call my own here in Austria. Since I had arrived here with only four bags of stuff, I would be faced still with making my new residence, home.

When I think back to my beautiful town back in British Columbia, I think of home. It’s where my friends and family live. However, as I made my way back to my hotel, I also had to admit that it too was home to me. If only just for the moment - and that when I made it into my new flat, it would also become my home.

So I got to thinking, what was “home” exactly? It was clearly a place of emotional attachment because no matter when I say “I am going home” it makes me feel warm inside. It could be back to my roots in small town Ontario, or where my loved ones reside or where I climb into bed each night – even if it is a teeny tiny hotel room.

But is home just a place? I started to think not. If it can be so many different places, then it must be a feeling. When I see my son or speak to him on the phone, I am filled with feelings of peace, warmth and love that resonate even stronger than the sense I get when I head to a place that I geographically define as home. And, when I am in the arms of a special someone I know that there is no place I’d rather be. That special moment is home to me.

I’ve decided that there is absolute truth to the old adage “home is where the heart is.” But it isn’t geographical. Sure it can be a place you seek solace in at the end of the day, or a place you consider during a tough time - but it can also be sound of your childs laugh and the arms of someone you love the most. And that to me is an even better kind of "home."

The First Ten Minutes

If you ask me within the first 10 minutes of an intense cardio workout if I am going to manage my 40 minutes I would not be able to tell you that answer.

The first 10 minutes kills me. My body resists and I feel sluggish and tired. Everything in me wants to quit. But it’s a mind game. I promise myself if I go really hard for one more minute then I can quit. This goes on minute by minute until I reach the ten minute point when my body wakes up and off we go. I love that moment. It’s a rush that continues on through for as long as I want to make it last.

My first month here in Austria has been similar to that first 10 minutes. The whole thing got off to a rocky start. It began with a friend ambushing me with some pretty difficult news the moment I got off the plane. The hotel I was temporarily calling home became a party zone for a number of nights. I couldn’t find the food I wanted. My hair stylist made me a mousy brunette. You get the picture anyway.

Whine. Whine. Whine.

I was a bit cranky. Some days were worse than others, and if I were to be really honest, I was fairly unpleasant to be around. And, there were moments where I was feeling pretty close to throwing the towel in. Though, if you had asked me why I wanted to give up I would not have been able to give you a solid answer other than it was just too difficult.

Tonight at the gym, as I made it beyond that brutal first 10 minutes, I began to reflect on things. I made a decision to do exactly what I am doing for many reasons; including the fact that I knew it was not going to be easy. It’s like every time I head out for a run, or step on a stair machine, I know that I am going to have to struggle through those first 10 minutes. But it’s a struggle that is well worth every moment thereafter.

I like to think of my first month here like the first 10 minutes of cardio. It was just something that I had to fight through and now I am ready to do exactly what I came here to do.