Pride & Innocence

While in Bezau, in Bregenzerwald we stopped for dinner at a very traditional restaurant. Like most things in Europe, there was a story that surrounded the restaurant.

The old building was purchased by a man who was very skilled with wood working and committed to the traditions and history of the Bregenzerwald region. I loved how it was redone. The original beams, flooring and so on were all maintained and resurfaced. Although the updates within maintained the traditional look of the region, a slightly modern feel also exists. As expected the food was as well very traditional (I had to have käsespätzle). I wish I had pictures to share of the building and restaurant – however that will have to wait until the next time I visit.

While flipping thought the restaurants albums that documented the buildings physical transformation, a news clipping which I posted with this blog caught my attention. Directly translated it means “strong cheese year.” It made me giggle to see something like this make headlines. However, properly interpreted, the headline is sharing that the areas cheese sales were great that year. Still kinda cute - and also somewhat indicative of the innocence and pride of this very traditional region.

A Satisfied Longing

I am so excited. After a year of longing, I have them.

It all started when one day while looking for a flat I noticed an unusual pair of boots that a woman was wearing. I told her that I liked them. “These are quite special,” said the woman with the cool boots. She then launched into a story about a man who wasn’t overly social in Bregenzerwald, who had one day started making these “special boots” by hand. The demand for the boots became such that he had to expand and move to manufacturing plant.

“And look, they are wood.”

Anyone who knows me is aware of my shoe, and in particular my boot “thing” so all of this was making me even more enthusiastic about the boots. “They are so comfortable and the cow skin makes them warm,” she added.

Cool boots with a story – could it get any better?

I wanted these boots like I have never wanted boots before. So I Googled. Dropped not so subtle hints to my Austrian friends – but still these darn boots evaded me. Beyond knowing I had to go to Bregenzerwald, I had no clue where to find them.

But finally, my not so subtle mention of the boots I so wanted fell upon the right ears. Friday evening I made my way to the town of Bezau, a teeny ski town nestled in beautiful Bregenzerwald and within it was the shop I had longed to visit.

As much as I try to be as emotionally restrained as the average Vorarlberger, I simply can’t hide what I feel. Most of the time I manage to dull it down a little, but when I entered this boot shop – all sense of restraint was lost. Surrounded by so many cool boots, the shop full of customers was soon amused by my childlike glee.

I saw my companions laughing with the other shoppers, but I didn’t care. So excited and in the moment I could not remember any German, my English was so quick that no one understood that either – but that was okay, it was pretty clear that I was having a super cool moment.

A Fasching Failure

Being called a princess is not normally an overly complementary thing to say. It insinuates that you are spoiled and excessively pampered. Although I believe nothing could be further from the truth, the name has stuck amongst a group of particular friends of mine.

Last month I celebrated a birthday here in Austria. During a meeting at work I was surprised with a cake and card. On the envelope it read to the “marketing princess.”

Hmm...

And now in the middle of Fasching season I found myself reluctantly agreeing to participate in a parade and party. Already far out of my comfort zone, I was only mildly surprised when a text soon followed informing me that I was a to dress as a “princess” for the party.

I don’t know about you, but I am sensing a theme here.

So I decided to embrace this whole princess thing. I went out and got the darn princess ensemble – complete with a tiara. It was the least princessy costume of all the princess costumes I could find. But still pretty darn girlie for me. As I look at myself in the mirror I cant help but laugh. My tiara looks so wrong I don’t think I can even wear it. The princes dress makes me look more like - well I have no clue really. Kind of like I should be carrying a bunch of beer steins instead.

Somehow that seems fitting. The one and only time I try to be princess–like, I end up in a velvet Dirndl instead.

Fasching Season

Around this time last year I received a text from a friend asking me to pick him up on my way home from the office and drop him off at his house.

As I waited outside in my car at the agreed upon meeting place my mind wandered. My reverie was quickly interrupted when a man in head-to-toe gold Lamé climbed into the passenger seat. He looked like an adult Aladdin right down to the pointed, curly-toed shoes.

“I must look a bit strange to you,” uttered my friend.

Strange didn’t even begin to capture what was running through my mind. I was still trying to get used to the lederhosen and dirndl and now here I was trying to cope with the fact that I had a human Aladdin in my car. I think I can still hear the awkward laugh that escaped from me in reply.

A few days later a bus painted in wild colours passed by with all sorts of colourfully dressed people within. When I say people, I am referring to adults.

“Carnival season,” said my friend.

This weekend while in the Dornbirn Marktplatz, lets say I was a bit more prepared when I heard the sound of trumpets and whistles blasting and turned to see a parade of adults and children all dressed in orange heading for a snow bank.

As I write this I struggle to find some sort of Canadian or North American equivalent for comparison – but I cannot. It is truly a unique experience, and one that has a rich history. Not just a one-day event, carnival is referred to as more of a “season.” More common in Catholic and, to a lesser extent, Easter Orthodox societies, Carnival Season, or Fasching as it called here in Austria, begins six weeks before Lent – so when it actually begins is connected with when Easter falls of that particular year.

I don’t even know if I fully understand the motivation behind it - but I am intrigued. So this year, I’m in. I don’t know if I am prepared to don the wild attire that so many of the people do here – but as they say “when in Rome…”

The Warm Up Period

“We in Vorarlberg, began my friend “are not so easy to get close to. We tend to be closed in nature.”

Okay diplomacy, don't fail me …my friend was indeed speaking the truth. In fact, I would say that if you have a Canadian on one side of a scale, you’ll find some Italians, Spanish and well you get the picture. On the other hand, on the verrry end on the other side of the scale you find Austrians, Swiss, and so on.

We are different. I know I laugh too loud sometimes. I kind of don’t care if people like me or not. I am a bit hyper, restless, and unstructured. I don’t like filing systems that involve binders. I stopped thinking that meeting friends at 9 or 10 at night was normal at about 19. I cook only when I feel like it, and when I do it will likely be hot and spicy. I'm Canadian.

Now imagine the opposite of all that.

Its taken a year – but I get it. And those who know me get me too. Tonight as yelled on my way out of the office that I wanted to be first one out I was quickly greeted by the sound of footsteps running behind me. Or when I embarrassed myself by referring to Austria’s most famous treat, Mozartkugeln, as Mozart Balls it was acknowledged as something I would say. I’ve learned to eat my main meal mid-day and I can say mahlzeit like a pro. I can speak more German than I will ever admit and I even know how to say where I live in dialect.

So, are Austrian’s closed in nature? I don’t think so. We're having a lot of fun now. I like to think that it was more like they - and I - required a bit of a warm up period.

An Anniversary of Sorts

Well, it has been one year since I began calling Dornbirn home. And wow what a year.

I have to be honest; it wasn’t easy - in fact at times it as down right brutal. My first few months were filled with unanticipated solitude and disappointment. I quickly discovered that my Austrian BFF was a bust. My search for a flat was as difficult as my hotel room was small. I missed my son, family and friends. The dialect spoken here was a challenge for me. The few belongings I had fit on one luggage trolley.

I was seriously tested. My normally positive outlook was replaced by a series of emotions that lead me on the wildest emotional roller coaster of my life. I can’t imagine that I was much fun to be around.

But I hung in. If you ask me why I made the decision to stay, I would have to say it was only because I didn't want to give up. Or maybe it was my friends and family that encouraged me not to give up. At least that was how it was in the beginning anyway. Because, thankfully, before long things started to change. Acquaintances and even adversaries transformed into trusted friends. I found a flat. My son, mother and friends came to visit me. People started to better understand my fragmented German. I made not one, but a few new Austrian BFF’s. I actually had people I could text and texted me.

So, I am happy to say that one year later my life does not near resemble the one that began last January. And, I do not know if I would change any part of this experience. I was forced to discover things about myself that would have evaded me otherwise...and the people, the places, the countless new experiences - I kind of think that there is some truth to the adage that we should "do what scares us the most." The biggest risks indeed result in the greatest gain.

Plus there is the incredible satisfaction of not wondering "what if?"

Who knows how this journey of mine will twist and turn. Though there is one thing that I do know, no matter what I do or where I happen to be I will continue to be inspired by the remarkable people that make up such an important part of my life - here, there and everywhere...

Margin of Error

I call the margin of error, and I am missing it.

You see, here in Austria and particularly Vorarlberg things are pretty locked down and structured. Heck, while I am at, lets extend that line of thought to Switzerland and Germany.

It is all about rules and processes. And, what is most remarkable for an expat like me is the fact that people actually heed them.

Let me paint a scene for you. Imagine for a moment you are listening to your favourite song. The windows are rolled up so you are giving it all you’ve got. Of course you are going the speed limit, however fully engaged in a rock star moment you let your focus waver for just a moment. I mean how long is your favourite song – it can’t be more than 3.25 minutes I am guessing. So the vehicle exceeds, albeit briefly the designated speed limit. But before you know it - BAM! Monster flash goes off. Great would have been if that had been an extension of the rock star moment, but alas, it is not. You’ve been pegged, caught and captured on film going an unpardonable 6 kilometers over the speed limit.

No that was not a typo, I did indeed write 6 kilometers. No margin of error there.

I have come to the conclusion that Canadians are a bit of a laid back sort. We like our margin of error. Six kilometers over the speed limit? That’s not even worth a police officer putting down his Tim Horton’s coffee for, he already understands that the driver likely didn’t mean it. I mean, if you are going to speed – make it worth not finishing a donut for.

And hey – if you are wondering just how much that 6-kilometer over the limit rock star moment is going to cost you - I can tell you exactly how much. In Switzerland it is a 120 Swiss Francs.

Cold and Canadian

My friend in Austria texted me this afternoon asking me what I was doing. At that particular moment I was wandering around Home Depot, Starbucks in hand in my most comfortable well-worn pair of jeans and a t-shirt. In Kelowna.

The question made me give pause. I would never wander around my Vorarlberg home like that. First thing to note was that I was dressed inappropriately for the weather. But being Canadian, we often don’t bother with such formalities. We can usually be found dashing from our vehicle to whatever our destination happened to be in clothing that is anything but warm. When I first arrived back in Kelowna I was wandering around with my big scarf, warm jacket and a hat close at hand. Its now 10 days later and I have already resumed my Canadian ways. Its ironic really, the country most noted for its harsh climate and we seem committed to defying the reality of it all.

I must admit however, even though I am not a fan of the deep cold winters – I feel home in them. Just yesterday when the chairlift I was on came to a screeching halt we had a few moments to enjoy the fierce wind that blew the snow so hard it felt like little pin pricks on any exposed skin. As I pulled my neck warner over my face and shared comments of displeasure with my lift mates I couldn’t help but smile. This is the winter I know, not just the weather itself, but the common bond fellow Canadians share over it. We are too cold, too hot, and too humid – we are a country of extremes and we like it – even though we would never admit it.

That same day I skied into the resort village. A large inflated beaver anchored in the snow was inviting people to come celebrate. Only in Canada would we have a vicious, bucktooth reclusive animal as our countries mascot. The sight of the massive beaver made me laugh and in some odd way also feel proud. Generally speaking, Canadians don't take themselves too seriously.

I have indeed adapted to my European life. But one thing I did realize in that Home Depot moment – you can take the girl of out of Canada, but you cannot take the Canadian out of the girl…

Greener Pastures & Inspiring Moments

My mother and I were chatting away at the main street light in downtown Dornbirn at about 4pm on a beautiful Saturday afternoon when the man on his bike beside us suddenly gave a holler.

Of course we glanced over, but it was what we saw that will forever remain imprinted in our minds. Waiting patiently behind the man was his heard of sheep. Once he gave his okay to cross the road the sheep literally began to gallop after the man as he pedalled his way home. And not only that, they pretty much stayed on the sidewalk.

Later we learned that the sheep belonged to the owner of a popular bakery and café (Cafe Stadelmann) in town. I had previously heard about the owner Marcus. Passionate about his craft, his actions often provide fodder for a few conversations, but the respect for the end result, is high. You see, Marcus frequently takes his sheep for a “walk” so that they can enjoy greener pastures elsewhere.

I love the fact that Marcus the Baker walks his sheep so they can enjoy greener pastures. I love even more the fact that they follow him. There is something about a person who lives life on the own terms that both inspires and scares us. To venture out of one’s comfort zone and abandon the innate desire to conform requires courage and commitment. We all want as much as we can possibly squeeze out of life but often we are so busy colouring within the lines that our truly extraordinary life passes us by.

I have to admit, I was a bit inspired - so I am taking this moment I experienced as a gentle reminder to live life with as much passion and abandon as I can possible muster.

Water and Mountain People

Canadians are water people. We gravitate towards it on our holidays. Whether the Atlantic or Pacific Ocean or one of the many fresh water lakes you will find us flocking towards it. We swim in it, ski on it, lay around it, look at it, fish in it, dive, snorkel and wind surf. Cabins are built around it for family getaways, and house prices soar if there is a view of it. You get the picture - Canadians love their water.

I have to admit, it took some time for me to adjust to life here in Vorarlberg. Although the Lake of Constance is minutes away, people here simply do not expel the same amount of energy enjoying it as say Canadians would. You see, Vorarlberger’s love their mountains.

Living at the base of a popular hiking area, I spent months marvelling at the number of people heading up the mountain every day when weather permitted – which is virtually all the time. I was invited countless time to “walk” and “hike” and for climbing lessons in the mountains. Beautiful restaurants are nuzzled in remote mountain areas. Spas, festivals, cafes, ski resorts and so on. Life here is in the mountains.

Tough adjustment for a water loving Canadian. I just didn’t get it. You see in Canada we don’t really do a whole bunch in the mountains – some hiking, skiing of course, but for the most part it is best used for access to the less densely populated lakes and rivers. The reasons for this are many, however when I share with friends here in Vorarlberg they do not understand why we refrain from the lifestyle they so enjoy. Although we do some mountain-ish activities, we also respect the fact that within the forest walls reside bears, cougars (the man eating kind), coyotes and all sorts of predatory animals. Trails are less blazed and people are few – it’s simply different.

Having called Vorarlberg home for the past 10 months I can honestly say that I have come to appreciate the lure of heading to the mountains. No matter what sort of physical challenge I am in the mood for, I can find it in there. I can also find the solitude, simplicity and peace not always readily found at home. It’s a grounding experience.

As an expat, I have come to appreciate that our roots, our culture form a fundamental part of who we are. I was naïve to the extent that this actually exists. But I have also learned that although Canadian, I am also a Vorarlberger (albeit a newbie one) and that means something too. Water may be a part of who I am, but this whole mountain thing is now too.

The Quest for the Famous Kaesspaetlze

The first time I had Kaesspaetlze was about a year ago - and late at night. What I quickly learned was that was a really bad idea. Delightfully rich, the cheesy and teeny tiny dumpling like noodles had me tossing and turning throughout a sleepless filled night.

However I have since learned that most people would not dream of eating this dish in the evening. Specifically for the often sleepless nights it may cause.

But I love it. And in Vorarlberg they are quite noted for this deliciously rich meal. So - that means I have a responsibility to share it with those new to Vorarlberg. Alas, because of the potential adverse impact it may have to the waistline, an energetic walk should precede Kaesspaetlze - for then it is nearly guilt free.

Today was the very last day to enjoy Kaesspaetlze in Schönebach, a cute little place tucked away seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The perfect setting for a guilt free Kasspatzle experience. A long walk in the mountains, an afternoon spent enjoying a perfect fall day while also taking in the beauty of the area - and soon thereafter an appetite that only Kaesspaetlze could satisfy.

Well, I did my part. I introduced yet another to the famous Vorarlberger treat. And the best part? I won't have to cook anyone dinner tonight.

Police and an Empty Wallet

In Canada, if you pay for something with cash it can really mess things up. First off it better not be in big bills because anything over a $20 is subjected to anti-counter fitting scanners. In fact often you will see a sign that says “we do not accept $50 or $100 bills” simply because they can’t be bothered to take the chance. I in fact have a friend that was busted with a counterfeit $20 that he received from a bank – but the hassle he had to endure over proving that it did not originate with him was substantial.

However here in Vorarlberg, Austria this is not the case. It is all about cash. I have even had the pleasure of experiencing the awkward moment when it came time to pay and as I handed over my visa was advised that they did not take cards.

So I now go to the bank. Or rather the bankomat. And it spews out Euros in denominations of €50’s and €100’s. The first time I handed over a €100 bill for a €5 purchase I did what any other Canadian might do – I sheepishly asked if I could pay with my €100 bill. They looked at me as if I was from another planet and promptly made change.

This weekend has been a busy one for me. I’ve had commitments all over the place and burned through cash like crazy until all that remained was 5 euros. Still busy I put off going to the bankomat until it was more convenient. As I was rushing off to the next thing and singing along to Maroon 5’s latest I suddenly saw two police officers jump out into the middle of the road in front of me and flag me over.

As I handed over my British Columbia driver’s license and every single official looking paper I could find in the glove box the police officer informed me that I had been going 30 over the speed limit. Now in Canada I wouldn’t have been able to manufacture enough tears to get out of that one – not only would I lose a ton of points but I would also receive about a $300 ticket and a letter from my insurance company informing me how displeased they were with my driving habits. So I was clearly nervous. I had no idea how they would feel about my driver’s license and if I gave them the correct papers and if I was off to the nearest Austrian jail as a result of the combination. (By the way, in my defence I have been driving in Germany a fair bit lately and getting into the no speed limit highway driving).

You can imagine my absolute shock that once the police officers had completed their examination of my ID and papers that they then asked me for €35. Now. Of course it was then that I opened my wallet saw the remaining €5 bill. It was now time for the officer to look shocked. I am sure he was thinking “how can someone speed without cash? That’s not very organized.” Instead he said “there is a bankomat up the street.”

Doing as I was told I headed off to the bankomat and returned immediately to the scene of the crime just as I had been instructed to do. I handed the €50 over and the officer gave me change and a receipt.

As I drove away I couldn’t help but smile. I had just handed a police officer a 50 after being caught speeding – try doing that in Canada and see what happens.