Hitting the Bottom at Winter's End

It’d be a lie if I said this winter has been easy, especially while most accounts around here seem to point towards absolute familial bliss.  But in the interest of remaining transparent, I feel I wouldn’t do this season in our lives justice if I didn’t point out the underlying struggle we (read: I) have faced these past months.  To begin with, I openly suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder.  Most years it’s something we make light of—a temporary funk that is breezed over with humor and a grain of salt, but this is the real reason I hate February—because generally, it’s the hardest month of the year for me to get through.  Living in the Tri-Cities the past four years was a blessing for someone who craves the sunlight—300 sunny days a year made for easy winters—I still got grumpy on those 65 overcast days, but it was kid stuff, really. 

Because we were coming from that sunny extreme, I knew this winter in Vienna would be much more difficult. So, in true optimist fashion, I psyched myself up (and upped my vitamin D intake).  I took my typical, stubborn Willian approach and dared Winter to bring it on.  Since the Viennese celebrate Christmas for three months, the days leading up to Christmas and New Years were a piece of cake.  Snow was charming, lights were twinkling—absolute magic.  Through the rest of those cold months I planned to cling to every birthday and holiday in between like a string of life preservers leading me towards Spring.  I laid the smack down on Feburary, discovering the joys of Carnival and actually celebrating Valentine’s Day.  When the festive spirit died down, I invented reasons to celebrate and mentally whisked my little family away to the tropics. 

Apparently I let my guard down in March, because between John’s birthday and planning a holiday in the mountains I kind of expected the weather to take a turn towards the sunny side.  Instead, we got more snow…on top of frigid whipping winds and more. Snow.  It was easy to see the fluffy white stuff as charming (even on Easter) while we were in quaint St. Gilgen…and then we came home…I had muscled through February and clawed my way out of March...now it was April.  And it was still. Snowing. 

And that was it.  My little SAD breaking point.  I had willed myself into cheery submission for nearly five months.  All it took was that last straw in the form of a very Viennese (although the adjectives I used at the time were much more colorful) waiter when I was trying to seek some solace in a solo coffee break.  It felt like turning the other cheek--every day, all day--for months had culminated in my interaction with this Herr Ober on a power trip...and I lost it.  I am not one to weep or claim hysterics, but as vicious little snowflakes stabbed me in the eyes on the way home from that cafe…I arrived.  At that place where I might as well have been on my knees screaming: “Enough!  Coach, I am DONE!” 

To at least a small part of my brain’s credit, I did realize that this feeling of running on empty was totally ridiculous.  My mind was racing to think of all the people being pelted in the face with snow who didn’t have a warm apartment with cute healthy kids to go home to…people who were at that very moment carrying their worldly possessions on their back, peddling for change to buy some booze to numb themselves through the day for a bit longer.  I thought of orphaned babies, human trafficking victims and Mamas wondering how they would feed their babies.

And it didn’t work.  

I was stuck in a selfish downward spiral where even wailing and unattractively slobbering on my husband didn’t make a dent. The part of my brain that acknowledges and accepts basic logic had been overrun by the crazy part of my brain that could not stop screaming about how the sun would never return and that the sky would continue to rain down demon-eye-poking snow for. EVER. 

I wish I could say that I found some way to snap out of it…that I dug deep and decided to channel my self-pity into acts of service for people who actually have a rough life…or that my logical brain laid the smack down on the mess of crazy that was running rampant…that I found some asinine reason to celebrate a new day…but all I felt was the sensation of falling backwards into the abyss.  (Yes, this is accommodating the crazy factor) and at the bottom—a place I haven’t let myself look at, much less feel, for a very long time—He was there.  He didn’t miraculously fix me.  He didn’t make the crazy erratic thoughts go away.  He was just there.  At the bottom.  With Me.  Emmanuel.  God with us. And suddenly, that meant more to me than all the sobering thoughts of human injustice in this world.

I’m still a little off today, but I’m grounded.  Humbled.  Loved.  And unfathomably blessed…even if the sun ceased to shine, I’d still be all those things.  This little trip to the bottom of my barrel hasn’t sucked any of the joy out of those joyful events that helped buoy me through the darkness.    

St. Gilgen

We decided after our trip to Salzburg, way back in the Fall, that we wouldn’t drag the girls around on any big trips over the winter.  Traveling with kids is difficult to begin with, but when you add in freezing temperatures, things take a turn towards impossible quickly.  Luckily, Vienna has plenty of diversions to offer even the under-five set over the blustering winter and as an added boon, we all like each other quite a lot.

Nevertheless, it was time.  Even if Spring weather wasn’t showing it’s face, a holiday was agreed upon as a necessity.  Mostly, because we (read : John…I am more than happy to stay home under my blankets) were struck with a healthy dose of Wanderlust. And, perhaps the most pressing factor behind an Easter weekend getaway was that the last JPO working with John is about to begin her out-processing.   Meaning, John will soon be more or less shackled to his responsibilities at work with no one to fill in for him until the newest pair of JPO’s make their way to Vienna.  This could be months (and that’s optimism speaking) so, in all certainty, we decided to get out of town. 

Deciding where this fantastic holiday should take place took a bit of brainstorming, but we eventually eschewed any other fantastic European cities in favor of Austria’s lakes in the Salzkammergut.  These country mice needed to get back to their roots, so we booked an apartment in lovely little St. Gilgen on Lake Wolfgang and headed out a few days before Easter.

As always, travel with kids is a bit more hectic and stressful, if not just because there’s more luggage and more herding of little people involved.  Audrey was recovering from a cold and Bailey was starting to catch it herself, but both of the girls were troopers; they are becoming well-seasoned and patient travelers…even when we got them lost on the way to our rental in St. Gilgen and wound up taking the scenic route to our apartment. (along with a chorus of "Mama, when are we going to beee there!?!")

Luckily, the woman meeting us to hand off keys was incredibly sweet and helpful and the apartment, for all sakes, was perfect for our little family of four.  The views up the mountains and down towards the lake were so refreshing and it wasn’t long before we found ourselves out in it all. 

Lake Wolfgang is one of seventy-six in Austria’s Salzkammergut and is situated only 45 minutes (by bus) south of Salzburg.  Along the shores of this lake are several small hamlets as well as the towns of St. Gilgen and St. Wolfgang.  We chose St. Gilgen because it was smaller and less touristy than St. Wolfgang...and perhaps, more importantly, because it had a reputation for having a particularly fun playground near the lake. 

We knew the weather in St. Gilgen would likely be a bit colder and damper than what we had been experiencing in Vienna, and our attitude towards the weather reflected that; sun, snow, rain or wind--we were out in it all.  The girls even took a crack at that cold and muddy playground a few times; those two know no barriers to a chance at swinging. The town of St. Gilgen proved to be absolutely charming; there were enough small shops and buildings of interest to make a walk about town entertaining, but mostly, the walking paths along the lake were what called to us--a chance to romp around freely in the gorgeous scenery.  

We spent plenty of time taking in the town, but also leaped at the chance to take the ferry boat around the lake to St. Wolfgang.  This was likely Bailey's favorite part of the trip--being out on the water, watching the snow fall into the lake while being served apple juice (Mama and Papa got to indulge in some cappuccino en route).  When we got to St. Wolfgang, we realized that it wasn't so much snowing as it was slushing--a joyous discovery for the girls who proceeded to shuffle their boots through the mucky wet stuff for over an hour as we took in this town that, for all it's quaint buildings and churches, seemed to pale in comparison to our lovely St. Gilgen.  Around this time, we discovered that Audrey and Bailey's winter boots weren't nearly as water-proof as we had imagined and that their poor little toes were soaked and freezing from all that slush-sloshing.  So, we booked it to a cozy restaurant on the lake where the girls got to eat schnitzel and drink strawberry juice...there was even time for dessert while we let their shoes and socks finish drying by the radiator.  

Sometimes it's the happy accidents that are the best. 

Our last day in town we encountered yet another one of these accidents--we took off on a hike around the lake with an unspecified end in mind.  It was absolutely gorgeous trekking around the lakeside, peeking at little hamlets along the way.  Before we knew it, though, we realized we were so far from St. Gilgen that our two strong little hikers probably wouldn't be able make it back on their own.  We were considering where we might be able to take a long break or whether we would have to carry them back on the three miles we had already walked when we realized we were coming up on one of the lake's ferry stops.  It was also about that time that the ferry came into view, beat us to the stop and took off minutes before we arrived.  Oh, it could have been disastrous.  But, imagine our relief to find a cozy Gasthaus situated down the lane from that ferry stop.  The time between boats meant we had just enough time to stop for some lunch and rest our feet before hitching a ride back to St. Gilgen.

But that wasn't the only happy surprise; this Gasthaus served the best food we had eaten all weekend.  John had some incredible lamb, my chicken tasted better than any chicken I've eaten before...and the girls had schnitzel for the thrity-sixth time on the trip. (at least this time it was served with a little plastic sea plane to keep them amused as we lingered at the table) We ended up catching the next ferry which took us back to St. Gilgen on a ride that lasted a mere seven minutes...we spent all of them outside on the deck of the boat, wind whipping our hair while the girls screamed and bounced from one railing to the other like a pair of pin balls.  In hindsight, that ferry ride was probably the best money we spent on the trip.  

Once we were back in our little town, we stopped at Cafe Nanerl (named after Mozart's sister, who lived in St. Gilgen briefly) where we ate cake and sipped coffee before heading back to our cozy apartment.  Overall, it was a really enjoyable trip; an excellent change of scenery from our big snowy concrete jungle; a fantastic escape to focus on each other and do nothing but enjoy the days together.    

An Austrian Easter

If any holiday has surprised me this past year, it has been in discovering how Austrians celebrate Easter differently from us Yanks.  Perhaps the bulk of the surprise lies in my assumption that, as a Catholic country, things would roll along much the same as they do in the US...which, as far as essentials go, is true: Fat Tuesday (aka Carnival) Ash Wednesday, Palm Sunday, Good Friday, Easter Sunday "He is risen! Hallelujah! Amen!"

Same thing, right?

Wrong.

There is so. Much. More.

I won't even bring up how Americans don't celebrate Carnival with donuts...why, I have no idea...but I digress. 

So, here in Austria they certainly celebrate Lent: A holy season, focused on fasting and prayer...but if that gets too depressing, feel free to pop over to one of the Easter markets to lift your spirits.  While you're there, pick up an Osterpinze--a holy trinity roll--sweet bread shaped like a clover that tastes like the delectable crust from a danish pastry.  (but, remember you're fasting).  While you're nasching, peruse the stalls and try to pick just one (or six) out of the millions of hand painted eggs hanging from boughs and displayed in cartons--stacks upon stacks of intricately decorated orbs.  Note that most of the other vendors have just re-vamped their wares from the Christmas markets (Easter Bunny Lebkuchen!) and go back to gawking at those eggs.    

Before you go, remember to grab a glass of white wine in celebration of the coming Spring...and don't forget to pick up a bunch of palms...which are actually pussy willows, but any Austrian you ask will insist they are palms.  If you're Catholic, make sure you bring them to church on Palm (pussy willow?) Sunday and dip them in the holy water. Bring 'em home, stuff them in a vase and call them a tree.  Now, hang some eggs on it.  It's like Christmas!  Isn't fasting and praying fun!?

From what I gather, Last year's palms were recently thrown in the fire (in celebration of Ash Wednesday) after hanging all year on the family home's cross...for good luck.

But, in all seriousness, as far as actual Easter celebrations go, people here still celebrate in much the same way: Lambs, bunnies and chicks abound.  People head to church to observe many of the same customs any Christian in the States would (if not more so) and there are Easter eggs--just not in the way we know them.

There are no plastic eggs full of candy here, no crazy color dying kits complete with egg tattoos and stencils.  People here do not decorate eggs; they buy them...either carefully selected from the aforementioned markets or pre-colored in the grocery store.  And this is what probably weirded me out the most--even more than the palm/pussy willow conundrum.  The Easter eggs that children search out in their hunts are real...which might not seem so odd since plenty of people in the States hard-boil and decorate their own.  But, a month before Easter, hard-boiled, spray-painted eggs started coming out of the wood work...and none of them were refrigerated.  They were all just out there at room temperature in their  plastic cartons, shellacked and gleaming in the fluorescent light.  Any time we went to the bakery, the delighted worker behind the counter would hand two of these eggs to the girls like they had just been gifted golden treasure.  Mostly, the girls looked at them askance and made me put them in my purse...which resulted in several occasions of discovering hard boiled eggs lingering in the bottom of my bag.

Disturbing.

...or Normal...depending on your nationality.

I might be able to chalk up all this stand-offish cynicism to culture shock, but Easter really was a hilariously weird time for me to be in Austria.  And please note, this post is not even remotely based in researched fact.  It's all just casual observation from a person in the throes of Seasonal Affective Disorder, who happened to pry some information from her Austrian friend's grandmother.   I will note, though, that I much prefer my skewed reality.  I like my Austrians a little wacky and enslaved to crazy tradition.

My Day in Hippie Heaven

I’ve mentioned before the less-than-hospitable attitude of the Viennese…which is really something inherent in living in a big city, but it certainly proves true more often than not.  The Viennese, on the whole, are quick to judge and quicker to let you know about it.  So, I've been shocked to my toes that I've met a native Austrian whom I consider a friend.  Not only is she a fantastically fun person who is busting my Viennese prejudice, but she has also successfully made my year; she asked her grandmother where one could find produce sourced from ‘local’ farms…and took me to a market that nearly brought me to tears of joy. 

I suppose it's important to understand that before we moved to Vienna, I was sourcing nearly all of the ingredients for our meals from local farmers…and as anyone who lives this way can tell you, fresh local food measures beyond any other physical treasure man can find. Or maybe this is just me...yeah...Anyway, I assumed before we came here that Europeans would be more forward-thinking than the big-agriculture cult that is so difficult to avoid in the US. But what I found here was a great deal of widely available organic food that is expensive, mass produced and poor in quality.  It was frustrating, but I figured it was my only option. 

Enter: the delightful tight-kept secret of the market off of the Viktor-Adler Market, as related by my friend’s grandmother. 

So it was that on one gorgeously sunny morning, two friends and I discovered this treasure.  I nearly cried as we perused the stalls of beautiful green things that had been freshly pulled from the ground. The stalls crowded the little lane and overflowed with gorgeous produce and eggs.  The sellers, shouting out across the crowd: “Spinat!! Frische Spinat!!”, letting you know without a doubt what they had for sale.  We made our rounds and I weighed down my arms with as much produce as I dared carry home.  In the end, I spent nothing but coins…I never pulled out a paper bill to pay for the produce that would’ve ended up costing at least Fifty Euros at the Naschmarkt. 

Heaven.  Absolute dirt-worshiping-hippie heaven. 

We took the kids to the playground and even peeled off our coats at one point to soak up the sun…After a long, cold, bland-tasting winter, this day stands out as an indisputable Godsend.  My body craves sunlight, fresh food and direct contact with the dirt like an addict.  Eventually the day had to end.  We had to carry that joyful burden home, the girls covered in sand and dirt, with fresh scrapes and bruises to prove the greatness of the day.   

As soon as my bags hit the kitchen counter, I sautéed an entire skillet of fresh tomatoes, mushrooms and veritable heaps of spinach...and devoured it on the spot. This, my friends, is better than all the fine wine, the ornate palaces or grand balls in the world. Hippie heaven.    

St. Patrick's Day

Ever heard the phrase: “On St. Patrick’s Day, everyone is Irish.”?  Well, I’m sure it’s hardly surprising, but that’s not true in Vienna.

At. All. 

Case in point: While you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a head of cabbage in Vienna, the only corned beef here (pronounced “corn-ed”, by the way) is found in cans.

C-A-N-S.

This could not possibly be any further from the grass-fed corned beef brisket that we cooked to perfection and celebrated with last Saint Patty’s Day (which had been both raised and brined by the same man who handed me the package of meat.)

So, that was a little disorienting, but I don’t really know what I expected…living in Austria and all.

Our geographic location certainly didn't prevent us from celebrating, though. We started the weekend out right at a St. Patrick’s Day party at the VIC where the girls and I got to catch up with a lot of people we don’t get to see too often.  There was amazing beef stew and Irish soda bread, Guinness and green beer and even green jello shots.  The girls were predictably shy, and just like any other time we try to get the girls to eat “dinner” at a party, they wound up eating goldfish and cupcakes. This time, though, there was a lot of hysterical dancing to a band that lead off with their most Irish tune: Me & Bobby McGee.  There might not have been any bagpipes, but we did dance until the girls started drooping.   

Although the party the night before was attended mostly by Ex-pat’s, (there's a St. Patrick's day joke in there somewhere) we did get to party a little this weekend with the Irish too. There is a small population of Irish folk living in Vienna and we merrily joined in their festivities, beginning with a parade downtown Saturday afternoon.  I use the word “parade” loosely because, really, it was a crowd of people walking their Irish Setters and Irish Wolfhounds following a band and a fantastic troop of bagpipers four blocks down the street.  

Unlike the Viennese, however, what the Irish lacked in grandeur, they more than made up for in enthusiasm. We caught a spot next to the pack of wolfhounds as the parade ended and danced around while the band and bagpipes performed back and forth.  A tent at the end of the parade route offered Guinness and Kilkenny and a healthy dose of merriment, if no corned beef and cabbage (which I’m now suspecting is how Americans pretending to be Irish celebrate St. Patrick’s Day).  

On Sunday Audrey helped me deck out the dining room in everything green and we even dyed the pancakes (my crunchy self is cringing at how much food coloring we've ingested this weekend).  It turns out that the girls don't actually own green clothing (outside of a most-excellent Seahawks hoodie that was too cold to leave the house in) Even at the risk of being pinched, we went back to the St. Patrick's Day tent for a second round of cheer and enjoyed a pint in front of the Rathaus.  Even though the rest of the city, outside of those parade-goers, seemed blissfully ignorant of the holiday, we at least enjoyed ourselves…not to mention, we realized that we now want an Irish Wolfhound.   

Erin Go Bragh!

With Papa

Without a doubt one of the greatest things about being a parent is having the opportunity every day to see the world through the eyes of a child.  In our case, through the eyes of two beautiful, intelligent girls who also like to party.  Nary a day goes by without some favored animal’s birthday being announced and, subsequently, the most fabulous extravaganza that can be managed with felt fruit and vegetables ensues.

So, you can imagine the rapture the girls felt when John’s birthday came around.  The man himself had been making ludicrous birthday-related demands for weeks, but when it comes down to it, John doesn’t really like to embrace the coming change  and often would rather casually breeze through his birthday with little ceremony.  I’ve indulged him some years in the past, but now that Audrey is older and perfectly capable of demanding we buy party supplies…well…it goes without saying that we found ourselves browsing isles of streamers and party horns.

The day before John’s birthday felt nearly as festive as the day-of as the girls and I happily prepared by blowing up balloons and hiding all our party supplies around the house, baking miniature pineapple upside down cakes and, best of all: writing, illustrating and haphazardly binding a book for the one and only Papa.  The book, titled: With Papa is a fantastic tale of the many scrapes good King Papa finds himself in and the heroic efforts of the princesses Audrey, Baily and Mama to save him.  There may or may not also be cats, crocodiles, tigers, dogs and hippos involved in the gripping tale.  Spoiler alert: Princess Audrey gets the bad guy, but does not manage to completely overshadow the brave, boot-wearing, sword-wielding Princess Bailey. 

…So you can see why we were in a good mood.

When I put the girls to bed the night before John’s birthday…with balloons hidden in their closet and a festively wrapped present hidden in the nightstand…Audrey whispered up to me from under the mound of blankets she insists on having: “Mama, when I wake up in the morning I’m going to be so excited!”

…A sentence which I promptly tucked into my heart and repeated to her father, who, subsequently, decided that he had a lot to celebrate on his birthday after all. When two terribly cute, curly-haired girls find no greater happiness in the world other than being thankful for you…well, that is where any reasonable person drops all pretense of loathing their birthday and learns to embrace the magic of having one day a year meant to celebrate nothing but their own existence.

Even though John had to work, we still had a heck of a good day, starting out with biscuits and gravy, moving on to burgers and bbq wings at one of our favorite pubs in between, and ending with cake and ice cream.  It was a day that from Audrey and Bailey’s perspective could only be described as manically festive; our celebration was fueled entirely by those pint-sized party girls.  And as predicted, all other gifts were overshadowed by the girls’ book (which they gave to him after literally showering him with balloons). 

Birthdays can be tricky things—one day a year that has the ability to completely alter our perspective on life…all by changing a number assigned to our existence.  But, I’m glad to know for his part, John’s day was one of happy gratitude and celebration.  We are certainly thankful for the past year we’ve spent together and look forward, joyously, to the next. 

Simply Different...and Happy

The last several weeks feel a bit lost, to be honest.  Not in the sense that we've wasted time or spent it unwisely, but in more of a haze from the everyday joy that is us...together. We were all sick.  It snowed. A lot. We made s'mores on the gas range and dragon forts in the park. The snow melted.  We played in the mud.  The sun came out.  We played in the dirt. We made chocolate chip cookies to celebrate their lovely alliteration. We watched the ice skaters at the Rathaus. We got sick again...and now we are all well.

For instant adventure, just add a backpack.

These past weeks have been filled with the redundant tasks and activities that make up most people's lives...but somehow we've managed to never let them feel weighty or monotonous. We sprinkle in a few lovely surprises every day and it becomes a life full to overflowing.  My children are still cheeky and, on occasion, disobedient.  I feel frustration and impatience every day.  I lose my temper and have to apologize more frequently than I'd like.  We are not living in a bubble--we are living in this world. But we are happy.  And I find, more and more, that this sets us apart.

If I've learned nothing else this past year, it is that we are different; we are not American and certainly not Austrian.  We do not adhere to any label we can think of...and so we are simply happy. Or, as Audrey and John would tell you:  "Yeah, we're a little bit happy."  Those two will admit to nothing. 

This weekend was spent taking each day as it came, mapping out laid-back plans over pancakes, all of which became subject to change if a most excellent playground had been spotted. We found joy in discovering a part of the city that we hadn't yet traversed.  We felt like kings, eating schnitzel and cakes served by waiters in bow ties...all because we had the immense pleasure of doing it together.


We are living in Vienna and yet finding ourselves set aside from it.  This is where we want to be--where we are happy.  Where the pressures and the stresses and silly expectations of the world are held on the shoulders of one far mightier than us.  Where our real challenge lies in how to love each other and our neighbor as much as we love ourselves.

Friends, lately there has really been nothing new in our lives. We will not regale you with tales of Viennese balls or trips to exotic locations...but we still wake up in anticipation of a blessed and thrilling day every morning.  Here we are holding on to each other in our inelegantly carved-out niche of happiness, knowing the joy of a simply different life.