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.

From Carnival to the Carribean in one Week. Take that, February!

We've basically been doing nothing but celebrating this week.  For starters, I'm deeming us all healthy--or as healthy as a collective body of people with runny noses can be.  This alone could be reason to pop open some bubbly, but instead, Carnival popped up and surprised us for the first time this year.  I haven't given much thought to celebrating the last day before lent with excessive amounts of donuts and silly costumes before, but that is how the Austrians roll...at least that's how the under-five-year-old set rolls.  Audrey had a party at school which we were supposed to bring donuts to, so I headed out to the bakery at 6:30am like a good mother to pick up some fresh ones. You could've knocked me over with a feather as I walked through the door at our Felber; there were so many donuts (krapfen) in the case, they were literally flowing out of it.  I might have let out a giddy laugh before ordering our half dozen.  And let it be known, I was not the only one there at the crack of dawn for donuts.  These people know how to party.

From what I hear, Audrey's school party was a romping success, complete with dancing and a buffet of sugary treats  Her teachers said she was really getting into the dancing, and I believe it--she's been busting out some killer moves at our bedroom dance parties.  

Since big sister got to trot off to school in a fancy princess dress, Bailey would not be left out.  She spent the entire day in her Rapunzel gown and was actually in her element amidst the other fairy princesses and bumble bees at her music class.  I didn't want B to be entirely left out of the festivities, so I surprised the girls with some Carnival cakes and noise-makers when we got home for the day.  These mini-sacher tortes were topped with Carnival characters that absolutely cracked me up.  We got one scurvy pirate and what I can only guess is the impression Austrians have of a Mexican sheriff; it was so racist it couldn't possibly be anything but funny.   

The girls and I had a really fun time whiling away the afternoon, eating cakes, tooting party horns and making valentines...because this was just the beginning of the celebrating!

Audrey's school had a little mailbox set up in the entry way so kids could drop off Valentines.  To my understanding, they had been working on making some cards in class and although they don't send out class lists like we do in the States, they encouraged kids to bring Valentines for anyone they wanted to.

Now, I should probably explain that, while this is an actual acknowledged holiday here, it is not, by any means, the same commercial, guilt-ridden holiday that we experience in the US.  Think: less mandatory participation, more fleeting acknowledgement.  So, there are no stores rolling out isles of pre-made children's valentines as soon as the new year turns and there are also no pinterest-addicted mothers with perfect hand-made valentines to contend with.  We spent a few afternoons cutting hearts out of construction paper, sticking random stickers on them and writing messages to Audrey's classmates about her undying love for them.  It was actually pretty cute.

Meanwhile, my bitter old heart has come around to actually enjoying this holiday. I took some time the night before to decorate the dining room and even presented my lovies with a festive breakfast including apples with heart cut-out centers and heart-shaped bacon.  It feels a lot less cheesy and a lot more fun when you're doing it for children instead of a skeeved-out significant other.  So, we sent Audrey off to school with her stack of charmingly authentic Valentines, come to find out she was one of the only kids who made ANY Valentines...and, moreover, that her heart-felt sentiments of love combined with adorable dog and cat stickers had basically won over the entire class.  The kid was fairly BUSTING at the seams to tell me how her friends reacted to their Valentines.  She didn't even notice that she didn't get one from anyone else; she was just so excited to have been the one to bring everyone else joy.

That is what I want to be when I grow up.

This is now "standard picture-taking face" mode

We spent the rest of Valentine's Day hanging out at Papa's work and preparing a fantastic feast for dinner.  I made steak and shrimp (or "surf n' turf" as John repeatedly demanded I phrase it) with actual mashed potatoes. (this is kind of a big deal around here) John brought home a bottle of swanky Italian wine and we made a night of it.  This was one time we were grateful that our girls are generally happy to linger endlessly at the dinner table.  It was a fantastic evening.

I think I can safely say this has been my favorite Valentines Day ever.  It's not much of a stretch since it didn't involve rubbing my fingers raw, tying latex balloons for my parent's flower shop or denying the day's general existence in response to the aforementioned balloon-related emotional scarring. (at least they also let me eat ridiculous amounts of chocolate)

Anyway, come the 15th, I was not ready for February to swallow my festive spirit.  Generally, I hate February; I hate the endless cold, the bleak outlook for Spring, the seeming impossibility that the sun will ever return--so after a day or two of moping, I decided to fight back the only way I knew how: if I couldn't take a tropical vacation, then I'd be damned if I wasn't going to bring the tropics here.

Enter:  Pina Colada's, strawberry daquiri's, island-themed dinners and tropical fruits out the wazoo.  (thank you, Naschmarkt).  I even downloaded an entire album of steel guitar Hawaiian music.   The girls have even been coming home covered in sand; (I issued a temporary lift on the sand-pit embargo) and we've been spending a lot of time at the playground, listening to the birds and digging in the dirt. 

Same shirt, different day...same level of enthusiasm for sugary treats

To say things have been looking up since we decided to go into island-life mode would be an understatement.  We've been kind of busting at the seams, finding joy and contentment in the simple things--taking the time to enjoy nature, however frozen and stark she may seem.  I still hate February, but I'm willing to let this one slide...on a river of delicious rum beverages and dreams of sand between my toes.  

Cabin Fever

The girls and I have been actively trying NOT to leave the house for over a week now. We've officially fallen victim to a pretty nasty cold and it hit the littles hard. In reality, it has actually been nice to allow ourselves the luxury of letting each day ebb and flow at it's own pace with nothing other than the occasional trip to the grocery store pulling us out into the real world. Our days have been filled with quiet games of pretend, hours spent leafing through books and arranging puzzle pieces, snuggles upon snuggles upon sleepy, feverish snuggles. And John has been a rock star, beginning with his absolute refusal to fall in with our pathetic, sniffling lot. While I've been battling this bug with vitamin c and essential oils, he has utilized nothing but an unwavering stubborn will...and it seems to be working out so far. He has been our steady rock--our supply officer, bringing home everything a sick kiddo could want from the commissary.

All in all, even though I worry like any other Mama about breaking high fevers or making sure the babes are breathing peacefully as they sleep, it's not all bad. I enjoy the snuggly movie marathon days it merits. I love being with my kids...until they start to get better, that is. Then there is this indeterminate amount of time it will take them to transition from "living in the movie-filled style they're suddenly accustomed to" to "reality". 

So, our week was punctuated by kids who could somehow spend two hours at the dinner table without finishing half of their meal, a Bear who decided to cry for me from her bed fifteen times in one hour, only to demand that I leave her alone once I appeared...and another kid who, despite all her assurances that she had a very full tummy, vomited at an ungodly early hour because she chugged water on an empty stomach.

These are the days that find me trying to stop recalling memories I thought had been successfully repressed from our days living in parenting survival mode. They also bring me an extra measure of gratitude that this behavior is out of the norm for our girls--the knowledge that, God-willing, we'll be able to put our heads down and barrel through the transition back to "normal".
  
So, although I'm usually cool with remaining housebound and I had already run through the aforementioned silver linings to the situation, all it took was one more meal in which Audrey took the smallest bites known to man (or possibly any species--still waiting to hear back on that study) and Bailey managed to hold food in her mouth longer than it would naturally take someone's saliva to completely break down any substance...by this point I fairly sprinted out of the house for my coffee break. I remorselessly left John behind, repressing the urge to yell something juvenile like: "Later, SUCKAH!!", and heard him tell Bailey for the three-hundred-and-ninety-fourth time to chew the food in her mouth as I closed the door behind me.  I did a little jig and then the enormous bag of trash I was taking out ripped open on the stairs.

Kharma, you say? Well, she was being kind. You could've heard me whistling Dixie while I scooped coffee grounds off the steps with my bare hands. Best coffee break ever.  (get it?! get it?! *nudge* *nudge*)

Don't judge me. Bad puns are a well known side effect of being slowly driven crazy by demanding not-really-still-sick children.