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!
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