A Night At The Theatre

We went to the Theatre Royal in Bath Tuesday night, to see Hello Dolly, as a belated birthday treat for me. It’s a beautiful little theatre, and the production was pretty good. Afterwards we ate fish and chips with our fingers in the car (mmm, grease, vinegar, and salt), and had a late drive home.

It’s all country lanes from Bath to our house, and my dad drives pretty fast. I like being driven at night by him –seeing trees looking dark and ghostly, and place and street signs illuminated as we swing round corners – Stanton Drew, Chew Magna, Chelvey Batch, Mud on Road (oh wait), Brockley Combe. Brockley Combe is haunted by a highwayman, but he wasn’t riding tonight. We rolled down our windows so we could smell the wild garlic that’s growing everywhere. It was a mild, damp, and slightly misty night, and all the smells were heightened – lilac and woodsmoke and green things.

There’s no place like home sweet home

I grew up in what I now realise was a very picturesque part of the world. When we used to go on family trips, my mother would encourage me to look out of the window and stop reading. “Look at the lovely view!”

I had no interest in lovely views at that time in my life, and just wanted to be left to read my Enid Blyton book and make myself carsick. “meh, another green field,” was my thought.

However, after living in Utah, I have a lot more appreciation for England’s scenery- my drive home from the airport passes woods, rolling farmland, stone cottages, red pillar boxes, people in wax jackets walking their border collies, ladies in skirts on bicycles, ponies being ridden down the street, and a cricket match if you arrive on a Saturday afternoon. It’s very pastoral and lovely, and I take a deep breath, enjoy the bluebells and luxuriate in the knowledge that, for the next little while, no-one is going to ask me where I’m from as soon as I open my mouth.

I’m not saying that I grew up in an episode of “All Creatures Great and Small.” (That was set in Yorkshire, not Somerset). Besides the cows, vicars, and village halls, we had glue-sniffers, a pot-smoking school bus driver (yes, on the way home from school) and people complaining to the Yatton Mercury about how the Guy Fawkes fireworks frightened their budgie, the council needs to put a stop to teenagers and their loud music, the country is going to the dogs, and everything was much better during the War.

But it’s beautiful. And coming home with no jet lag was joyous, as was dinner in a nice local pub with rhubarb crumble and custard for pudding.

Get Thee to a Nunnery

Trains, trains, and automobiles




View from the convent








Our suite










Cloisters. I love cloisters.










St. George frescoes









Ladies of the convent at the fountain with 99 spouts




After taking various trains and buses from Rome, I had a very picturesque drive through several increasingly small hill villages. Then the bus driver dropped me on the side of a road between open fields, and pointed up the hill. That’s where the convent is.

I hauled my suitcase up the longest hill in the world, and “hello’d” a bit until I found some people inside. Lunch was happily ready, so took my case up to the bunk-bedded room, and went straight down to meet the participants in this week’s instalment.

There’s an older Italian man, Nanni, MariaAngela (also Italian), her boyfriend/husband Andrea (French), and their three-month old baby, Nina. They and two dogs are the permanent residents. There are Andrea’s aunt and mother, who are just here for a long weekend. There’s a Korean girl, Chin Hee (sp) who is 10 years younger than I, and lost no time in pointing that out. Cheers.

Lunch was lovely; pasta with rabbit ragout, potato salad, cheese, crusty peasant bread, and red wine for everyone but me and the baby. All served in brown pottery bowls.

The convent’s beautiful. It’s set on a hill between snowy mountains, and you trip over Roman remains every time you step outside (not the least of which include a Bacchalian temple). There are frescoes, cloisters, long corridors that glow from the wall sconces in the evenings. We eat in the refectory on long wooden tables, and the only heating comes from a stove in the tiny, cosy, TV room.

I unpacked, went for a walk around the hill, and sat in a meadow for a while. After Rome, the peace is wonderful. I wonder if I’ll be stir crazy after a week.

***

I was a scullery maid today. It was my turn to help inside the house, so I was in the kitchen at 7, setting the table for breakfast, and washing dishes. I feel like I’ve been washing dishes ALL DAY, in-between mopping and sweeping. However, there are moments that make it special. Opening a door looking for a staircase to sweep, and finding the 400 year old church, complete with carved altarpiece and frescoes; seeing the dawn sunshine on the mountains; having the mostly silent Nanni push pits of cheese and yummy fried vegetable snacks at me to try while chopping vegetables for tonight’s minestrone.

***

Our cast has expanded. We have two French girls, Daphne and Sophie, an Englishman, John (the oldest, at about 60), another Korean (Jun), two Finns, (Johanni and Johanna - but they’re not twins, they don’t even know each other). Johanna is five months pregnant, closer to my age, and I think we’ll be convent friends. Apparently there are to be two Mexicans in addition– I’m not sure if the Noah’s ark pairing of nationalities was intentional, but I’m once again glad that English is the world’s common language.

***

Today I am farm girl. Well, I started out as farm girl, and ended up as engraver. I t was my turn to feed the animals, so I got up early to make some chickens and sheep very happy (I don’t love goats, so don’t care if they’re happy or not). Then we breakfasted (and joy, it was no longer my turn to wash dishes), and went out to pull weeds. After a couple of hours of that, I was about ready to go back to the dishes, so I was quite happy to switch with Daphne and spend the rest of the day using a hot iron to burn a map into wood for a big trail sign. D. was getting very bored. I have a feeling D. is going to get bored a lot here.

***

Our Mexicans have arrived. We were outside in our rather sedate group, and we saw Andrea meeting someone at the gate, who grabbed him and kissed him on both cheeks. “She must already know him,” said Johanna. “Or she’s just very friendly,” said I.

Nadia is very friendly. I think she’ll bring some life to our group. Alejandro too, who arrived during dinner, and who I think may be potential crush material for the French girls.

***

Unexpectedly fabulous dish of the day.

Peas cooked for an hour in garlic (I usually hate mushy peas), then drained, and served with some eggs broken on top to sort of poach. Seriously, it’s delicious. I’ll try it at home, but fear that there is a little Italian convent magic that goes into it that I will not be able to recreate. Nanni crushes garlic cloves with one blow of the side of his hand, by the way. I love garlic, but I fear that I will be smelling of it for years to come. It’s getting into my bones.

Exchange of the day.

Nadia: Oh, I need a cigarette. I am so glad Andrea has a lighter, I need a cigarette so bad [lighting up and turning to me]. Now what do you do for a living?
Me: I help people stop smoking.
Nadia: High five!

Nightlife in Goriano Valli

The convent is just outside the little village (120 people, including just one baby boy (we all hope Nina and he like each other)) of Goriano Valli. There is one shop; a pizzeria/bar (which incidentally sells Hall’s cough sweets, polenta, a really cute bunny-shaped Easter cake, Ghanaian chocolate, postcards, but sadly no toothpaste, and I am almost out). The women of the village go there in the afternoons. The men go in the evenings. Pizza is only on Saturday nights, and I’m pretty sure they don’t deliver – in fact we put our Saturday night order in yesterday (Wednesday) as we ran into Luca, the owner, who kindly opened up for us so I could feed my chocolate addiction. So Saturday night we are hitting the town, and I really hope the pizza doesn’t come in a box with DiGiorno written on it.

***

I am an old, old lady. Seriously – it’s 9 p.m. and I’m walking around in pjs (actually workout clothes because my clothes are drying out by the donkeys), with white socks and orange clogs, getting ready for bed. Very attractive. Johanna just laughed at me. (To add to the sex appeal, I haven’t showered since yesterday, because we all keep missing the hot water hours -there’s hot water twice a day, and after a stone-cold shower the first morning, I decided hygiene was overrated). J’s going to bed too, but has more of an excuse. However, I am quite happy to be going to bed at the same time as the pregnant girl and the shy (we think homesick) Korean girl. However, I don’t have that “but if I go to bed now I will miss out on the fun” feeling of my youth – at least, only a twinge. Mostly I’m happy to be getting into my warm sleeping bag. The convent is a little frio at night. In addition, D. is in open warfare with A. over some bruschetta (long story involving shouting in French), and I keep thinking “I would have felt like that at her age,” and being glad I’m not that age any longer. Yes, I am old, and it’s rather pleasant.

We’ve settled into a routine. Early morning breakfast, work (J. and I fortunately get paired off a lot in the easy jobs –she being preggers and me either being company for her or looking frail or something). Lunch at one, where we gorge like starving animals, finish work at 4, after which J and I usually walk to the village, I yoga, we watch a bad Italian game show, dine, wash up, and go to bed while the kids watch movies in the boys’ room, John being too nice to kick them out. It’s concurrently relaxing and pleasantly tiring.


Bright Lights Big City

L’Aquila, here we are! Show us your gelato, your junk food, your markets, and your toothpaste! It’s Saturday and we all took the bus into the big city (which looked rather small on my arrival here earlier in the week). It all seems very crowded and bustling. We visited the castle, the basilica, and the Fountain of the 99 Spouts.

***

Happy moments.

Sunday afternoon.

After a long group hike on Sunday, taking a book, the Ensign, my blue shawl, and some chocolate into the cloisters, and spending an hour in the hammock chair listening to Johanni play guitar downstairs, and the bees humming. And the birds going nuts every so often.

The lichen forest.

Our hike took us through the woods in several places, and in one area, there was silver-green lichen everywhere – on the ground, in the trees like foliage; it gave the whole place a mystical, enchanted forest feel.

***

The chosen few

As we were waiting by the landrover this morning, Johanna said “we are the chosen ones.” As the day progressed, I started to agree more and more.
Last night there was more shouting in French across the dinner table. It had actually been a lovely peaceful Sunday, and then A. gave us our work assignments for the next day. John, Alejandro, Sophie, Johanna and I were to go with him and plant signs in the countryside. Everyone else was to weed, except CH and Daphne, who were to go back to etching. D. threw a French fit, and A. threw one right back at her.

Johanna’s theory is that A. simply picked the five people he liked best. We had a lovely day – a bit of path clearing, a picnic, some hiking around the endless castles and convents that dot the area (apparently the 99 Fountains represent the number of castles in the Abruzzo area), and we planted a few signs. The boys did the actual sign planting – our job was more or less to say “left a bit, right a bit”, so if you’re in Italy and see wonky path signs, I take full responsibility. We saw some absolutely stunning views, which I would share if I’d taken my camera with me. We climbed up to the Castello d’Ocre, which gave us a 360 view of the area, including a huge crater, which is believed to be the only meteorite site in Italy.

My Birthday.

After dinner, I was serenaded by Nadia singing Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven” accompanied by Johanni in a different key. Nadia has a nice voice, but a very strong Mexican accent. At the end, John said, “did you make up some of the words yourself?”
Nadia: “Que?”
Me, hastily “Oh no, I think that was all Clapton.”
John: Some of the words were in Spanish, weren’t they? Did you make them up?

Then we all sang “Let it be” (they’d sung Happy B’day to me over breakfast), and John gave me some chocolate from Luca’s bar, and the convent choir adjourned.

In farming news, we have three little Capri (capretti?) Three little goats from the same mother, born yesterday. I realise this isn’t, you know, Rodin and Palaces, but it’s still rather fun.

***

Oh dear, more shouting over dinner, this time in Italian. I’m sure this can’t be good for the digestion. Nanni put the pasta and salad on the table, and reminded us not to mix them in our bowls (the Italian way is to eat the hot stuff first, so it doesn’t get cold). Well, either not understanding, or not caring, several people mixed their carbonara and salad. Oh, the humanity. Nanni came back from the kitchen, and saw. He slammed down the plate he was carrying, and yelled “I said NOT to mix the pasta!!” Then went off about how hard it was to make food for people who don’t appreciate it. I am learning some very bad words in Italian.

Speaking of bad words, Nadia’s madre is grateful to me, for I have taught her a new word: damn. Nadia’s previous favourite word was also English, and started with the letter F. After hearing it for the 50th time before breakfst this morning, my ears were starting to bleed, so I gave her a milder alternative, telling her that little old ladies in Wales (where she’s planning another work camp) would not like hearing the other one all day long. She said this evening that she’s been trying hard to use it all day, and she told her mother, who is very, very happy.

Nadia has also stopped smoking. Chiefly because she’s out of cigarettes, I suspect, but she’s very pleased. We’ll see if it lasts, but I got to give a long spiel (sp?) about quitting smoking over dinner (they ASKED me!).

I miracoli di San Giorgio

St. George is patron saint of our convent, and of England, plus he has the additional advantage of being the most glamourous saint – I mean, he killed a dragon! Very dashing. All the other saints were always dying in horrific ways, or having their eyes poked out or something.

Happy St. George’s Day (England’s day, and Shakespeare’s bday) on April 23rd, by the way.

Well, there are frescoes of him all over the place, and as I said, our convent is named for him, so during the last few days, I developed a (probably very annoying) habit of attributing good things to St. George. As in, the fog cleared up as we went outside: “it’s a miracle of St. George!”
Other miracles:
We finished the weeding.
The toilet paper was still in the bathroom where I left it (don’t ask).
There were oranges as well as apples in the larder for our morning snack.
There were more cakes in our junk food stash than the manufacturers claimed.


The circle of life.

No, I haven’t been to see the Lion King – I’m still at the convent. But the “circle of life” was Andrea’s central theme when describing their philosophy.

The project to restore the convent began about 15 years ago – it was pretty much a ruin then (I’ll add pics when I’ve got a faster internet connection). Then Nanni got involved, and it’s now a fairly comfortable, well-maintained building with goats, sheep (one adorable lamb born yesterday!), chickens (including a cockerel that never shuts up) donkeys, and a house all ready for a cow to live in.

They have a fairly extensive garden, keep bees, make their own jam, tomato sauce, either eat their own meat or buy from local farmers, and plan to start producing their own meat and cheese. The goal, besides restoration of the convent, is to be almost completely self sustaining. We’ve finishing a greenhouse so they can lengthen their vegetable season. They also work on path clearinign and maintenance in the surrounding area, so encourage eco-friendly tourism.

I like their setup, and it’s exciting to hear about their plans to expand, including a shop in the tiny village, where they can sell their produce and other fair trade items.

N., M., and A. have basically dedicated their lives the project. I’m dedicating a week and a half, and I feel good about that. Ten days of mopping floors, gardening, and brush clearing is novelty and fun in my current office-based life. And the scenery helps. But I like my usual comfortable bed, dental care, laptop, shoes, and future potential ipod. I like being able to put on makeup and a dress, and aforesaid shoes, and got out to a nice restaurant or concert once in a while.

Being here is great. It lets me put aside all the inessential material things for a while. I’m glad there are people like A, M, and N, who are dedicated to creating and maintaining beauty, our environment, and our place in the circle of life. It’s easy to forget that there is a circle, and to see life as a big pyramid with us and our stuff on top. I want to be sort of inbetween. Can I be an oval of life? A bit more for me, a bit less for the cows. In return, I promise to keep buying organic milk, and not eating veal.
***
Goodbye to silence, and other monastic values

I just realised that I got my itinerary all wrong. Maria went to Salzburg AFTER leaving the convent, not before.

Last night being our last evening, Nanni became expansive over dinner. He talked about the cycle of the garden to the table, to the garden (through compost and animal scraps), about eating food in season, about the importance of a “chromatic presentation,” and how it helps with “the mouth watering and the digestive enzymes.” The convent is part of the slow food movement, emphasising the joy of food, and of savouring it, of using it to energise the body. He said now we have a little more knowledge, and we “have now the responsibility to share the joy of Italian eating.”
He said “why do I not talk like this before tonight? Because I see you, and you, and you [pointing to me, Johanna, and John] have some interest in food. Not YOU!” pointing at Johanni. “I do not bore the others with my words, who mix their pasta, and do not care. It is that after 15 years of cooking for volunteers, it is depressing, to see them eat like that.”

And you can see his point. Food is part of the experience of travel (I'm embarrassed to note that my three chief topics are a)food, b)not showering, and c) chocolate (more food)), and it’s fun to be immersed in it (the experience, not the food), and to eat three meals a day Italian style rather than have a night in an Italian restaurant.

After dinner, Nanni brought out the grappa and glasses, (“it’s the last night, it’s ok to get drunk”), and Johanna and I left the boys to uphold the volunteer drinking honour.

Roman Holiday (couldn't resist)

La Fontana del Trevi










Priests eating gelato by fountain, just like real people










Cioccolato Caldo










The Spanish Steps









Though not emailing, I was still diarying, so there will follow a slightly overwhelming volume of posts before I get back into "real time"....

Monday, April 10thish

Someone actually said “ciao, bella,” to me today. Now I know I’m in Rome. I was paying for a croissant, and the cashier and I fumbled the coin between us and dropped it. An old man started giving him a smiling lecture in very fast Italian. I didn’t understand too much, but it seemed to be along the lines of “that’s not how you treat a beautiful lady,” after which he waved me goodbye with “ciao, bella.” Rome is a good place to be a woman today. Everyone is a beautiful lady here.

I’m actually feeling anything but bella today. I took the night train from Vienna to Rome, and I can’t check into my hostel until three. So I’m unshowered, tired, wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and lugging around my carry-on backpack with laptop, which has reached the “there HAS to be lead in here somewhere,” stage. I’m looking forward to the convent tomorrow, where I'll be able to leave my old work clothes and sleeping bag and be a little more light and compact.

By a lucky chance, I picked up a Times in Heathrow, and it mentioned a European Art Exhibition that’s being held at the Quirinale Palace here in Rome. It’s celebrating 50 years of the EU, and all the countries have submitted one piece of art that they feel best represented their country. The UK sent a beautiful Turner (word has it the Queen insisted on Turner), the Dutch sent a Mondrian (which is almost scandalous, as everyone was expecting Vermeer or something), the Italians a Titian, and the French Rodin’s Thinker. All in one glorious room.

Now I’m sitting writing this at the Spanish steps, enjoying the scent of some pink flower, watching priests eat gelato as the world passes. It’s nice having been to Rome before – I don’t feel obligated to go and look at the Coliseum if I don’t feel like it. And right now I don’t feel like it.

I need pizza.

You should all put down what you’re doing and come here immediately.

Seriously, if you’ve never been to Salzburg, what are you waiting for? This place is SO pretty. It “exhausts superlatives,” as Stephen Fry said of Wodehouse. It’s a complete change of pace from Vienna; there are things to do here, like concerts and museums, but I don’t think that doing things is the point. It’s more about looking.
Saturday was another beautiful day, and we went up to the Festung/Fortress to take a look over the city. The festung is surprisingly (to me) military oriented. I mean, I get the concept of a fortress, but all castles are fortresses, and most of the modern day tours and museums seem to focus on the décor, and where they did the cooking, with the odd boiling oil story thrown in to please the kids. But this one was all about the swords, guns, battle pictures, and military uniforms (isn’t a swastika on a uniform the ultimate in sinister). Considering that they only had one assault in about 900 years, and that was from revolting peasants (yawn), one feels that they might be slightly overreacting. But yes, I’ve heard of WW’s I and II and I suppose those might have influenced things.

The medals etc didn’t really fascinate me, but the view from the top was eye-popping. Salzburg and its environs are surprisingly unspoiled (less surprising when you hear about all the rules now in place to protect the area and restrict building), and everywhere you look, the view is gorgeous. A river here, a Schloss (one of my all-time favourite words) there, an abbey with an onion dome over yonder. Usually, you look over a city and try to ignore the one side with all the blocks of flats and power plants, but there really wasn’t a side like that here.

On Easter Sunday we went to Mass at the Franzhof Kirche, which was lovely (Handel and Mozart), and then went for a drive into Bavaria. The plan was to visit the Eagle’s Nest, but my luck with the weather ran out for a while, and all I got was a look at some picturesque pine trees through the fog, and a picture of the Hotel Bavaria to prove I’d been there. We also stopped at a very friendly gasthaus, where everyone said “Gruss gott” when we walked in. (I really like this Tyrolean greeting – means “God’s greeting.”)

Then we took the Sound of Music tour, which was delightful. It was fun to see the gazebo (though they keep it locked, sadly, so no dancing on the benches for me), and the church, and the lake, and all the other places, and to sing along with the music they played from the movie. I think what I enjoyed most, though, was the scenery. Think Park City, but more authentic, and sort of on crack. The colours are so intense, the mountains are so pointy and high, and the houses are so...Tyrolean. We took a boat trip on the Mondsee (Moon lake, with a legend attached to the name), and they fed us apfelstrudel.

Then spaetzle and these really yummy cheese dumplings (flaumige topfenknodle) for dessert at a gasthaus.

News in Brief: Vienna in a Minute

News in Chocolate

Even the muesli has chocolate in it. Little bits of chocolate sheets like the ones my Swiss flatmate taught me to put bvetween slices of breat. Serving Suggestion: eat it with hot milk. Breakfasts are lovely, by the way. Besides muesli, there are crusty rolls with butter and cherry jam or liver pate.

News in Linguistics

Do you ever find yourself speaking in broken English after youàve been aroudn nonn-native speakers for a few days? I do yes little bit.

News in Palaces.

There are a LOT. And they are HUGE! Not just the buildings, they have these MASSIVE courtyards. You'd think the emperors were trying to make a statement or something. I suppose British palaces are big too, but they tend to focus on the gardens more and the big gravel expanses less. Interestingly, the emperor's personal roooms tend to be the most simple of the state rooms, unlike the empresses'. It gives you the impression of them being spoilt trophy wives, like Heather Mills or Malena Trump.

News in Trains

Working on a laptop on a train from Vienna to Salzburg was the most pleasant 'office' time of my life.

News in Architecture

The roofs are slightly bigger here. Itàs one of those 10% differences that let you know you're in another country. And some of their churches have red ones (roofs). It makes them look ever-so-slightly Lego-ish. In a good way.

News in bovines.

They have pink spotted cows here. No, I'm just messing with you. But you'd have believed KaRyn if she'd said that about Korea.

I'm posting lots now because I'm going deep cover next week

The convent where I'll be staying doesn't have internet access - Mags suggested that it's the modern-day equivalent of a vow of silence. So enjoy these pictures for now.


An antiquities room all to myself at the Kunthistorische early this morning. Slightly eerie.





Morning sunshine on St. Stephen's







A man painting a Vermeer painting of a man painting an allegory. I think my world just rocked.











A ballroom at the Schonbrunne palace, just before a security guard rushed over and said "nein, nein. Keine fotografia!" or something like that. I wasn't using a flash! And there weren't any signs...oh, you mean THAT sign.








This was Sachertorte. I forgot to take a picture earlier, but it was very pretty. M, I also had a Linzerschnitte for lunch. I'm working on my pastry quota.

Eine Kleine Wiener Musik

I’m sure musicians in Vienna get heartily sick of playing Strauss waltzes and bits of Mozart. I’m not a huge Strauss fan myself, and the first movement of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik has set my teeth on edge since we spent far too long studying it in school. However, when you hear it in a setting that is probably close to what Mozart had in mind in his composing days, it all becomes rather lovely.

I went to the Kursalon last night, and the Mozart and Strauss were accompanied by some beautiful singing and ballet dancing, and the musicians LOOKED like they were enjoying it, however they might have felt.

The only jarring note was one of the singers’ outfits. It was brave to attempt to pair a white brocade skirt with a black chiffon and sequined top, but the effect was to make it appear that she’d planned all week to wear the skirt with the matching corset top, only to pull it out this evening and (horror!) find that she’d forgotten to take it to the cleaners last week after she wore it with skinny jeans to a party, and some idiot spilled red wine down the front. That meant that her only other option was the black top, and she’d been meaning to buy something to go with that for ages, but the shops were only selling acid green and pink, and you have to be SO careful pairing those with black, or you run the risk of looking like a cheap tart, so she went with the white skirt, because black and white’s classic, and Audrey Hepburn totally rocked it in My Fair Lady, so it must work, nicht wahr?

Er, nein. I’m happy to report that she changed it for a very respectable plum number in the second half. I can only assume her mum was frantically sewing up a large tear in it in the first.

Cattiness aside, the Kursalon was marvellous, and the chandeliers glittering enough to outshine any sartorial errors. It all felt very picture-book Viennese, and I’m very glad I went.





The Kursalon at twilight.

Communal Living

I thought I’d fill you in on my hostelling experience.

My hostel is actually great – very clean, and a good location – on a pretty quiet street, just off a main one, and near stations and metro stops. The bathrooms are spotless, we have lockers, and I’m in a room at the top of the building, in the top bunk. I haven’t slept in bunk beds for years.

Everyone seems very nice and respectful and quiet in my room. I’m wondering if they stuck all the oldest people together at the top, guessing htat we’d want peace and quiet. They were right. Everyone speaks in whispers the whole time.

There’s the uber-friendly Trish, who is Canadian, and knows where everyone is from, and what they do – even the security guard. I’m not sure how she knows he’s a security guard, because she doesn’t speak any other languages, and I’m not sure that he speaks English.

The security guard of unknown origin (Trish left before we asked her that part) is the standout as being less friendly and respectful, but maybe that’s related to the language barrier. Trish has since been replaced by an uber-friendly Estonian, so maybe she’ll find out.

There’s Lena, (it weirds me out every time I say her name), who speaks fluent Farsi, Spanish, and English, yet seems very impressed with my three words of German. We’ve been sightseeing together for the last few days. She’s vegetarian, and gives me oranges every day. She left this afternoon, and left me a lovely note and another orange. Let’s all give Lena a hand for preventing me from getting scurvy.






(This is Lena and me at the market.)






There’s Marios, who is Greek. He very nicely went over and told the security guard of unknown origin to turn off his mobile when it went off in the middle of the night and he just sat looking at it and not turning it off for like 30 seconds! At 4 in the morning! Despite me saying twice "will you please turn that OFF?" He also gently poked the security guard of unknown origin in the ribs when he kept snoring at glass shattering volume. Seriously, I started getting concerned about whether or not the building met appropriate seismic code. I’ve never heard snoring like it. Let’s all thank Marios for Lena getting any sleep at all last night.

A very nice Bulgarian couple, who were replaced with a very nice French couple, who I assume will be replaced by a very nice Belgian couple in a day or two.

Then there’s me, who people probably think of as the overly modest girl, as I’m the only one who goes to the bathroom every time I change my shirt. We all know I have a good reason for that, but I’m also doing my bit to reinforce our uptight British image. I also smell of oranges all the time.






Me working in the hostel. See how happy I look to be working? Marios took this; he likes taking pictures when he's not making security guards be quiet.

More Pics

At the Hostel












I kind of want one of these.













The Hofberg










The Spanish Riding School













Gold at the Hofberg.

Yes, I know I write a lot about chocolate

You have to love a city where they hand out Lindt chocolate on the street. If I’m a good girl, this is what I expect to see when I die. A big chocolate bunny waiting for me. Someone the other day said that she doesn’t expect to crave chocolate any more in heaven. I thought that was the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. I just expect not to die of heart disease and obesity.

But back to Europe.

Today was an indoors day. It was that typical northern European day, where it looks like it’s going to tip down with rain any second, so you carry an umbrella around all day until you realise that it’s going to stay dry, cold, and miserable. Except you can’t really be miserable looking at Klimts and dancing horses.

I’m sure that saying “good horsey!” to a Lipizzaner stallion is the equivalent of saying “nice kitty – here, nice kitty” to a tiger, but it was my spontaneous reaction to seeing one of them start dancing. The stallions (for those of you not familiar) were originally bred as warhorses, I believe, and the jumps and levades were to help them in battle. It’s amazing to see the strength, training, and control that goes into these manoeuvres – when one stood on its hind legs and JUMPED multiple times, it was all power, muscle, and “I’m a mighty stallion.” That’s when they look like warhorses. But when one pure white one started earnestly nodding his head, swishing his tail, and lifting his feet to the music, it was just adorable.

They practice and perform in the Spanische Hofreitschule (Spanish Riding School), which is pretty much ten times nicer than anywhere that I will ever live. It’s all chandeliers, carved stone balustrades, and moulded plaster ceilings. They dance to Strauss and Beethoven, and I’m fairly sure that these horses have more elegance and breeding than some members of the Royal Family.

Then, this afternoon, I visited the Hofberg Palace (gold, gold, gold! Silver! Gold!), and the Leopold museum, where they had an exhibit about Herman Hesse (who knew he could paint as well as write?), and which made me very glad that someone in book group recommended Narcissus and Goldmund last year, so that I’d actually read something by him.

Plus there was a fabulous reproduction of a now-destroyed Klimt (I really like the way he paints some of his women) about life and death and healing, that of course everyone HATED at the time and now we all realise is a masterpiece. That probably means I shouldn’t make fun of installations of rubbish bags and elephant dung. I probably won’t stop, however.

Oh, Vienna*

Thankfully, bits of my German are coming back to me, though I now wish that I’d paid more attention to my teacher and less attention to Sam Menter in German classes. I also wish we’d spent less time discussing how many brothers and sisters we had and what their names were. No-one has yet asked me how many brothers I have (Ich habe zwei bruder. Sie heisse Anthony und Michael), yet several people have asked me…well, I’m not sure what they were asking me, to be honest, but I wish I’d been able to answer them.

However, I actually managed to ask for directions and, even more impressive, understand the directions given. Admittedly, it was the second person I asked – the first was a very sweet old lady who grabbed my arm and launched into a stream of German, waving her arm around in every direction, and saying what sounded like “auf, auf, auf!” I said danke schon, and headed off in the direction her arm last pointed. It seems my accent is a bit off, too. At a café, I tipped the waitress, and she said “Danke…merci.” Apparently I at least sound continental.

Speaking of cafes, I am in hot chocolate heaven. Fantastic, rich, hot chocolate mit schlag (cream, but what a great word). I’ll be having one of those about twice a day, plus nightcaps and meals.

Vienna is beautiful. Today was a gorgeous day, so I skipped the museums, and walked around town till my feet fell off. Beautiful buildings in every direction, with lacy iron balconies, and parks with people playing football, walking their dogs, juggling, or watching everyone else. This is a GREAT people watching place.

The museumsquartier is stunning. You walk down the street and suddenly this big extravaganza of architecture opens up. Big domed buildings on either side, statues, gardens. There are palaces and museums everywhere, and I’m not going to get to a quarter of them. They also have horses and carriages all over the place, and instead of being exasperated at them blocking traffic and feeling sorry for the horses as I do in SL, I say to myself “oh how quaint and lovely” and take a picture, just like they intended.


* to quote Billy Joel