The Bell Tolls

Yesterday, as it darkened to evening, the bells of the cathedral were tolling the hour with slow and deep clangs. Walking over the cobblestone street, I passed a church and a statue of the crucifix with a sliver of blood flowing over Jesus' ribs. I pulled my coat tighter against the February wind and noticed one of the town pubs was already lit with candle lanterns. As I hurried through the market square, the massive, stone Rathhaus looming next to me, a flower peddler was trying to make one, last sale for the night. And I thought,

"When did I enter a Charles Dickens novel?."

I was suddenly walking along in the 1800's. I was dressed all wrong for it. But it was pretty fantastic.

Austrian Tribute

I was in Vienna last weekend. Austria. Ahh. It's like a hot cup of tea.

The city, and the people have a certain charm and lively color that make me enjoy being there. It was years ago when I flew into Vienna for the first time, far away from home, scared, gripping my Langenscheidt English to German dictionary. Little did I know, there is no classroom German in Austria. My dictionary was never going to help me. If it had, it would have had translations for dialect phrases like i a ned, des is a woahnsinn, oida voda heast, and brauch ma no wos.

Slowly, very slowly, those strange phrases and vowel twistings became familiar to me. Going back to Vienna after living in Germany for several months was like hearing a friendly song.

And here's a famous one from Rainhard Fendrich:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KMSa_xb2h5U

The Doors

Note: Anyone who may be looking for a post about the musicians should go elsewhere. I don't even know what they sing.

Since I set foot in Germany - and this goes for you, too, Austria - I have lost the ability to open doors properly. In the States, I find this daily activity requires no thinking. I walk into buildings quite easily. But here? Oh, you doors. How you aim to fool me.

When you walk into, let's say, a bank in the States, how do you open the door?

You pull.

This means when leaving the bank, you push. This is the way it is. My brain has been trained to open doors this way. And it's logical to me. Let's say, however, it's the other way around and there's a stampede inside your Chase or TCF or whatever financial institution you use. Before the first stampeder can pull the door open, the other stampeders have already flung him against it, trapping everyone inside. Not pretty. And I don't get it.

The thing that adds to my perplexity is that the doors aren't always opposite from ours. When you walk up to the entrance of a building, it's a guessing game. I can't rely on door consistency. Is it a pusher or a puller? Why do I even have to question this? But really, I have a 50-50 chance with every door, how hard can this be? No matter, they still manage to make a fool of me.

And then there is the unsettling locking issue. It's completely understandable that doors lock from the outside. When you come back, you take out your key and open the door. But here, doors lock from the inside. Now, think about that while picturing the door to the room your in slowly closing. I'm pretty sure that's in some horror movie somewhere and a creepy, little girl in a white dress whispers "The doors lock... from the inside."

If someone is not currently having office hours at work, the door gets locked. If you're visiting them, they have to get their key to let you out. WHAT IF THERE'S A FIRE?! I don't know about you, but my keys are not in a fire-ly accessible kind of place. They are swimming around in a purse pocket and if our office door is locked from the inside, my office mate and I have a better chance of survival by jumping out of our 6th story window before I find my key.

So first I'm the ignoramus who can't open the door. And then I'm the weirdo who doesn't want the door to close. I'm certainly not making good impressions for Americans with all this door tomfoolery.

January

Dear January blog,

I am in February now. I neglegted you and I'm sorry. Perhaps next year we can try again.

Warm regards,
Heidi