Huzzah

Well I just finished my German final. All done with Deutschkurs 101.
I'm going to Bratislava tomorrow afternoon for the opera. You know just few hours in another country and then back to Vienna. I freaking love Europe.
And I'm off to Barcelona on Monday. It is going to be so amazing.
Basically, my life is rockin.

Destruction upon Impact

If I die in Europe, it will not be because I was kidnapped and murdered. It will not be because I fell into the Uban track. It will not be because I slipped and hit my head. It will not be because I was shot by a sniper. It will not be because I was blown up in a terrorist attack. It will not be because I got in trouble with the Viennese mob. It will not be because I got lung cancer from the smoker. It will not be because a volcano exploded in Iceland. It will not be because there was a dangerous political riot. It will not be because I am an American and Europeans hate Americans. It will not be because I spent all my money and starved to death. It will not be because I am vulnerable to European diseases. It will be because I was hit by a car.
I only cross the street when the light is green. But sometimes the light changes when I am in the middle of the street. Cars don't like to wait and I am often running to get out of there way.
Sometimes I step off the curb when the light is green. It changes the moment I do so but I don't notice and I keep walking. It is basically like walking through four lanes of traffic. I can't tell you how many times Amelia has grabbed my backpack to keep me from walking into four lanes of traffic.
Some places don't have a nice light to tell me when to walk. So I go when it looks clear. But cars here drive like 200 mph around the city. And they appear and nearly hit me in a flash.
When I get off the bus I have to cross the street. But I can't see the other lane because of the bus. So I have to say a little prayer and hope it comes out okay. Last night there was a car that I couldn't see. It almost hit me.
I do hope I don't get hit by a car. Wish me luck.

Drinking in Dorfgastein

Then I realized that it had to be about being in the mountains this past weekend. So I wrote this one:

I am allergic to small towns. I sneeze hard, often spraying snot all over. The back of my throat starts itching in the place that I cannot scratch without gagging myself. My eyes start to burn, water, and turn red like a vampire’s. My doctor tells me that I am allergic to the nature that inevitably surrounds the small town, but I know better. I am sure it is the town itself that afflicts me. So when I heard I would be spending a weekend in Dorfgastein, Austria, I wasn’t very thrilled. It is a very small town and I knew my allergies would be kicking in. When I got there I started sneezing and soon realized that it was the smallest town I’d ever been in. It is so small in fact that the entire population of the town knew about our group before we got there. They knew that we were a group of twenty Americans, we were friends of Frau Weissgarber, and we were staying in the Pension Theresia.

After seeing the entire town in seven minutes, I still had a day of miserable allergy attacks ahead of me. Two tissue boxes and a bottle of Claritin later, the sun finally set and I was very happy when the group decided to go to a bar to get ice cream. Ice cream would surely make me feel better. The ice cream came out in an oversized wine glass with whipped cream, chocolate sauce and a stick that had silver confetti spurting out the top. I quickly swallowed enough calories for the next month. There was a free jukebox and a member of our group picked Sweet Home Alabama just to ensure everyone knew that Americans were in the bar.

After we had rocked out to a few songs, the bar tender came out carrying two circular trays with big circumferences. On the trays were small glasses filled with a reddish liquid. He placed a glass in front of each of us, smiled, and proclaimed something in German with his deep voice. We all stared at the glasses of alcohol like deer in the headlights. We are Mormons, alcohol virgins. Into my head flooded the voices of countless concerned adults with slightly furrowed brows that have said to me, “Don’t drink alcohol, don’t do drugs, and don’t have sex.” My Mormon Church leaders also throw in “don’t dress immodestly, don’t drink coffee, and don’t swear.” Until this point I had, with a few exceptions, adhered to those rules.

Those voices continued to run through my head as I picked up the glass and studied it. Upon a closer look I saw that the opaque drink was the color of my favorite nail polish, OPI St. Petersburgundy. I sniffed it. It smelled too much like cherry cough syrup. It should have smelled better than that. It is alcohol. It should have smelled like rebellion, not like the syrup my mother gives me when I don’t feel quite right. There was one ice cube floating on the top bumping against the right edge of the glass. The condensation on the outside of the glass got my hand wet so I held on a little tighter to keep from dropping it.

That was the first time such a forbidden fruit has been placed in front of me. I found that a little ironic. I was in the smallest town I had ever been in and yet that was the moment I had to choose if I would listen to the adults with furrowed brows or not. Above my head was a sign that says “Kein Alkohol unter 16. Wir achten darafu.” I laughed at the foolishness of the bartender. I wouldn’t be sixteen for a few weeks and yet he had just handed me a drink. I held the glass in my hand, unwilling to put it down or lift it up and drink. It stayed at the halfway point between my mouth and the table waiting for me to make my decision.

The Mountains, My Father, and Me

So for my writing class we had to write an essay about being in the mountains. Here's the first one I wrote:

I suppose you could say that I am from the mountains. As far back as my memory goes, I have lived in Sandy, Utah perhaps four minutes from the Wasatch Mountains. The architecture of the school I have gone to since I was three is triangular, made to mirror the mountains that overshadow it. I started driving last year, and on Sundays Lorin and I drive up Little Cottonwood Canyon. That is where I learned how to use different gears. The mountains are the way I tell which direction is which. The Wasatch Range is to the East, and the Oquirrh Range is to the West. Too many times I’ve been away from home and not known the directions because of the flat landscape I found myself in.

My family has a cabin high up in the Uintah Mountains. It is an eighty-five minute drive away from our house. It has been around for two hundred years and is Lorin’s favorite place in the world. At dinner when asked what he did that day, he often responds, “I drove up to the cabin and stayed for a few hours. Man is it beautiful up there.” I learned many things at the cabin. I learned to hike, fish, cook, do the dishes by hand, play in the mud, ride an ATV, crash an ATV, drive a car, hitch up a trailer, unload horses from a trailer, mend a fence, divert a stream, start a campfire, roast marshmallows perfectly, put out a fire, spray weeds, identify Indian Paintbrush and Sticky Geraniums, make mint tea from freshly picked mint leaves, look at the stars, spot a deer, but best of all, I learned to ride a horse.

Lorin loves horses. He has always had horses. He even has a few trophies from reigning. When I was just a toddler he would put me in front of him on the saddle and we would go for short rides down the drive way and back. I grew up a little bit and developed enough balance to sit on the horse all by myself. So we would go for longer rides, sometimes hours. He would ride in front, holding on to the lead rope attached to my horse. His grasp on the lead rope loosened over time and I started to ride the horse on my own, carefully following behind him. Then I got a new horse and started to become independent. I rode in front, and my younger horse started to outpace his. I rode on my own for the first time when I was twelve. I promised not to gallop and went on a ride down the road to the Tillitsons and back, maybe ten minutes. Lorin watched me out the kitchen window. Soon after, Lorin stopped riding because his knee went bad. I started saddling up by myself and going on longer rides in the mountains up to rockslides, springs, meadows, and overlooks leaving notes of whereabouts on the kitchen counter. It was a beautiful form of solitude, but I was mostly just excited to be grown up enough to go on my own. Now I miss Lorin when I ride. I think that makes me more grown up than being able to ride by myself.

I miss Lorin when I am in the mountains without him. I think the mountains belong to Lorin. He is a mountain man. Not the kind that wears coonskin caps, eats meat cooked over a campfire, and carries a riffle. The kind that drives a Lexus, collects minerals, owns his own companies, has a closet full of suits, leather shoes, and dress shirts with his initials embroidered on the front pocket, and is happiest in a pair of old jeans, cowboy boots, and a pair of buckskin gloves mending the fence.

Drinking in Dorfgastein

I spent this weekend in Dorfgastein, Austria. It is a tiny beautiful town situated in the Austria Alps. It is incredibly beautiful. The sun even came out and I wore a skirt. It was a perfect weekend.

On Thursday, it was a Catholic holiday. Which means the people of Dorfgastein drink. When we went out to dinner that night, there were some very drunk people sitting at the table across from us. They had an accordion and they sang and we clapped along with them. One particularly drunk man got on an unoccupied table and started dancing. The waitress flicked her hand at him and yelled something in German. He got off the table and she silently went over and straightened out the tablecloth. He then came over to sit by us. He didn’t speak English very well. But he liked us. Finally, he started feeling Krystal’s bicep at which point we decided it was time to go.

We went to a different pub to get ice cream. We were enjoying out ice cream when the guy in charge brought out two trays with small glasses filled with a red liquid on them. He placed one in front of each of us. We all just stared; no one knew what to do. It was alcohol; we are Mormons. It smelled like cough syrup. Finally Jenny, who speaks German better than any of us, walked up to him. She was telling him that we don’t drink alcohol. He responded, “You’re missing out on a lot in your life.” Then he told the rest of us, “It’s not very strong”. We just stared at it. No one was going to drink it. We sat for a little while, enthralled by the forbidden fruit that had just been placed in front of us. Several pictures were taken, a few videos, and then we left, the glasses full.

Salzburg

Salzburg was the most miserable day ever. It rained and rained and it was cold. I hate Salzburg.

We went on a tour. The tourguide was nice, and he knew a lot. But his accent was so thick. It was really hard to listen too. He liked to talk about how wrong The Sound of Music is. It was a little disheartining. And every time someone would yawn he would get angry and say "That is very rude." The tour lasted two and a half hours. It was all outside. I was so cold I wanted to die.

Then we went to a coffeehouse that has been around since 1705. It was beautiful. We had hot chocolate. The best hot chocolate of my life. It was so warm. It was the best part of my day.

Then we went up to "The fortress". It was a long hike, mostly stairs. My thighs were buring. I had to pay full price because I was a year too old for the child ticket. The fortress itself was a little disappointing. It was so damn cold and rainy that we couldn't even enjoy the views because we didn't want to be outside.

At this point, I (and everyone else) was completely soaked. I could feel puddles in my shoes and my legs were numb. I was wearing my awesome raincoat, so the top half of me was dry but still very cold. So I went to H&M and bought a sweatshirt and flipflops. That made everything much better.

Then we got on the train and went to Dorfgastein. It is beautiful. Google image it. We stayed in a lovely bed and breakfast with hot showers. I am currently wearing a long sleeved shirt, my under armor waffle sweatshirt, my new H&M sweatshirt, my H&M jacket made out of a denim like material and my raincoat. It is warm. Life is better now. But I think I will forever hate Salzburg.

Billa

There is one chain grocery store here. It is called Billa. I have a few problems with Billa.

I can only buy food at Billa. There is a separate chain called Bipa for all bathroom stuff (shampoo, diapers, tampons, nail polish etc.). The Austrians are very proud of the fact that I can’t buy bread and hair spray at the same place. They are snobby about that; they are not Americans with our Walmart and Costco crap. HOWEVER, Billa and Bipa are owned by the same company. And Billa and Bipa are usually next to one another, like Cafe Rio and Panda Express. So they really do have a super grocery store, even though they claim not too.

Billa closes at 6. That is the biggest pain ever. If I want to go grocery shopping, I have to order my whole day around it. It is so inefficient. I have gone to a gas station to get food multiple times because the Billa was closed.

Billa has a stupid system for buying fruit. I pay for the weight of the fruit (like in America, no big deal). But they poorly label how much each fruit weighs. And it is in German. Which wouldn’t be that big a deal except for their payment system. I have to weigh the food, select what kind it is, and then a computer prints off a little barcode, which the cashier scans when I checkout. So I’ve gotten the barcode things mixed up many times and the cashiers aren’t happy about it.

I have to pay for the plastic bags; 35 cents per bag. I feel like if I spend over 10 Euros I am entitled to a free plastic bag, but Billa disagrees. So I end up just filling my backpack with my groceries and something always gets smashed or explodes.

Because there are no free bags, there are no baggers. So the cashier just throws my groceries down the belt where there is a circular dish that my groceries sit in. But the dish isn’t big enough for my groceries and the person behind me in line’s. So I am always scrambling to put my change away and get my groceries in my backpack before the person behind me’s groceries get thrown into the dish. I never succeed and yesterday, while I was hurrying and throwing things into my backpack, I accidently picked up and put in a tiny bottle of some sort of alcohol. (don’t worry, the guy whose it was realized I’d picked it up and got it back).