Gregory Kemp

Cash Money

Big news, I sold our car.  We bought it new when we moved to Austria four years ago.  She was a perfect car for us: BMW 118d, four door hatchback with parking assist.  Parking assist is the best investment of my life; it's a proximity alarm at the rear of the car that assists with parking.  I think it's aptly named.  

The car was a diesel. My first. Loved it.  It performs better than a gas engine from 0 to 60 and is more fuel efficient.  Okay, it's a bit sluggish at passing speeds, say on the Autobahn when you've got a long line of American cars like Fords and Opels in the right lane and you have to get by them.  Although I might struggle to get by, the old 1-er was fast enough to trigger the speed camera on six occasions.  Yep, that is six times I got a personal letter from the Austrian Police.  Forty euros per greeting.

Selling the car was one of my most challenging and enriching German language experiences of my time here.  Is there a better way to test my skill than dazzling potential buyers with phrases like: paint good almost new, parked in garaged almost always, lots of kilometers per liter, no accidents, and my favorite: "only 3 dent".  (I had to look up the word for dent and I didn't learn the plural.)  

I met with all types of buyers.  First was the second Mongolian I've ever met.  I showed him the car on the street outside my apartment.  I think all he heard was "3 dent" because he rubbed his finger on the dents every time I said "no accidents" or "good paint".   

After that, I showed the car in a really dark garage.  

There was a slew of Austrian father/college-aged-kid combos.  These always went the same: kid loved the car, wanted the car, drooled over the car, dad offered bullshit price.  They would leave and I'd never hear from them again.  Same result with the with the middle-aged guy from Wiener Neustadt and the Turkish dude with the man purse.

I posted my ad online and got a handful of email offers.  Email offers were always the same: "piss-low number" followed by "cash".  I don't understand why people like to say, "I'll pay cash."  Maybe some people plan to pay with coins.  I wouldn't want that.  One email offer came from James, an English speaker offering me about half my asking price.  I wrote back to him:

Hi, James,

I'm glad you're interested in the car.  She's a real beauty. At the price you are offering, I'm afraid I would have to keep all the doors, the tires, the seats and the engine.  I do take cash.  Let me know,

Greg

Never heard back from him.  

Ten prospective buyers later I was no closer to a sale.  I dropped my price and began refining my sales-spiel.  I learned plural for dent and I always mentioned that I had two months remaining on the factory warranty.  Things looked better when I had some women interested.  My slick and sexy phone voice works better with women.  Things looked very promising with Katia.  But then things went south.   Katia said she wanted to test drive the car.  She said she'd come back tomorrow with her ID.  I told her to forget about the ID, take the car, drive it to the Ukraine and dump it at a chop shop, I don't care, I have insurance.   She asked me why I said the Ukraine.  I laughed.  "Don’t all stolen cars end up in the Ukraine?" Katia said, "I'm from the Ukraine." 

After that, I stopped telling jokes and focused on the low kilometers and almost new paint.

Ultimately, I landed a giggly, oafy, Schwarzenegger-type kid from Graz who came with his father in-law.  I was not expecting a sale.  This combo was a proven killer.  The car-showing went down as I expected, kid loved it, geezer wanted to haggle.  This guy even wanted to "sit down and talk."  I sat on the steps of the parking garage: "Let's talk." No, he wanted a sit-down at a café to get to know me.  So we sat down at a café.  He made some small talk.  Did you know they actually use the term small talk in German?  Normally they say small talks.  As in, thanks for the small talks.  Charming.  Well, this old guy was throwing small talks my way and I learned he had traveled from Graz to Vienna to visit an important hospital on account of his heart condition.  Heart condition?  Did you just tell me you are here to negotiate and you have a heart condition?  There are two ways I can go about this.  I can grind out a marathon negotiation until you're on the brink of stressed induced death or I can jump ahead to the end and possibly save your life. 

My compassion came out.  I jumped ahead.  "You want the car or not?"  

Mr. Heart Condition turned to his son-in-law and spoke.  They talked about the dents, the condition of the tires, and a few things I didn't understand.  I really wasn't paying close attention.  The beer was good and the kid really liked the car.  The longer he spoke, the more I could see he was uncomfortable negotiating.  I was guessing his blood pressure was rising. 

Moments before Mr. Heart Condition dropped his sure-to-be-too-low-offer, I made my move.  "Listen, my price is fair.  You like the car, your son-in-law likes the car, hell, it's a great car.  That's why I can't go any lower.  Take it or leave it."  

"Okay," said the man.  "We’ll take it."

He looked relieved.  I think the pressure was building up on him the entire time.  He was dreading the negotiation; he had been putting it off.  Getting quickly to the end probably saved his life.  By now the kid was all giggly.  He nearly fell back in his chair he was so happy.  I think he wanted to hug me, either for car or because I saved the old man's life.  There would be no hugging.  I wanted to move things along so I slammed my empty beer on the table and demanded a deposit.  Cash money.  The deal was fixed.

But that's just the beginning.  The big adventure came when I went to pay a tax on the car before selling it.  (I'll spare you the reasons why I had to pay.)  This meant a visit to the Austrian Ministry of Finance.   I was expecting something like the DMV with lots of lines of frustrated people in front of bored government workers behind little windows.  The Ministry of Finance is not like the DMV.  I walked straight up to the desk at the INFO area, explained what I had to do and was issued a yellow post-it note with a floor and an office number.  I navigated through the building, no escort or badge, upstairs, through a dozen office cubes, arriving at the desk of Mr. Werner, the most unaccountant-looking accountant I've ever seen.  After twenty minutes of calculations (no joke, no surprise if you saw him) my tax bill was 761.97 euros.  I was warned previously to bring around a thousand euros because they calculate the tax on the spot and you never know how much it will be.  Plus, they only take cash.  Cash money.  Where have I heard that?  I handed Mr. Werner eight big (that's 8, 100 euro notes, Mom) but Mr. Werner didn't take it.  He handed me a little yellow post-it note with a floor and an office number.  Didn't we just do this?

Fourth floor.  That is where I met Mrs. Koenig, 53 or so, with pictures of little children all over her office.  Grand kids or kids?  I don't know.  I handed her the cash.  She laughed.  Her desk mate laughed too.  Turns out the Austrian Ministry of Finance is unable to make change.  I asked how this was possible and they said everybody brings the exact amount.  I tried to verbalize what you are probably thinking right now, as in how can you have the exact amount if they calculate tax on the spot.  I tried but I wasn't getting through to her.  I asked Koenig 53-or-so how much the last guy brought and apparently his bill was a perfect round number.  Lucky bastard.  My bill was 761.97 and I had only the 8 big.  I looked at her and said, "Be a good Catholic, please—"

This was the first public official I've met in all of Austria with a kind heart.  Koenig 53-or-so ran down the halls getting change from her co-workers: Mr. Bauer with the square glasses, Mr. Klein with the square glasses, Mr. Feldkirch with the square glasses.  Even the coffee jar was consulted (even though it did not wear square glasses.)  The entire encounter was comical if you think standing around bored-as-@#$@ is comical.  I finally asked if maybe I should go out on the street and buy a Coke.  Nein!  I suggested they round to the nearest 10 euros and let me go.  Nein!  She insisted on the exact amount. It took another 5 minutes for her to find my last 3 cents.  I told her I didn't need the last three cents. 

"Nein!" she said.  "We are the Ministry of Finance.  These things matter."

 

 

ADRIAAAAANNN's Wall, Squids, and "It's not funny…"

What did we do immediately after arriving in Scotland, my 50^th country visited in the world (the Attaché's 49^th)? We did a border run to England so the Attaché could check England off her list and reach 50 countries as well. Yes, we are now tied! It won't last long because we're going to Japan in the fall and I've already been there so the Attaché will pass me and take my self-given title of most well-traveled on earth. I don't think I'll ever catch her because as it stands she's already gone Mexico and I refuse to go there. My only chance of regaining the lead is to go somewhere without her, and I'm not allowed to do that. 

And, oh, if you think you've been to more countries than us, and you deserve the title "most well-traveled", prove it by sending me your passport full of stamps. This challenge has stood for many years and no one has proven me wrong. I've only heard excuses about how they don't stamp passports very much anymore. Bummer 4 u.

Back to Scotland.  Or England as it were.  First off, did you know the UK is full of trampolines?  No, I didn't either.  They are mad for trampolines there.

Grabbing a new country wasn't the only reason we drove 2 hours to England. We also wanted to see Hadrian's Wall, built around 100 AD, Hadrian's Wall was the northernmost boundary of Rome and stretched across the entire British isle – 80 Roman Miles (73.5 statute miles if you so prefer). I prefer to call it Rocky's Wall, not because the wall is rocky (which it is) but because in England, the "H" is silent and when pronounced correctly it becomes "Adrian's Wall". No self-respecting dufus can say Adrian without saying ADRIAAAAANNN!  Actually, more often I yelled: "ADRIAAAAANNN ('s wall)." 

I said it at least 20 times.  I think it was starting to catch on. The Attaché said, "Not funny."  

The other influence I had in the UK was my initiative to replace the slang term for the British pound (quid) to squid, as in, "Hey there, mate, how many squids does a pint cost?" I had mixed success. Most people understood me just fine but I got one beer mixed with snot.

We took the trip with two friends, Pete and Astrid, who happen to be Noodle's favorite dog sitters. Pete was driver, which gave me a rare chance to play passenger, a nice bonus.  We stayed our first night in a B&B on a working farm. When I booked the place, the proprietress repeated several times on the phone it was a "working farm". I now know why. It was packed with chickens, cows and horses, and the tractors ran until dark, which was nearly 11pm. From the farm, we took a morning stroll to a large marsh, and were encouraged to collect wild mushrooms for breakfast. (Yes, mushrooms are often part of an English breakfast.)  The Attaché took this assignment to heart and came back with a pound of fresh mushrooms. Here's what followed:

The Attaché, proud of her mushroom bounty:  "Hey, look what I got!  Can you cook these up for us?"

Proprietress, looking puzzled:  "Are you having me on?"

The Attaché: "I found them in the field.  We want them for breakfast." 

Proprietress, now laughing:  "Them mushrooms aren't breakfast mushrooms.  Those mushrooms will get you high!"

The Attaché, now beet red: "Oh.  Do you want them?"

Proprietress, still laughing:  "No, I don’t' want them!  But I'll boil them up for you if that's what you want!"  (More laughing.)  "You can have a heck of a cup of tea!"  (Laugh.)

The Attache:  "I don't want them.  You keep them, or…throw them out."  Turns to me. "It's not funny…"

Following the mushrooms, we bolted north through Glasgow to the Scottish Highlands and the area around Glencoe. This region of Scotland is incredible. Green hills, green field, green valleys—the only thing that isn't green is the sky which is as it should be. The clouds are constantly changing, and quite literally, it can go from sun to rain to clouds to sun again in a few minutes. This is what they call "normal" weather in Scotland. 

As an added bonus of going up into the land of William Wallace, I got to practice my Scottish brogue and acted out important scenes from Braveheart. Most of my best work was in a souvenir shop with a plastic broadsword, but I managed other great moments during the many hours of driving. A favorite of line of mine, that made me laugh everytime:  "They may take our squids, but they can never take, our freedom."  Also, "I'm gonna pick a fight." Variation: "I'm gonna pick a fight (with a squid)."  The potential was limitless. I found it fun to mix Braveheart with Rocky, as in, "ADRIAAAAANNN! ADRIAAAAANNN! I'm gonna pick a fight with Apollo Squid."

I can hear her now, "It's not funny…"

She might have been right. Now, to the pictures of the trip….

Scotland Photos

Hiking in the Alps - Dachstein and Krippenstein

As part of our countdown to leaving Austria this fall, we made a farewell hiking trip to the Austrian alps with friends.  We visited the Salzkammergut region, which is one of our favorite areas of the Alps.  The actual mountain range we visited is known as the Dachstein, and we stayed at Krippenstein Lodge, about 3 hours from Vienna and easily accessible from the valley (Obertraun) via cable car.  

We hiked a hell of a lot, and replenished our energy with rich food and beer.  In all I hiked about twelve hours during the weekend.  The temperatures were cool, typically around 50 degrees, which was great relief from the recent 90+ temps in Vienna.

As with most trips to the Alps, you get a little bit of everything: sun, rain, wind, fog. We had more fog than anything else, which made for some nice photo opportunities.  During the trip I was testing out a new camera I bought as a replacement for my Sony Alpha which was taken during the burglary in June. My new camera is a Canon EOS XS; a remarkable piece of equipment for the $450 price tag. I'm going to add a few extra lenses, but based on what I've seen so far, I don't think I'll ever be going back to Sony.  

Take a look at a few of my favorite pictures from our trip. (The snail was actually taken by the Attache.)  

Krippenstein Dachstein Hiking Photos

World Cup

It's over and I'm exhausted.

Soccer is my sport.  I've played it my entire life.  I still play today.  I'll admit I'm not the most dedicated spectator of soccer, but I am a huge World Cup fan.  Over the past month I watched about 50 of the 64 games.  I attended countless pub gatherings and parties.  I organized a World Cup Pick 'em pool with friends, and agonized over my picks daily.  I loved the excitement the US team provided.  I was pleased see South Africa put together a fantastic tournament.  It was great to see small countries like Uruguay (3.5 million) compete with countries ten or hundred times bigger.  And in my World Cup Pick 'em pool, I got to witness the Attaché (aka Soccer Smarty) take home the championship with series of bold, crafty picks.  At the start of the tournament, the Attaché could not name a single player on any of the 32 teams.  I asked her how she bettered a field of soccer experts, she said it was simple, she followed the advice of Paul the Octopus.  (No kidding.)

Sadly though, with the World Cup now finished, I've come away with a painful realization about my favorite sport.  About the world's favorite sport.

Soccer is flawed.

No, it has nothing to do with the Attaché beating me in my pool (although that is a flaw).  This is a serious criticism of soccer as a sport.  Soccer is imperfect.  If you're not a fan of soccer, I'm sure you already agree.  You compare soccer to sports you grew up on: American football or basketball or baseball.  You don't like that soccer has too few goals and you don't understand why the players can't use their hands.  You think it's a soft sport, with too much falling, too few cheerleaders, and you find yourself actually wishing for commercials.  That is not what's wrong with soccer.  All of that is what is right about soccer.    

The problem with soccer is the rules.

The laws of the game are considered some of the most simple of any sport.  But it is the simplicity that is the flaw.

Let's start with the rule concerning the referee.  There is only one referee, plus two referee's assistants.  They are responsible for enforcing the laws of the game. 

Problem is, they just can't do it right.

My suggestion: add twenty more refs.

The field is huge, much bigger than an American Football field, and having one old man racing around for 90 minutes is akin to having one cop at Times Square on New Year's Eve.  Actually, it's not like Times Square on New Year's Eve, because those people are drunk and slow moving.  Soccer is fast, the players are sneaky, dirty, and devious. Take into account that soccer is a low-scoring game and it's no wonder that a single referee error can affect the outcome.  In this World Cup, the mistakes abounded.

First there was the US vs. Slovenia game where a wrongly disallowed goal cost the US a victory.  Then there was the England goal that crossed the goal line by more than one foot yet it was not allowed, probably because the referee was not close enough to see it go in.  In the US game, it had a clear, direct effect on the result.  In the England game, it wasn't so clear because Germany won 4-1, but anyone who watched the game could see that the momentum of the game had turned with England's disallowed goal, and had that goal stood anything could have happened. 

Then there's the matter of "offside".  Offside is the only truly complicated rule in soccer, a necessary rule, but this World Cup proved that referees are incapable of calling offside consistently right.  Too often was the call missed, and goals were scored that should not have been.  I don't blame the individual referees; it's just an impossible task to expect three people to get this call right all the time.

Twenty referees.  That's the answer.

But it's not just the lack of the referees that are the problem.  There are other rule problems.

Perhaps my biggest gripe is the rule concerning an intentional handball which stops a certain goal.  This happened in the Ghana/Uruguay quarterfinal match.  In the closing minutes of a 1-1 game, Uruguay's Luis Suarez intentionally blocked a sure goal with his hands.  The rules require the referee to award a penalty kick to Ghana (which he did) and the guilty player gets ejected from the game (he did this also).  By chance Ghana missed the penalty shot, and Uruguay went on to win.  In this case, the referee did his job correctly (which is generally the case, in spite of the incredible demand on soccer referees), but the problem here lies with the rules.  It was a sure goal.  Ghana deserved to win.  Why can't the referee just call this a goal?  It's similar to goal-tending in basketball.  He can't because the rules don't allow him to.  The rules were at fault.  

As I look over the game, and realize that is it flawed, I bring the entire sport under a magnifying glass.  I don't understand why there are rules that exist but are not enforced.  For example, the rules do not allow "pushing".  Watch about five minutes of World Cup soccer and you'll see a dozen instances of pushing, and none are called.  Holding is also not allowed, and watch any corner kick and you'll see about five violations of this rule, most of which should result in a penalty kick.  I only saw one instance of holding in the penalty box called.  For whatever reason, pushing and holding are part of modern soccer, and either the rules should be change to allow it, or is should be enforced.  The goalkeeper had only six seconds to get rid of the ball after touching it with his hands.  This is never enforced.    I could go on, but I won’t because

…because I just hacked this ridiculous blog post.  Soccer Smarty here.  So this blog was SUPPOSED to be about me, and how I beat him at his own game.   Did you see how he gave me only three lines and one of them was insulting me because I can’t name any players?  Sore loser.   Then he has to go on and on about the technical aspects of the sport to show you how much he knows about soccer.  Blah, blah, blah, bad rules, waa, waa..…    He can’t come right out and say, my wife beat me fair and square in a game she knows nothing about and I feel like a dumb ass. Nooooo, he has to have some OPINION, like that makes up for him losing somehow.  I think he feels even worse because most of my picks came from cephalopod, who by the way, was 100% right in all his picks, which is more than I can say for the Hausfrau. 

So I think what you should really be getting from this post is:  ”If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit.”

Signed Soccer Smarty – yay me!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm back, Mr. Hausfrau that is.  Don't know how the Attaché hacked my own blog.  I'll just sign off with one final comment.  The Attaché used the word cephalopod.  Dork.

I'm a Blanket

It's been a hectic couple of weeks here. After returning from three consecutive weekends of travel (Latvia, Croatia, Normandy) we enriched our worldly experience by being victims of an "international robbery".  (I call it that to make it sound more glamorous.)  The thieves puzzle me.  Instead of robbing us while we were 1000 miles away for three straight weekends, they broke in to our apartment on a Saturday afternoon while I was at a soccer game and the dog was home.   (The Attache was away hiking.) Except for the dog (which thankfully they left alone), they took everything valuable: the Attaché's jewelry, my laptop, my camera including my hundreds of photos of our recent visit to Normandy and the annual D-Day Ceremony.  Fortunately, Heather covered the trip by taking three pictures of Normandy.  So here is what we have: 

   
 
 
Normandy was wonderful.  It's hard to dislike the French when they are so incredibly appreciative of Americans for their liberation.  Sure, it's fun to ridicule the French but they are first class where it really counts.

Back to the robbery.  Check that: it was a burglary.  We were not home so there was no "stick 'em up".  It's neat how I know the difference between robbery and burglary now.  Just one of the many delightful benefits.  Another benefit is a better understanding of Viennese culture with firsthand dealings with the Vienna police.  I made the 122 emergency call all in German, and I met a member of the Vienna CSI.   Sure, Helmut Schneider was a notch below David Caruso in coolness.  My boy looked like he just got out of a halfway house; he showed up in a wrinkled t-shirt and baggy jeans.  He did have a shiny briefcase with a fingerprint kit and DNA swabs.  I think he did a thorough job--he was here for more than an hour--my only criticism was he could have discarded all his plastic wrappers and peel-off seals in the trash instead of our floor.  Then again, our apartment was ransacked so he probably thought I wouldn't notice. 

It's unsettling to see your house ransacked, to wonder if you were staked out, to think that a group of people (yes, there was more than one) snuck through your house and searched through your most important possessions.  I was a bit rattled that night and couldn't sleep.  No, I didn't expect the thieves to come back, but your head is spinning after something like this.  I made the most of it by reading insurance policies, sorting through receipts and changing computer passwords.  About midnight after the break-in, I was hungry, I sure didn't feel like cooking, and I remembered I had leftovers in the fridge.  The thieves had searched our fridge (apparently people hide stuff there) and left it open, but it didn't stop me.  I wasn't going to be victim any longer.  The first step in recovery is fighting back so I launched into my chicken casserole saying &$#@off robbers with every bite.  I have a cousin who claims he ate a cheese stick he found in the glove box of a rental car.  He called that gangster.  I say he's a puss.

Here are a few things we learned:

Check that you have insurance.  Don't take your agent's word for it.  Go get the piece of paper, read it and make sure you are up-to-date and the coverage is what you want.  Don't expect your insurance company to send you a payment reminder.  Sometimes they don't.

Lock your doors, close your windows, front and back, even if you're only leaving for a short time. 

Back up your computers and put a password on them.

Don't keep sentimental items with valuable jewelry. If you've got an old class ring that you're never going to wear, or your dad's dog tags, don't keep them with the target items.  Thieves don't seem to sort stuff when they steal.

Lastly, 20 pound Italian Greyhounds are not a deterrent to thieves.  Italian Greyhounds have a survival strategy that goes like this: "There is no dog here.  I'm a blanket, I'm a blanket, I'm a blanket."

 

What did you do today?

I spent the morning at the Chinese Consulate in Vienna.  I bet none of you will ever be able to say the same thing.

Zagreb Soccer and Awesome Lakes

Last week in Latvia.  This week in Croatia.  Our string of three trips in three weeks is at the midway point after a soccer tournament in Zagreb over the weekend.  The trip was a regional tournament sponsored by the Attache's work.  As her spouse, I was accepted on the Vienna team competing with nine other teams from the region: Bosnia, Serbia, Croatia, Albania, Montenegro, Hungary, and Macedonia.  Turns out most of the other teams were all of European blood and the Vienna team was all-American so we got a pretty good ass-whipping.  The picture there shows us in typical form during our zero win four loss record.  But the tournament was fun and well-organized and not only did I meet a bunch of great soccer players, I learned the capitals of the Baltic states!  Skopje, for example, is the capital of Macedonia.  I didn’t know that. 

Zagreb, the tournament host city and capital of Croatia, (I knew that one) is a small European capital but has the energy of the biggest cities in Europe.  Picture this: in the middle of the old town a DJ is blasting music all night as a thousand Croatians dance on the street.  It’s not what you see in everyday Europe, but add the fact there was typhoon-rain coming down and no one cared. Check out the chicks there grinding in the rain.  Well that’s crazy Croatia for you.

Following the tournament we drove to my now all-time-favorite spot in Europe!  Plitvice Lakes National Park.  We had terrible weather and got rained out on the second day of our visit, but in two hours of hiking I saw more waterfalls than I’ve seen in my entire life.  The lakes were either the cobalt blue of the Great Barrier Reef or the emerald green of the Florida panhandle.  Crazy awesome and a must see. 

Tournament Pictures: click here.

Plitvice Lakes Pictures: click here.

Next up: Normandy.  

Latvia!

She did it!  The Attaché completed her tenth half-marathon in ten different countries!  She completed the amazing feat last weekend during our trip to Riga, Latvia.  She started back in 2006 with the US Disney Half-Marathon then followed with Slovenia in 2007, Malta and Slovakia in 2008, Czech Republic, Holland, Hungary and Iceland in 2009 and Austria, Spain and Latvia in 2010.  Wait a second…that’s eleven countries!  I’m laughing because I honestly just realized she miscounted and I’m going to have to tell her.  Maybe I’ll suggest she does 15 or 20 just to keep it nice and neat.  Fat chance. 

Quick geography lesson: Latvia is a small country on the Baltic Sea.  In general terms it’s north of Poland and next to Russia, which if you consider 20^th century history it’s about the shittiest place to put a country.  Why is that?  Well Riga’s Occupation of Latvia Museum will teach you all about it.  The museum is the self-described “unbiased account of how Russia really %#@$ed us.”  Go to the museum, Latvia has a solid case.

The old part of Riga, which is the main tourist area, is great if you like cafes, pubs, cobblestone streets and old buildings.  I was surprised to hear Riga was actually named the crime capital of Europe in 2008, but from what we saw it was a clean, safe, beautiful city with a lot of hookers and nightclubs.   We think it’s better described as the bachelor capital of Europe because there were loads of British stag-party groups wandering the streets and fleshy tall women in their sights. 

Take a look at my photos from the trip. You’ll see plenty of pictures of what I would call “classic old city Europe”. You’ll see pictures from the race.  But no, there are no pictures of hookers.

Touring Vienna by Scooter

This is what it's like touring Vienna on an X Slide 205.  

The X Slide is a scooter.  

And it's seriously badass.

Volcano, Spring Cleaning and Another Caption Contest

The Volcano

The Iceland Volcano is still making big news.  John Cleese, the comedian, got stuck in Norway and had to take a taxi back to the UK at a cost of $5000.  Were you aware that John Cleese is the voice for at least one brand of GPS system?  I wonder if Cleese narrated the entire fifteen hour cab rid.  "Continue for one thousand eight hundred and seven kilometers…Continue for One thousand eight hundred and six kilometers."  If I were driving the cab, I would definitely have asked Cleese to act out a few scenes from the Holy Grail.

 

Personally I'm a little suspect of the entire volcanic ash theory.  I'm yet to see any evidence of volcanic ash here in Austria.  In fact, skies have never been clearer.  If we assume the authorities are not lying to us and the ash does indeed exist, then I conclude that the ash is at the very least invisible.  BBC News reports that Dr. Guy Gratton agrees with me.  He was part of a team of scientists that led a test flight over the UK to test for particles.  Dr. Gratton says: "It's still quite a complex mixture of clear air and very worrying but invisible volcanic ash at all sorts of heights."  Never mind how unscientific he sounds; he's a scientist calling it invisible ash.  How can invisible ash be so dangerous to jet planes?  It makes me wonder if terrorists might try to bring down a plane with something actually visible, such as baby powder.  

 

Homemaking

I still do it from time to time.  It's spring now so I'm doing spring cleaning.  Throw in the fact that the in-laws are coming and I'm a very busy hausfrau.  Washing the windows…finding the spare sheets…cleaning the spare room…but that's just the start.  The Attaché set out about twenty items that needed ironing yesterday.  That’s okay.  Well, it's a helluva a lot of clothes, but it's okay because it's my job.  But here's my problem.  All twenty items were hanging from the ironing board when I dropped a bottle of Clorox sending half a gallon of bleach raining through the air.  Why did I have bleach out?  Well there is a stink somewhere in our kitchen I'm trying to combat.  Anyway, by a miracle the bleach missed her $1000 wardrobe completely.  (I normally don't have good luck like this.)  The entire fiasco has me thinking.  Let’s say I did happen to spill bleach on her pricey clothes.  Surely it would have been her fault, right?  She gave me too much to do all at once.   She should spread these assignments out I think.  Just sayin’.

 

Not only do I still clean occasionally, I also cook.  I have a strong opinion about produce.  (Never knew I had it in me.)  I remain unimpressed with the produce in Austria. The onions go bad in a few days; the potatoes have brown spots from the get-go.  I shouldn't complain.  The grocery store is like three minutes away and I could buy a new onion every single day with very little effort, but it makes me wonder where are these damn onions coming from that turn bad so quickly?  I found an onion in a moving box a few years back that I'm quite sure came from my college days.  The onion was still fine.  Forget about onions.  Focus for second on mushrooms.  That's one thing Austrians do right.  There are often five or six varieties, always fresh.  Here's a sample of a mushroom I bought earlier in the week.  Would you look at this monster?  Beautiful.    

 

 

It's so gorgeous I could to kiss it.

 

 

Since it's spring I've been zipping around town on my scooter.  Not a motorized scooter.  A push scooter.  You've seen these devices: like a skateboard but with a long pole and a handle. In your mind's eye there is probably a six-year-old on it, not 38 year old Greg, but believe me, it functions fine for adults.  It hurts more when you fall but it still works and it is my main means of transportation.  I'm bringing this up because I regularly get reprimanded by upstanding Austrian citizens who tell me I go too fast or I'm in a pedestrian zone.  Yesterday, this guy told me in a very harsh tone to get off the sidewalk and get on the street.  My German was suitable for the situation.  "Try to make me,” I said.  The guy shut right up.

 

Did I mention spring was here?  That calls for the spring changing of tires, from winter to summer tires.  It's a tradition I do not yet enjoy.  I've explained the ritual: lugging the tires out of our cavernous basement, jamming them in the car, paying an exorbitant fee for 20 minutes works, returning the out-of-season tires back to the labyrinth that is our basement, rinse and repeat later in the year.  Well yesterday I went for my spring tire change and my tire guy asked: "Do you have an appointment?"  I told him, "Why would I need an appointment?  I never needed an appointment before."  He looked at me like I said, "Cat hooves condense chimney bread."  "Fine," I said.  "When should I come back?"  Tire-guy said I could come any moment in the next year, but right now was a bad time.  Wonderful.

Spring time!  And that means the Vienna half-marathon.  The Attaché completed a half-marathon in her ninth country! Attagirl! When we do the Latvia race next month she'll reach her goal of ten races in ten different countries.  It will be a grand day.  I hope Latvia is half as nice as Vienna's race because Vienna is possibly my favorite all time half-marathon.  The course was flat.  The weather was beautiful (no big ash cloud over head, just clear skies).  And honestly, I never would have expected it but running through Vienna's center city to the tune of Mozart emanating from six foot high speakers was inspiring.  Sure, the thousands of cheering fans helped also, especially when I imagine they are all cheering just for me.  They are cheering for me, aren't they?

 

 

Here are a few pictures from the run….. 

 

On the Prater - Vienna's "Central Park".  This was at mile 3 (of 13).  I'm wondering if the guy behind me intentionally made that face for camera.  Hats off if he did. 

 

Nothing like having a cooler staged at the finish!

 

This is some guy after the race.  You add the caption for this one.