Gregory Kemp

The Viewing Shelf and a Farewell to Austria

The Viewing Shelf

That's what we affectionately call it in English.  I don't know what Austrians call it.  I should ask them.  The Viewing Shelf is part of an Austrian toilet bowl.  I've been meaning to write about it for four years.  It's now the last day before we leave Austria forever.  The clock is ticking.  I feel cornered.  I want to get this story in the can, so to speak.  But there is so little time.

This will be my last blog post here.  It's the last of 135 posts.  I think I'll put the humor aside so we can talk about all I've learned.  How I've grown in four years.  What I can share with the world.

But I can't get the Viewing Shelf off my mind.

Toilets are different here in Austria.  The toilets I'm used to have a large reservoir of clean water at the back to catch falling matter.  Sometimes, if all goes well, the stuff just plunges through the water vanishing into the pipes like my college ring that time.  In Austria it works differently.  There is a flat shelf at the back where the water should be and the drain pipe is at the front of the toilet.  In simple terms, the toilet is reversed and would work perfectly well if your urinary tract and anus were exchanged.  For a long time I didn’t understand the design and I tried to use it sitting backwards.  I don't recommend that.  You risk pulling your groin. 

So here's the deal with the Viewing Shelf.  When it goes, and by that I mean when it falls, crash-lands, slap-lands, flops-down, and/or splatters onto this shelf it rests there.  It waits.  It waits until you stand up, give it one nice (long) look (you can't help yourself), and then you flush it down.  But the flush is different.  A quick blast of water from the back of the toilet propels the material forward and down the drain, which is at the front, which it not where you ass was (if you remember).  What does this mean?  Well, all the material sat on that shiny clean white ceramic shelf while you filed your nails, read that Maxim article, or finished the Sudoku puzzle.  During this time it cemented to the bowl.  The high-pressure water is powerful, strong enough to scrape last night's meal off the shelf and down the drain, but you're left with three nasty streaks.  Twelve if you've had schnitzel and beers.

In the US the toilet brush is an optional accessory.  Here, it's a necessity. 

I've heard explanations of why the Shelf exists.  In fact, I've spent the better part of my four years in Austria searching for the truth behind the Viewing Shelf.  The purpose of it.  The secret behind it.  Austrians are not arbitrary in their design.  There is always a reason for the things they say and things they do; such as why you shouldn't sit at the table with your hand in your lap, as we are taught in the USA.  Austrians wonder what you're doing under the table with your hidden hand.  It's not a bad point. 

During the course of my investigation, I've asked many Austrians about the Shelf. Austrians are usually puzzled when I ask them about it.  Perhaps they are unaware that other toilet designs exist.  Some Austrians say the design uses less water.  Possible.  Some say it's to avoid the splash of water you can get back on your ass.  That's true.  But the answer I've heard most often…

It smells less. 

It smells less?  A turd in the open air is less smelly than underwater?  Are you serious?

Bah!  I've unofficially concluded that the Viewing Shelf actually stems from a sick, Europe-only fecal perversion.  

Four Years in Austria

I'm sitting in our empty apartment, just a sofa, a chair, a suitcase and a bed.  I just looked at my watch.  I've only got 36 hours before I hop on a plane.  Forget the Shelf, I need to provide some context to my years here, my 135 posts of mindless rambling.  I need to reflect on four years living overseas.  I need to figure out if I've learned or if I've grown.

Four years changes a man.  I greet people with a kiss to both cheeks. I eat with a utensil in each hand. I carry flowers upside down. I reuse my grocery bags, I turn off lights to save electricity, I walk more than I drive. I wear scarves in summer and sometimes I wear them indoors. I say ciao instead of good-bye and cheers instead of thanks. It's not soccer it's football. I obey crosswalks but I cut in line when I think I can get away with it and if you look at me on the street I'm going to scowl. I never leave home without an umbrella. I don't wear baseball caps and everything I wear is a size too small. I like dark bread, cold schnapps and thick espressos. I like to learn other languages and I'm patient with those who don't know mine. I'll say hello and good-bye to every person in the elevator.  I'll never put my hand in my lap during a meal and to hell with the feet and yards, I'm fully metric. 

And I'm taking all this back with me.  I can't help it.  It's who I am.  I'm European now. 

Okay, I can hear you all.  "No, Greg, you're not European.  You lived there for a measly ten percent of your life.  You still love ice cubes, NFL and Denny's and if I were going to give you a label I'd call you a jackass before anything else."

Jackass.  I agree with that.  That gives me an idea.  I'm going to combine jackass with my being European.  Here's how.  First off, when I touch ground in the US of A, I'm only going to use metric, you know, kilometers and kilograms.  You have heard of these, right?  Well I'm bringing metric back with me and when someone looks confused or scared or angry when I say grams or centimeters, I'll tell them this:

"It's how we do it in Europe."

Now that’s some European jackassness.

And if they ask why I'm wearing a scarf when it's 80, I'll say coolly that it's only 28 to me because I'm European and then I'll add, "It's how we do it in Europe."

I'm seriously considering it.  I think the US can stand to learn from a European like me.  I think metric is the place to start.  Why?  It has nothing to do with the practical nature of a base-10 measuring system founded on logic, it's because for the last four years I've been baking my chicken at 200 and I've never gotten sick.  That is gangster! 

That's metric! 

I'm not just bringing metric back, I'm going on a metric crusade!  I'll be easy on you from the start.  My first lesson to my American comrades will be the meter.  I know you're scared already but a meter is pretty easy to remember.   If I lined a long row of alternating sun dried tomatoes, Italian olives and bonbons, and I asked if it was one yard long or one meter wrong, you'd be correct no matter what you'd say because they are virtually the same.  Try it.  Replace meter for yard and you're on your way. 

But there are more reasons.  For all you round-the-year-thanksgiving-eaters, you should switch to the kilogram because it makes you sound like you're half as fat.  As for the kilometer, it kicks ass.  Sixty mph is a whopping 130.  I routinely drive 150 on the highways.  That's some cool shit.  Listen, for the dietary aspects and the seemingly incredible speeds the metric system is simply way cooler than the English system, and by the way, yes, it is not the US system but the English system.  Not only do we use the language of the UK, we also use their system of measurement.  And we call ourselves independent.  Independent my ass. 

Acknowledgments

Before I ramble into a very long account of everything I want to say here at the end, I'd first like to thank the Attaché for getting the job.  It was the experience of a lifetime for me, and us, and you deserve full credit for getting us here.  While I've been piddling around on the soccer field, at the grocer, pecking away at my novel, and generally having the time of my life you've been working hard, making our nuclear-world safer.  For all of you who have not heard, the Attaché's work did not go unnoticed.  She was recognized by the Ambassador here as the best diplomat he's seen in 31 years of public service.

Wow. 

Double wow.

On account of her kick ass job, not only is the Attaché going to be the first inductee into the gregorykemp.com Hall of Fame, I am hereby retiring the name Attaché.  No longer will she be known to the world as the Attaché.  She is now… 

The Diplomat.

Of course, I'd also like to recognize the support of our families and friends because I have to tell you, experiences are always much more fun when shared.  Thanks to all my readers and especially those who dared to comment here at gregorykemp.com  Also, we've made many new friends, both ex-pats and Austrians, and I hope we will see you all again one day. 

Soccer

One thing I'm going to miss is soccer.  120 matches.  33 goals.  9 yellow cards. 2 red cards. One broken foot.  One broken thumb.  A visit to the police.  And one use of my diplomatic immunity get-out-of-jail-free-card.  My football club, AS-Koma, was the most organized club I've ever played for.  We had sponsorship, a paid coach, we won the league title several times.  I played every chance I could, I made great friends, had lots of laughs.  There is a tradition in Austria in which a retiring player has an Abschiedsspiel, a farewell game.  My final game was a few weeks ago.  I was injured and the doctor told me not to play.  I didn't listen, how many farewell games does one have?  My intent was to play the first half and then spend the second half icing my injuries and saying farewell.  We were losing 2-0 at halftime and I really didn't want to end my career with a loss.  Andy, a key player, gave a nice half-time speech calling everyone to, "Do it for Greg."  I decided to play on.  Everything was in place for the comeback story of my life.

We got annihilated 5-0, my biggest lost in 4 years with the club.  So goes my final game.

Running

Man has it been great.  It's been a big part of my life here, not only in Vienna but traveling around Europe doing half-marathons: Malta, Iceland, Hungary to name a few.  I've covered about 3000 miles while I was here.  My favorite run is the 3 mile loop around Vienna's old city. I figure I've run the Ringstrasse about 200 times, totaling 600 miles.  That's a lot of time out there.  I'll miss seeing Rathaus, Parliament, Opera House, drunk dudes at Schwedenplatz.  When I'm done writing here (if I ever get finished) I'm going to lace up my running shoes and do a final run around the ring.  I might cry.

What I'll Miss What I'm Looking Forward To

There's a lot I'll miss here in Austria.  Walking to the store, the architecture, the timeless statues, the sneaky alleys, the big oak doors, streetcars, language, the weather (cooler summers and warmer winters than DC), new friends, soccer, Icepresso, ½ liter beers, and the metric system, of course!  I'm looking forward to returning home.  I'm looking forward seeing our families more often, all those shopping conveniences, the lake by our house, building a cabin in West Virginia, my old running trails, and being a jackass.  It's so much easier to be a jackass in English.

What's Next for Us?

So what's ahead for us?  How can we top the experience of a lifetime?   Well, we're going back to Maryland but first we're taking a 2 month vacation.  The Diplomat has worked 19 years for the NRC and this is a unique chance for her to take an extended break before the second half of her career.  On Oct. 2^nd, our 11^th wedding anniversary, we're flying to Dubai.  Then we'll go to China, South Korea, Japan, Taiwan, Malaysia, Brunei, Singapore, Vietnam, Hong Kong, then a month in Australia in a camper finally ending in Tasmania, a place I've wanted to go for a very long time. 

Trying to Make Sense of It All, aka Conclusions

Forgive me for all my meandering.  When I started writing this, I really didn't have much of a plan.  I just wanted to cover the topic of the Viewing Shelf and figure out really what these four years were all about.  First off, I think it was about seeing what's out there.  It was about adventure, about fun and new experiences.  It's about realizing what's great in another country, and at the same time, what's great about mine.  Most of my thoughts are on the United States right now.  I'm looking forward to returning.  But I see America differently now.  America is a place of choices, creativity, and leadership.  It's also a place of arrogance, ignorance, and fear.  There is no place like it; there are endless opportunities and unnecessary conveniences.  Too many roads and stadiums but not enough trains.  People are friendly.  People smile when you look at them.  That's nice.  Americans are fat.  The cities are boring but the national parks are unmatched and by God I'm going to see more of our parks.  I still can't believe you can go three thousand miles without crossing a border and you can mail a letter from Florida to Alaska for 44 cents.  That's just crazy.  As for the taxes, we are one of the lowest-taxed developed countries in the world.  I'm happy to pay my taxes.  I think as an American I get a lot for my money. 

But Europe is great too.  There is history, real history.  The cities are incredible.  Things are cleaner.  Europe has something called the train.  The question I ask myself is this: which is better?  Europe or America?  Dare I answer this?  Do I need to pass judgment?  Can I be objective when I dearly love my own country?  I bet you want to hear what I have to say.

It's a no-brainer. 

America is the better place.   You know why?  

(scroll down)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Right there, that's why. (Relax, it's just a bratwurst.) US toilets are not showrooms for bowel movements.  I never want to see those filthy streak marks in my toilet bowl again. I'm so happy to move to the land of the watery catch basin.  I am so looking forward to that ice cold ass-splash…

America, here I come.  (Well, after I evaluate Asian and Australian toilets anyway.) 

Lastly, here are a few final pictures of Vienna, Austria.  I took these pictures over the last few months as I said my good-bye.

Please check-in at gregorykemp.com in October and November as I report from the eastern frontier!

Signing off from Austria...

-Greg (formerly Mr. Hausfrau)

 

 

 

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."

 

 

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.

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.
  

You Are All Winners!

Thanks to everyone who provided captions for the picture.  In case you're a blockhead, the picture is actually the Attaché getting prepped for some dental work here in Vienna.  A note about Austrians: they never find things like this very funny.  In a professional atmosphere there is no room for personality so the Attaché's giggling made them rather uncomfortable. I guess it's similar to how they react in the grocery store to my "conveyor belt art".  I always rest the big cucumber neatly between two potatoes. It's very funny.  Oh, never mind about that.      

There were twelve entries in the contest and I enjoyed them all.  A few entries came in via facebook and I am posting them at the end.  It was difficult judging the entries because there were so many great ones, however, there was one clear standout for me and it takes the Grand Prize.  Brad Chattillion with the caption:  "Germantown Miniature Golf. Hole #3. Need to make birdie because The Windmill is next."  While several entries got a good chuckle out of me, Brad Chattillion's was tops.  Each time I revisited it I found myself kicking back in my seat with my hand on my belly going, "Ho, ho, ho" as I pictured that face on the golf course.  It had the same staying power with me as the Date Night movie trailer which never gets old for me.  Solid work, Brad. 

As for the rest of you, I'm calling it an eleven way tie for 1st place.  Yes, you are all winners!

Thanks for participating!

Facebook Entries:

Linda Bernstein:

"I suppose "Poor Heather" isn't a good enough caption, but...poor Heather!"

Tascha Marsh Foy:

"Big Mouth Billy Bass."

Tascha Marsh Foy:

"Attachéus Dentalis: Top predator in Kempic ecosystem."

Sharon Bernstein:

"Got Milk?"

Brad Chattillion:

"Germantown Miniature Golf. Hole #3. Need to make birdie because The Windmill is next."

Carolyn Seraphin Jones:

"Wrong orifice, Dearie."

Caption Contest

When I operated out of misterhausfrau.com I used to do informal caption contests for some crazy pictures I took.  Since moving to gregorykemp.com, however, I'm yet to offer one up.  So here goes: post your best caption to the following picture in the comment section.  I'll review all entries and announce a winner next week.  In case you don't know, pictured is the Attaché, aka Mrs. Greg Kemp.