On Saturday, James, my mentor teacher and newest best friend, led me with his family by bike on a thirty minute bike ride into this certain valley. The weather, as you can see, was wonderful. James does mountain biking all of the time, and despite being almost sixty years old is almost fitter than I am. It's an old tradition held all over Austria and Bavaria. As a result, tourists and old hats alike come to be a part of the party. We rode to a specific hut where people sat at tables, drank beer and wine, and ate hearty meals. There we found James' biking group, the "faule Saupartie" (the "lazy pig lot" would be a rough translation), was already there making a table their home. Soon after we arrived, three men climbed a little ways up the hill and harmonized a few old folk songs. We joined the lazy lot of pigs at their table, where the three men joined us. There, for the entire afternoon, they sang and played accordion. Every now and again they took a break and let a woman and man play trumpet and tuba. I talked with every possible person, trying to figure out their dialect and even trying it out myself. After the cows were led downhill, everyone circled the caretaker of the cows and sang and clapped for her (that's actually what's happening in the first picture). Down the road the celebration was more somber. The caretaker had died over the summer, so the cows were not dressed, and there was no such circle, but there was nevertheless a celebration.
This place is full of traditions. My first day of work almost a week before the Almabtrieb was one of the most particular and fun I've ever had. I accidentally and thereby impolitely addressed the Direktor of the school informally, but she's cool, and she wanted me to address her informally, anyways. It was also the day before her birthday, so we had a glass of sparkling wine during the break in the teachers' kitchen. James, blind and sky blue in one eye from an accident, took me to lunch, and afterward we went with our colleagues for a hike at a nearby lake. It was also a holiday on that day, called Liachtbratlmontag (Liacht=Licht=light, bratl=Schweinebraten, Montag=Monday). The history of the tradition is: When days became shorter in autumn and lights had to be turned on at the end of the work day to finish the boss would treat his workers to a meal like Schweinebraten and drink with them. The tradition has developed to the point that colleagues often go for a hike and then out to dinner with their boss. So we went to the Schwarzsee (Schwarz=black, See=lake), hiked and talked, and ate a snack at a hut in the middle of nowhere/mountains.
Back in town, we went to the most popular bar in town to get
Schweinebraten. The
bar was filled to the brim with people, and most of them were wearing Lederhosen
and Dirndls. It was too loud for anybody to talk, so we went to another bar. James’ two best friends were there, too, and they were determined
to figure out if I was cool or not. They put me to the test. Peter did his best
to teach me dialect, and I think I did pretty well. He taught me words that
were so old and local that most of the people with us did not understand the
words he was teaching me, either. Robert, the other friend, spent a lot of the
time explaining Peter and translating what Peter had said (except when he
himself didn’t understand). It’s crazy. Some people speak such intense dialect
that other Austrians from nearby towns can’t understand them. After a while,
James and Peter dragged me into the bathroom to teach me how to jodeln (j
pronounced like our y). They went to the wall, slapped their fore- and middle
fingers to the wall, and held them next to the ears like a tuning fork. Peter
started the song and James did the harmonics. It was beautiful. It
wasn’t at all the fast changing octaves that we imagine. I did my best to learn
by joining one of them, but as soon as they did a different harmonic I got
lost. We went back out, and they sang multiple songs for everyone. It was one
of the highlights of the night (for everyone, I think). By the end of the night, apparently, I had passed their test as a sociable, "sympathisch" young man.
Sitting outside of the hut on Liachtbratlmontag with other teachers and retirees, I was challenged to patience. I sat next to an older, nice man for a while. He was hard to understand, as he spoke a stronger accent, but sooner or later I tuned in to his conversation. To my surprise, it seemed to me that he was espousing a somewhat racist belief. Nobody seemed to be reacting, and I was hesitant to form a conclusion for doubt of my ears for dialect, so I asked. "What exactly is this conversation about? I'm hearing something about black people and Asians." Everyone perked up and chuckled, "Don't pay attention to him, Dan. He's just a bit of a crazy racist." Trying not to have knee-jerk, confrontational reaction I asked further. "What exactly do you mean? Do you think white people are better than people of other colors?" Everyone nodded their heads suggesting the answer, but he insisted, "No. I just think it's better when we don't mix. Every culture produces the best things when pure." Note: nobody agreed with him. About as few Austrians as Americans think this way. I smiled, coming from the "melting pot" of countries. "What about jazz? Blues? The influence was cuisines on each other?"
I rest comfortably knowing that good and great alike have come from the mixture of cultures, but I don't dismiss that "racist" entirely. I don't like a lot of things about the directions my generation is going. I reject many aspects of our culture and technology out of the belief that some things are lost. Some shrug shoulders and roll eyes at those who lament the "old days." "Change!" they celebrate. This is the nature of things. We develop and change as cultures in the mix and stir of globalization and modernization. Many things are lost and many are gained, and it is natural and good so. I feel that truth, but I don't think it's always a one to one ratio. I think somethings lost are better, and some things gained are worse. I lament the disappearance of barber shops where men gathered to talk. I regret the seemingly daily substitution of the physical wold for the virtual as we dive headfirst into iPhones and become accustomed to doors with sensors. I worry for the day that cows are no longer led from pasture to pasture driven by song and community. So I'm striving to keep alive what speaks to life, and I'm sorry, but I don't see life in everything.
Every day here feels more comfortable. I should be signing a lease this
Friday with the nice man, Walter, for a part of a house. I've
fallen in love with the house. As I slowly fill my kitchen, cook my own
meals, fill my drawers and iron my clothes, I feel the joy of making a
home. Almost every day I discover some small trinket in my house, hear
some new creak, or figure out some strange Austrian device that
determines the temperature of my water. It's a wonderful thing, living
in a new house. In an old house like this you feel like you're getting
to know someone new. Each nook and cranny grows in charm as I learn to
pay attention to it. Instead of making it mine, I feel invited to become
a part of it, and I feel wiser in doing so. It holds older things.
Nevertheless, I hang my posters, cook my spices into its walls, and fill
its spaces with my music. We share with one another.
No lessons today and no new words; just a wish. So far I've been throwing this stuff into a black hole. I'm writing this to share my thoughts and experience, so I want some reactions! I don't care if it's a comment here, or an email, or whatever. Just because you aren't frolicking in the Alps doesn't mean I don't care to hear about your life, and I'd also like to hear what you think about mine, or my reflections.
Be well!
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