Today started like any other. Well, in a very general sense. I slept in, laid in bed and pondered, and wasted a good hour on internet nonsense. I fueled up on cereal and then went about being a dutiful teacher and preparing for the following week. It was a calm morning, aided in its serenity by a heavy blanket of snow settling over Ischl. Right around the time I was getting antsy, James called me. "Want to go up on the Katrin [a mountain] this afternoon?" he inquired. "Of course!" I answered. Twenty minutes later we were in the car with his wife, Lucy, on our way to an afternoon of snow and sweat.
I still can't ski. In two weeks I'll be going on a trip with some students, James and another teacher for a week of skiing, but until then I'm stuck with regular legs. James had bought snow shoes for "himself," which I've been "holding on to" for him anyways, so I just took those along. Ischl is about 450 meters above sea level, and the Katrin, resting bed of the setting sun, is somewhere around 1400 meters, so the climb is almost 1000 meters. It's a ways. As I started up the base of the mountain, I saw a man with his happy dog. The dog was loosing its freaking mind rolling in the snow. I love the sight of dogs giddy in the snow. I reminds me of so many snow days with my first dog Purdy, and the second Fiona. I'm a little faster than James and Lucy on the ascent with my snow shoes, so I went ahead. Most of the time I'm in a kind of trance where I make sure my body is working properly and reacting well to my environment, but even more I think and meditate on things I care about. Every now and then a skier goes right past you, shooting snow at your shins with often a friendly greeting. A few people bring their dog with them all the way up and down. Although it's a challenge for them, too, I don't think I've seen many dogs so happy. They pounce and prance ahead a little, then sit and wait, then prance further. After about an hour and 15 minutes I made it to the hut. Most people who do ski tours up the mountain (go up and down on their skis) stop at a hut at 1413m to warm up, dry off, and grab something to eat or drink. It's a tiny, wooden hut, but they keep it so hot it's almost stifling, and it's perfect for comfort.
Today when I came into the hut I could barely breathe for heat and stink. The snowfall was so perfect for skiing today that a lot of people went up the Katrin, and just about all of them had managed to work up as good a sweat as I did. The hut's so small it only fits three tables, each big enough to fit about eight or so. I immediately recognized a couple of people from the last and first time I was there a couple of weeks ago, and asked if I could sit with them until James and Lucy got there. It's right around this moment that the beauty of such a ski tour becomes consummate. The ascent is a challenge. It's often very steep, and you drag your legs and heart every step, constantly, for at least an hour. When you finally make it, you force yourself out of your equipment, change shirts so you don't stink or freeze, and make your way into the heart(h) of the hut. Laughs and chinking of glass welcome you. No, they beckon you in. If you're like me, the first to thaw is your beard, which froze from your breath a good 300 meters from the top, then the rest of your body thaws. You sit with a few strangers, or other regulars like yourself, and you order a beer. Oh so quickly, like the breath that's just returned to your lungs, you receive your beer, and it is with thanks and some great eagerness that your lips find the rim. It's here - right here, in this moment - that you get to that bridge. Which bridge? Ask James, and he'll proclaim, "Dann kommst du in den Himmel." Translated: "Then you come into heaven."
About forty minutes after my arrival, James and Lucy got there. We all huddled around a table with our friend Charlie, the doctor and regular (I mean regular. I'm pretty sure he goes up the mountain every day just as we did), and a couple of strangers. Within minutes it was what locals call "gschmoo" (g-sh-mo, it's takes a little practice). "Gschmoo" is a word said in some towns in the Salzkammergut which means something like "comfortable," "nice," "pleasant," and yet it carries a special weight and meaning. In any case, soon we were all drinking our beer and joking. I ordered a goulash, one of the cheapest and best I've ever had, and Lucy and James ordered something, as well. We stayed there chatting for a little over two hours before the threat of darkness forced us out.
Here comes my pride. I've gone up and down the Katrin with my snow shoes once before, and going down the mountain is a challenge. It seems like it's always colder and windier at the top. Today it was snowing heavily when we came out. Within five minutes my beard was completely frozen. I was going at such a good pace that I was panting from my mouth. Once I realized that my beard had turned to stone, I decided to see what moving my mouth would feel like. It wasn't a breaking or shattering, as you might imagine, but a kind of creaking. My beard had taken its form and did not want to let it go. You can only learn from your mistakes as you figure out which snow will prove as stable ground. Last time I walked down fast. This time I managed to jog, on steep declines, just about the entire way down, making it to the bottom before James and Lucy did on their skis. Proud yet utterly destroyed, I tiredly and happily discarded my gloves, beanie, backpack, and walking sticks to properly snuggle my torn body into that very cold snow. Victory. Victory was on my mind, and it stays there still as I type beneath my laptop and blanket, hoping that, should I decide to walk again, I will find my legs still solid and willing.
I've had a spectacular last few weeks, and I think I can ascribe them to those truly Austrian. James celebrated his 60th birthday...three times... two weeks ago. First, we celebrated with our colleagues in our school. Yes, in our school, in the evening we celebrated with all manner of merry drink and joke. It's not all that uncommon here. Culturally, as you might have heard or imagined, alcohol is neither shunned nor feared as it is in the United States. It is respected, of course, but it's presence is allowed and often welcomed in all kinds of situations, even at your place of work on special occasions (after the work day, of course). So we got together to celebrate our school's oldest and longest-serving teacher for an evening. I remained his right-hand man as I managed the music and his powerpoint of pictures of himself and colleagues over the years. The highlight, for me at least, was the Spanferkel. Spanferkel is a piglet. We ate a piglet. I know, for anybody concerned with the consumption of meat or the killing of innocents: I'm going to hell. BUT know this: although it did not quell my moral conscience, it sure as heck tasted de-li-cious. I would put that meal, and the one that followed it two days later, in the first or second spot for best meal ever. Okay, that wasn't really the highlight. The highlight was company. The highlight was four of the teachers playing traditional folk music on a violin, accordion, base, and guitar. The highlight was two former students playing accordion and clarinet. The highlight was almost screaming "Hey Jude" while rocking next to James around midnight. But that Spanferkel sure was good.
Two days later, we celebrated his birthday again, but with a different group. We gathered in a situation much similar to the one I described earlier in the hut on top of the mountain. Lucy and James had prepared their "apartment" in the ground floor of their home to house about 30 people from another circle of James' friends. Once again his right hand man, and once again hungry, I DJed, ITed, and consumed yet more Spanferkel. A week later we did almost the exact same thing: same place, same occasion, different people and different meal. The third, and last time, he invited many of his neighbors (eventually amounting to about 30) to enjoy my other favorite meal, Schweinebraten (described in earlier entries), and the pleasure of company. It was at that get-together that I met my greatest linguistic-challenge yet: two people from Bad Goisern. You see, the real Salzkammergut (within which Bad Ischl is situated) is actually not very big. Ten kilometers away from Bad Ischl, and still within the Salzkammergut, lies Bad Goisern. I have ridden through the town on my bike, and I think a few of my students are from there. At about one o'clock in the morning, I sat myself next to two of James' neighbors, who are originally from Goisern. They are father and son, and the son catches birds, which is a pretty much lost...occupation even here. No matter, the point is: I could barely understand a word they said. I can understand most people in the Salzkammergut pretty well. I'd even say I understand at least 80% of what they say, but this was a whole 'nuther ball game. These guys would smile at me kindly and look me in the eyes as they told joke after joke to roaring laughter. They did not slow, enunciate, or even try to make themselves understandable for me, and I could barely understand anything.
It really is remarkable. James is from Hallstatt, which is 20km from Ischl, and I can understand him just fine, but not these guys. These guys were from another planet with another language. The reason for the difference is actually not all that complicated: geography. Before transportation and globalization, distance was not defined by the amount or length of space between two places. Much earlier, it was defined by the things that occupied that space. At the time, maybe it would be fair to say that the distance between Ischl and Goisern was about equal to that of Ischl and Salzburg or some further off destination (Salzburg is about 50km away), because the geographical obstacles made traveling and connecting so much more difficult then. As traveling was so much harder, people, who by today's standards are neighbors, were worlds apart. While they shared common linguistic roots, they developed so uniquely. Although many of the differences have all but disappeared today, some still survive, and the best and most famous examples in the region are Bad Goisern and Gosau. Especially in the Alps, where mountain and stream team up to box you in, cultures and dialects develop very strongly and almost independently. Hop over a river and find a new language. I feel like it would be comparable to being able to walk from the border of some U.S. city straight into some corner of Britain with an especially strong accent.
Distance does such silly and powerful things to us. Just about every Thursday, a new friend picks me up from the street in front of my apartment. His name is Wolfgang, and I'm tutoring him and his wife Evelin (don't tell the Austrian officials, or anyone else for that matter. They like to tax things.). They're a wonderful couple, and they treat me like a king. Actually, I live like a king almost every waking moment, here, but that's another story. They now have a grandson who speaks English, and they are hungrily absorbing everything I can give them so they can communicate better with him and their step-daughter. Our tutoring sessions are conversational, and I just correct them as they talk, picking out the most important mistakes and teaching them fun and useful things. They can already speak so well, but they want real understanding. Anyways, on the way back to my place a couple weeks ago, Wolfgang and I were talking about Winter. After discussing the pros and cons for a little, he asked me something that struck me. "So, do you belong to the Spring?" I felt the knee-jerk urge to correct him, as I always did, but I refrained. You see, there are real, ugly mistakes, and then there are just... wonderful, even graceful mistakes. He wanted to ask, "Is your favorite season Spring?" but he asked, "Do you belong to the Spring?"
I've been in a lot of discussions over my life about the seasons, and I've spent much of it defending the Winter. Most people consider only the direct effects of seasons, while I love oh so dearly their indirect effects. When I think of Winter I barely think of the cold. I only think of the cold as it sweeps my lungs and makes my breath short, reminding me that I am alive. I love hot chocolate, mulled wine, pumpkin inspired goods, soups, and cookies. I cherish the white light of snow, and the new slate it offers each day it lays. I jokingly curse the cold as I mummify myself in my bed. More than anything, I thank the cold of Winter for the nearness of people. As babies held in the bosom of our mother, we learn that warmth is life, and we carry that connotation all our lives. As I hold a cup of Gluehwein I feel a heart beat in my hand. As I cuddle next to some friend or settle into some love's embrace, I feel I know the life of love and the promise of life to come. As I sit in the huts, in these homes, scooted shoulder to shoulder with friend and stranger, clinking our glasses and sharing laughter, I know such a pure joy in living this very moment; this very meaningful moment.
I always thought I belonged to the spring. I mean, we all do, don't we? Spring means life, and life ever renewed. It promises growth and offers new life. Winter, despite my defense of it, has always been my enemy. Winter means death, right? Coldness and colorless death. I get so depressed in the winter as the shades of color between white-worn earth and grey-clad sky lessen and seem to disappear. But I can promise you I would not sit so close to others if the winds did not howl and snow did not freeze. Maybe it's a cop out to say this, but I don't think I belong to the Spring, nor do I belong to the Winter. I belong to warmth.
Stay warm.
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