Sharing home

I just now, just a few moments ago, found out that I'll be working in Salzburg next year! I don't know how this news will meet the people reading it, but I'm very, very pleased. The decision to stay another year was a hard one. I knew of the possibility of applying for an extension from the beginning, but I didn't allow myself to seriously entertain the thought until the deadline was approaching in February. I spent much of my time agonizing over how it would make my family, my friends and me feel to be abroad for a the third year out of four.

My mom arrived on the 12th to visit for a week. The thing about your mom coming to stay with you for a week is: it's your mom. Catch my drift? End of blog entry.

Naw, I'm just playin'! I've been dying to share all the great things I've got going on over here with somebody for a while, and it was great to share those things with my mother. I did my best to saturate her tourist needs by showing her landmarks and exposing her to the history I knew, but I was more concerned about showing her my home. You see, anybody can be a tourist, but seldom do we have an insider to show us the ins and outs.


Over the weekend we took a train to Eichstätt. Lately, I've been referring to it as my first love, and it's the only town I've ever lived in that I would actually lovingly or longingly refer to as my home. On our first evening, I got to introduce my mother to my best friend Hubertus. While eating dinner, she asked him where he was from. He couldn't really answer her question, seeing as he was born in one place, moved to another, moved there, and never really formed a connection the the place he was living. After a while, I decided he had understood the question differently. What question are you answering when someone asks you where you're from? Where you were born? Where you spent most of your life? Your current hometown? I usually answer the second question: Tulsa. I spent most of my life in Tulsa, and so it seems most...fair(?) to give that answer. The question seems so tightly bound to the idea of home, and so we naturally slid into the question of "home."

Speaking in English the whole time, Hubertus said "home" for him was the house in which you felt "at home." I'm a terrible son for this, but I honestly can't remember what my mom's definition was. I then explained the saying "home is where the heart is" to Hubertus. Be it cheesy or kitschy, I think our saying has it right. I offered another version to the effect of something like "home is where you put your heart." Some people put their heart in their land. Make me a farmer and for every tear, drop of sweat or blood I plant in my toil, I would plant my heart there as well. Make me a parent, and my heart will skip to school with the heart inscribed lunch sack in hand. Once I told my father about my heartbreak, and he reflected, "It's hard knowing a piece of your heart walks this earth apart from you." Time, energy, passion; everything we invest in holds a piece of us.

So no, I didn't worry about hitting all of the tourist hotspots. On my mom's first day in town, my birthday, we went to James and Lucy's house for dinner and wine. We sat there until at least one in the morning talking about "Gott und die Welt" (God and the world). James poured wine between our protesting fingers while we wrestled and laughed our way through subjects like teaching, gun violence and control, faith, and Austria. We responsibly slept there, and in the morning we woke to breakfast and the company of friends and surrounding pastures and their mountain neighbors. And so my mom got to know a fellow part of Dan's heart.

That weekend I brought her to Eichstaett: one of the few places where you can find my heart in not just friends, but in the buildings and land, as well. Both nights we were there, my good old friends from my stay there sat with my mom and me late into the night. She sang songs from "The Sound of Music." I asked for more wine. They sang songs from commercials. We cooked and ate together. I took her to the "Kneippenanlage," where I'd spent so many afternoons trudging through ice-cold water. I showed her a pond in a courtyard fed by a spring and the overhanging gutters and containing hundreds of fish. With my good friend Tanja, we sat on the bench that Julia and I had sat on just about every day as we overlooked the Altmuehl valley.

On my mother's last day in Ischl, I brought her up to one of my all-time favorite spots on Kalvarienberg. It's not all that high, so you don't even really have to break a sweat getting there. When I'm stressed, or need to get out for any reason, I often go to this bench. So many benches sit before a blockade of trees, but this one lays Ischl and it's many mountain friends before you. It's very peaceful, except for what looks to be a brewing nest of mosquitoes. We talked a little bit about these years abroad, and the unease it brings my family. You see, they're all very happy for me that I'm taking advantage of these chances and years, but they worry that I might leave my home in the U.S.

I'll tell you right up front: little of what I consider "home" has any connection to being "American". On the other hand, I wouldn't call myself "German," "Austrian," or even "Bavarian." The privilege of being my family is, they've got the biggest part of my heart! If you need something to balance out all of this cheesiness, think of them as my biggest shareholders. The food I eat, the languages I speak, the mountains I climb, and the music I listen to are all things I love, but they don't hold a candle to the people I care about. Each of them is a weighty anchor in a windy, wavy world. HOW D'YA LIKE THEM ALLITERATIVE APPLES. So you see, I don't really have the choice of keeping up this long-distance thing much longer, because the chains of those anchors pull harder the further I go adrift. If you might happen to have a home in me, know that I'm taking good care of it. I'll be treating it to spinach tonight. I hope you like them leafy greens!

The Amesiac and the Forgetful Glacier

I met an interesting man on a mountain today. Well, it isn't really a mountain; more like a dignified hill. The cold was biting today, but I finally ventured out mid-afternoon to take one of my favorite strolls up onto Ischl's Calvary Hill. Remember? I already told you about it. Informed more by my hope at the sight of sunshine than any realistic considerations, I strapped on my Chucks and set out. It was an odd kind of sunny afternoon. The clouds were somehow thin enough to give the impression of a sunny day, but the sky was cloudy through and through . At the foot of the hill, I passed what I thought was a couple. I offered a friendly "Grüß Gott" and continued on my way. A minute later I heard someone overtaking me from the rear, and it turned out to be the man from the "couple". He immediately addressed me in a friendly way. Alas! He had one of the stronger accents I've heard in a while, and so it was also the greatest comprehension challenge I've had since the bird catcher experience in January. More relaxed and cheery than usual, I made no qualms about having him repeat about every sentence and making it known I wasn't from these parts. He was. He's from Pfandl, which is pretty much just around the corner, or rather right around Calvary Hill. Once again, crazy how "distance" kind of gets turned on its head when it comes to accents here.

He immediately proved to be very nice. Pretty much right off the bat he let me know that he had had some sort of head injury thirty years ago, which had resulted in what sounded to be a pretty dramatic memory problem. It sounded like some kind of amnesia reminiscent of some of our favorite stories like the film "Memento", or one of my favorite Radiolab episodes "Memory and Forgetting", in which a man incapable of creating new memories conducts a choir for the first time in...decades(?) like he'd never stopped doing it and then forgot again. In any case, this man on Calvary Hill said short term memory was normally less of a problem, but if he had seen me an hour later he wouldn't remember meeting me, and by the end of the day he wouldn't know what he'd done that day (if I understood correctly). He proceeded to illustrate his point by retelling certain stories and facts in a concrete formula at least four times within our twenty minute conversation. The main one was something to the effect of, "Short-term memory is no problem. I can dominate in chess for two hours straight, no problem." He seriously said the exact sentence nearly word for word every time. I've heard older people repeat stories, but this was different.

He had lots of interesting facts up his sleeve. While overlooking one of my favorite views of Ischl he pointed to the mountains naming them. He was right about all of them except one, which he called the Loser, and which looked like the Loser, but was not (look at me. Goodness, I'm a punk). Talking about the nice weather, he started talking about our ensuing doom as a species, as global warming would soon be getting the better of us. He didn't sound crazy or religiously fanatic or anything, just a little dramatic in his interpretation of scientific findings he'd heard or read about. He insisted that our local glacier, the daunting Dachstein at over 3000 meters (almost 10,000 feet), would be "gar" in 30 years. I have to admit that my German knowledge reaches it's limit here. I could have heard him wrong, and even though I'm familiar with this very common word, I'm afraid I only know its relation to potatoes and other foods that need to be cooked until soft. I'm afraid that he meant the glacier will have melted in 30 years, but I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt, because of my insufficient German, and imagining that he meant the glacier would... be soft in 30 years?

He told me how the Jainzen and Siriuskogel (two of the other small "mountains" in Ischl) were formed by the moving glacier. I got excited and said, "Yeah! When I went up the Siriuskogel recently, I saw a big boulder with a sign next to it stating that the boulder was left there by the Dachstein"; a common geomorphological process (Don't worry. You don't have to think me a jerk for trying to use big words. I'm probably using it incorrectly) in which glaciers leave behind "moraine" as they move through the landscape. Yay! So the geomorphology class I took in Eichstaett two years ago wasn't all for naught. Education works! Check out the cool Wikipedia article on it! (I'll donate if you do): http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moraine
Nodding and smiling at the confirmation of facts already known to him, he shot in, "Yup! The glacier forgot 'im!" or something like that. Ha! What a charming and fitting description!

When an older woman's wiener dog came up and made friends with me she came up to chat with us. She saw the man I was talking to and said she thought she recognized him from somewhere. "Oh no," I thought. "Dude's got a memory problem, ma'am!" I thought, but he then suggested, after some pondering, the situation in which he thought they had met each other. I believed the man about his amnesia, so I decided I didn't quite get how this memory thing worked. That, or this was a trick he used a lot, seeing as peoples memories are so undependable anyways that you could probably often just plant the memory with some vague yet conceivable possibility. After all, it's a pretty small town, and the possibilities are limited.

Man, I'm duped about how this guy's memory works. Now that I think about it, it seems like he had short-term memory problems, but was actually alright when it came to long-term memory. Just goes to show how well I could understand his accent.

Well, I'd like to tell about my mom's visit last week and some of my recent experiences in the classroom, but I'm just gunna let you chew on that little story for now, and I'll try and write another blog really soon. It's Easter break now! I've got a week and a half off! Yay for vestigial religious holidays! So hopefully I'll have some time soon. I'll be adding some pictures and videos pretty soon here.

Take care.

Birth: Take that, snow placenta!

As I lie waiting for my mother to arrive, cursing delayed flights and blasted train connections, I figured I'd jot down some thoughts. It is the eve of my birthday, so I might even try to throw in some graphic birth puns and metaphors.

Last I left you, I was about to embark on my first skiing adventure in the beautiful area around well-known Saalbach-Hinterglemm. James ended up coming along as one of the four teachers accompanying a group of...about 50 students? My first day of skiing was a blast. I went with James' group, which was composed of the "less" advanced skiers. They all looked like pros to me. First, James dropped me off at the "baby lift" to practice a few exercises. By the time he came back I wasn't crashing at all, but of course as soon as he was watching I couldn't get 15 feet without a catastrophe.

I joined up with the main group, and about half of the students decided to be gracious to me and go down an easy blue slope with me. As we meandered down the simple slope, I tried to imitate the student in front of me. I was mostly using the "pizza slice," as kids are taught to call it (putting my skis into a v-shape to slow down), but he was cutting back and forth with his skis parallel. Eager to improve, I brought one ski next to the other, and before I could change my fate I was headed off what looked to be a cliff. For half of a second I thought, "Am I really going to die, because I didn't do the pizza slice?" and then soft snow caught me five feet below. The students called, "DAN?!!" I waved in the precious victory, feeling born again, as I fought my way out of my snow placenta, stabbing it with my ski poles to get balance and shoot out into the new world (terrible metaphor, but I made a promise, and then I ran wild with it. Makes you think though: good for mothers babies don't have ski poles in the womb. Bet you babies want some, though).

After a couple hours of good, hard work, James and I decided it was time to go to a Hütte (can you guess what it means?) for lunch and a drink. It was a stunning, sunny day, so James and I admired the scenery while soaking in the sweet golden rays of sun and mug alike. After rejuvenating for about a hour, we hit the slopes again. By the end of the first day, I was skiing the red slopes with the others. Controlling my speed was a trick for me. On a particularly steep stretch, I was trying to slow down when all of a sudden some punk came from the left and cut me off. I had neither the time nor skill to prevent it, so I flattened him and bit it in all of one blink. Escaping from the tangle between his legs, birds tweeting, I asked, "Bist du okay?" With a funky accent (maybe he was Dutch?) he panted, "Yeah. I'm okay. Are you okay?" Still confused, I continued in German. "Ja. Alles klar. Kein Problem." We were both okay, and that was the last and closest experience I had to injury or death on the trip.

I improved quickly and steadily throughout the week. Every day, I would stand up aching at every movement and physical contact with the world outside of my body. The days that I skied with James and his group, we managed a perfect balance of skiing and resting. Most days were sunny, and we sat at our "Basislager" (base camp. The kids loved James referring to the huts this way, and eventually adopted the term, as well. It didn't matter that all of the huts were the exact same: expensive and wet), and we drank a couple of beers and then skied on. At the end of every day, aching yet more, James and I found our way into a private sauna for the teachers and chatted for a good hour before dinner. By the last day, I was able to ski with the fastest students in our group, and James said I was one of the "greatest successes" he'd ever had.

It was an amazing week. I was treated like a king as a "teacher". For the first time in years, someone cooked and brought me food. I had my own room, bathroom, and TV. I attained cult-status when I played a part in the newest fad of my generation by dancing for the students in their "Harlem Shake" video. Of course, it wasn't all unicorns and sunshine. The kids managed to complain every chance they got, which it turns out is an infectious and deadly disease. The teachers would come into our little teachers' room and complain about the kids complaining. Classic. To which I would scream, "DID YOUR MOTHER COMPLAIN WHEN SHE HEAVED YOU INTO THIS WORLD?!!" No. I'm just playin'. I didn't. I ignored them, laughed at them, or made fun of them (more with the students). I even managed to call a whole table of students complaining about the food at dinner a bunch of spoiled brats, and they still liked me afterward.

Last week we had föhn, again (remember? I taught you what this word means). We had one day that was almost 70 degrees, and many others straddled between 50 and 60. Every day became an existential crises as I tried to decide if I should leave my balcony to hike a mountain or just sit there all day. On one of the last, warmer days, James and I went up the Katrin again. The weather wasn't so welcoming. Most of the snow had melted, which wasn't ideal for James' skis or my snow shoes, and the drizzle of rain wetting our heads didn't make for an upbeat spirit. "Every day a new challenge. Up a mountain in the sun one day, up a mountain in the rain the next," James breathed. On the finishing stretch of the slope to the hut, I felt myself struggling with dregs of energy. Teetering on unconsciousness, I almost hugged the hut. When James got there, he said it had been as much of a struggle for him. As a knee jerk reaction, after joining acquaintances (might as well be friends in that hut), I ordered a beer. The whole day my body had been feeling odd. My stomach had been complaining as much as a group of 15 year old girls on a ski trip. But I swear to you, and I normally don't proclaim these things publicly, that first gulp of beer CURED me. I'm not talking about intoxication or even a light affectation. I'm talking about one gulp that turned my day around. But really, 9 months without such a healing gulp? I feel so sorry for mothers. I'm pretty sure their stomach complains a lot.

On my way home, I walked past many Ischlers on a trail. Out of about five groups I passed, three stopped to talk to me. Sure, I was carrying my snow shoes, which always attract attention, but they were all so friendly. Each started with a generic observation or question about where I'd been, but each conversation ended more personally, more connected.

I swear. This love affair with the mountains won't stop. Every day I measure their shape and judge their hue. Some days they wear a rustic, rusty orange brown, worn from the weather of countless lifetimes. On others, they are an innocent blue, almost as fresh as the sky. Often they're white, and it seems that the fog must come from their breath. Just now they're finally shedding the winter coat. Many of them are now bare, and only the greatest of them still hug tight to their frozen armor. Paths are now surrounded by the first spring flowers, oooing a newborn's surprise at this wide, bright world. When my friend Florence came to visit for an afternoon the other day, I remarked with gloom, "Too bad they're going to get murdered by the cold next week." "Actually," she reassured me with a biologists wisdom, "these first spring flowers have a kind of natural anti-freeze, so they'll be alright." Who knew?! How cool.

Well, here's to being born. Here's to the mother that carried me and those that carried us. More so, here's to being born into the world, this beautiful world. Forgive me the sentimentality, but how great that we are born in to something! So many people, so many mountains, and so many places to be a part of. Crazy that our mothers bear us into a world with Dutch idiots cutting us off, complainers trying to kill the vibe, and those early spring fake-outs before the soul deafening cold snaps. I guess it's only fitting that mothers go through a world of pain before bringing us into one filled with it. Too bad we don't have any of that anti-freeze juice, but I guess that's why our parents tell us to put on our coats. Thanks parents!