Das Blog
One Blog Too ManyArchive for June, 2006
Rumors Persist: Pheasant Alive and Well
Not to devote too much time to the stupid bird-thing, but I’ve been recently prompted to reconsider my viewpoint on the status of the pheasant.
Friend and fellow intern Nathalie insists that the pheasant still draws breath, contrary to my last post which speculates that it might have gone to that big birdcage in the sky. She claims that she has seen the pheasant several times since I declared it AWOL (or AWL, as it were…) and that it has simply either gone mute or has gotten the hint and is making its noise somewhere other than under my window.
I am naming myself the Supreme Victor of this conflict and furthermore granting myself the title of Admirable Telepath In Charge Of Expelling Birds. Obviously the reason that the pheasant stopped is because I projected such threatening thoughts through the air that it sensed its impending doom and stopped. It… it’s almost like I have The Force at my control. I am a Jedi knight. Before, there was still reasonable doubt as to whether the thing had expired at the mandibles of a dog or some other high-upper on the food chain, but now I know that it was, in fact, my Jedi powers that stopped the pheasant.
Sweet!
Darth Jamion
The Pheasant is AWOL
I just wanted to update you all on the pheasant situation. I know that it was more of a pointless post than most but that whole situation was really important to me at the time. For those of you who just want me to shut up and post exotic pictures of Europe, well… my apologies.
But, yeah, the pheasant is gone. Don’t know where. It either relocated or someone else got it before I did. No telling. I’m really not surprised… around these parts all you have to do is mention the pheasant and it spurs controversy.
“It’s so cute!”
“I hate that thing!”
“I think it adds to the scenery.”
“I think it was watching me the other day…”
…and so forth. Thus if someone punted that bad boy across the lake I wouldn’t be surprised. All I can say is that it better’ve gone away for good. ‘Cause now I’m getting used to sleeping without it waking me up and if it ever does then I might just fall out of my bed and through the floor.
Cheers,
Jamion
I Am Not Going to Wien Today
I'm fresh off of this adventure, so let me write it down before I lose it.
As you can tell from the title, I am not going to Vienna today. I was going to go, but now I'm not.
I heard about a deal late last night in which persons travelling within Austria can go to Vienna this weekend to see some big festival (I don't remember what it's called… Hoopadoopapalooza or something) on a round-trip train ticket costing 7 euros. That's spectacular. Usually the train ticket costs about 60-80 bucks and here's a chance to go hang out at a festival–one of the biggest, I hear–for under twenty total.
Well. This morning I wake up early to go to Vienna. I come downstairs to check (at fellow Intern Nathalie's suggestion) on the deal. Apparently the deal is for students only. Which is fine, that's me, but you need something called a Vorteils-carte in order to prove this… and you have to pay 20 euros for it. Well, that's ok, I think, that makes the grand total 27 bucks. Still pretty cheap. This whole thing really wasn't a big deal at this point, but we'll call it the first straw.
I go to the bus station to go to the train station, because it is far away. Someone at the bus stop blows smoke in my face. I instantly feel ill. My stomach hurts suddenly. I want to use the bathroom but it's a long walk back. I decide to wait for the bus that's coming in 3 minutes because it will take me to a restroom faster. My stomach hurting is not a very relevant part of this story but let's just go ahead and call it the second straw.
35 minutes later, the bus arrives. I am doubled over in pain. The bus takes me to the train station where I have to pay 50 cents to a stumpy little man who acts like Napoleon of the Bathroom. Between his surly attitude and the bus being late, the third straw falls.
I finally make it to the ticket office. Kindly I ask the man behind the counter if he knows about the 7 euro fare and the Vorteilscarte. He is angered by my asking. Firstly because I am an American who has cracked the secret of the 7 euro fare (usually Austrians keep this to themselves) and secondly because I have to fill out an application for the vorteilscarte that according to him should have been filled out two days ago. He also instructs me to bring my passport back with me when I complete the application, and also a passport photo, which I don't have. He instructs me to use the passport photo taking machine that is humming contently in the corner. As I'm leaving he tells me to bring something else to him in order to get the 7 euro fare. He describes it with a german sentence, punctuating it by gesticulating the form of a sheet of paper. I ask him what the sentence he just said means in english. He repeats the sentence in german. This whole thing flusters me immensely. I am moved to leave, but I choose to remain strong and go get a passport photo. After all, it's only the fourth straw.
I go to the passport booth. It is working, but requires five euros. I only have a fifty. I go buy a magazine to make change. When I come back the machine has stopped working. What has broken the machine? The fifth straw is the only explanation. But a kind man tells me that there are two more machines on the upper level. I go up to the upper level, where both machines are happily broken. It's also Sunday, so the passport photo taking place across the street is also closed. Sweaty and stinking from running around, these sixth and seventh straws hit me pretty hard.
Alone, smelly, friendless and defeated, I crawl back to the rude man who told me to go fetch photos in the first place. I beg him for another option. Isn't there any way to get a vorteilscarte without getting my picture taken? I am almost to tears. He takes pleasure in my defeat. He tells me that I do have another option: I could pay 60-80 euros for a full-fare ticket. He smiles smugly. I pray that ninjas invade the banhof and nunchuk him in the stomach. However, this doesn't happen and that, friends, is the last straw.
So I've come back to Leopoldskron. It's now too late to go to Wien. And do you know what I just realized? The offices here keep a spare passport photo of every intern on file.
Why oh why.
Jamion
Durum Kebab, Bitte.
Certainly one of my favorite "new" food items over here is something that's decidedly not Austrian at all, but rather Turkish in origin. A kebab (pronounced kay-BOP) is what is produced when you take a leg of lamb, shave off a ton of meat in thin strips, smother it in tomatoes, lettuce, and onions, lather on some mayo and spicey sauce, and then wrap it all in a pita. A Durum Kebab is the same thing in burrito format.
Now, I love these stupid little things. Everybody does. It's all of the greasy goodness of a late-night waffle house run combined with the addictive nature of, oh, let's say… crack. People in Europe may not be able to tell you the meaning of European Integration, or what all of the symbolism on the EU flag means, but they (and I) can certainly say where their favorite kebab stand is. My particular favorite is Troja, where a small, overworked woman labours in an underground enclave, shaving that leg of lamb and drizzling flavorful goodness all over it. If there's a reason that I'm fatter than when I left the states when I come back, it'll be because of these little snacks.
Jamion
