It was such a simple plan. Go to Vienna
for Christmas and meet Peter’s parents. Tour the city, eat some
cookies, enjoy some general merriment. But like the relationship between
doughnuts and my thighs, everything kept expanding exponentially. Would
I like to go to a hot springs a few hours south of Vienna for the day?
Sure. Would I like to take a side trip to Paris for a few days? You bet.
How about five extra days in London? What?!?!
You see, Peter is completing his Ph.D. at a U.K. university, and apparently when your dissertation committee says that it’s time to defend, you hop on the next flight. Such a change added several complicated traveling dimensions to our vacation, and we left Montana a little earlier than planned so Peter could defend his dissertation.
Everything went fine for a while. We flew effortlessly from Bozeman to Minneapolis to Boston to Paris. While waiting for our flight to London, we were delayed by fairies or elves or something (we were never told what was going on), and we started to get concerned about whether Peter would make his London train to his defense.
Finally, we landed at Heathrow, caught a train to London, and waited for our friends in London to take me and our 67 lbs. of luggage to their flat while Peter caught another train to his defense. Unfortunately, we missed our friends in the busy railway station, so Peter bought an extra train ticket, and I and our 67 lbs. of luggage accompanied Peter to his defense.
Due to an electrical outage, the train was diverted, missing two stops, and though that didn’t slow us down, we ran into serious problems getting a taxi at the station where all the folks who couldn’t get to their homes via train also needed taxis. We made it to his defense with only five minutes to spare, and only when we were walking into his department’s main office did I realize that I would be meeting Peter’s dissertation committee wearing my sweatpants that say “Juicy” on the butt.
Despite that faux pas, Peter passed (he did so well, in fact, that his dissertation was accepted as written, with no corrections), and we celebrated by collapsing at a hotel. We did finally touch base with our friends in London, and we spent a few nice days enjoying museums, shopping, and tea at Fortnum & Mason’s.
From there, we went to Austria and stayed with Peter’s folks who live in a small village outside Vienna, This is when the real vacation began. Peter’s mom spoiled us with freshly baked Christmas cookies, pounds and pounds of Milka chocolate, and, just for me, several liters of diet Coke (Coke Light, in Europe). We saw Don Giovanni at the Vienna State Opera House and visited the oldest Christmas market in Europe in front of Vienna’s town hall. We enjoyed a Austrian tradition of decorating a fir tree with homemade ornaments and candles which we lit (carefully!) on the tree’s branches.
Until the day after Christmas, I mostly stayed at Peter’s house. We took a few short trips into town, but mainly I let myself be fed by Peter’s mom, and nothing, save the language barrier, felt too different from life in the states. That all changed the day after Christmas.
The day after Christmas, I learned what it really meant to be in Europe. Peter’s parents treated us to a visit to the Loipersdorf hot springs for the day. First, I learned what it means to drive in Europe. I clung tightly to Peter’s hand as his dad flew down the autobahn at about 100 miles an hour (and there were people passing us!)
When we arrived at the spa, I learned what it means to be at a hot springs in Europe: nude.
We had chosen an adult area of the hot springs that warned its visitors “Nudist Area Ahead,” but I thought that meant clothing was optional. I was wrong. It meant that nudity was required, particularly in the saunas and steam rooms. Not wanting to seem like prudish Americans, Peter and I nuded up and enjoyed a dark aromatherapy steam room.
When walking from place to place, however, we all wore bathrobes and flip flops (crocs were abundant). When Peter’s parents pointed out a place to lunch, I thought to the clothes and makeup stored in my locker. Just a quick spruce, I thought, and then I can join everyone, but there I was wrong too. Everyone ate at the restaurant in their bathrobes and flip flops. The restaurant was cafeteria style so as I meandered around looking for Coke Light, I found what it means to drink in Europe. The soda fountain offered Coke, Fanta Orange, Mountain Dew, and…..white wine.
After lunch, Peter and I wandered down to the spa where he had booked a massage for me. After all the various forms of transportation over the past week that required I sleep in an upright position, I was looking forward to a good rub down….and I found out what it means to get a massage in Europe: nudity…again.
I have often marveled at massage therapists’ abilities to preserve my modesty. Massages have always felt comfortable and safe for me, so I was very surprised when the massage therapist asked me to disrobe in front of her (usually a masseuse will leave the room for this event) and climb on to the table. I was wearing my swim suit under my bathrobe, so instead of being able to quickly disrobe, I had to peel off my clammy suit and reveal all the ripples my “slimming” suit had made in my skin, particularly in the butt and thigh area.
Looking vaguely like an albino panini, I lay on the table where I was immediately covered by a sheet. Whether this was protocol or out of sympathy for my striated thighs, I’ll never know. It was a fine massage, but instead of wind chimey, Native American flute-y music, my massage was accompanied by a Cat Stephens cd.
Ironically, this wasn’t the first odd musical moment I experienced in Austria, which is, as far as I can tell, the birthplace of classical music (Hayden, Mozart, Beethoven). I mean, I didn’t expect to be accompanied by Mozart or Strauss at all times, but I found it a little odd to be using a bathroom at an autobahn rest stop that piped-in Mahalia Jackson. It was even more disconcerting to glide along the ice at the Vienna Ice Skating Rink to Billy Squier’s subtle tune, “The Stroke.”
I think I loved Vienna all the more for these idiosyncrasies. In general, I like oxymorons, paradoxes, and all manner of juxtapositions. I like irony. So when Peter and I left Vienna for Paris, we decided to have a little fun with irony. After visiting the Christian Dior flagship store, we trotted down the Champs Elysees to a McDonald’s with a view of the Arc d’Triomphe where we enjoyed grande frites (a large fries). Later at the Galeries Lafayette, Peter went into a Louis Vuitton store and inquired if they sold any fanny packs. He received a firm “no.”
We had a marvelous time letting Paris be what it is, a magnificent city full of museums, shopping, and architectural wonders made even more wonderful when we were walking around, eating crepes stuffed with bananas and Nutella, Peter in jeans and me in my Juicy pants.
It’s funny. When I let go of my expectations, even the most complicated plan became simply delightful.
You see, Peter is completing his Ph.D. at a U.K. university, and apparently when your dissertation committee says that it’s time to defend, you hop on the next flight. Such a change added several complicated traveling dimensions to our vacation, and we left Montana a little earlier than planned so Peter could defend his dissertation.
Everything went fine for a while. We flew effortlessly from Bozeman to Minneapolis to Boston to Paris. While waiting for our flight to London, we were delayed by fairies or elves or something (we were never told what was going on), and we started to get concerned about whether Peter would make his London train to his defense.
Finally, we landed at Heathrow, caught a train to London, and waited for our friends in London to take me and our 67 lbs. of luggage to their flat while Peter caught another train to his defense. Unfortunately, we missed our friends in the busy railway station, so Peter bought an extra train ticket, and I and our 67 lbs. of luggage accompanied Peter to his defense.
Due to an electrical outage, the train was diverted, missing two stops, and though that didn’t slow us down, we ran into serious problems getting a taxi at the station where all the folks who couldn’t get to their homes via train also needed taxis. We made it to his defense with only five minutes to spare, and only when we were walking into his department’s main office did I realize that I would be meeting Peter’s dissertation committee wearing my sweatpants that say “Juicy” on the butt.
Despite that faux pas, Peter passed (he did so well, in fact, that his dissertation was accepted as written, with no corrections), and we celebrated by collapsing at a hotel. We did finally touch base with our friends in London, and we spent a few nice days enjoying museums, shopping, and tea at Fortnum & Mason’s.
From there, we went to Austria and stayed with Peter’s folks who live in a small village outside Vienna, This is when the real vacation began. Peter’s mom spoiled us with freshly baked Christmas cookies, pounds and pounds of Milka chocolate, and, just for me, several liters of diet Coke (Coke Light, in Europe). We saw Don Giovanni at the Vienna State Opera House and visited the oldest Christmas market in Europe in front of Vienna’s town hall. We enjoyed a Austrian tradition of decorating a fir tree with homemade ornaments and candles which we lit (carefully!) on the tree’s branches.
Until the day after Christmas, I mostly stayed at Peter’s house. We took a few short trips into town, but mainly I let myself be fed by Peter’s mom, and nothing, save the language barrier, felt too different from life in the states. That all changed the day after Christmas.
The day after Christmas, I learned what it really meant to be in Europe. Peter’s parents treated us to a visit to the Loipersdorf hot springs for the day. First, I learned what it means to drive in Europe. I clung tightly to Peter’s hand as his dad flew down the autobahn at about 100 miles an hour (and there were people passing us!)
When we arrived at the spa, I learned what it means to be at a hot springs in Europe: nude.
We had chosen an adult area of the hot springs that warned its visitors “Nudist Area Ahead,” but I thought that meant clothing was optional. I was wrong. It meant that nudity was required, particularly in the saunas and steam rooms. Not wanting to seem like prudish Americans, Peter and I nuded up and enjoyed a dark aromatherapy steam room.
When walking from place to place, however, we all wore bathrobes and flip flops (crocs were abundant). When Peter’s parents pointed out a place to lunch, I thought to the clothes and makeup stored in my locker. Just a quick spruce, I thought, and then I can join everyone, but there I was wrong too. Everyone ate at the restaurant in their bathrobes and flip flops. The restaurant was cafeteria style so as I meandered around looking for Coke Light, I found what it means to drink in Europe. The soda fountain offered Coke, Fanta Orange, Mountain Dew, and…..white wine.
After lunch, Peter and I wandered down to the spa where he had booked a massage for me. After all the various forms of transportation over the past week that required I sleep in an upright position, I was looking forward to a good rub down….and I found out what it means to get a massage in Europe: nudity…again.
I have often marveled at massage therapists’ abilities to preserve my modesty. Massages have always felt comfortable and safe for me, so I was very surprised when the massage therapist asked me to disrobe in front of her (usually a masseuse will leave the room for this event) and climb on to the table. I was wearing my swim suit under my bathrobe, so instead of being able to quickly disrobe, I had to peel off my clammy suit and reveal all the ripples my “slimming” suit had made in my skin, particularly in the butt and thigh area.
Looking vaguely like an albino panini, I lay on the table where I was immediately covered by a sheet. Whether this was protocol or out of sympathy for my striated thighs, I’ll never know. It was a fine massage, but instead of wind chimey, Native American flute-y music, my massage was accompanied by a Cat Stephens cd.
Ironically, this wasn’t the first odd musical moment I experienced in Austria, which is, as far as I can tell, the birthplace of classical music (Hayden, Mozart, Beethoven). I mean, I didn’t expect to be accompanied by Mozart or Strauss at all times, but I found it a little odd to be using a bathroom at an autobahn rest stop that piped-in Mahalia Jackson. It was even more disconcerting to glide along the ice at the Vienna Ice Skating Rink to Billy Squier’s subtle tune, “The Stroke.”
I think I loved Vienna all the more for these idiosyncrasies. In general, I like oxymorons, paradoxes, and all manner of juxtapositions. I like irony. So when Peter and I left Vienna for Paris, we decided to have a little fun with irony. After visiting the Christian Dior flagship store, we trotted down the Champs Elysees to a McDonald’s with a view of the Arc d’Triomphe where we enjoyed grande frites (a large fries). Later at the Galeries Lafayette, Peter went into a Louis Vuitton store and inquired if they sold any fanny packs. He received a firm “no.”
We had a marvelous time letting Paris be what it is, a magnificent city full of museums, shopping, and architectural wonders made even more wonderful when we were walking around, eating crepes stuffed with bananas and Nutella, Peter in jeans and me in my Juicy pants.
It’s funny. When I let go of my expectations, even the most complicated plan became simply delightful.
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