Ginger Snapped

I’m eating Doritos right at this very minute because last week, my Austrian friend took me shopping. We went to a place called The Snack Shop that sells all kinds of American junk food. I succumbed, but I hadn’t broken into them until today, probably because there’s so much amazing regular food that who needs junk food? So, yes, I ate Doritos today, but I also listened to parts of Mozart’s The Magic Flute.  That must cancel out the Doritos, right? Better yet, I got a library card! Which has absolutely nothing to do with either Doritos or Mozart, but it makes me happy. Anyway, since the last time I wrote, I have attended a Back to School Night and met all the teachers and got all the forms and signed all the paperwork. I took the gingerbread boy to Prague last weekend solo because the Gingerbread Man was presenting at a conference in New York. I navigated Prague—there, around, and back. Are you impressed? I am. Especially because my data didn’t work while we were there. A...

An update is long overdue, but it’s taken awhile to get my feet on solid ground—to find a balance between the feeling that we’re-only-here-for-a-year-and-I-must-not-waste-any-time and the sense that if I give in to that, I’ll make myself crazy with either guilt or exhaustion or both. Life is different here, but it’s also exactly the same. The differences? There are small ones like the fact that the toilet is in its own little room with the tiniest sink I have ever seen. The bathroom is across the hall with a bathtub that is lovely and deep, but has no shower curtain. It’s a bit of a splashfest when cleaning up. The washing machine is next to the tub, but we have no clothes dryer, so laundry has to be considered in advance because there’s no quick-dry option. Most days, I carry the laundry up to the roof (er—more like wrangle a flimsy laundry basket around the creaking stairs) and hang it out to dry on a line that the Gingerbread Man rigged up. We also have large wire racks that w...

If you were to choose the elements of a perfect place to live, you might be like a deer caught in headlights. Sometimes, you have to go somewhere else to see what there is to see, and know what there is to know before you could ever say, “This. This is where I want to live.” Or maybe that’s just me. I’ve traveled many places, but I see the elements of what makes a good life here: Safe, reliable, convenient, and clean public transportation. (Hello, beach day) Small grocery stores on every couple of blocks. (Not a lot of processed foods, either) Many green spaces. (I saw a guy standing on his head during one of my walks through the park) An appreciation for the arts, making them affordable for everyone. (10 euro opera tickets) Courtesy for other people. (I’ve seen people give up their seats for older women a few times) Cafes where you can sit for hours without anyone batting an eye. (Sacher torte, anyone?) And, there’s IKEA (accessible from public transportation, of c...

We toured the Vienna State Opera House today. It’s incredibly beautiful, but it was also heartbreaking in a way, because most of it was destroyed during WWII. Here’s the one section that’s original: In fact, as we travel through the city by tram or bus, it’s clear to me which sections had been bombed during the war, because the newer buildings are plain, flat-fronted, unadorned. It’s something that most Americans have not had to think about, as Pearl Harbor was really the only American setting of destruction. But my heart hurts when I think of so many people suffering. This is the emperor’s special sitting room at the Opera. All the gold is 22 karat. You can rent it for a 20-minute intermission for only 500 euros. The entrance hall at the Opera House. We toured the backstage as well, which is huge. They employ 300 workers just for the stage and sets. In addition, there is a full orchestra, choir, and ballet. They also give a different show each night, AND you ...

True joy was in the air today on the banks of the Danube. Look at these people. No inhibitions, no body shaming, no flies, no mosquitos, no garbage, no fear. There were grandmas in bikinis, children splashing, sun shining, clear water flowing. We swam to the dock, dried off, and swam back. We picnicked, we relaxed, we watched a class of sailboats zoom up and down and around. The people here know how to live. They know how to enjoy life. I’m grateful to be here learning from them.

Finding my way to church today involved the tram and bus and a handy little app that showed me the way. The English language ward is chock full of internationals and embassy people. For lunch we had leftover Wiener schnitzel and potato salad, then we took a trip up to see Will’s new school. We were actually able to get in and look around, and it seems nice. Then, as reward for going out in the 93 degree heat, we stopped for gelato: Seriously, I think I’d spend my last euro on gelato. Yum.

The health app tells me I’ve climbed 31 floors and made 20,363 steps today. Here’s why: That’s the south tower at St. Stephen’s. We climbed it. Here’s what we saw:  But what goes up, must come down. And after all that, here’s what I had for lunch: Yes, apple strudel. Don’t tell my mom. Actually, you can tell her. I’m certain she’d approve. We also wandered around the city. Here’s the Rathaus, or the city hall. I personally think this looks like a city hall, and the Rathaus is actually somewhere east of the Potomac River. And lastly, here’s dinner. Wiener schnitzel as big as your head. Bigger, actually. And now, to appease that jet-lag. Zzzz.

You went to Boston yesterday for a meeting at the Austrian consulate. It felt like a blessing because the gingerbread boy will be off to German camp this weekend for a month, and his birth certificate with apostille has not arrived yet. Rather than pull him out of camp to visit with the consulate once the apostille does come, the consul lets you bring in the rest of the paperwork with the gingerbread boy immediately, but won’t date it until the official meeting on July 1st when you and the gingerbread man do your paperwork. The build up to leave is comical. Papers printed in triplicates (just in case). German phrases checked and double checked. A race down 95 to find get to Boston before all the parking is gone. But then, there you all are. It’s beautifully sunny and you have 30 minutes to kill. You decide to walk to the gingerbread man’s office, but you have a thought. Why not get the visa photos taken of you and the GBM? Surely there’s a drug store around that is able to do so. ...

The house: Water filtration system is now in. There’s no arsenic, but the tank leaks. The driveway is scheduled to be sealed. Two estimates for some window replacements are scheduled for the windows that have somehow rotted out. The Persian rugs have been rolled up and stored at your mother-in-law’s house. The family photos have been removed from the hallway. The house is slowly becoming renter-ready, if only you had a renter to rent it. The documents: All birth certificates and marriage certificates must have an apostille. Originally, you thought that meant a certified copy with a raised seal. Um, no. That would be too easy. An apostille is a document certifying the authenticity of said document in question with a signature, a raised seal, stapled with the flap open, and stamped across the flap—all obtained from the original state the document was processed. You have received your birth certificate with apostille, but you still await two more birth certificates and a marriage cert...

You have lost count of how many loads of laundry you have done today. You have also lost count how many times you’ve driven past that pond where the geese and goslings are on your way to and from town. In fact, you’ve lost count of what day it is and who you are; you’re simply going on autopilot according to the beefy to-do list you made yesterday for this week: one graduation, one piano recital, one band concert, one car maintenance appointment, one doctor’s appointment, two dentist appointments, four houseguests, one meeting, one book club Skype visit, a road trip to Massachusetts to pick up restored paintings, a senior awards night, four band rehearsals, a festival, a silent movie, a cook-out, a restaurant or two, a seminary graduation, and some sheer panic, and that about sums it up for this week. Besides the grocery shopping. There’s that, too. Next week brings three more doctor’s appointments for various family members in Campaign Let’s All Be Healthy Before We Leave, and a tri...

You are making progress. Slowly. So slowly. Birth certificates with apostilles. Marriage certificate with an apostille. Copies of passports. Appointments with the Austrian consulate. Emails. Phone calls. And home school. You’re reading Homer’s Odyssey  with the gingerbread offspring, and you feel a kinship with such a traveler. But you haven’t even reached the part where Odysseus makes his entrance. You’re still in Book IV, and you’re supposed to be starting Shakespeare in June. Oof. Maybe by the time you’re finished, you’ll also be ready to begin traveling. You did make quinoa for dinner tonight, and that’s using up some of your pantry items. That’s about as good as it gets right now. Small victories, one grain of quinoa at a time.

Jules Verne insisted that one could circumnavigate the globe in 80 days. The youngest gingerbread offspring must have picked up on this vibe today, because he asked if you could go to Azerbaijan. When you responded that perhaps you could just start with Austria, he smiled. And then asked if you could fly to Iraq. Austria first, please? “Maybe Uruk?” he asked. This is what comes of reading The Tale of Gilgamesh for homeschooling. Yesterday when you returned home from family camp, the obvious quiet coming from the chicken coop concerned you. Sure enough, when you went to check the chickens, they were all victims of a local criminal—probably of the fox variety—and it makes you sad, even if you hadn’t been to visit them in a while. The backyard feels empty now. You went to the police station today—not to report the fox, but to get a letter stating that you have no criminal record so you can have an official piece of American bureaucracy to show to the Austrian government for thei...

You count. There are 81 days until you leave for Vienna. 81 days to finalize schooling for the younger gingerbread offspring. 81 days to find a renter for the house. 81 days to clean out the attic, basement, and office. 81 days to eat all the random pantry items (e.g., sesame seeds, canned green chiles, red lentils, sushi rice, lots of table salt). 81 days to figure out what is essential to bring (favorite kitchen knife, garlic press, earplugs? Are there earplugs in Austria?), what can be purchased there (exercise ball? Instant Pot? Earplugs?), and what you can live without (an oven, since the apartment that will become home doesn’t have one, but it does have a rooftop terrace, so.). 81 days to prepare the older gingerbread offspring for college (send him with earplugs). The square root of 81 is 9, and the square root of 9 is 3, which is the number of Johnsons who will be living in Vienna. Which is also probably how time will pass. 81 days will suddenly turn into nine days, which w...

Each morning, you stand by the window watching your boys until they're on the bus or picked up. You watch them leave your circle of safety and hope for the best. You can't know what that day will bring. Nothing, maybe. Or maybe a bomb threat. Maybe a math test. Maybe a lockdown drill. Or maybe a real lockdown. But on this day, there is something different. A rally. A walk-out. A demonstration. Your oldest son asked if you'd call to have him dismissed and bring him downtown to attend the demonstration. You want your voice to be heard, and even more, you want your son's voice to be heard, so you call the school, you pick him up, you drive downtown. You don't know what to expect, but the reality makes you weepy. A crowd of teenagers, many carrying hand-drawn signs stand gathered in front of the church, chanting. Adults congregate around the edges. A band plays, keeping time for the chants. Horns honk as their drivers show support. One man in a truck wags his fi...

When you board the bus, it is dark out. You are in New Hampshire. When you exit the bus, it is broad daylight. You are in New York. After dropping off your suitcase, you head toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and it occurs to you that you have stepped into the character of Claudia Kincaid in one of your favorite childhood books,  From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler . You just lack a younger brother with a card habit and pockets full of change. You take the B line north and you find that your past makes you strangely comfortable on the subway, and you silently thank your grandparents for the millionth time for that summer in London when you were fearless at thirteen and navigated your way through the underground on a daily basis. It has triumphed over your adult self full of uncertainty and fear. You are hustled up the stairs by the crush of crowds, and you find yourself curious about them. You hear snippets of conversations: "A hundred-thousand......

On your bedside table sits a photo of two little boys: a blue-eyed dark-haired boy wearing overalls and a brown-eyed blondie wearing stripes. They stand on a screened-in porch that looks dark as night because of the trees surrounding it. Their eyes are bright and their cheeks are full. They are adorable. They are darling. They are delightful. They are childhood, joy, confidence, and light all rolled up into small bodies. They are the face of little things, the agglomeration of drips and drops of little efforts poured into a seemingly bottomless vessel. But it's the little things that count. It's the little things that nearly pull a mother down into the abyss. The endless brushing of little teeth, of washing little hands. The recurrent tying of little laces and buckling of little overalls. The ceaseless cutting of chicken or buttering of toast or peeling of carrots. The relentless singing of songs and reading of books when a mama is so tired that the words don't seem to ...

I am a slow writer. I am always astounded by people who say they write a draft in a month, or even in two months. I placate myself by saying such drafts must not be very good. Otherwise I think I would completely despair, close the laptop permanently, and take up life as a pig farmer.  When I write, I open my files, and my characters stare at me from the page patiently waiting for stage directions. I give them setting, and they tap their feet. I give them description, and they cross their arms. I say, “What do you want me to do? You’re the character! Do something! Make some plot happen!” Meanwhile, my characters look at their nails, stifle a yawn, and reply, “You’re the writer. What do  you  want me to do?” This continues until I’m so disheartened that I skip to the end and take a cue from Scarlett O’Hara. I’ll think about the middle tomorrow. So the whole concept of NaNoWriMo has always smacked of insanity to me. It seems as if you’re just setting yourself up ...

Well, friends, it seems as if a future in  pig-farming  is not imminent, thank goodness. I am beyond thrilled to report that NaNoWriMo was a success for me. Of course, it helped that there were no falling Christmas trees, no snowstorms, no power outages. There were no major illnesses, and only one trip to Urgent Care during the month of November. At the end of 30 days, I had a complete first draft: a beginning, middle, and end, not to mention characters who spoke to me. In fact, they often wouldn’t shut up. So what did I learn from the experience? 1. I can start and finish a project quickly. As I said in my last post, I’ve always considered myself a slow writer. Signing up for NaNoWriMo eliminated any prior conceptions or misconceptions I had about my writing speed. One caveat, though: some serious preparation was key. Before the month started, I designated a composition notebook for this project and brainstormed characters, settings, plot lines, and ideas. 2. ...

"[W]hat we really gain from the artmaking of others is courage-by-association."                                                                                                  -David Bayles and Ted Orland                                                  Art and Fear: Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking