Sentimentality

Sentimentality is not an uncommon feeling for me. I embrace it, as a matter of fact. I stalk it. I sit on its front steps and wait for it to come home so I can beg for more. (Creepiest metaphor I've ever come up with. Sorry.)

The point is, I often do things just because they seem romantic to me. Just because, I suppose, I've read about them in a book somewhere down the line.

So it shouldn't surprise you that on December 11th, 2011, following my last Ultimate training in Austria, I had an emotional walk home. It was a long walk, too; down a lane lined with trees and bordered by fields. There were mountains in the distance. I trudged along, past families out for their Sunday strolls, couples heading for the Christmas Market at Hellbrunn, and equestrians guiding their horses gingerly around the walkers. I was thinking, as I walked, about my frisbee playing, and how it was the very last thing I expected to be doing in Europe, and how it was also the best. I began to make up a poem in my head. Sometimes when I do this I don't write the poem down; I tell myself I'll copy it out later, and then I never do. On December 11th, however, I veered off the path, found a curb to perch on, leaned my back into the late Fall sunshine, and wrote my poem on a scrap of paper I found in my backpack.

Here it is, not fancy or fine, but small, and dripping with the sentimentality I can't help but adore:

I love the feeling of throwing a frisbee,
of knowing as soon as your wrist releases
and the disc leaves the curl of your hand
that no matter which direction it goes,
it will fly straight
and without a wobble.

December 11th, 2011
Hellbrunn, Salzburg, Austria

Ultimate

Have I ever told you about Ultimate Frisbee?
I probably should now, because the sport makes me so, so happy. In every way.

I was going to sign up for badminton, or volleyball, or basketball, but by the time I got to the registration office, everything was full. Every sports class I had ever dreamed of taking was full, leaving me to take the one class I had never dreamed of taking.

Ultimate, of course.

And I love it. I loved it from the first day, when I could hardly throw a frisbee, to the second day, when we all discovered that I can catch. Not to brag, but I can catch, my friends. I attribute this talent to many years of tossing footballs and softballs (no frisbees) around the front yard with my Dad. Our coach proclaimed me the wide receiver, and I went home happy.

The best part of Ultimate, however, is not the sport itself. It's the people. I'm one of four Americans on the team (the other three are some AIFS buddies of mine), and the rest are Austrians. Frisbee came during a time when I was really feeling down about being in Salzburg. I felt like I didn't have any friends, my roommate treated me like the devil's spawn (well, not everything has changed), and I was desperately, daily, gut-wrenchingly homesick. And then I'd go to Ultimate, and I would be on a team. And everyone would be helping everyone and making jokes and speaking a confused mix of German and English and I felt like I fit in without a hitch.

I was worried initially that since so many people on the team are really good players, they would grow impatient with my sorry incompetence and shun me forever. They did not do this. Everyone has been helpful and friendly. They even refrain from laughing when I fall on my butt, legs up in the air (which, let's be honest, happens at least two times every practice).

And sure, I'm still not the best player out there. Like I said, my catching is fairly good, but my throwing definitely needs some work. I'm still getting used to using my wrist instead of my entire arm, and I currently can only throw backhand. But I have glorious amounts of fun on the field.

Tonight it was my friend Maggie's (an AIFS kid) birthday. We had talked about it casually at the last practice, and I guess everyone remembered, because two different team members showed up with baked goods to share. Let me tell you that eating a piece of raspberry cream sponge cake and a piece of brownie, and then running two large laps around the field is not a fantastic idea. But it sure is delicious.

Anyway, we all sang to Maggie, and she blew out a candle, and then we did our drills and scrimmaged for an hour. And then we ate more cake.

And now I'm back in Internationales Kolleg (my dorm), sitting with Mac on my lap. I'm still in my Ultimate clothes. I should probably take a shower, but I don't really want to. I don't really want to wash this evening off yet.

It's Been Six Months

Remember this post, when I said that in six months, I could very well be here?



Ahem.

The Year Without a Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving! This is the fourth one we're celebrating together (if you can believe it).

There was the 2008 Thanksgiving Narrative

There was the 2009 Cranky Thanksgiving Post

And there was the 2010 Thankful Thanksgiving (yes, it took me three years to actually figure out the purpose of the holiday)

This year, however, is radically different. This year is the Year of No Thanksgiving.

They don't celebrate it over here, you see. I had classes today as usual. Stores are open. There are no touch football games going on in the park, and there are no driveways overflowing with out-of-town cars.

It's an ordinary day here in Austria, and I have to say, it makes me a little sad.

AIFS is trying to make it up to us by organizing a fancy dinner concert for tonight. We're going to the oldest restaurant in Europe to eat a three course meal (traditional Austrian food, not turkey) and listen to Mozart. Dresses and suits are required.
And while this is all very nice, and while I appreciate the program trying to make us feel less forlorn about missing Thanksgiving, I would much prefer jeans and sweatshirts to a cocktail dress. I would rather eat my Dad's homemade stuffing than schnitzel. I would rather sit across the table from my young cousins than from people who don't know the first thing about me. Heck, I would rather suffer through another Packer win than listen to a string quartet.

I'm thankful for the opportunity to study in Salzburg. I'm thankful for all that I've seen and experienced. I'm thankful for my health and my newfound independence and for my family and friends back home who love me. I'm thankful for Special K Cereal (red berries).

And I'm thankful for you, especially if you stuck with me after the 2009 Thanksgiving post (that was rough to reread).

Have a wonderful day, you guys. Eat plenty of turkey for me.

What a Letter Means

I got a letter today. A miraculous letter that stuck its white corner out of my postbox. Even that corner looked like a miracle.

Last night I had to turn someone down, which is always a horrible experience. I usually tread softly around these things, but last night I decided that the only way to bring a sense of finality was to be honest. I wasn't cruel; I simply said that I wasn't looking for a relationship, but thank you for the offer. My friends, who I had consulted about the whole thing (I'm a consulter; I know this about myself), applauded my efforts, saying that honesty is always best, saying that the cruelest thing, really, is to give someone false hope.

I went to bed decently contented, and woke up horrified. This someone, you see, is the sensitive sort. The sort that maybe shouldn't have to contend with honesty all the time. The sort who maybe just wanted my friendship more than anything else. And I, tall and terrible, made brave by Facebook, tromped all over any semblance of hope or promise. I woke up thinking that I should have just gone to dinner with this someone. I should have talked with him, really talked and really listened. I should have seen this as an opportunity to get to know him better, instead of running scared at the prospect of him liking me in a different way than I like him.

So that letter, as I'm sure you can now imagine, meant a lot today. It meant so much, in fact, that I couldn't even bring myself to open it. I had things to do today; studying, running, classes, etc., and I didn't want any trivial thing getting in the way of my letter. I waited 12 hours to open it, until just now, when I was properly in bed and comfortable, with no German grammar tugging at my conscience.

It was beautiful, that letter. Blissful. I cried twice. Not because of anything sad, but because it means everything to get something from home. I know I've mentioned this before, but it's still true. The very hardest part about being here is that there isn't anyone who knows me, really really knows me, within 5,000 miles. And this letter made me cry because it reminded me that 5,001 miles away, there is someone who knows me. And they wrote me a letter.

Just Like Elizabeth

It's raining here in Salzburg.
It has been raining all evening.
And you know what I just realized?
That my laundry is hanging outside, and has been since this afternoon.

I was upset about this, about having to throw on a coat over my jammies (yes, I call pajamas jammies. Don't judge), having to hunt down my ipod (because you can't do anything epic without a soundtrack), and having to run out in the cold to fetch cold, wet clothes.

I was upset, that is, until a friend pointed out that this situation sounds a lot like a scene in Pride and Prejudice (new version), where Elizabeth is snatching clothes off the line in the rain.

Needless to say, I'm now feeling pretty good about going outside.

Also, in case you're wondering why I've been so lazy as of late with my posting, check my other blog. Vienna last weekend. It's all there.

How to Feed Yourself While Still Leaving Enough Money So You Can Graduate in Four Years (A Food Network Pilot)

Here's what I'm considering:

Taking raw walnuts
A cup of Dole peaches
And cinnamon

And making "poor man's peach pie." (Aka putting the walnuts in a bowl and topping with peaches mixed with cinnamon)

Oh, the desperate lives we college-age dessert lovers live.

I should have my own Food Network show: How To Feed Yourself While Still Leaving Enough Money So You Can Graduate in Four Years. Or, How To Navigate Austrian Grocery Stores With Only a Pocket Dictionary to Aid You. Or, The Art of Grilled Cheese And Tomato Soup.

In case you're wondering if I'm serious about the "peach pie," I totally am. Photographic evidence will follow (later).

In Which Kevin and Perry Force My Hand

I don't know if I can do it, you guys. Maybe Morris has spoiled me too much, or maybe my childhood was too sheltered, or maybe I'm just not the right kind of person. But I don't know if I can be friends with these people.

They're so judgmental, and so unfriendly towards anyone who's even the least bit different.

For example, one guy in our group, Kevin (name has been changed), is a talker, and can be a little obnoxious about it. He doesn't try to be; in fact, I think it's obvious that he means well, and that that he's trying to be impressive and outgoing in order to make friends, but evidently the other people in the group don't see it that way. They mock him constantly. They spent the whole two and a half hour bus ride today baiting him with ridiculous questions, and then video recording his equally ridiculous answers so they could laugh at him later. As we got on the bus for the ride back, there was actually a small argument between two boys over who had to ride next to Kevin. And Kevin was sitting right there.

Later on, I was walking home from the bus stop with a group of kids from my dorm, and they were making fun of yet another guy in our group, Perry, who's from Texas, and is a perfectly nice, friendly person. But evidently he doesn't drink. Evidently he had a glass of wine with dinner tonight, but evidently that wasn't good enough. Evidently a mere glass of wine is grounds for eternal damnation. They were talking about making fun of Sam Houston, or bringing up the loss of the Alamo in front of Perry just to make him angry. (Yes, I will admit that the Sam Houston thing was kind of clever, but definitely not humorous in this context). Furthermore, I happen to know (and they knew as well) that it's Perry's birthday today, and that he's far from home and his friends and family. What kind of people trash talk someone on his birthday? In fact, what kind of people in a study abroad program trash talk other people in the same study abroad program? Aren't we supposed to be in the same boat here? Didn't we come to Salzburg to immerse ourselves in something new, instead of settling back into our middle school bad habits? Aren't we adults now? Aren't we strong and independent and beyond such pettiness?

Anyway, I don't think I exaggerated with the above stories, and I don't think I'll be exaggerating when I say that I'm literally on a precipice: I can either compromise all that I believe about people, and how they do and don't deserve to be treated, or I can spend the next few months being largely shunned by my entire study abroad group. I can either drink myself into a stupor every night at Shamrock's, or I can sit alone in my room with my laptop and Jane Austen.

I'm not a perfect person, and I'm sure I'm not handling this perfectly, but I'm choosing the latters.

I may be lonely sometimes, and I may be homesick sometimes, and I may at times wish that I had chosen a different program with different people, but this is where I am, and this is how I need to be.

Somewhere deep down in the stubbornest part of my being, I know that I can't be anyone else, and that I can't do things any differently.

And I'm not suffering, really I'm not; I have two really great friends here that I can do things with, and there are a few other members of my group whom I would like to get to know better. Salzburg is beautiful, Austria is divine, my German is improving, and classes start tomorrow.

Life is mostly good, as always, and I'm sorry that you have to see the bad parts, dear readers.

Stay gold. I'll be trying.

Salzburged

Some funny things about living in Austria:

1. Every time I have to make an interaction with a native German speaker, whether it be to buy a bus ticket, order lunch, or simply to apologize for a random act of clumsiness, I think of said interaction like a game: let's see how long I can keep them believing that I am also a native speaker. Usually not long. But I'm getting better.

2. I am now utterly and completely unimpressed with the Alps. What? I can see a mountain from my dorm room window? Ho hum.

3. This is not a good place for people with a sweet tooth to live. It's downright dangerous. Must take brisk walks/slow jogs daily in retaliation.

4. Since I'm (sort of) a native now, I'm quickly becoming annoyed by tourists. Dear large group of 60 plus-ers: please take your umpteenth picture of Mozart's birthplace and quit blocking the sidewalk. Danke schön. (Sorry if this sounds mean, but those darn tour groups almost made me late for class this morning; their bulky cameras and fanny packs forced me to practically crawl along the street in order to keep moving.)

5. Almost every single person in my group (that is, other members of my study abroad program) goes out drinking every night. Every single night. Drunk. Stumbling home at 7 a.m. as I'm walking the opposite way, heading to class. Ergo, I have not made many friends as of yet. Because although I'm now legal, and although I'm certainly not opposed to having a drink now and then (not that I really have yet), I also firmly believe that the majority of one's fun, whether alone or with a group, should be had sober. I mean, if you're drunk, you're not really having fun. The chemicals poisoning your liver are. And I don't know if they should be having that much fun, especially when in close proximity to a vital organ.

Come on guys, can't we just play Sardines instead?

I miss Morris.

6. It's so incredibly beautiful here, but I think about home and the people back home ALL THE TIME. I'll be looking at something, and all of the sudden I'll think, "Jeez, my Dad would enjoy this retired WWII tanker. He would probably make me spend hours touring it with him, because he always has to read EVERY SINGLE THING in EVERY SINGLE DISPLAY." And then I'll shake my head and remember that I'm supposed to be independent and grownup and I'm supposed to be making new friends and sharing things with them. And then I'll remember that my dorm room currently smells like a brewery and I'll feel a little bit of despair because I don't know if I want that kind of friend.

And then I'll get really snobby and decide that I already have enough friends back home. Why do I need more?

And then I'll sit in my room by myself, stare at the wall, and think, "Oh. That's why."

Don't get me wrong; I love it in Salzburg. I just wish I had some good people to love it with.

Stay gold, guys. And maybe send some my way. I'm the one reading Northanger Abbey in Room 330.

You Say It's Your Birthday

It's my birthday too. (That's a Beatles song for all of you sad, lonely, McCartneyless folks).

As always, it doesn't feel like my birthday. I'm twenty-one today. Huh. Interesting. Now please excuse me while I go back to alternating between whining in despair and attempting to cram one more item into my already bulging suitcase.

The one thing I will say about being twenty-one is that it's my last big birthday for a long while. At least until thirty, I'd say. And it's certainly the last birthday truly associated with being a teenager/young adult. After this it will just be another year, ho hum. No more big-deal kid birthdays for me. No more exclamations about how old I'm getting (because after a certain point, of course, such exclamations change from being complimentary to being downright insulting). Pretty soon my birthday cake will no longer be decorated with a candle for every year of my life. There'll be a candle for every five years, every decade. Fire safety comes before Grandma's pride, you know.

I'm afraid I can't say a whole lot about Austria right now because (see above) I still have packing to do, and it's late, and I'm exhausted from my last 4 a.m. shift at Target. I will say that I'm currently fairly frightened, and that I feel like a freshman all over again, and that if I didn't know deep down that I'm going to have a wonderful time, I would probably be cowering under my covers right now (although that still might come later on tonight).

The Wordpress blog is still a no-go. I haven't had the time (nor the patience) today to fiddle with it again, so it'll just have to wait until I'm actually sitting on the streets of Salzburg. Maybe it will work then?

Until then, I'll be journaling, I'll be thinking of you guys, and I'll be twenty-one.

Stay gold.

This is What I have to Work With

This is what I have to work with.

And it's not going well, folks. I'm overwhelmed. I have everything (as you can see), but I just have no idea how to go about cramming it all into my suitcase. I don't want to be the girl wearing the same shirt day after day, but I also don't want to be the girl who can't hoist her suitcase off the baggage carousel without the help of four large German men in lederhosen.

Furthermore, I think Wordpress may have some sort of vendetta against me. I think it knows I also have a Blogger, because I strongly suspect that it is purposefully making itself difficult to navigate. It doesn't really matter anyway, though, because I still haven't thought of a name for my travel blog! I want something clever, yet specific to the purpose of that blog (i.e. describing my European adventures). And if you suggest I name it My European Adventures, I may have to make an Oompa Loompa my Person of the Week for the next year just to spite you.

Here are the current options:
Salzburged (too violent sounding? And it makes me think of burgers which is kind of off-topic)
Holly Goes to Europe (too immature sounding? It's not very subtle...)
Rick Steve Ain't Got Nothin On Me, Dog
Holly's Von Trip (I'm officially fooling around now. Sorry.)

Poster Child

I turn twenty-one years old on Thursday*. I leave the country, not to return until December, on Friday. The following Saturday, I will be in London. The following Monday, I will be in Munich, and then in Salzburg approximately two hours later (or so my itinerary says).

Before these days come to pass, I have to do the following:
-Begin one travel blog (and think of a name for said blog. See me with any ideas)
-Shop for various small items, including, of all things, a winter hat (where am I going to find one of those at the beginning of September? Again, see me with ideas)
-Clean the bottomless pit of despair that used to be my bedroom
-Work four more shifts at Target (3 of which begin at 4 a.m.)
-Pack one large suitcase and two small carryons with enough clothes and books and random necessities to keep me happy until December
-Win/Steal/Pawn family jewels to buy a Kindle so I don't have to tote aforementioned books across Europe (ignore this post. Books are heavy.)
-Say goodbye to 2 wonderful parents and 2 gloriously smelly German Shepherd dogs
-Relearn all of the German I've forgotten over the past three months (I know, I know: good luck with that, Holly)

On a happier note, I think I've officially hit all the emotions commonly associated with study abroad preparations. You've seen excited, you've seen scared, you've seen wistful, and now you're seeing stressed.

I feel like one of those posters you see in a guidance counselor's office. You know: the one with the awkward photo of a '90s teenager holding a book and a backpack and somehow managing to look pleasant and disparaging at the same time? That's me.

*Remember when you and your friends Googled the day of your 21st birthdays to see if they fell on weekends (for optimal partying, of course)? Well, I never actually did that, but now that I'm approaching the monumental day, I greatly appreciate that it's a Thursday. You know I love Thursdays. Whenever something exceedingly strange or exceedingly wonderful happens to me, it's always on a Thursday. Here's hoping Thursday won't let me down this week.

I Need to Get Out of the Country

I need to get out of the country.
My life has turned into a monotonous string of work days and non work days.

On work days I wake up at 5:15 a.m. after about six hours of sleep. I listen to music on the way to work, which cheers me up briefly, but as soon as I'm facing the double doors of Target, knowing I won't emerge again until 3:00, I lose my courage. I still like my job, but I think it's gotten to the point where not much can sway me anymore. Not much tries to sway me anymore. Every day is the same, with only a few variations: I cover two electronics breaks instead of three, I see a former high school teacher wearing summer clothing and I am strangely embarrassed for them and for myself, I have cherries instead of a peach in my lunch. It's getting more and more difficult to pretend that these variations are something special.

On non work days I sleep in until 9:15. I then have decisions to make: should I watch TV, read, or fiddle around on Mac? Should I do Tae Bo, Gilad, or Gunnar Peterson? How much longer can I procrastinate on replying to that email or depositing that check or putting away my clean laundry?

There are sparks of hope and there are sparks of fun, but I think mostly I'm getting that feeling I get every summer around this time.

I need to get out of the country.

I suppose Austria will do.

I Went Running Today

I went running today.

I know, I know. Who is this hacker writing on Holly's blog, and why is she so crazy?

But it's true. I went running today. It's all part of my master plan. You see, I've been really trying hard to work out every single day lately. I've actually been doing so for about a month now.

(Mainly because I want to have the cardio part covered in case of a zombie invasion)

My current workouts consist of following along with DVDs: Balance ball schtuff, Tae-Bo, Denise Austin's whywon'tthiswomanstopsmiling kickboxing, Gilad's epic beach aerobics, etc. I've done it all.

The thing, is, though, I can't exactly bring my workout tapes to Austria with me. I can't exactly bounce around throwing punches in my dorm room. I can't exactly squeeze a balance ball through customs.

So, I'm running. Because it requires nothing but pavement and shoes. (And a top and shorts, please.) I found a good running plan online, designed especially for beginners. It basically has you do intervals of running and walking, alternating, and then gradually decreases the amount of walking as the weeks go by.

I kicked off said plan at a local track today. My Mother the triathlete came with. She did a triathlon last Sunday, placed 82nd out of a thousand-something people, placed second in her age group for the swimming, and she came with. She biked 15 miles this morning, and she came with.

She then proceeded to lap me around the track multiple times, barely walking at all.

Maybe I should do the rest of my training without My Mother the Triathlete. I don't know if my ego can take it otherwise.

Just kidding.

What I'm not kidding about is how hard running is. I remembered hating it in 9th and 10th gym (the last time I ran a mile), but I thought it would be different now for some reason. I thought it would be romantic; I thought the pounding of my feet and the beating of my heart and the bass in my ipod would inspire me and propel me forward. Instead, I sweated and I panted and I walked more than I ran.

But I did run a half mile. Walked about a mile. And that's okay for me, a non-triathlete.

I'll keep trying.

In Which A Trip to Half Price Books Straightens Me Out

Did anyone ever tell you that studying abroad involves a lot of paperwork? No one ever told me.
But paperwork has been my game these past few days. Visa application, financial aid schtuff, hideous passport pictures, etc.
I was coming out of the bank this afternoon after getting a signature notarized (not as exciting as I thought it would be), when all of the sudden my visa application blew out of my hands and across the parking lot. As it twirled towards the highway, and as I ran after it, all I was thinking was "if this darn thing blows into speeding traffic, you had better believe I'm going after it." Luckily, it didn't, so I didn't have to. But I would have.

I'm almost done with everything, though, and then all I'll have to worry about will be brushing up on my German and shopping for Europe-worthy clothes (you know: scarves, sweaters, more scarves, lederhosen. That type of thing).

In other news, I've been in a bit of a book funk ever since school ended; I've been starting books and not finishing them. I hate this funk. I hate not being able to write up finished books in my Read-a-Thon notebook. I hate puttering around listlessly in front of my bookshelf. I hate watching TV in desperation (although Billy Elliot was on the other night. Good movie).

Thankfully, a recent trip to the library, and a more recent trip to Half Price Books seem to have straightened me out.

Here are my HPB finds:
1. As I Lay Dying (with a sweet inscription to Kristi on the inside cover)-$3.00
2. My Antonia-$1.00
3. This Way for the Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen (because how could I pass up a collection of concentration camp stories collected under a title like that?)-$6.98
4. The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (I've wanted it ever since I read The Bell Jar last winter)-$9.98
5. Lolita (Am I going to actually read a Russian novel at last? Does this count as a Russian novel seeing as Nabokov didn't actually live in Russia for most of his life?)-$6.98

Feeling that my literary-fueled life has purpose again-priceless.