YURT ME, YURT ME!

Yesterday we went to the Camel and Donkey Festival at Schloss Hof in Austria (www.schlosshof.at). It is just over the border. In fact, from Slovakia you can see the schloss and from the schloss you can see the VW plant in Slovakia.

I find out about these things because, in Austria, they put posters for local events up in every little village. Sometimes they are on billboards or poles. Sometimes they are on easels that sit on the sidewalks.

Last year I had seen posters for a Grosse Pferde Fest (Big Horse Festival) at the schloss, and we had gone. Apparently the property belonged to Prince Eugene of Savoy. The website says that in 1726, he purchased Hof Castle, which at that time was rather modestly sized, and had the famous architect Johann Lucas von Hildebrandt transform it into a magnificently princely refuge.

The site actually has two castles or manor houses, a large baroque garden (complete with an enclosure of moose and another of buffalo), and a baroque farm. Most of this is new since we were there for the horse fest. When we came the last time, everyone parked on the little village streets and on neighbors lawns. Now there is a big, lovely parking area. The villagers must have gotten fed up. But seriously, now there is an appropriate place for buses. Signs are clear and logical. The walk way is nice.

The website says this about the farm:

North of the castle, in an area stretching over six hectares, is one of Central Europe’s largest baroque farms. In former times, this is where an entire army of domestic servants saw to the comfort of the prince and his guests and ensured that everything functioned smoothly at the glittering parties.

This tradition was revived with the renovation of the Festival Castles. Carpenters and basket-makers, pewterers and blacksmiths pursue these old handcrafts on the old farm, jams and schnapps are again being produced, and traditional remedies are made according to old recipes in the herbal apothecary.

The stables are once again inhabited by horses, and in the menagerie one encounters not only peacocks, white donkeys and spectacled sheep but also exotic animals like camels and bison. A petting zoo and a special adventure farm have been set up for children. Visitors can get a taste of life on a baroque farm by strolling through the estate or – an especially enchanting experience – on a coach ride around the extensive grounds.

In keeping with the fashion of the times, the prince also established a menagerie, where all kinds of exotic animals could be admired. In the course of revitalisation of the imperial castle, the Baroque tradition of animal husbandry was taken up again. In close cooperation with the zoo at Schönbrunn Palace in Vienna, an environment suitable for some 20 different various species has been created on the spacious grounds.

At present, the pastures, enclosures and stables are home to many animals, including:

• Lipizzaner horses
• Nonius horses
• Gidran horses
• Shetland Ponys
• Noriker horses
• White donkeys
• Bactrian camels
• Mangalitza pigs
• Valachian sheep
• Sulmtaler chickens
• Silkie chickens

So the Baroque menagerie is a good excuse for having all these interesting and rather exotic animals. I also suspect that many of them were adopted from the Safari park that used to be not too far from the schloss. It was a wonderful place to go with children, but closed for lack of money.

The grounds behind the castle has a large, flat area (about the size of a football field) that is enclosed by a low, wooden railing. The organizers set up benches all around it. There are food vendors and picnic tables along one side, and an announcers booth with a sound system along another. On the far side of the field was an area set up for pony and camel rides, a children’s play area with a terrific bubble making station, and a yurt.

The yurt was next to a vendor who had Middle Eastern looking household items: pillow covers and incense and jewelry and candles. That sort of thing. We just peeked at the yurt, which was large and decorated with oriental carpets on the grounds and lovely colored fabrics hanging from the walls.

We got drinks (it was hot and muggy) and found a bench in the shade not too far from the yurt and the children’s area. Exotic music started to play, and the camels were led into the ring, followed by a harem of Eastern Austrian housewives, all dressed up as belly dancers with veils and bangles.

Then the skies opened up.

I had raincoats and umbrellas for everyone. In the car. On the other side of the castle grounds.

“To the yurt!” someone said. And off we ran with most of the people on that side of the field.

Let me tell you, if I had to live in a yurt, I think it wouldn’t be half bad. Of course, you need your camels to carry the heavy poles that support the center of it and all the rugs and pillows to make it cozy. This one had bales of hay all around the inside walls. The bales were covered with pretty fabric, so they made good places to sit. The center of the yurt had an opening (I assume your cooking fire might vent there) and since it was now raining quite hard, some water did come in that way. But not much.

A lot fo people had the same idea, and we estimated there were as many as 50 people in the yurt. The belly dancers ended up in there, so we got to see their costumes up close. Because the ground was covered with nice carpets and fabrics and this was Austria, everyone took off their shoes. Eventually, a clown appeared and made balloon animals (and good ones!) for the children.

We must have been in there for almost an hour. With all those people, it never got uncomfortably hot. Eventually the rain stopped and we ventured back outside. It took a while for the show organizers to get their act together, so we walked around the castle, looked at the gardens and the fountains and the gift shop.

The show did go on and we got to see lamas (accompanied by a rather Chinese sounding song that I am sure included the word “Yokohama” to rhyme with “lama,” as well as a line the Spouse swears was something about “Where did the fork go?”). The lamas, who were cheeky and generally uncooperative, pulled a small cart, when they felt like it. Mostly they just walked around, proudly, and did what they pleased. The belly dancers got to do their thing. There were also draft horses and four types of donkeys and ponies, and then the camels returned. The girls got to ride the ponies and pet the donkeys. We were holding out for camel rides, since there was clearly a place set up for them, when the skies opened up again.

This time we gave up and made for the car. But it was a long way to the car, and by the time we got there all of us were soaked through and the rain had stopped. We rode home in wet clothes. Today, the car still smells a little musty.

BEAUTIFUL VIENNA
Today was one of those days where everything conspired to be so beautiful and humanity was all on its best behavior . . . I actually got a little choked up.

This was the last class of the school year for Baboo’s Spanish playgroup. The Spouse was off on his office retreat (camping and canoeing near Karlovy Vary aka Carlsbad in the Czech Republic), so the girls and I were on our own.

The typical Saturday Morning Trip to Vienna means getting up about the normal time (6:30) and getting to the border before 8:00. We were really early this morning, but, now that it is summer, I guess, the line was really long.

The only blemish on the day was a jerk with Polish plates who just cut a huge chunk of the line and ended up along side the car right behind me. I watched a guy from a car much farther back walk up to his window and politely try to explain to Mr. Krakow that this just didn’t cut it, but Mr. K just sort of waved his hand at the guy and ignored him. I thought perhaps he was late for the Vienna airport, as that happens, and sometimes people beg forgiveness when they cut the line then rather than miss their flight. Then, because I wasn’t paying attention, he actually joined the line in front of me! Sorry, dude. He sort of got his, (kinda) when his slut girlfriend (really . . . she was about 21 to his 45+ and trampy) got out to use the potties, forcing him to hold back a little while the rest of us got to start a second line (WHAA-wha!). I saw him next to me, being required to open his car trunk, not filled with airport luggage but bottles of orange Fanta and loaves of white bread. Huh?

Meanwhile, the girls, Parrot Heads both, sang Cheeseburger in Paradise over and over again. It took about half an hour to get over the border today. Go figure.

But back to the normal routine, which means breakfast at a little bakery/restaurant chain in Hainburg called Nagelreiter. It is all Austrian Country Craft-y with a big water wheel and dried flower arrangements and anything else that fits this genetic tendency towards “coziness” the Austrians all seem to have. There’s a mostly Hungarian waiter there who likes us and we like him. No one there speaks much English, so without the Spouse we have pidgin Deutch, but they know us by now, so it’s pretty obvious I’m trying to mime “The usual, bitte.”

And then it is about 9:30 and time to get back on the road. We were in Vienna and parked about 10:00, it seemed. There’s always a Saturday street market near the apartment where the class is held. I have my usual Free Range Egg Guy, who is cute and charming and understands English even if he is shy about saying anything (although he has been on vacation the last two times, it seems, and we have been served by some older guy who is probably his dad. Dad caught us last week in the middle of a . . . discussion, and a sort of heated one, and, if I understood him correctly, gave us a raised eyebrow look and a “Everything’s FINE, right kids?” sort of greeting before he sold us eggs). I save my egg cartons and usually buy 2 or 3 boxes which hold ten and not a dozen eggs (what’s up with that?).

Anyhow, it was dad again today, who was chatting up the old ladies and giving everyone cherries to taste while they stood in line hoping to suggestive sell them. He gave some to the girls and convinced the old lady in front of us to buy a kilo and then brought out the lettuce for her. Next lady had him set aside a flat of the cherries. Wanna go to HER house tonight.

Then we drop off our plastic and glass recycling (I can do it here, but sometimes I forget to drag it along with me, while I know I will easily walk by the big recycling bins on Saturdays), and walk closer to class where the vendors have permanent buildings.

Today there was an oompah band playing in the middle of all this. I stopped at World of Cheese, which is this great gourmet stand. They have all sorts of things like tapenades and olives and marinated artichokes. Plus homemade butter. Plus homemade breads (a walnut bread to die for). Plus Italian antipasta type salamis. And just an endless election of cheeses. Some of my personal favorites are these biscuit-sized ones that come either with dried cranberries or apricots on the outside or just flavored with lemon so they taste like cheesecake. Today I got the apricot and the lemon and something else with dried rosemary on the rind and something like a Chaumes and a BIG hunk o’ parmesan. Whatever it all was, it came to about 30€. No lunch out for me this week.

We bought End of Class Thank You flowers for the Spanish teacher and the woman who lets us invade her house every week. The guy with the flower stall also has some fruits and herbs . . . all gorgeous. He has big pots of lavender wrapped in pale purple foil. Today he had water lilies. Not the whole plants but just the flowers. And bunches of roses in every possible size and color. You could get nosegay sized bouquets of roses or beauty queen armfuls. While ratting in my wallet, I dropped 15€ on the ground while he was waiting on us (and the operative word was waiting as the girls are not quick to decide). He picked it up and returned it to me (I didn’t even realize I had dropped it), plus gave the girls and me each a tiny, perfect apricot.

I dropped off the girls and the flowers at class and intended to sit outside at my favorite café which is right next to that building. It is a pedestrian block with an ice cream parlor and an Italian restaurant and this café. And they all put out tables the minute the weather permits. There are two public benches and at least two good-sized flower beds maintained by the City, and those are fragrant and colorful. It’s great for people and dog watching.

But because it was so nice today, every available table was taken. Even the benches had people sitting on them. I strolled around and looked in some shops for a bit (there is a shoe store there I really like), but it was warm, I found little I couldn’t live without, and I really wanted a drink.

So I headed back into the market block and took a seat on a wooden deck outside a bar/café/pub type place right next to the oompah band.

I had two books with me, but I find I never read during these Vienna café moments as the people watching is just too interesting. There were families and dads with kids on their shoulders and potbellied guys in shorts with their shopping and old ladies with dogs and pretty girls and babies and people selling strawberries and apricots and bio meat and vegetables and locally made wine . . . it was very entertaining.

So I sat there with my coffee and my bubbly water, smoking a clandestine cigarette since I was child-free. There was an old lady standing outside the pub deck, watching the band and trying to engage the pub patrons in conversation. Possibly she knew the old guys around me. She kept talking to them. I was far enough away I didn’t need to do anything more than nod at the band and give a “These guys ARE good” sort of smile. She grinned and waved and stage whispered things to me in German. When she realized I was smoking she mimed smiling disapproval until I put it out. The she went back to tapping her feet along with the bad, which was what the potbellied guys drinking glasses of red wine at the table next to me were doing too. The sheer loveliness made me choke up more than once.

All around me and on the other side of this pedestrian-only street were people sitting at tables eating scrambled eggs and drinking wine and beer and coffee. The band took a break and passed around liter-sized bottles of beer amongst themselves. Everyone was in a good mood, enjoying the sun and the spirit of the morning. I tried to think about how 50 years ago some of these same people were our mortal enemies, and we were bombing the hell out of their beautiful city. It was hard to imagine. Maybe someday my grandchildren will sit in a café in Baghdad? It was just all very nice, and I was damned glad to be there.

BRATISLAVA SHIT STORM, RESOLVED

There has been a shit storm of remarkable proportions since the magazine came out on Monday with my article about dinner with a certain performer. The article was a disaster in the making. I wrote the long version for diary purposes. Then I cut out the parts I thought make life miserable for me here in Bratislava. I sent it to the magazine editor fully expecting that it would bounce back to me again for revisions as it was, among other things, more than twice as long as he had asked for.

But next thing I knew, the magazine was on the stands. I never even saw the page proofs. But, again, this is because I don’t spend enough time in the magazine office to be as involved as I ought to be.

I knew that the photo credit was wrong (it had my name). And when I saw the article, which had been cut to fit, I was uncomfortable about how it portrayed the subject.

Monday afternoon my mobile phone had been ringing a lot, but I had missed the calls. So when I got home, I sat down to return what I thought was one call to my friend (let’s call him Geoffrey). Geoffrey and I have been, along with a group of people, organizing an event. I was sure it had been Geoffrey calling me from his office.

Imagine my surprise when I hit REDIAL and the voice that answered was not Geoffrey’s, but that of an acquaintance. Let’s call her Olympia.

I don’t know her well, but my previous interactions had been nothing short of delightful. She and her husband (let’s call him Alexi) had been instrumental in bringing the above mentioned performer to Bratislava. She was not happy about the article. Not happy at all. And neither was Alexi. I could hear him ranting in the background. And Alexi, while a man of feeling, is not what I would call a man with a short fuse. He is, like his wife, the dictionary definition of “dignified.”

Every line I wrote was apparently in error, she exclaimed. There was more, it went on for a while, but I have blocked it. Alexi got on the phone and gave me what for. I explained that the article had been cut and that it was never my intention to create something hurtful. I had enjoyed the experience profoundly. I was sorry. Further, I had been tickled to be invited into their circle of friends. But mostly I listened to them being upset with me.

I felt just awful. Feedback on the diary version had been extremely positive. But none of those reviewers knew the parties in question. I called my editor and explained that there was a very unhappy and upset couple seeking redress. What was the appropriate course of action under the circumstances?

Editor was supportive and reassuring. He told me to have Olympia call him directly. He would listen to her concerns, but would not allow her to direct her frustrations at me. He later sent me a long, supportive email in which he shared an incident from his writing past in which he caused an even bigger stink.

I felt better.

In the meantime, I called Geoffrey because I knew he had been one of the missed calls earlier. Now I was sure his call had something to do with the upset mutual friends.

Turned out Geoffrey didn’t know anything about that. He hadn’t even seen the magazine yet. “I saw what you originally submitted,” he reminded me. “On the whole, it’s balanced,” he declared. “I don’t know what got cut, but this was okay. It’s got sort of an odd tone . . . like you were having a bad day, perhaps?”

I think he has never seen my more personal writings. And this was definitely more of something I write for friends. Okay, so he didn’t think it was a good piece, but he didn’t think what I had submitted was libelous.

I was feeling better all around until The Spouse came home. He had run into Geoffrey and, while he didn’t elaborate, I got the feeling the two of them had come to some sort of agreement that this article was not my best work.

That’s when I really got depressed. For a few months now I was starting to feel as though there might be some promise in some of the things I had written. That maybe I could call myself a writer. But with this debacle, I felt like a fraud. I wrote to a girlfriend that it was “another failure in my long list of mediocrity.” I was a housewife who plays at writing, but shouldn’t. I should quit the magazine and stay away from the computer.

What made me feel even worse was that The Spouse had had a difficult day himself. A more seriously difficult professional day. I wanted to be supportive and reassuring to him since, really, his day amounted to something more than “So-and-so doesn’t like me right now.” But here I was, wallowing in my housewifey pity party about something that no one really cared about. Other than the two very upset people who had called me. And here he was being extremely kind and affectionate. I felt even worse.

That was Monday.

Tuesday morning the editor-in-chief of the newspaper called me.

“There is nothing wrong with the article,” she said. “It is a fine article. This will blow over and faster than you think. Believe me. I have done research. Three days, I tell you, and it will be forgotten.

She made me laugh and gave me hope. But I was wondering what I would do the next time I ran into Olympia and Alexi. Now that we were on the outs, it was sure to happen. And soon. Should I smile from across the room? Look chagrined? Make a point of apologizing, again, in person?

This morning, Wednesday, my phone rang as I was driving the children to school. I was going to go to Austria to do some shopping for The Spouse’s birthday. I answered and there was Alexi. My stomach immediately began churning and adrenaline shot through my arms and legs.

In his gracious way, Alexi explained that he had consulted with his business advisors and the damage was minimal. I think whomever he talked to had explained that there was little harm done by any inaccuracies I may or may not have written. Or, perhaps given some time to cool off, he may have decided there wasn’t so much to be angry about.

“I believe the sum total of the experience comes to nine hundred and ninety crowns,” he said.

I didn’t understand him and thought perhaps this was what he wanted for the use of the photos. Fine by me. He was talking about less than $30. Clearly, this was symbolic.

“Can I meet you in front of the Reduta?” he asked. “I’ll give you a kiss and we will put this behind us.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” I was willing to do just about anything to make this go away.

“Um, better make it half an hour,” he said. And hung up.

I was willing to personally pay the 990 skk, but thought there might be releases to sign and, really, this was a matter between him and the publication. I called the editor and explained that, if I understood this correctly, the whole thing would go away for 990 skk.

“That’s fine,” said Editor, “Except he doesn’t get to set the prices for photos. He can get 300 skk each for the two.”

Argh. So now we were going to get into some sort of debate over 390 crowns? We agreed that I would direct any invoices to editor, who would cheerfully explain what the magazine’s policy was on prices.

That’s when I started wondering why Alexi wanted to meet me in person. Surely he was going to slap me with a glove. Or worse. Process. He was planning to serve me with process. I was going to be sued personally over this.

I sent a text message back to Editor: “Do you think he’s going to sue me?”

“Nah,” Editor wrote back. “Do you have reason to think he would?”

“Don’t know him well,” I replied. “Lawyer’s wife. Perhaps I watch too much TV.”

I parked the car and found Alexi sitting on a park bench in front of the Reduta, which is the home of the Slovak Philharmonic.

“I’m afraid we are an hour too early, Samantha” he apologized. “None of these offices and shops are open before ten o’clock.”

My heart sank. He was planning to take me to a lawyer or notary before he slapped me with process.

“I have been thinking about how we can settle this,” he continued. “Between us. Like two professionals. I mean, if we weren’t friends with friends in common, then I’d say bring on the lawyers. But we are friends and we are professionals. So I decided there has to be a creative way. Olympia says I’m conniving. But I told her Samantha is a friend. ”

I was feeling worse and worse.

“And I have decided that you can buy me a little birthday present,” he announced.

“What?”

“A present. A used camera. It’s now down to 990 skk. I’ve been, how do you say it, visiting it for months,” Alexi started to smile at me. “It’s become like a mistress to me. Something I can’t really justify for myself, but it would make a terrific birthday present.” He winked.

“You want me to buy you a camera?” I was very confused.

“That’s right, Samantha. For my birthday.”

“And then the matter between us is resolved?” I was still unsure about this.

“We are friends. It is already forgotten.”

Alexi is a photographer.

“So you are a Gemini?” I’m still not really getting this.

“Of course not. My birthday was in April,” Alexi is pragmatic. “But you missed it. Or it is tomorrow. It doesn’t matter.”

“No. It doesn’t.” I’m beginning to get the feeling back in my legs. “And it is nine hundred crowns,” I say. “Not euros.”

“Nine hundred and ninety crowns,” Alexi is practically dancing, hopping from one foot to the other, unable to control his delight at having found such a civilized way to resolve the situation. “It’s in the original package still,” he went on. “It’s the finest model of it’s type. From the point-and-shoot era. It’s a 1993 model.”

So we went to have coffee in Geoffrey’s restaurant while we waited for the camera shop to open.

“I am sorry I am not better prepared,” he said, “But when you said fifteen minutes . . . . well, Samantha, I don’t like to keep a woman waiting.”

“You?” I started to laugh. “When Alexi, who was upset with me, calls and requests my presence in front of the Reduta so we can make this matter go away, I want to get there right now!”

He laughs. “What were you doing when I called?”

“I was on my way to Austria to do some shopping for my husband’s birthday,” I said.

“So he’s a Gemini?” Alexi can barely contain himself. “You interrupted that to meet me? At least someone really has a birthday this week.”

And then I bought Alexi a 1993 camera and a package of AA batteries.

I believe the matter is closed.

BABOO IS 7 TODAY

What a difference seven years makes. That little baby who has a birthday today, crawled in bed with me this morning and said, "Why couldn't the little boy see the pirate movie?"

It was before 6:00 a.m., so my response was probably something like "Dunno."

With a total deadpan delivery, she responds, "Because it was rated ARRR."