Lost in transit

Lord, throw some brains from heaven

Novala needed a new passport and went into a shop in Vienna where they quickly take digital pictures for this purpose. Four pictures on one sheet. The sales-clerk put a stamp with the name and the address of the store on the back.

Novala: "Could you please cut the sheet? I need four single pictures."
Sales-clerk: "I am not allowed to."

N.: "Pardon me?!"
S.: "I am not allowed to."
N.: "Could you give me a pair of scissors so I can do it myself, please."
S.: "No."
N.: "What?!"
S.: "I am not allowed to. This is an official document."
N.: "I don't need it for an Austrian passport."
S.: "I am not allowed to cut it."
N.: "I don't need it for Austrian authorities."
S.: "I am not allowed to."
N.: "Hey, I'll take it to MY embassy to get a GERMAN passport. YOU don't have to cut it. I will do it."
S.: "I am not allowed to."
N.: "Let me tell you s.th., my friend: If I show up at the German embassy with four pictures all on one sheet - do you know what is going to happen? They will send me home to take a pair of scissors, cut the bloody thing into four equal pieces and come back with two of them."
S.: "I am not ..."

Brains desperately needed. If you find any ship them to Niedermeyer, Reumannplatz, A-1100 Vienna, please.

Three things

1. Austrian President Thomas Klestil died last week, 36 hours before the end of his term of office. When I talked to Austrian friends about it the next day, the first thing all of them said was, "it's so sad, he never got to enjoy his retirement."
2. At a wine tavern last Saturday (they are called Heurigen and I like them because they are casual and in the summer you can sit outside and drink wine and eat while your children play nearby: they are one of the main reasons I moved to Austria) friends were talking. One is a farmer who now works for an insurance company doing inspections, the other makes gutters. They have blue-collar backgrounds is what I'm saying. The insurance inspector mentioned he'd been inspecting a hotel in Vienna that displayed a collection of original music manuscripts by some composer. He was trying to remember the composer's name. "Something with L," he said. "Liszt?" The gutter man asked. "No, later than that." "Lehar?" "Yeah, Lehar," the insurance man said. Only in Austria, I thought.
3. In my village, I went to a farmer yesterday to pick up some apricots and eggs my mother-in-law had ordered. The farmer's wife was digging out front and when I came she put away her shovel and kicked the mud off her rubber boots and we went into the house and she gave me the stuff. In another room, someone was practicing piano. They played quite well. "Your daughter is the harpist, right?" she asked me. I said yes. We talked about that for a while, whether my daughter was still playing, how expensive harps are, but how nice, etc. The Austrians have a special relationship to music, is what I'm saying. And to work. And to death.

Home sweet home?

Melbourne-based newspaperThe Age has published an interesting article about what it's like to repatriate after having lived outside of Australia for a number of years.

It basically details all my fears; that my experience of living and working in London will not be a badge of honour but a hindrance and that I will be forever branded an outsider should I decide to return at any stage.

But then no-one quoted in this article works in the media, so perhaps things are different in my line of employment? And judging by the amount of Sydney-based magazine jobs currently being advertised here in London makes me think that this is, indeed, the case . . . Or let's hope so.

Is this, however, a peculiarly Australian phenomenon, or is it always the case that when you experience a different culture and live and work abroad, when you return home it's like the big fish will no longer fit in the small pond?

Discuss . . .