Op-Expat

I love being married to a man from a different country. Paul’s accent, mannerisms and perceived oddities charm me. At rare times though, I wish he was an American. We have a tendency to miscommunication, and I don’t mean language-wise. His English is fluent and my German is getting there.

Where we fail to communicate is culturally. For example. Last night we were watching TV. It occurred to me that it was Thursday night. A golden night for me, because that means the next day is Friday, which is a half workday for me. “Hurray,” I called out, “the weekend is almost here!”

Paul grumbled in response, “Great for you, I have school all day Saturday.”

My response. “Sucks to your asmar.”

“What did you just say?” Paul asked.

We run into this all the time. Last weekend we were watching the third movie of Bourne Ultimatum. There is a scene where Matt Damon is washing blood off of his hands. I said, “Out, out damn spot!”

“What did you just say?” Paul asked.

Last example. We were at Ikea to pick up a piece of furniture. A number kept blinking and no one was showing up to pick up the piece. A man called out the number numerous times, but the crowd who was present just gave the guy a blank stare. I said, “Bueller.”

“What did you just say?” Paul asked.

I can’t make a reference to anything it seems. Culturally Paul grew up differently. Though he read Shakespeare in school, he only glanced at it the way we only glanced at Goethe. Can you quote Goethe? I sure can’t.

He’s not the only Austrian in this boat. I was talking to some friends and we all agreed that we like The Simpsons. I asked them if they picked up on a certain reference in one of the shows, as it was subtle and quick. They asked me what I meant about a reference. When I said that The Simpsons was a social commentary about American society, they were mildly surprised. They hadn’t been aware of that; they just liked the show because it was funny. Can you imagine missing out on that aspect of The Simpsons? Props to The Simpsons though for still being funny.

Awhile ago a good friend of mine came to visit me from the US. We were at a restaurant and she had to go to the bathroom. She was gone for a long time and upon her reappearance I quipped, “Did you fall down the rabbit hole?”

Without missing a beat she answered, “Almost. I did have to go down some stairs to get there. The line held me up though.”

I was grateful for not having to explain what I had just said.

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I not only have to get used to the culture that makes up Austrian society, but I also have to get used to the four seasons (and unfortunately, I don’t mean the hotel). Being born and raised in LA kind of messes you up weather wise. I mean it gets a bit cooler, then it gets a bit warmer. That’s about it. The four seasons don’t really exist in LA, unless you refer to fire, riot, flood, and earthquake. Let’s not go there though.

Europe experienced a cold snap in September right around the official day of autumn. I took the cold weather in stride. After all, it made sense to me that the weather in autumn would be colder than the weather in summer.

I was at work one day waiting for the coffee machine to work its magic. A co-worker of mine walked in and we started to chat. She made a comment around the lines of, “I can’t believe it’s so cold. It’s like winter, isn’t it?”

I stood there and stared blankly at her for a moment. She then said again, “Isn’t it?”

Stumbling for a moment I replied, “Well, I don’t really know. I’m new to this whole four seasons thing.”

I think she was really surprised by my comment. She just shook her head at me and left.

How am I supposed to know any better?

autumn-in-vienna

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We’ll that set the record. In two weeks I have been groped two times. Once by a man, and the second time by a woman.

The first time I was standing in the train on my way home from work. I had my nose buried in a book and noticed that something brushed against me bum. Using public transportation desensitizes you from being jostled and moved as people flow in and out of the train. I ignored the feeling.

Then it happened again, and for a few moments longer than before. Wait a minute, that didn’t feel like a bag brushing against me as someone was going by. I looked up from my reading material and noticed a well dressed older man in his forties standing next to me. He had been brushing the back of his knuckles up against me bum! I gave him a dirty look and quickly scurried over to the other end of the train. Dirty old man!

For my male readers, please don’t do this. You never get away with it. We women are a clever lot and figure out mishandling rather quickly. Remember the rule you learning in kindergarten. Keep your hands to yourself!

The second time I was groped was at the airport. I was flying to attend a friend‘s wedding. I went through the security thinga-ma-jigger and it beeped. I was waved over by a very enthusiastic older security woman to get wanded. Fine, whatever.

The security woman not only waved the wand over me with one hand, she used the other hand to touch me all over the place. Over my breasts, under my breasts, in my pants waistband, down my legs, up my legs, and up my legs, and up my legs to whoa!! What a minute! Lady, I assure you, nothing is hiding there! That was full violation. I grabbed my bags and high-tailed it out of there.

It’s tough being a woman.

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