Innkeeper's Tales - Part 1
When “Fathom” asked me to do a series of “Innkeeper’s Tales” i did not expect such a lovely reaction, and I look forward to continuing them as it really is a special world I live in.
Transparent Showers, Nosy Neighbours, and Shots of Schnapps: My Adventures Running an Austrian AirBnb
The Innkeeper's Tales is an ongoing series wherein we cajole the charming characters behind hotels we love to give us a peek under the covers and behind the curtains of their adventures in hospitality. Natasha Hecher was already a regular Fathom contributor when life took a turn and she ended up running her mother's Austrian AirBnb.
Somewhere in the throes of my globetrotting 30s, I resolved that children and tangibles were not for me, as my character (and dreams) were more aligned to a whimsical and possession-free existence.
But the universe had other ideas, and here I am, somewhere in the vicinity of 38 (again), living my mother’s dream of curating and running a 300-year-old guest house in Pettneu am Alberg in Tirol, Austria.
My life consists of stray cats breaking in, hedgehogs living in the garden, an underground Yahtzee ring, a plethora of strapping young men calling me Auntie Tashie (as I bake them fresh pies made with apples from the tree in the garden, while wearing a pink button-up sweater, just to complete the fantasy), an elderly neighbour who watches way too much porn, and a parade of travellers coming through, bringing their worlds to me.
My transition to badass lady boss has been an adventure in itself. As I type, I’m sitting on my mother’s throne in the kitchen, reminiscing about the last four years, no distractions except for occasional gusts of wind, a humming dishwasher, and Janis Joplin on the speaker stoking that badass fire.
The last conversation I had with my mother in late 2017 – after I had just declared that I was giving up my existence as a Jägermeister-guzzling waitress in the Alps to become a writer in a third-world country – revolved around my aspirations. She was wondering what direction my life was heading in, and I said I was unsure, but with experience in banking, stand-up comedy, travel writing, waitressing, and 43 countries traveled, I assured her that as long as I was always moving forward, I was content.
Six weeks later and two weeks after her funeral, my first guest arrived, and my past experiences converged into this unexpected direction. “This” being a warm and inviting house that smells of lemongrass and sandalwood, an inn full of quirks, stories, and (I like to wish) a happy blend of my mother’s and my visions, as well as our family history of ski racing.
It is a life’s work in progress.
That first guest was a German lady of Japanese-American heritage who arrived with her son and gave me two stars for accuracy as she “didn’t think it would be this nice.” In my defence, the shell of the listing had only gone up twelve minutes before she booked, when I had not even had time to grieve.
My mother’s living room, a space which was opened up this year, but still not a space that i can spend time in.
At first, the anxiety I experienced every time I got notification of a new review was almost crippling, as it is highly confronting walking around your home knowing that people are judging you. (A task that should be left to the neighbours looking out their windows in a tiny Alpine village.)
Waking up in a bad mood is not an option, so I have taken steps to assure that I don’t, like making a photo wall on the the staircase devoted to people and moments I love, to remind me of what I am doing, why I am doing it, and who I am doing it for. (I also wear a leopard-print onesie as a breakfast uniform to distract from my tired face.) Apparently these tactics work, as here I am, some 200+ terrific reviews later, only three of them a mere three stars.
To circumvent any surprises from either side, I invest almost too much time and energy vetting my guests in an attempt to ensure that they are a good fit for the house. After seven years working the Alpine après-ski scene, the last thing I want is drunk and disrespectful buffoons clomping around the house giving me attitude. I also have to delicately ascertain who they are traveling with as well as their heights, as many of the rooms have transparent showers, and some of them have slightly… Let's call them “constricted” space.
On one occasion I had a couple from Australia, my home country. At breakfast her first morning, the woman informed me she was a little uncomfortable with the transparent shower. (I was taken slightly aback, as she was traveling with her boyfriend, who I presume had already seen her goodies.) I apologised profusely and said that although this was standard in old Tirolean houses, I could give them a room with a separate shower. Later in the day, after moving rooms, she came down and said that they were heading to the Wellness, the local town sauna. Part of me wanted to warn her that it was a naked setting, and she would be seeing many more wing-wangs than she would through a transparent shower in her room upstairs, but, well, that was out of my jurisdiction, and I was just too amused.
“Have fun,” I replied.
After my extensive vetting, every new guest feels like my first. I await their arrival, upon which I offer them a tea, a coffee, or a schnapps while they check in. This appears to be optimal hospitality, but it really helps give me a small window onto their character. Perhaps it is the way I say it, as I do lower my voice slightly and add some cheekiness with the offer. If they take the schnapps and come into the kitchen for a chat, it is a fair indication that they are wanting to be social. If they decline all offers and make it a brief check in, they are likely to be more reserved.
My longest check-in took four hours.
This initial ritual escalated quickly into letting them know about the forbidden words around the inn. They include “Trump,” “Hitler,” “Mexit,” “Brexit,” “Covid,” and “schnapps,” which I threw in for fun. If any of these blasphemous words are uttered, a schnapps must be consumed. Naturally, this has on occasion backfired, and I often have guests arrive home, poke their head around the kitchen door, and say in a low, mischievous voice, “did someone say schnapps?” as their hand reaches from behind, offering a fresh bottle of the sweet, sweet liquid. Little wonder I have given up drinking in winter. (Mostly.)
When guests check in, I inform them that they are welcome to be as social or as private as they like — after all, it is their holiday — but that I am always available for recommendations, a cup of tea, or a round of Yahtzee. I check on their dietary requirements, as I make breakfast fresh every morning — usually muesli with Greek yogurt and berries followed by fresh farm eggs scrambled with mountain cheese, cream, and chives. The traditional breakfast around here is cheese and meats, but I am a firm believer in hot breakfast.
My approach to the house comes from my personal experiences, from places that have tickled me around the world. I have always found that the hostel atmosphere with a private room is most aligned to my nature, so it is what I do here.
Gauging people’s personal tastes is almost an art form. Some like a raucous apres-ski; others are total teetotallers. The strong majority of my guests have been incredible, and very often we part with a teary goodbye, aware that our special interaction was a moment in time, unlikely to be repeated as time passes and communication eventually becomes relegated to Facebook likes of their wedding photos and soon-to-come munchkins.
This is one reason why return guests give me the warm and fuzzies. I would have had a lot more of them were it not for the difficult last few years (I won’t say the word, as that would require a schnapps).
As far as validation goes, return guests are wonderful, but return helpers are on a whole new level. The helpers can be transient for a few weeks or they can stay for the season. I pay them a minimum salary and offer them lodging and food. They come in different forms. Maiju was a Finnish house guest who I asked to please come back forever — and she did for a season before traveling overland from Finland to Thailand. Gabby is a lawyer I knew from my Zurich banking days, who is now in Athens running a women’s centers for Syrian refugees. Sadeja is a beautiful German lass I met in a hostel in Mandalay. Currently I have Rens, a young Dutch man who tirelessly works two other jobs as well as being a very good handyman.
I give them different names, such as “minions” and “retrievers” (a story in itself), but they are so much more. Technically, they are here to help me with breakfast, rooms, and snow shoveling, but in reality they are so much more – my support system, my respite, and my friends.
The days are busy during the winter season, which runs from December to April with many ebbs and flows. Sometimes guests will come home and ask what I did all day. My eyes cheekily light up, and I say, “I just sat here, and it was amazing. I watched the house clean itself, the emails get answered, the shopping get done, the administration get sorted , and the check-ins checked in. And in the end, my legs just took themselves to the gym. All very magic flute-esque.”
It probably goes without saying that because something always goes wrong in an old house, I have been forced to acquire a new skill set. In the beginning, if a light went out or the heating spluttered, I would panic, but now I know where the fuses are and who to call. I can even change a lightbulb.
It can be challenging living in a village where tradition is in abundance, and the familiarity is one-sided. I have been required to come around to their way of thinking, even though on occasions I have a different aspect. If I had known four years ago that I simply had to be efficient in snow shovelling and have pretty flowers out in summer, I would have saved myself a lot of time. Thankfully I have all but mastered the local dialect (almost like learning the Queen’s English and then moving to the Scottish Highlands) and am now able to sit at the regulars tables at the local restaurants without feeling like an imposter. But it is hard work, and although not my consciously chosen vocation, it does have its unique and unexpected joys.
Stay tuned for the adventures of the broken plumbing and the missing Mexicans.
A Toe Dip Into The New World of Travel (Covid)
After much time alone, once the restrictions started lifting, I went on a cautious local travel expedition.. I am not sure how many movements a sonata has, but I winged it in this piece just like I have been winging it since March.
1st Movement
Vivace
At this moment, the birthplace of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart lies a mere 100 meters away from me in the Old Town (Altstadt) of Salzburg, Austria. Whilst I scribe on parchment by candlelight, it makes sense to listen to some of his works. Should it be a Sonata or a Requiem? Probably both.
Kinda like my fluctuating moods during isolation… If I could be bothered to put on a bra then we had the sonata, and wine for breakfast in a leopard-print onesie? the requiem. Constantly flipping between C major and D Minor.
Travelling during this time feels much the same, aside from my choice of attire.
It is a cautious expedition before the borders open – targeting destinations on a “list” that I had previously dismissed due to the tourism overflow – when else does one get the opportunity to explore places in such a manner? The empty streets leave much time for alternate tones whilst pondering the new face of travel.
My backpack was ready to go some months ago (a trilling restlessness - often referred to as Fernweh), as not only was I in isolation alone for 7 weeks, but as a creature of habit, as soon as the ski season has finished, and the last guest checked out, the door to my Pension is locked and off I go a wandering until December. Even though the ski season ended abruptly this season with a frightening en mass evacuation, the yearning crept up. To keep my sanity amongst the chaos, I dreamt of past and future adventures whilst I simultaneously explored the nuances of my well hidden introvert.
Once hotels started opening I boarded that train with gusto. It was close to empty, with the conductors keeping a safe distance. The sign specified that facemasks were to be worn on public transport and in public areas at all times, but the dining cars were apparently still open. How does one eat whilst wearing a facemask? Not a desireable ensemble.
I began with Innsbruck – a place I am acutely familiar with – and I stayed at “Stage 12” . As I walked in and looked to the right, the bar appeared to be busy, but it was mannequins. A clever way to adhere to social distancing. After such a long quarantine they looked very attractive and were a nice alternative to talking to the tree in my backyard. I called my mannequin Klaus, or Matthias or something: can’t remember as we got pretty tipsy.
I’m not going to give you a blow by blow description, but the next day I did go to the hairdresser for a blow dry and possibly another treatment which subtly assists my insistence that I am a natural blonde. Wearing a mask for three hours was just not the same: there was no delicate Prosecco drinking, just formal interaction with no gossip (I am not sure why I said “just” as there is nothing normal about not having a gossip with your hairdresser). There was a sense of trepidation, from both the clients and the stylists, and both the former and latter often smiled from a distance and said, “Sheisse Corona”. No shit.
Following this was the a few days of catching up with friends at the Kitzbühel Golf Club, but this is more aptly demonstrated with a sophisticated picture. And yes, there were people playing golf: watching them tee-off from “Steakhouse Kaps” was a spectator sport in itself. The high-society that encapsulates the “Glitz of Kitz” was in good form and seemed somewhat relieved to be naturally blonde again, and for this there was glass tinkling and golf claps all round.
My next intended destination was to be Hallstatt, the most instagrammed spot in Austria, but as the forecast was for rain I decided to save that until the weekend. My amended travel plans saw me heading to Salzburg on a once again quiet train.
2nd Movement
Moderato
This brings us back to the present where perhaps being in the proximity of such unbridled genius has simultaneously replenished some brain cells culled off at the golf club and also inspired me to write. Splurging on a decadent hotel may also play a part. My internal negotiation system resolved that it seems reasonable as it does not look like I will need it for International flights in the immediate future.
I have never been here before, and yearned to see it quiet, and that it is.
The squares are empty, but I can imagine they are normally filled with buskers, musicians and not only the culture of Mozart but Mozart’s Balls being force fed to you. No I’m not being dirty, a very kitsch confection that is purveyed in abundance are called “Mozartkugeln” and they are in the front window of all of the closed souvenir stores.
Only a few souls in black jackets going from baroque to romantic on drizzly cobblestoned streets, plus me, a lone tourist.
At my hotel they are admirable in all distancing precautions. There is of course disinfectant as you arrive, and all people are required to wear facemasks whilst also maintaining the required physical distance. In my room also a sign assuring you that it has been duly sanitised. I had a conversation with my “receptionist” Ulrika, but she is really much more than a receptionist. She can only be described as a saucy middle aged minx, who is the ultimate advocate for Wolford Stockings, and a consummate professional with hilarious dry humour: you really need to drag out the “r” in her name with a feisty growl.
Some points she made chimed so very true. Whilst she was happy to be open again and have her vocation (as well as income) back in order, there is a sense of trepidation as no-one is wanting anything more to go wrong. What if something does, and what if it is traced back to the hotel? We’ve all been asking ourselves these questions about the “whats”, “ifs” and “hows” for some months, but we’re still in the middle of it. In the hotel’s case at minimum their carefully cultivated reputation could be gone as quickly as our freedoms were some months ago. It is also themes I have pondered over the months as a guest house “bad ass lady boss” in the Austrian Alps. Even though my Winter Season is still a safe distance away it is close enough for me to worry.
With all this overthinking, I decided to partake in some retail therapy, but I can’t say it helped (even though it was the first day of the mid-year sales) as shopping also has intricate and perplexing issues. Why is one permitted to go into a store, try on clothes, yet socialdistance even when you are both touching hangers? What if someone touches their face again as they are in the change room? Why am I wearing a mask, when I am breathing on the merchandise as I pull it over my head? It is a peculiar dichotomy, and not something that I have reached a comfortable relationship with.
Following dinner in an empty restaurant I got a small aperitif from the mini bar and sat on the tiny bench outside Mozart’s birthplace to siphon for myself an essence of genius; much more appealing to me than the fountain of youth.
I wonder what my next movements will be?
3rd Movement
Allegretto
There is a small possibility that I didn’t note the public holiday and sunshine forecast for the weekend, and the fanfare has picked up considerably. I called in the cavalry as a friend of mine was celebrating her birthday and feeling slightly melancholy having been enclosed in the valley with the same people and the same faces for so long. By lunchtime she had arrived.
The last two days we’ve been exploring the streets, with much laughter and delicious food: after all, it is white asparagus season here. During our long lunch (which just happened to be at our hotel in Goldgasse), we had a particularly wonderful server who donned a “sophisticated” clear plastic mask, allowing us to see her beautiful smile.
In most touristy European destinations, you can normally find the focus on not only the Historical Centre but also the bridges weighed down by kitschy declarations of love such as proposals and padlocks. Not my thing, but I gotta say, a lone busker, harmonised with an acceptable sunset on the near empty Markarsteg was quite poignant and I may have temporarily exercised some empathy.
Gradually there are more buskers appearing. Naturally I try and spare some change, but not for the guy playing “My Heart Will Go On” next to a fountain on his violin. There is no space for such negativity in my life.
We also met a fellow traveller whilst having a tasty beverage in the main square. Her and her partner did not work out during this time and broke up. She took her belongings and her dog (a samoyed), and they piled into her small hatchback: kudos to that straight shooting, “Auf Wiedersehen”.
My friend has now left, and there are some tendrils of trepidation creeping in. The borders are open and there is an influx of people: I am sure it is not a patch on the normal situation but many have no consideration for social distancing. Kids everywhere eating ice-creams and putting their sticky paws on everything: no shiny surface or window seems safe. And, well, some bars are packed with flirting in full force: I was good with my mannequin thanks.
In my opinion, the opening of the borders and being here has crossed a few of the lines I drew for myself in regards to caution. Travelling in Northern Myanmar solo for 5 weeks and being on the back of a drunk 12 year old kid’s motorbike is one thing….. But in Covid exploration terms this feels slightly reckless.
4th Movement
Diminuendo
Alas my reader, my final movement of this “amateur chord flipping composition” finds me in the confines of my kitchen having made a stealthy retreat. I must accentuate that it’s not Salzburg, It’s me. Seeing the Salzburg that I wished for was a unique experience, but there’s a but….
Perhaps I would have marched on, had it not been for the 10 days of rain forecast and my mental overstimulation. I felt secure in this decision after I arrived in The Arlberg on my overcrowded train bound for Zurich. In more ways than one I left in one world and came back in another, and I feel that I got to walk a very rare bridge leading to the beginning of the “new normal”.
Now that I am not feeling so flat and my washing is done, more about backtracking on the backpacking. For years I have been expanding my comfort zone through travel and new experiences, but I have also trusted my instincts. Being in self isolation alone for such a long time – aside from a few geriatric neighbours waving from their balconies – and not being able to travel was out of my comfort zone in itself. I became used to solitude, the mountains surrounding me and the walks within them: best to go up and down those paths a little more for now. Overnight stays in huts, 3 day “wanders” in the Alps, supporting local businesses and maybe the occasional mid-week ventures further afield.
A different me in a different world.
This is by no means the fine, just a little less allegro and a little more andante.
Oslo: 10 First Impressions
Since arriving in Norge I have witnessed Graduation traditions, National Day, and the beauty of Spring. I also realise they weren't joking when they said it is really really expensive...
Oslo, Norway
At the end of April I arrived here in Norge to work for the "Summer", and people wonder how an Australian ended up here. A long story which I have simply abbreviated to, "The money is good and the men are tall". Even though I have lived in Europe for eight years there were still some initial surprises. And I guess I have not even started learning.
1. Duty Free at the airport
Normally when I get off a plane I head for baggage claim...... That is not how it is done here. At first I thought it was a 90% off Prada sale by the way those well heeled people abandoned their decorum to fill up their trolleys with "cheap" booze. It was a frenzy, and the queue was bigger than IKEA on a Saturday afternoon. Now I understand: you need a mortgage to go out for a night.
2. Lots and lots of parks and open spaces
Lush greenery everywhere: every few blocks it seems. Apparently people like to sit in parks and have a few drinks before they go out, even though it is forbidden to drink in public spaces, law enforcement exercise empathy as it is logical to lather up slightly beforehand so that the 17 Euro it costs for a glass of wine does not sting so bad. So unless you are causing trouble, you are ok. I am yet to experience an afternoon in the park as it is still way too cold. And it is June. Which brings me to the weather....
Just one of the many parks in Grunerlokka.
3. No wonder the weather forecast is always wrong
How one could forecast what the weather is doing in the next five minutes, let alone for the whole week is beyond me. I was going to work the other day, and I looked up at the sky. There were some storm clouds, some normal clouds, a bit of blue sky, some sunshine coming from somewhere and a few drops of rain. All at the same time. How do you dress for that?
An example of he neurotic weather.
4. Where are the vikings?´
Ok, so having a Human Resources major I did a lot of studies on Scandinavian countries as their system of paid maternity and paternity puts the rest of the world to shame. But I guess I never really thought of the ramifications of such an egalitarian system. It seems to have given the men vaginas. Manly men are few and far between: it is not as though I was expecting animal hide loin cloths and unruly beards, but nor was I expecting fur collars adorned by men that clearly spend more time in front of the mirror than me. The aforementioned parks are full of these men, with strollers. Groups of them. I can't understand Norwegian, but one gets the impression that they are in deep conversation about sleeping patterns, chafed nipples, and how smart little Frode is.
5. Australians are somewhat exotic
When I am working in Aker Brygge (the tourist area) I find that Norwegians (especially the older ones) are annoyed that I cannot speak Norwegian, but then when they ask where I am from and I tell them Australia, they are immediately interested, more jovial and happy to be served. They regulars even call me Skippy, every time one guy orders a beer he says, "And one for Tony Abbot", and they love to tell me to, "Throw another shrimp on the barbie". For them it never gets old.
6. The cost of eating out: a burger costs how much?
I resolved after eating out on my first night that there would be no more of that. A burger and a milkshake nearly set me back 40 Euros (50 USD), and it was not a swanky establishment. Work wise, I still have trouble delivering bills to tables, I feel almost apologetic until I remember that it is "normal" in Norway. Frankly, I don't think I ever will be comfortable spending three days worth of living in Mexico on one rudimentary meal.
7. Salmon is cheaper than salami
So I figured if I am not going to eat out, I would have find an alternative source for food. Apparently there is a thing called supermarkets for that, so I chose the middle of the road one called Kiwi. When I saw the prices of a loaf of bread, a carton of milk and a pack of salami, tears pricked my eyes. I found myself walking aimlessly around the supermarket thinking this is how Gwyneth Paltrow must have felt when she was on food stamps for those three days. But then I saw the price of fresh salmon. Surely it was a mistake? It was cheaper than my salami! That is the moment I decided I was going to learn to cook everything containing salmon. Like fish cakes. That is not working out so well for me so far – because I am a terrible cook– but I have no choice but to keep on trying.
8. Drinking laws: they exist
I live in Austria, and work in Apres Ski bars, where it is a crime to not get people shitfaced. They may be lying on the floor, but as long as they can semi coherently order more Jagermeister, I oblige. I sometimes even assist by pouring it down their throats. However, it seems I am not in Kansas anymore: the laws in Oslo are strict to the point that the bartender is responsible if someone does not get home safely. I am not sure what "safely" is, but I am guessing that people making bad decisions and choosing to sleep elsewhere does not count.
9. There is a distinct lack of Starbucks
Hey I am all for no Starbucks: it is right up there with McDonalds as a symbol of Globalization. I just can't help that notice I have only seen one or two. I don't think it is because a Grande Latte costs about $10, I just don't think it was accepted. Instead they have a chain called "Kaffebrenneriet" which are a lot more colourful.
10. lots of spring shenanigans
colour coded paramedics everywhere
It was my first real day and I was walking through the park. I saw three girls meandering through, looking like paramedics dressed in red overalls. I thought to myself, "Shit! I hope nobody is hurt". Then I narrowed my eyes. Wait a second. They were carrying no equipment, they looked a little drunk, and there was no urgency. Which left me thinking "what the hell was that"?
It was Norwegian graduation tradition called "Russ". History and Arts wear red, Finance wears blue and Tradesmen wear black. Having to identify your future vocational tendencies at such an early age is too much definition for me. You see red in some "Hipster" suburbs and blue in the finance district. I wonder if they have mixers?
Anyway, they cruise around for a month in this gear making trouble, and the big night is the 16th, which means they are placated on the 17th much to the delight of Norwegian society.
The "Russ" Graduation tradition. By the 17th May they are all looking a little worse for wear.
constitution day May 17th
This is the national day of Norway. I did some research, and am yet to ascertain who they got independence from, why, and how. But the Norwegians love love love this day. It is like Oktoberfest, but they drink wine and champagne (starting at breakfast) Their traditional dress, whilst still a little milk-maidish does not go for all our décolletage enhancement: it is slightly more demure.
Tirol, Austria: Nine Wonderful Things To Try During Winter
This is a small selection of the fun to be had in Tirol over the ski season. Of course you should also go for a ski at some point.
1) GO TO THE KRAMPUS PARADE
(Photo from Reuters /Dominic Ebenbichler)
The season begins on the 5th of December with a parade in the St Anton pedestrian zone of big hairy beasts on tractors looking for trouble. It could be mistaken for an English stag do looking for the next bar, but in this case the snarling, possessed brutes with the red eyes are looking for bad children to punish for naughtiness with their whips which are made out of freshly cut willow tree branches.
It is an Alpine tradition called Krampus, a perfectly logical yang to Saint Nicholas, and rather than the saccharine gingerbread "ho ho ho" crap with a smiling fat man asking you to sit on his knee, the children who prefer to listen to the voice on their left shoulder are pursued by The Krampalar, who travel on foot or by big chugging tractors.
Children of all ages provoke them and shriek with a mixture of fear and delight whilst spectators look on sipping hot mulled wine (Gluhwein) and eating warm gooey cheesy delights from the market stalls.
2) EAT A SCHNITZEL
A delicious schnitzel in Tirol
In Austria, most things that begin with the letter "s" either taste, feel or sound good. Take Schnitzel for example. Not only is it a national dish, but "schnitzel" is such a sensational word. It can be used as a term of endearment, "oh Schnitzy, you were great last night" (referring to possible fornication, which funnily enough, the Austrian term for is Schnaxeln), when you make a mistake, "I totally schnitzelled it", or you can just eat it.
Where could you go wrong with meat (traditionally veal, pork is also very popular and sometimes chicken) fried in egg, flour and breadcrumbs? It is not for the gluten free, vegetarian, or living life intolerant, but for the rest it is the ultimate comfort food. Normally served with potatoes, lemon, and cranberry sauce (Preiselbeeren) it leaves you so close to full that the only thing you have room for is Strudel. And possibly a Schnaps. Or two. And more skiing.
3) WATCH SOME ALPINE SKI RACING
Of course in this case I was going for Hirscher.
In Austria Ski Racers are Gods, so you should probably familiarise yourself with the machinations of racing. You ready? Got your pen and paper ready to take notes? Ok, here it goes. The guy who gets from the top of the mountain to the bottom quickest wins the race.
There are different disciplines and so forth, but it is easy to catch on. Most importantly, you must ALWAYS go for Austria: I don't care how good looking Felix Neureuther is, he's German, and if you are caught cheering for him in public you will draw ire from the locals. The one and only exception to this rule is Italian Racers from Sud-Tirol, as they are Tirolean, and the locals are first Tirolean and then Austrian.
If you can go to an actual ski race, the atmosphere is unrivaled.
4) LISTEN TO SOME AUSTRIAN MUSIC
Unfortunately, not all Austrian music is yodeling and Hansi Hinterseer. I know, I know. It should be. If they had living National Treasures in Austria he would be it. This yodeling ex-ski racer dressed in white with those beautifully coiffed locks is the ideal Austrian man. For Grannies.
Almost as cool as Hansi (but not quite) is Parov Stelar. His wildly creative electro-swing music deserves to be inducted into the Hall of Awesome. Even better live.
5) USE TINDER IN SKI RESORT
Ski resorts are just like Tinder in real life, aside form the proportion of men to women. St Anton is referred to as Manton, and the Picadilly Bar is fondly known as Pick-a-willy.
So I was thinking, using Tinder could streamline the whole process. Rather than talking to randoms in the bars and swiping left in person, you could ask all the relevant information about prospective mates from the comfort of your abode, even set up a "Love-Ski" - an Alpine themed date. Then, when you get down to the Schnaxeln part of the night (more likely to be in a boot room than in front of an open fire) put on some Hansi Hinterseer as a mood enhancer.
6) HAVE A SAUNA
You should probably be warned though, the Austrian Sauna culture is something quite special. You go naked, and I am not talking about to the waist. I am talking butt naked: ding-dongs and Muschis (take a guess what that is Austrian slang for) on full display. If you are feeling really brave, you can do a whole day of nakedness, apparently referred to as "Wellness" at the Aqua Dome in Längenfeld.
7) WEAR A DIRNDL
Dirndls in Tirol
Dirndls and Lederhosen are traditional Austrian and Bavarian dress, which were not invented for Oktoberfest but for special occasions such as weddings, christenings and drinking. The beauty of a Dirndl is that it can make even the most pedestrian rack look tremendous.
They are well worth investing in, and even though they tend to be very expensive cheaper options are available if you go to a Trachtenwelt.
8) TRY A WILLY AT APRES SKI
No, I am not talking about an Austrian's wing-wang, but knock yourself out. In this case I am referring to Pear Williams Schnaps, which is astoundingly popular during Apres Ski. Basically it is served in a shot glass, with a ball of pear on a plastic cocktail stick that you are to eat afterwards, to soften the taste. Some people toast the pears like a little sword fight (which occasionally progresses to miniature jousting tournament), others just ignore it.
Either way as long as you look everyone in the eye and say, "Prost" (cheers) before you drink all else is forgiven (not looking people in the eye before you drink results in seven years of bad sex). Try and order 6 shots of Williams in German and keep a straight face. "Sechs Willies bitte". Tip for Apres Ski: doing it half assed is not an option.
9) WATCH THE WEISSE RAUSCH
. http://www.arlbergadler.eu The White Thrill 2012 - The first competition of the challenging triathlon -The Arlberg Adler- fascinates St. Anton's winter athletes. The aim is to tame the "monster" Valluga. http://www.arlbergadler.eu
Lycra. Lots of lycra.
The "White Rush" will take place in St Anton am Arlberg on the 18th of April, 2015. This annual skl race, which is part of a unique "triathlon" called the Arlberg Adler normally has 500-700 hundred entrants (strictly limited). Basically there are three different start groups, depending on age and category.
Everyone in that group starts together, and a kamikaze all the way to the bottom ensues, with a little hike in the middle thrown in for good measure. As if this isn't challenging enough, when they get to the bottom of the mountain, exhausted, there is a huge crowd watching and they have to climb over a sizable mound of snow. Then they fall over the finish line half dead but happy to be alive (glass half empty half full thing) and wait for someone to give them a Schnaps.
Swiss Recycling
Anywhere in the world I go, I am astounded at how far other countries are behind Switzerland in the matter of recycling. Frankly the Swiss make it look easy, so I called in a friend to write about how they do it.
Don't get me wrong: I am all for being eco-friendly, doing my part in saving the planet and all but in this country, recycling is a whole new kettle of fish. To say that the Swiss take it seriously is an understatement. It is a real commitment.
Coming from Singapore, where we all have an opening in our kitchens to a communal rubbish chute and the convenience of dumping everything in to a bag, tie it up and *plonk*, down it goes into the chute, no muss, no fuss, I had to make quite an adjustment when I got here.
I still remember in my first week in Switzerland, I dutifully took out the trash, only to have the the bin man dump it unceremoniously on the front of our apartment building. It was the height of summer, so naturally, it stank up the place, much to the displeasure of my landlord. "Bloody Ausländers," he muttered under his breath, after telling us that we'd need to get our arses (pronto) to the supermarket and buy special Züri-sacks. Züri what?
"White! They are white in colour!" he added in exasperation.
Right.
I was close to tears after combing COOP (the Swiss supermarket chain) for about 45 minutes for these mysterious "white bags". I JUST WANTED TO THROW AWAY THE DAMN RUBBISH! I finally plucked up the courage to ask the nearest person wearing the COOP uniform, who sighed (probably also thinking "bloody Ausländers!" in her head) and said that these sacks aren't sold on the supermarket floor. They had to be purchased from the customer counter. Motherf......you don't say!
I soon realised why. At 1.70CHF a pop for the 35L bags that come in multiples of ten, it cost 3 times more than the normal roll of black trash bags. The kind lady at the counter explained that the bags costs more as they include duty/tax to be paid by the user in order to send the trash for incineration. Ah ok, I get it now: prime target for shoplifters and cheap asses like me to easily slip into their bags.
Grudgingly I paid and went home to the unpleasant task of transferring the rubbish into those damn white sacks. Lesson learnt and woohoo, level up for experiencing life in Switzerland.
Further googling told me that with the exception of food waste and household rubbish, nothing else could be thrown in to these precious bags. No cardboard (that includes the loo rolls, mind you), plastic bottles, wine bottles, batteries, nada. Just household rubbish. You would think that those that I've listed constituted household rubbish. Stop rolling your eyes, I was an ignorant fool. No, those have to be specially disposed of, on certain stipulated dates of the month—not as and when you like. Tough shit if you forget to put them out on the right date, because you'll have to bring them to the recycling centre, which, mind you, not everyone lives within the vicinity of one.
Oh, whilst you are in Switzerland, don't go throwing the green glass bottles together with the brown ones. There are different silos for different types of glass, darlings: white, green and brown glass, and DEFINITELY don't even think of trying to do it on Sundays. This is not an urban legend: someone I know did indeed get a fine of 400CHF for doing just that. Something about the clinking of the bottles when they hit the bottom of the silos that disturb the peace and quiet on Sundays. If only they had similar laws for noisy children.
6 years in, buying these Züri-sacks and stickers (Gebührenmarken) when I changed Gemeindes (each town has a different way of charging), is now part of my routine at the supermarket. I have also gotten used to having a little corner of my kitchen perpetually resembling a mini junk yard. I have to admit that my penchant for online shopping contributed mostly to our pile of cardboard together with egg cartons and cereal boxes. I have also done countless walks of shame, lugging many empty wine bottles to recycle after having a dinner party—and I tend to avoid eye contact in order to avoid being judged for being an alcoholic. I set up notifications on my phone's calendar to be reminded of newspaper/cardboard/old clothing collection dates. Usually 24 hours prior so that I can sit in the kitchen, wasting 30 minutes of my life every month flattening and packing the cartons/newspapers into neat individual stacks. Did I mention that each stack cannot be over 5kg? Don't forget to tie it with recycling twine too.
A little over the top? Maybe. Painful? Definitely. But it really does become part and parcel of your daily routine. I've also observed that my purchasing habits have been altered. I tend to tell the shoe shop lady in broken German when paying: "nur die Schuhe, ohne Karton für mich, danke!" (only the shoes, no box for me, thanks!). They don't look at me funny. They understand. It has heightened my awareness of unnecessary packaging and unless it is Chanel, I now tend to opt more for practicality over fancy packaging.
In fact, many shops ask if you would like the packaging or a bag to go with your purchase. I generally say no and tend to just stuff it into my handbag if it is a small enough item.
I have to admit: this country's policy of making each citizen responsible for their individual waste disposal is very sound. You pay for the volume of crap you dispose of. This may be more difficult for the individual citizen but to advantage the society on the whole: very logical. Very first world. Very efficient. Generally, very Swiss.
The Germans and English Love Mallorca: But Apparently Not Each Other
For a minute there I thought that I was holidaying in Germany.
“I dislike feeling at home when I am abroad.”
The 2013/2014 ski season was not one of the best I had experienced, so when it started snowing in May I decided that, "Better late than never" is not always the case, and the more useful adage under these circumstances would be, "Get out whilst you can."
A friend was on a road trip and told me that she would be arriving on the Spanish island of Mallorca that Friday. I had a quick look at flights at no one's suggestion, and you can only imagine my delight when I found a one way ticket on Skyscanner from Munich to Mallorca that very Thursday for 60 Euros, so I locked it in, then called her to invite myself. You can only imagine her delight!!
I was not phased by the 6am departure time: sitting up all night at an airport to save 20 Euros is always worth it, especially when you have three Ryan Gosling movies to watch. I mean when else are you going to be able to watch them whilst on holiday?
Why would I sit up all night you ask? Well, the last trains arrive at Munich at 1 am, and getting a hotel would defeat the whole purpose of saving that flight money. But didn't I spend more than 20 Euros on snacks and coffee whilst I was waiting, you ask? No, I only spent 18 Euros.
When I did arrive in Mallorca, and wanted to check baggage claim, I noticed that there were a few other arrivals from Germany, but I did not think anything of it, as, funnily enough I was incapable of thinking, perhaps due to frying my brain watching three Ryan Gosling movies. Nor did I think anything of it when the information at my first hotel in Palma Mallorca was in German before it was in Spanish.
My friend picked me up on Friday morning, as she had got the overnight ferry with her car from Barcelona to Palma de Mallorca. (In my hasty enthusiasm I had booked my flight a day too early, meaning that I spent a night in Palma, costing me — you guessed it — more than the flight) and we took the scenic route to Alcudia via Port de Soller. The Port was just what I had imagined Mallorca to be like, small and intimate with the undulating Mediterranean as a backdrop and the promise of tapas.
Alcudia on the other hand was not what I had imagined Mallorca should be like. Had I heeded the warnings, perhaps I would have been prepared for the Bettenburgen "bed mountains" that lay in front of me: 60's style, soulless, multistory blocks overflowing with geriatric Germans reveling in the packaged, pre-organised nature of these resorts.
When I checked in, the receptionist asked me why I couldn't speak German, and I informed her I could, but up until this very moment I was under the obviously misguided impression that I was in Spain. I think that the deal breaker came at dinner where the food was, well, traditional German food, prepared specifically for a demographic that may have digestion problems with spicy food and a preference for soft portions so as not to play havoc with dentures. Really bringing it home was the advertisement for weekly rentals on walkers and wheel chairs.
I do not have anything against Germans or geriatrics. However as George Bernard Shaw said, "I dislike feeling at home when I am abroad." That was where the discomfort lay, for I am not ready for retirement from whatever it is that I do.
My travel companion was in 100% agreement that we were not yet ready to be put out to pasture, and that we required a bit more spice and adventure in our voyages, so we looked into alternatives and decided that Port de Soller was our happy place. We made reservations to stay at Esplendido, a **** hotel (that is four stars, not a four letter profanity) on the beach for eight days, starting Monday, which left a whole weekend ahead of me.
As I had already watched all the Ryan Gosling movies I had downloaded for the holiday, I had some time to do some Nancy Drew type sleuthing to see if Alcudia had more to offer, and I discovered that there was also a shitload (an Australian standardised unit of measurement representing "a lot") of English tourists. We are not talking posh, pinky up whilst drinking a cup of tea English: we are talking talk show English. Not the Oprah type talk show, but that one that you go on so you can tell your brother that you are cheating on him with your father. And here is the best part: the German and English infestation of the island in the summer months is not harmonious.
In fact, a quick search of "Germans and English in Mallorca" came up with about three million hits. From what I can gather, the German's like to get up early and reserve their place on the beach with their towels, and the only way that the English can compete is to stay up all night and then jump off the balcony to get there before them, resulting in "balcony legs" and "vodka breath". These and other ailments are described in a hilarious cartoon (seriously, who said the the Germans were not funny?) published by German paper Bild. The English rebuttal was a cliché-ridden cartoon in response, but not an entirely accurate one. Another was that the English should embrace the stereotype and feel no shame.
My sleuthing (and hunger) took me to the promenade, and then it hit me: in the German/English battle for Mallorcan holiday territory I had found myself on the front line. I could feel the characters depicted in the cartoons above walking towards each other and neither was willing to retreat. All those arrivals at the airport? Troops. And the Easy Rider Mobility Hire? Wheelchairs my ass! High Tech transport logistics I am thinking. The hotel filled with geriatrics? It must be the German command centre. The sky may as well have turned black when I realised Summer still had a long way to go, and this was nothing compared to what was going to ensue in the coming months.
So I left them wielding their artillery of towels and rolled up Daily Mails, went back to the hotel, ate some sausage and sauerkraut from the buffet, and downloaded some more Ryan Gosling movies whilst I wondered what Spain was like.
*I would like to state, that the main picture from this article was by no means taken in Alcudia. It was the drive on the way. And also on the way back. To where you ask? Back to our happy place, Esplendido Hotel in Soller, where we had the most wonderful week of great breakfasts, a comfortable stay and the most central point for exploring. Splurgeworthy? Hell yes!
Made in Singapore and now based in Zürich, the Opinionated Frau is a musician, a sushi snob, a shoe hoarder and bagaholic beneath that insatiable wanderlust and epicurean palate.
The Opinionated Frau comes complete with self professed caustic, sometimes crude wit and does not care if your ego has taken offence to her posts.
Batteries not included.