Farmville

One of the onerous chores we have here in Farmville is hauling water to the pasture for the horses. And by onerous I mean difficult and time-consuming. Water is heavy and, by definition, wet. So I'll add messy to the onerous bit.

We haul water about every two days. We fill two 5-gallon buckets with tadpole-laden rain water from the swimming pool. They are heavy, and when filled, it takes two of us to carry them. So we lug them to the car, drive to the gate, open it, drive through the gate, close the gate, drive to a second gate, repeat the open-drive-close-gate-shuffle, and finally arrive at an old bathtub on the edge of the pasture. No happy horses greet us. They simply glance across the pasture with their aloof “we are French and you are not” looks.

After carefully emptying the buckets into the tub we return from whence we came, stow the buckets, and breathe a sigh of relief that we have at least 48 hours before we have to repeat this song and dance.

Yesterday just before dusk Hunt encountered a hunter walking across our pasture. I guess this man felt guilty about trespassing, so he stopped to chat about the “pretty horses.” This was a red flag to Hunt indicating that this man wasn't from around these parts or from the countryside at all, because, whatever virtues our horses do have, beauty isn't one of them. But the man did have a shotgun, so Hunt didn't question his intentions. (And, truth be told, Hunt was having a hard time understanding the man's rapid-fire French, and he might have actually been telling Hunt that he thought Hunt was pretty and reminded him of a horse. We will never know.)

The problem really was the man's dog. While Hunt and the hunter chatted, this rather large and furry animal took the opportunity to jump into the bathtub we had just filled with water. In an instant the water disappeared into his fur, much like disappearing into a sponge. He then jumped out and shook himself violently, sending that precious commodity everywhere but the tub. It all happened so quickly, and there was nothing to be done except to haul more water....

I am a little tired of the hunters. They get out early each day after consuming several shots of brandy (we've been told) or other bracing liquid, and begin firing their guns at who-knows-what. Our dogs react by beginning a harmonious baying session, first one, then the other two joining in until they reach such a feverish level of excitement that Hunt or I must get out of bed to calm them. The hardest part—besides rushing into a freezing-cold room—is to execute this maneuver quickly enough so that no dogs are able to slip into our bedroom before our return. And as sorry as we are that they are frightened by the gunshots and just want some human company, we need our sleep to face the rigors of Farmville and cannot stay up chatting with them about their hopes and dreams.

Farmville. Last night when I mixed the pig's potato flakes with water, I was rather haphazard about it. I admit I should have added more water. But I simply do not care for the pig. There. I have said it. I have tried to become friends. But she remains stoic in her resolve to hate me and all things American. I do not understand it. To her I say this, “You are ugly. And you eat like a pig, which, considering the circumstances, should not be held against you, I suppose.”

Well, dry potato flakes and pigs apparently do not mix well, and after sampling a little in her piggish—dare I say hoggish—fashion, she began a horrendous-sounding series of coughs and gasps for air. She stumbled away from her food and bumped into bushes and clanged into objects. I was really scared and screamed for Hunt to come and help. He came running, and we watched helplessly as she coughed and gasped another two minutes, and I assured him I would NOT give CPR to any pig ever, but could he? He remained silent, probably thinking about how big a hole he'd have to dig to hide such a thing.

There was nothing I could do for her. She would either make it or not, and my presence wouldn't matter at all. So I ran away.

Well, this morning, I am relieved to report, the pig appeared, ready for her breakfast. And not only did I add plenty of water to her potato flakes (making a sort of potato soup), but I included a moldy tangerine and some limp celery as well. I may be inept at this farming business, but never let it be said that I am heartless.

These French!

Ever since my blog readership in Russia has increased, so has the amount of smutty emails arriving hourly in my email box. Very disturbing. People want me buy strange medicines I never knew existed. And why are people in Russia reading a travel blog about a French pig anyway?

I discovered the STATS key on the blog, and I can hardly do anything but watch it and report the results to Hunt.

Karen: I have a reader from Denmark!....Hey, 62 pages were read this week in Russia!...But right now no one is reading anything at all!

Hunt: Karen, it is 4:00 in the morning.

Karen: It's not 4:00 in Russia!

But it is strange about those Russians.

I called the airline yesterday to try to change our return flight from Paris to Barcelona, because this French stike is still going on, and gasoline is still hard to find. But the hard-hearted employee at the so-called “help” desk told me to FORGET IT, or words to that effect. I promised to name our first-born after him and he quipped, “Your date of birth is listed right here.” So I offered the first grandchild. No go.

It looks like we'll be flying from Paris if we fly at all. Apparently no international flights have been cancelled. Planes just depart from Paris empty because all of their would-be passengers who have abandoned their cars in the long lines at Parisian service stations and rolled those suitcases along the highways just cannot run fast enough. I am not making this up. I have seen newsclips.

One-fourth of the service stations are closed in France and 30% of the stations around Paris are closed due to strikers. And why? Because the French government wants to reform the pension by increasing the retirement age all the way to 62. Why that is a whole 2 years higher than it is now! The nerve.

I am particularly moved by the number of high school-aged strikers I have seen on the news. I remember how worried I was in high school about getting old and not knowing how I would make ends meet a mere 50 years hence. My friends and I would gather together after the football game on Friday nights and sit around drinking our vanilla-cokes lamenting, “What will become of us?” My heart goes out to these sensitive French kids who are so upset they are burning down their schools!

While our son was studying abroad in France for a semester we were regularly surprised how often he was on break. “I thought you had a two-week vacation two weeks ago.” “We did. But these French need plenty of time off to plan their next strike.”

These French.

Eavesdropping 101

My husband and I attract eavesdroppers. I simply cannot explain it. It never happens when I am out with girlfriends and seldom happens when we are out with other couples or our children. But almost always—perhaps 95% of the time—when my husband and I are out together someone's eavesdropping radar engages, and they listen. We've had people reposition their chairs, cross their arms, cock their heads in our direction, and settle in for the long-run.

But why? We are not saying anything!

When this happens in America, we'll often switch to German, but that has its drawbacks. My side of the conversation is laced with “What did you say?” and “Come again?” In Europe, we cannot switch to anything.

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A Lesson in Patriotism

A Child's History of Catalonia 
(With Apologies to the Historian in the Family)

Catalonian Flag

Once upon a time there was a wonderful country called Catalonia which lay between Spain and France along the Mediterranean coast. It included the beautiful Pyrenees Mountains and the great Mount Canigou which is said to possess magical powers. Catalonia had a very cool red and yellow striped flag and was fiercely independent, sort of like Texas. But unlike Texas, Catalonia was settled by Greeks and Romans!

Unfortunately for the Catalonians, great empires grew on either side, France to the North and Spain to the South. These two empires fought and fought and did not care what happened to beautiful and small Catalonia. Spain and France simply gobbled her up.

Mount Canigou

Catalonians officially became Spanish or French, but they felt like neither. They felt they were still Catalonians. Both France and Spain tried to force the Catalonians to forget their ancestry. “Stop speaking that language!” But the Catalonians refused. “Stop singing those songs!” But the Catalonians refused. “Stop dancing that dance!” Still, the Catalonians refused, even though doing these things often resulted in their punishment and death. The Catalonians looked up at Mount Canigou and remembered their past and prayed for their future.

Franco

Then in 1975 a very bad and mean dictator named Francisco Franco died, and the Catalonians rejoiced! “We can now speak our own language!” they cried. “We can now sing our own songs!” they cried. “We can keep dancing our special dance!” And from that day until this, when Catalonians gather together, they dance their special Catalonian dance called The Sardana. And this helps them remember that they are a great and noble people with a rich and marvelous history.

The Sardana

Every Sunday afternoon in Barcelona is a celebration of Catalonian history and independence. After Sunday mass the locals gather in front of the cathedral and, accompanied by live music, they dance The Sardana. And they dance. And they dance. It is a wondrous sight to behold.

The Sardana is danced in a circle facing inwards with the dancers holding hands. As new dancers arrive, they greet each other, stow their belongings inside the circle, and join the circle of dancers. The circle simply grows as people join. Most of the dancers appear elderly though there are participants of every age. Many know each other and greet each other warmly. This ritual is clearly a social affair as well as a statement of independence.

WE ARE CATALONIANS! 

 WE WILL DANCE OUR DANCE! 

DO NOT THINK OF STOPPING US! 

We watched the dancers for about 30 minutes. The circle grew and grew and then other circles were formed, some of which seemed quite proficient while others weren't as so. I watched closely. As far as I could tell there were three distinct parts to The Sardana. The first one seemed easy enough. The second one, too, seemed danceable. And the third part, well, it didn't last too long so maybe I could muddle through. I was so nervous. I didn't want to ruin their celebration, but I also didn't want to miss an opportunity like this. And in some odd way I thought I might be letting Rick Steves down if I didn't try it. (Rick Steves is my travel guru.) So I took a deep breath and, with heart wildly thumping, I tapped a lady on the shoulder to ask for admittance into the circle.

Then I did it! I danced The Sardana in Barcelona. I wasn't “perfect” but I made it through. At one point I looked up to the spire of the cathedral and thought, “Can I really be doing this?” And I really was! What an absolute thrill!

I did it!

After that dance and before the next, the lady to my right began giving me tips in a mixture of Catalonian and French. She was so nice, but I understood so little. When we began dancing again, a man in his 70's decided to join the circle on my left, and he began instructing me in English. He counted aloud and, unfortunately, OFF BEAT, and everyone within earshot hollered at him to stop talking. It was hilarious! After the dance he asked where I was from. When I told him America, he threw out his arms and bellowed, “Florida!” and he hugged me!

What an occasion. What a memory. And what a beautiful way to tell the world how proud you are to be Catalonian. We Texans could learn a thing or two.

Watch The Sardana Danced

A Wonderful Essay About The Sardana

Animal Farm

We are in Southern France, ensconced in a lovely villa not far from the Pyrenees Mountains. From one window we can see the Mediterranean Sea, from another, Mount Canigou and its snow-topped peaks. It is lovely in the sunshine, unbelievably lovely.

We are housesitting for friends who acquired a used ambulance, filled it with clothing, blankets, and medical supplies, and departed for the mountains of Moracco where they will deliver supplies and goodwill from village to village. They've left us in charge of their hearth and home...and their pets.

Our days are now centered around these creatures, some I really like and some I tolerate. None are bad sorts. I just am a dog person and can't quite warm up to pigs. But I get ahead of myself.

The daily instructions are easy: Lead the horses to the pasture. Feed the pig. Feed the seven feral cats. Feed the three German/Belgian Shepherd dogs. Walk the dogs. Lead the horses to the barn. Feed the horses. Feed the pig. Feed the seven feral cats.

What I didn't expect were the complexities involved: The cats' food has to be softened because the kittens are so small. The dogs need to walk in the neighboring vineyard so they can enjoy eating the remaining grapes. The pig eats nearly any leftovers, and if you do not have leftovers for her, you must shop for leftovers. The horses prefer their feed softened and their hay a mixture of dry and damp. The pig enjoys a sprinkling of the horses' feed atop her leftovers in the evenings. The horses expect an apple before supper.

So here I am in beautiful Southern France, basking in the sunshine, and playing European Farm Lady.

And feeling mighty sporty in my blue wellies!

Step 1:  Halters On

        

          Step 2:  Lead Horses to Pasture

Step 3:  Celebrate Completion of Step 2
(Don't Forget to Look at Mountains!)

Step 4:  Put Horse Feed in
Bucket For Evening Feeding

Step 5:  Add Water to Bucket
To Soften Feed

Step 6:  Call Pig

Step 7:  Feed Pig But
DO NOT
Watch Her Eat!

Step 8: Bond With Pig (Avoid Expressions
Like "Fatty Face" and "Cloven Hoof Mama"
Which She Hates)

Step 10:  Call Dogs for Walk
(Step 9 is Feed Cats, But
Does Anyone Really Care?)

Step 11:  Avoid Placing Self
Between Grapes and Canine Jaws

Step 12: Off With the Wellies,
On With the Shoes

Step 13: Buy Leftovers for Pig
(Wear Disguise To Avoid Arrest
Because What Sane Person Would Buy Potato
Flakes in FRANCE???)

Protecting the Children

I have failed at blogging in two ways. First, I am told, a blog page should be a neutral color. That seems intrinsically wrong, though perhaps not quite sinful. I don't know. But certainly wrong. Second, a blogger, I am told, must post regularly. But if you stay up late doing cool stuff to write posts about and fall asleep immediately upon returning home without writing said posts, what then? Are you bad? Or just an abject failure? I think the latter. Either way, it gives me pause.

I have been neglecting my blog lately for one simple reason: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. What a gem of a book!

I gave Hunt a copy for Christmas last year, and he loved it and urged me to bring it along on this trip. I am so thankful that he did. If you have not yet read it, please

1. Do not continue reading this post.

And

2. Turn your computer off and go find a copy immediately.

___________

Isn't it absolutely charming? I adore the characters. They remind me of Jane Austen's characters though not so fleshed out and not so extreme. But oh, so dear. If only I could sit and enjoy tea with Isola my life would be complete!

I have thought so much through the years about World War II and its effects on Europe and Europeans. Perhaps this comes from marrying a historian, perhaps it is just a subject that picques my interest. I don't know. I do know that Americans like to think about the War beginning in '41 when we entered the fray. We like to focus on Normandy and the Bulge and VE-Day. You know, those good parts when America donned her white hat and showed everyone what was what.

But there were few good parts for the Europeans.

Anyone who has read about the camps, the battles, the bombings knows that all Europeans lost something precious: their lives, their loved ones, their property, their dignity, their innocence. Something. Or all. It was a tragedy on such an enormous scale, that I find it impossible to comprehend.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society offers a glimpse into what it must have been like for parents trying to protect their children during wartime. Keep them nearby and in possible danger or send them into the unknown and out of harm's way to live without family for years? What kind of choice is that? Parents should never be forced to make such decisions.

Eben Ramsey writes, “My grandson, Eli, was evacuated to England when he was seven. He is home now—twelve years old, and tall—but I will never forgive the Germans for making me miss his growing-up years.”

No, I will never comprehend the loss.

So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen....

Orell & Tracy

Well, we've had to bid adieu to our friends, Orell and Tracy, and continue on our travels alone. We had a sad farewell in Barcelona, primarily because we've had such fun adventures together, but also because they have been so enthusiastic about all things European. They were willing to do and try nearly anything.

Orell has been my friend since we both survived old Mrs. Sharp's second grade class. I was in her wedding, she in mine. (Yes, her bridesmaids' dresses were hideous, and she says the same about mine, but that simply isn't true! Mine were lovely, floral affairs with square necklines, bows at the waist, and tiers of fabric in the skirt! What could possibly be hideous about that?)

Orell and Tracy found themselves childless for a semester—their youngest is studying in Nicaragua—so we invited them to travel with us, and they did, from Salzburg to Barcelona. This was their first trip to Europe.  

A typical day began with coffee and a perusal of the preceeding day's pictures. After 2 to 3 cups, Hunt would bid us adieu and head out to try and make sense of internment camps. Having no specific schedule, Orell, Tracy, and I would finally rouse ourselves around 10:00, shower, dress, and head to town. There we would search for a better pretzel than our last, and search for the best gelato in that particular city. And take countless pictures. And visit a museum or two. And shop a lot. Hunt would catch up with us about 5:00, and then we'd resume the coffee drinking and walking. Weekends and evenings we spent taking day trips, going to concerts, trying new foods, and, often, getting lost.

More Research

First Döner

Driving in Europe is not as easy as one might think, or perhaps it just isn't easy for us (in spite of the fact that Hunt and I have driven in Europe for nearly 30 years.) The signs are so difficult to follow because--besides being in a foreign language--they sometimes make little sense. A location called one thing for 100 kilometers will suddenly be listed as another thing with no warning. Our dear friend Bernice, who has driven countless hours in France and speaks French fluently, laments that she, too, gets lost when she drives here. We follow her excellent advice and write a list of the towns between our departing point and our destination and hope against hope that one of the towns will be listed at each turn. For example, in driving from Houston to Dallas, I would list: Houston--Spring--Conroe--Willis--Huntsville--Centerville--Buffalo--Fairfield--Corsicanna--Ennis--Ferris--Dallas! This might seem unnecessary because the signs would probably say Dallas all along the way. But no! Not here! Here the locals make driving a challenge and make each turn an adventure! Whatever the case, following the signs is always memorable.

Tracy liked to ride shotgun in our little rental car, and navigation generally fell to him. Orell and I helped out from the backseat with quips like, “That's a one-way street!” and “I don't recognize anything.” We renamed our Munich neighborhood “Brigadoon” because it seemed to exist only if we believed. (And often believing wasn't quite enough to find it!)

We counted tunnels (and drove through 146 in one day from the Italian Lake District to the French Riviera!) We rented bikes. We drank gallons of coffee. We listened to street musicians. And we laughed a lot.

I miss them.

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Auf Wiedersehen

Leaving Germany yesterday made me sadder than I could have imagined. I have always philosophised that traveling is just a series of choices. Do I eat here or eat there? Do I see this or see that? Do I buy one or just wait? I must tell myself, “I'll return some day and get to make more choices.” And that keeps me from being sad.

But I was so very sad to leave Germany. Maybe it is that I am getting older (and wiser?) and realize I won't have many more chances to return. Or none.

Mohnschnecken
(Poppy Seed Pastry)

Our Friend, Tracy, And His
Apfelkuchen (Apple Cake)

I love Germany. I love the food. Sausages with sharp mustard, hearty breads, spicy pickles, tender sauerkraut, sliced Wursts, an endless variety of cheeses, mushroon sauces, potato dumplings, hearty soups. And the coffee. And the pastries. How do they do it?

Germans Enjoy Their Beer

It is fun to watch a German eat. (And it is OK to watch. Everyone does it.) They put their fork in their left hand and their knife in their right, and they keep their forearms resting on the table's edge and seldom pause for breath until they are done. It is perfectly acceptable to use the knife to push food onto the fork—Miss Manners would object!—and pile it as high as possible. I once heard a mother tell her son, “Get your arms back on the table!” Marvelous!

Window Boxes

Germans do not bring the bill at a restaurant until you request it which means you can sit undisturbed for hours after you finish eating. There is no sense of urgency like we experience in America. This bothers some travelers because they think they are being ignored, but they are actually being left alone to enjoy the moment. Germans disdain the “eat and run” philosophy and think of a meal in a restaurant as an event. They even take their dogs along. And waiters NEVER offer dessert before you finish eating the main course. Why do we do that in America?

The German street food is a quicker option, and a delicious one. A Bratwurst is a grilled sausage eaten partially inside a crusty white roll with mustard. That first breadless bite of the Bratwurst is a bite to be savored. My favorite sandwich is the Döner Kebab: warmed bun, shaved chicken or lamb which has been roasted on a skewer, lettuce, thinly sliced onions, tomatoes, Turkish paprika, and yogurt/herb sauce. I will sorely miss them.

Crafts, Raw and Prepared Foods, Textiles, Tools
The Markets Have It All

German craftmanship excels all others, and their homes are excellent examples of this. Intricate woodwork, tiled bathrooms, ceramic room heaters perfect for dying socks overnight, flower boxes under windows, marble and wooden floors. Most homes have window shutters which roll electrically or manually, shutting out some or all of the light. This is really important in blocking sunlight in the summer when the sun sets after midnight. (Ask any mother with small children!)

Our Friend, Orell,
 At the Market

I will miss driving in Germany where rules are strictly obeyed. Use your left turn signal to enter a roundabout, your right turn signal to exit it. On Autobahns (highways) you must stay in the far right lane unless you are passing a car. And always pass on the left! But follow the rules and drive as fast as you like. I got up tp 94 mph! Next time maybe I'll break 100.

German Comforters
Are Grand

Market Day

I will miss the rivers and mountains, the profusion of flowers and crumbling castles and Baroque churches. I will miss sleeping under a German comforter, strolling through markets, eating off charming German china. And walking everywhere. And making small talk with the nice people I meet. And thinking about the rich history which surrounds me.

I hope someday to return.

Sunshine Makes Me High

When I am in Germany between October and March, I am always delighted to see the sun. It isn't a guarantee, so I see it as a gift. When we spent a year in Koblenz, Germany we didn't have a sunny day from October 20 through mid-March. It didn't rain all of every day, but something fell from the sky during every 24-hour period. It was oppressive. Add to that the shortened winter days where it was totally dark by 4:00 each afternoon, and you have a recipe for depression.

Germans adore the sun, and no wonder, since they go for such long periods without seeing it. They seek it wherever and whenever they can find it. And then they get out and enjoy it, no matter how cold or hot it is. We've laughed through the years about bundling up to sit in the sun with Germans friends, usually for Kaffee und Kuchen (coffee and cake) on a cold, sunny sping day. Wearing our coats. And gloves.

Shopping

Yesterday we drove south from Munich to the village of Hohenschwangau to visit Neuschwanstein Castle. This is the castle that King Ludwig II began (but never finished) in the late 19^th century and the model for Disneyland's Sleeping Beauty Castle. (King Ludwig was the king of Bavaria and was absolutely mad. He loved Wagner and knights and spending money. But you cannot fault his taste in decorating!) When we left Munich the sun was shining, and when we arrived in Hohenschwangau it was not. No matter. When you are traveling you just go and do and see, regardless of the weather because time is so precious. So we parked and shopped a little then set off for Marienbrucke (Mary's Bridge) where the view to the castle is unparalled.

A Bridge With A View
(Or So We Thought)

Marienbrucke is built atop a fabulously beautiful gorge with a series of waterfalls.  And, although the fog prevented us from seeing any views at all, we did enjoy listening to a man sing and play a hurdy-gurdy, our first time to ever see one.

 A Hurdy-Gurdy Man 

Crank With The Right,
Press The Keys With The Left

Our tour of Neuschwanstein included 165 stairs up. It may seem odd to count the number of stairs, but not having the sun drives one to focus on odd things. (Like having to decide which of us would get to use the pay toilet because we didn't have enough coins for us all.)

The castle was magnificient, and I'd post a photo of the interior, but I wasn't allowed to take any. Lots of murals of Wagnerian scences and marble columns and Italian mosiac floors and carved wooden sculptures and a toilet that looked like an actual throne and even a telephone. But once I glanced from a castle window and saw the fog lifting, well, like the Germans around me, I could hardly wait to get out in the sunshine. And I barely noticed those 181 steps down!

Neuschwanstein In The Brilliant Sunshine

Worth The Wait!

A Bridge With A View
(Two Hours Later)

De Gustibus Est Disputandum

Some things, like coffee, are best left alone. Add cream or sugar, and you no longer have coffee. Or the potato chip. Add the “roasted chicken” or “prawn” flavorings as they do in England, and you may have committed a felony instead of enhancing a chip. (Hunt places blackberry cobbler in this category—thinking it is best eaten without vanilla ice cream—but I think this reveals his heathen tendencies.)

A Proper Pretzel

Call me a purist. I don't care. But it is simply wrong to fiddle with the pretzel.

The Salzburgers call the pretzel a Bretzl, and it has a crunchiness and chewiness not to be paralleled by its poor American counterpart. The origin of the shape is debatable, and some think it represents a monk in prayer or a child's folded arms. Salzburg bakeries offer the Bretzl in many sizes, some so large it must be held by two hands. A carbohydrate lover's delight.

All Pretzels Are Not Created Equal

But I am disturbed—nay, deeply disturbed—by the bastardizations spread before me here in the City of Music. Poppy Seed Pretzels. Pizza Pretzels. Chocolate Pretzels. Chocolate and Jam Pretzels. Donut Pretzels. Apple Pretzels. Chocolate and Nuts Pretzels. Cheese Pretzels.

So, so wrong. In their purest form, covered with salt crystals, they are perfection. Why would anyone want to fiddle with perfection? 

A Fashion (Mis)Statement

Land's End ought to make a disclaimer before selling their bright yellow down vests. Perhaps a discrete AVOID WEARING IN AUSTRIA might be enough. Here I was on a lovely Sunday afternoon celebrating a wonderful Austrian festival known as Almabtrieb. It's a “Let's herd the cows down from the mountain pastures of the Alps (where they have spent the summer) to the warmer stables in our village (where they will spend the winter) and decorate them with flower garlands and have a grand cow parade" kind of thing. There were local brass bands performing, children playing on hay bales, women in dirndls serving beer in gigantic steins, local artisans selling their wares, lots of vendors offering delicious local foods, and the cows hiding their excitement about returning to village life. The most marvelous thing I saw was a group of about nine teenage boys, around 14 or 16 years old, gather onstage and perform an IMPROMPTU folk dance. They wore lederhosen, the traditional Bavarian/Austrian men's costume, and the boys were accompanied in their stomping and clapping and hopping by a friend playing an accordion. It was one of the coolest performances I have ever seen.

But my enthusiasm was short-lived when I figured out why people were staring at me. It wasn't because I was taking pictures or tapping my foot to the music or speaking English or eating with my fork in the wrong hand. Or maybe it was. But I suspect it was the vest. The one I thought looked pretty jaunty with my black corduroy pants and black turtleneck. But my fashion sense wasn't foremost in the minds of that gathering in Russbach, Austria. They were all wondering if I'd had an auto emergency, because that is when they wear their yellow vests. You know, the vests mandated by Austrian law to be carried in the front seat of EVERY vehicle?  Right.  Those yellow vests.