Last night it took me a while to get to sleep. Images kept marching through my mind: powdered covered Alp peaks glistening in the sun; warming up in a tiny drift covered ski restaurant; waltzing at midnight; laughing until late into the night; running to catch the subway; and faces of friends, dear friends.
I was there. I really was. It isn’t just part of a good dream. I was there on the slopes the day the Schilling was replaced with the Euro. I went to school there. I knew God there. My life was there. Austria, how I miss you.
Sometimes the best way to get close to you from across the Atlantic, is to recreate your food. So today I am eating a cinnamon roll, the closest thing to a Zimtschnecke. I savor each bite. The clatter of customers is around me, and I miss hearing German. I even miss the smell of cigarette smoke. I am tired hearing people discuss American business, American problems, American births.
I miss just being with people. My memories are full of times when there was always room and opportunity for deep conversation; when the heaviness of life was shared over a beer or cup of coffee or on foot in the gardens of a palace.
I am starting to find such relationships here, and I am grateful. But Austria, dear Beheimgasse, you have taken over a part of my heart that cannot be conquered by anyone else. So thank you for your friendship, for being part of my life, for shaping me.
I long for the day to see you again.
