Expensive shoes don’t matter

A child, not one of my wards, came up to me and asked when I could be in his group. When I told him that I was not assigned to look after them, he looked a bit disgruntled. He stayed, didn’t say anything. He is three years old. We were in the front yard, the weather was almost summer, 26 degrees, so unlike autumn. We were outside and we were waiting for their parents, his parents. It was five o’clock!

I started to slowly scratch his back, the way I scratch my son’s back to bring him to sleep, a very gentle way of soothing him. When I stopped, he begged for more, “Kitzel mich nochmal? (Tickle me once again)?” So I scratched his back again and again. Children started to line up, begging for my attention and he walked away.

The other day a colleague told me that one of her wards wore a pair of 80-euro boots. The child is only one year old. Typical kid of a very serious career-oriented parent. Expensive designer clothes, up-to-date fashion accessories, things like that.

I thought it was the most ridiculous thing I heard. Here is a one year old missing her mum and dad stuck in a kindergarten for almost 10 hours a day and when she and her sister get home, mommy and daddy don’t have any time for them, they eat and sleep together and that’s their bonding.

And their mother asked me once what could she do wrong, what was her failure as a mother. This mother feels neglected, dejected by her eldest, who cries whenever she shows up to pick them up. Well, lady, you know the darn answer. Your money don’t matter to a small child. Your career, your achievements, your flashy designer clothes. Your children need your (that means you and your husband, or you or your husband) affection and warmth. And these things are missing and so don’t expect anything at all in return.

Train blues: Loud voices and strange tongues

The Südbahnhof--South Railway Station

Observing people on the train has been my passion ever since living in Vienna. Whether disputes, intimacies or banalities unfold before me, hearing different languages, or just plain people-watching commuting can be interesting. Sometimes, you wish you just stay at home or plead to your partner to bring you to your desired destination. That’s the disadvantage if you don’t know how to drive. But I don’t worry. It’s on my what-to-do list. That will happen soon.

Yesterday, boarded a train going to Bratislava, I never thought it would turn out to be that “exciting.” A group of Eastern Europeans was having a ball inside the wagon. They were talking loudly, played their music oblivious to their neighbours, mostly Austrians, who wished to have a noise-free ride back home.

They were loud, all right. But I didn’t mind. I mean, to each his own. Moreover, I am used to boisterous laughter and loud talking when I still lived in Manila.

I just ate the cookies I bought from the station and read the book, a freebie I got from the city library of Vienna, Ruth Klüger’s memoir regarding her youth during the Anschluß in 1938. Yes, very apt indeed.

Until one young Austrian woman stood up addressing the “foreigners” to tone down their voices and player for the benefit of other passengers who didn’t want to listen to their conversation.

They “are riding on an Austrian train” so could they please be quiet.

One of the group retorted that they “don’t understand any German (Nix verstehen).” “Nichts verstehen, nichst verstehen,” the young woman said completely pissed off, sat down again shaking her head.

A few minutes later, another woman turned up to the “happy group” and advised them to keep quiet or get the hell out of the train.” The answer was a half-hearted “ja, ja, ja” and the silence was momentary. Soon enough their voices got louder and music was playing again.

I didn’t have any problem that they were foreigners like myself. I had a problem that they they thought they owned the train. As a professional commuter, they should take consider that there are other passengers too on the train.

Listening to the women I caught “Adolf Hitler” in one of their conversations, obviously hinting that the Austrian women (or the Austrians for that matter) who berated them were simply racist. Of course, I could not guess the exact words they used. But it was not pretty hard to decipher the meaning as they were not discreet about their topics.

It seems to me whatever an Austrian white woman or man does, she or he is stamped with “racist” on his/her forehead. If he/she criticises someone from other ethnicity or culture, immediately he/she becomes a bigot.

We, humans, are particularly scared when we hear other people talking in a different language, behave in a different manner, and have “strange” traditions.

This is a very delicate issue. Knowing Austrians and their ways, they simply cannot take it. They are astonished if a foreigner suddenly shows who he/she really is. Take for example, a kimono-wearing Japanese tourist in the middle of Karlsplatz attracting attention from the locals.

You see, hearing people in a different language resonates a certain threatening sound if the speakers talk in a tone that is more than normal.

On the other hand, for eight years I have seen other immigrants who still carry “garbage” in to their host country. This is a weak point that right-wing parties use and abuse. It is disappointing sometimes. You hear immigrants hating each other, harbour sentiments that you think should be eradicated by now. Turks against the Armenians or Turks against the Christians, things like that. Starting anew in a neutral land, animosities and bad behaviour should be gone, erased. Instead some of them are worse, they are more bigot. Or as bigot as the locals. Some of them don’t teach their children how to behave well. They don’t have any manners. I am not saying that the locals’ kids are better. Acquiring good manners encompass of where you come from.

Did you know that there is a hierarchy among the immigrants themselves? Unbelievable. I wasn’t simply aware of it till I read an article that came out from Biber, a gratis magazine that focuses on Vienna and its migrant community. Well, at least, my suspicions are confirmed.

Discrimination happens everywhere. People love to hate. And it bothers me.

A shamanic place in Vienna

It is not pretty hard to understand that we are surrounded with energy. It is in our bodies, the trees, the air that we breathe, the soil beneath our feet, even the electrical gadgets that guide and entertain us. Energy consumes us and we consume it.

It can be positive or negative.

Did you know that the ill-fated Chernobyl nuclear plant was built upon a former synagogue that was destroyed by the Nazis during the Second World War? The SS men rounded up the Jews who lived in this area–women, men and children–and killed them on the spot. For years, it was laid barren, empty. Until the Soviets built an atomic plant. Years have gone by and we know what happened in 1986. The disaster shocked the whole world and brought major health issues among those who lived closer to the area. It was one of the human tragedies in the 20th century, its effects can still be seen and felt today where hundreds contacted cancer and other sickness, produced deformed children, and former inhabitants afraid to return.

Shamans explained that this place should be “healed” before a new building stands on top of it. This article shows how.

The Engelsbrunnen (Angels' Fountain)

Recently, I chanced upon a magazine article about places in Vienna that exude/release/are flowing with energy. I am not so well-versed with the shamanic terms but am intrigued with the topic a long time ago already. Back when I started to get to know about esoteric terms and their history, it fascinated me how we, as humans, are connected with the Mother Nature, or why and how the major religions all over the world and the Pagan belief of our ancestors are the same.

One of the suggested places in Vienna is the Engelsbrunnen in Schloß Schönbrunn in the 13th District. It is quite hidden from the public unless one searches for this particular fountain.

If you are standing in front of the pompous Neptune Fountain just before you go up toward the Gloriette, turn to the left alley. Upon reaching the so-called Roman Ruins, just go on walking. Stop when you reach the first alley on your left and go straight until you spot the gated fountain of two cute Cherubs without wings. There, according to the article, is a good place to rest. It is in the middle of the intersection of grid lines that is flowing with energy.

The article said the right thing: this part of Schönbrunn is always devoid of people. Many joggers almost always ignore it, the visitors just don’t notice that it exists.

As for me, I am happy that I have found it. I discovered it last week and decided to go there again today when I went for my jogging. I didn’t feel any changes. Though after taking a rest for 15 minutes I was really in the mood for another round of hopping and running. Did I believe it? Somehow, yes. Perhaps, it will just get into me without realising it.

Facebook me, not!

My love affair with Facebook is over.

We were together for more than a year. We flirted, made love, adored each other and I, in turn, wasted the whole day and night with it. Facebook is procrastination pur.

I found the long-lost friends, classmates and relatives and had this illusion that they somehow missed me. Man, I was wrong. They didn’t care at all. You know, I would die here and no one would find out that I was already six feet under the ground? Okay, that sounds melodramatic.

But cut the drama. What I find ridiculous is that I haven’t learned a single thing. In the past they never called or sent an email, so why would they contact me more often via Facebook?

Besides, I counted the minutes and hours I wasted reading the updates of my so-called “Friends” only to find out everything was just a facade. And the pictures? Those pretty pictures? Happy pictures? Those seemingly successful pictures? They are not real. They live in a lie. They hide behind the smiles and classy suits and fashionable clothes and useless applications that I don’t have any interest of looking, or crowding my profile. Slowly, I began to hate the site, stopped typing the “Yes, I agree to install this or that program,” annoyed and amused at my Friends’ increasing number of friends or contacts. It has become a popularity contest. It is a mirage. It is superficiality to the core.

And with all those huge number of contacts, I find it ironic that they cloak themselves. What else is the reason they surf the site anonymously while it shows that they update their profile a hundred times in a span of minutes? I asked myself: if they wanted to hide from somebody, they shouldn’t have added that person in the first place. And then the woe, you’d tell them you wanted to chat or sent a note and they never replied.

Am I jealous of their success and movie star complex? Perhaps. But, I was hurt. Suddenly, I was just one of their (100 or 1,000) friends. My updates had become nothing. And I don’t think they had interest following mine. So, I severed the ties.

In the long run, I became one of them. It was disgusting. I felt disappointed with myself too. The whole thing didn’t make any sense at all. So I did what I have to do. Quit.

The deactivation began yesterday and will continue indefinitely. If they want to reach me, they know how. I am pretty sure they won’t miss me. So, yes, Facebook, it is a personal issue. You are Fata Morgana, nothing more.

Update: CNN has a tongue-in-cheek article of different “annoying” types of Facebook users. And what are you?

Internets

On one clear day when the sun was shining my in-laws were off to visit us. We had a mini-discussion concerning Web 2.0 and its follies. She recently acquired her laptop and discovering the whole internet-thingy. It surprised her greatly that people are not afraid to introduce themselves on the net. What drives these people to do such things puzzled her. Her thoughts concerning Web 2.0 are as follows:

1. What is the use of having an internet presence
2. Why are people ready and eager to divulge their private life to those who don’t know them personally
3. It is idiocy
4. No one is interested with what they (almost “you” to me) are saying
5. Ergo, they (the average Janes and Harrys), their opinions and their goddamn lives don’t matter unless they are a “celebrity”

Why Facebook? (It is a way to interact with my friends. I even “met” my cousins and long-lost classmates there.) Why Twitter? (Uhmm…) Why blog? Very well. I said, Why not? It didn’t become a full-blown discussion, mind you. I was ignored before I could give answers further. My son complained that he was alone and wanted Oma to be his playmate as soon as possible and so MIL readily paid attention to him. SO had almost the same opinion like his dear Mum. But he resorted staying in the background, hearing nothing, telling nothing. But, “I also find it strange. But these days many companies see it as a sign of competency if you know Web 2.0.”

Whatever. Said MIL. She would stand by her opinion. “Do you have a personal website?” She asked. Ermmm… “Do you?” Yeah, but I don’t think it still exists. “Well, tell me. I want to see it.” Okay. There on a piece of paper I wrote my old website. By the time she gets to see it. It is all gone.