Bruce Springsteen, Vienna, Gorgeous Summer Night

He came onstage with an accordian strapped to himself and began a whimsical rendition of the Blue Danube Waltz, to win the hearts of the some 40,000 fans gathered in the stadium in Vienna. He needn't try at all, but the gesture was charming, and all Bruce.
For this American, it was a great way to spend a Fourth of July weekend, with our brother Bruce out there playing and singing with everything in him, bringing everybody together.

The acoustics? Ick. Bad. Horrible. But that's not his fault.
And if you look closely at the video snippets, you can see The Boss singing directly to me, sitting in Section B, Row 25, Seat 18 of the upper, upper, upper tier.

Sweet Home, .... Chikago?

I've been busy wrapping up an article for Smithsonian Magazine--and still dealing with the pinched nerve in my neck--the neck problem or just being snowed under will usually account for my lack of posts.

The village of Kittsee has a little section of it known as "Chikago." A while back I snooped around as to why, and it turns out it's simply this: several Kittsee-ians immigrated to Chicago (the real one) beginning in the late 1800s to work in factories.

Kittsee is in the Austrian state/region of Burgenland, and there is an active club of "Burgenlanders" in the Chicagoland area.

It's called Chikago, but I haven't found any music venues. And no Billy Goat Taverns. And no baseball.

But a couple of miles down the road there is an "Al Caponne" pizzeria... should I tell anyone about the spelling problems?

technorati one more time

8re2ftgkjn

Okay, technorati, here's our secret handshake: 8re2ftgkjn

Talk About Hen-pecked...

The things you see while moseying in Europe in a London taxi ... it ain't a monkey on his back, but still... I just wanna throw a little Graig David his way:
I'm walking away, From the troubles in my life, I'm walking away, Oh, to find a better day

Austria's "Kurier" Michael Jackson Coverage

The headline on the front page (top left) reads: The Sad Star

Reporting Michael

Most European newspapers had already gone to press when the news of Michael Jackson's death was announced. Here, Austria's Der Standard managed to get it on Page One, although according to the copy here (hard to see in this smaller version), they only were able to get the cardiac arrest, not the death.

Hochwasser in Austria

The Danube continues to rise. Badly effected here, but not as bad as in the state of Upper Austria, which has seen several towns and villages evacuated.
Austria--Europe in general--isn't prone to extreme weather like hurricanes or tornadoes--they happen occasionally, but not often. But the rising water is impressive.
Remi and I often walk here, in the "Au" --one of the most significant wetlands in Central Europe. But today it was not just wet, but soaking wet. Below is an image of the flooded street (leads down to a yacht club), and a canoe the forest service is using. In the distance, a few people are coming up on a raft.

Danube Deluge

Rain, rain, rain. And more predicted. The military has been called out, as the Danube is about to break its banks.
This is a view of the Danube in Hainburg. Onlookers have come out to see the high waters, which will probably flood the Old Town Square and beyond within the next 48 hours.
The worst flooding in more than 300 years occurred in 2003.

Monks in Vienna's Rain

Umbrella-carrying monks, as seen through a rain-splattered windshield in Vienna's first district.

Dad, O Happy Day

J. Everett McCracken

Iran and Austria

Sleepy Vienna is not often known for protests, but an estimated 700 Iranians took to the streets to protest the election. Protests appear to be taking place around Europe, including Copenhagen, Paris and London.

Meanwhile, news that Ahmadinejad "was part of a death squad" in Vienna 20 years ago slipped under the radar. An Austrian politician said he "had no doubt [Ahmadinejad] was involved." Authorities believe the Iranian president may have even pulled the trigger on the gun that killed three Kurdish Democratic Party leaders in Vienna.

"A president who has probably engaged in massive election fraud, been responsible for the deaths of many journalists and Kurds in Iran and strongly suspected of murder in Vienna is not someone capable of respecting democracy and human rights," said Green party spokesman Peter Pilz.

An "Eye" on Art

Austrians and Germans like to add charming frescoes to the outside of their homes, often something having to do with the town's history, or something otherwise sentimental. A house in Lower Austria has Indians and buffaloes, because the owner liked stories of the Wild West.

I spotted this painting on a house in a German village. What appears to be a fan or a socket of some kind in the left corner looks to me like a little eye looking down on the painting.

Bustle in Brussels

Was in Brussels not too long ago--this is a snap of the street my hotel was on.
Continental breakfast ("including fruit" was apparently the big selling point) went for an eyebrow-raising €25 ($34). I didn't raise my eyebrows, but I did snub my nose at it.

But Remi was well-treated there--she made friends with two bartenders and slummed for crumbs. She also ran Figure 8's in the small garden attached to the bar. Oh yea, and I was there for a conference.

The Fourth Estate Rubble

No one outside of journalism seems to care about the implosion.

For us, it's a twin kick in the backside. We're seeing and experiencing, from the inside, the critical value our country is losing--and I do mean critical--with the collapse of newspapers. (You can't tweet Watergate).

And meanwhile we're watching our livelihoods, our means, get wiped out. Snap, just like that.

Yea. I get it. Not every journalist is a Woodstein. I write essays about my dog, for chrissakes.

But we live and breathe journalism. It's like a safe roof over our heads.

One of the times I was in Ukraine, I was working with a group of local journalists to plan a media law conference. We got into a heated debate about the range of the conference, because I was sticking to my guns about not promoting the legislation of ethics. This tug of war went on for more than two hours. But it was important. I was worried they would end up being hung by their own rope--creating a protection law which ends up being used against them.

Who's hanging by the rope, now?

I said to one of them later in the week that journalism was like a religion. It's a belief system, a way of living our lives.
She looked at me, stunned. "Patricia, you are so right. This is our religion."

So not only is there the horror at the risk to our democracy, but more personally, the loss of our religion and how we perceive our lives. Cloudy lenses now.

And more immediately, our jobs--and the uncertain future of our ability to make a living. My friend and colleague Amy Green writes eloquently about her experience of this free fall. In some ways, what she expresses gives me hope--in these tough times, we are pulling together for each other, trying to help each other through the storm. For me, one of the gems in the rubble is the graciousness I've found among fellow journalists during these dark days.

But I can't help but come back to the larger picture, the greater concern: who has time to fight for the fourth estate when you're fighting to keep food on the table? We need bread now, more than we need beliefs. And how utterly, tragically sad is that?

Oh, to Be in Worms

There's Powhite Parkway in Richmond, Va., which out of courtesy you try to pronounce Pow Hite, but are inevitably corrected by locals: "Oh no, Honey Bunch, it's 'Po white'."

As mentioned in previous posts, Austria has the little hamlet of "Fucking," which is really pronounced "Fooking" in German and doesn't mean what it does in English. But since it has no meaning in German, and everyone in the world knows what it means in English, and everyone in the world finds the meaning in their own lives in that meaning, by default and by delight, Austrians have named their hamlet after sex.

Which indelicately brings me to Worms.

After grandly screwing up a morning of travel last week, in which I was to arrive from Brussels into Munich at around midday---but by midday wasn't anywhere near Munich, other than to say I was in the same country--I called the editor with whom I had scheduled an informal meeting and told her that unless I could bring the third wheel to her romantic evening out with her husband, or follow them around the garden center the following morning helping them pick out grass seed, that it simply would not be possible to meet. Not this time 'round.
Confession: It was actually she who suggested she had these things to do, halting my attempt to reschedule and hone in on her personal life. She was seeing, before her very eyes, a run-of-the-mill coffee meeting with a freelancer about to turn into a "What About Bob" sequel.

After some "see ya next times" were exchanged, she went back to work, and I sat back and thought about how many restraining orders editors have had to take out against freelancers.

And I thought of Plan B: Get off the car-clogged freeway and forget Munich, and head home via the backroads. Maybe I'd run smack dab into a story. Remi the Wonder Dog was all for it.

No story chased me down and tagged me "it," but I did drive by a sign for Worms, a sign for Worms South, and then when there were no more signs of worms in sight, I decided to turn the car around and go back.

If I'd been driven through the backhills of Austria to find Fucking, dammit I was going to the heart of Worms. Such as it is.

We parked the car in the town center and took a gander. It's actually the oldest city in Germany, and where Martin Luther started the Reformation. Before the war, this city also had the largest number of Jews in all of Germany.

I went in search of someone to tell me a bit about the town. A Worm, if you will. Or is it Wormer?

I planted myself in a chair at a cafe, Remi hiding in the shade beneath it.

I ordered a cappucino and eyed the waiter as my victim.

"You seem to get a lot of tourists here in Worms," I said.

"Yes, especially now, when the weather is so nice."

We talked awhile. A nice guy. He's a student, presumably at Worms University. "Worms U," I imagined emblazoned on sweatshirts. Or "U of Worms."

Finally, I asked what about the city really drew in the tourists.

"Two things," he said. "Martin Luther's Worm Diet and Jewish Worms."

He talked awhile, helpfully giving me more info than I would ever need on Christian Worms and Jewish Worms. I drank the last of my Worm coffee while Remi lapped up the last of the shade before, uh, we de-Wormed.

And no, I didn't steal a sign.

Vet Orders Dog to Take a Vacation

Remi the Wonder Dog awoke feeling poorly. We went for a walk at 5 am, and then she came back and promptly threw up in the yard. All really worrying for me because she suffered DDT poisoning when she was a one-year-old and has had intermittent problems since.

Took her to the good doctor. He diagnosed a gastrointestinal infection.

"How did she get that?" I asked.

"A lot of things can cause it... drinking water that's too hot, drinking water that's too cold, a different diet, etc. Stress can also be a factor. Has she been under a lot of stress recently?"

Move Over, Maggotville

Plastic People Are Nosy

I'm not watching you.
But my creepy mannequin is.

The Fourth Estate

"Nothing's riding on this. Except the First Amendment, Freedom of the Press, the Constitution, and maybe the future of our country."

Ben Bradlee, All the President's Men

A Postbox Peak at the Austrian Countryside

An Afternoon in Mainbernheim

The village (less than 2,500 people) is a tiny walled city, dating back to around 890 a.d.
Remi and I stopped and had a look around. The rain had emptied the streets on this Saturday afternoon.

Nova is a "No Go"

My fellow writer friend, Chelsea Lowe, pointed out to me that the Chevy Nova being a "no go" in Spain is actually a no go altogether--apparently an urban myth. Damn.
But this did lead us to a discussion of English words used on products in non-English countries.

Creap creamer in Japan, notes Chelsea.

Creap is very good. Very good, indeed. But I'd have to say that Barf detergent in Republic of Georgia trumps it.

I've often washed my clothes in Barf.
Not everyone can say that.
Or would want to.

On the Road in Oesterreich and Deutschland

From the car window....

Fill Your Tank with Turmoil

No posts, you ask? I was on the road last week.
Road trips in Europe ain't like those in the USA. You never run across the World's Largest Ball of String, or the Potato Chip in the Likeness of Richard Nixon. Or, for that matter, the lovely Frying Pan Park in Virginia.
I did whiz past what appeared to be a monument to the world's largest walnut, but didn't u-turn to take a better look. Also drove through Worms, Germany, as one is wont to do when in the vicinity of Worms.

In any case, while tooling along back roads and passing these gas stations, I wondered how "Turmoil" gas would sell in America. About as well as the Chevy Nova did in Spain, where nova means "No go."

Austria's Dilemma

Elections are coming up in the EU soon--about a week and a half.
The far right party in Austria is blamed for stoking hatred, but it's worth noting in this article, (albeit the last sentence) that thousands turned out for an anti-Nazi demonstration. This is worth highlighting--Austrians tend to retreat rather than speak out. So this stand against extremists deserves to be highlighted. And hopefully it will encourage more to do the same.

Pretty Hainburg

A pretty view of a pretty place

Just What the Newspaper Industry Needs: Skinheads at the Helm

As if newspapers didn't have enough problems--Poland has a self-proclaimed neo-Nazi running state tv in Poland.
Read more

Bringin' Good Luck and Bebbies to Wimmin

Stork atop the Volkschule in Engelhartstetten

I watched this one for quite some time. She was quite fussy in the nest, moving things here and there until they were just so.

A Town with a View

Spent the day with a friend who was in transit from Sarajevo to Prague.

We shared our war stories of Algeria, war stories of men, and war stories of newsrooms.

These pics were taken atop the Braunsberg. I've had to start watermarking them, since there is a guy who visits this site and lifts the Hainburg ones. Of all people, he should know not to do that.

Hogs and Dogs

Photo: Spiegel Online

I do remember the day not so long ago when I screamed bloody murder for Remi to come back while on a walk in the wildlife reserve, worried that she'd taken off after a wild boar. Turns out it was a little Lhasa Apso puppy.

Here's a Jack that didn't take off after a wild boar, but did take to one. A baby one.

Layoff Limbo

When an editor I've been working with on a story gets fired, I get fired from the job by default (the story ends up in editorial limbo and finally dies). So this is what happened to me today. Again. And it's always just after the story has been turned in. I don't know how much longer this can keep up.

Sounds of Spring in Engelhartstetten

Been keeping away from the computer a bit to try to sort out some chronic neck problems (but I'm still hard at work!).



Anyhow, not bad for a children's playground...

Mom

Happy Mother's Day, Bathing Beauty of 1967

Americans Folk Songs Ring Out in Slovakia

I was once standing in front of the Tesco in downtown Bratislava, waiting to board a tram. Out from under an archway the sounds of "Oh Susanna" rang out from a loudspeaker. It was surprisingly beautiful and moving, but understandable only by its tune and not by its lyrics.

In the mid-90s, we oh-so-often heard John Denver's "Country Roads" being strummed and sung in pubs, parks, tram stops--throughout the Czech and Slovak Republics.

It's said that the people of the former Eastern bloc learned American folk songs via Voice of America shows which were broadcast (underground) all over the USSR.

Saturday I was sitting at an outdoor cafe in Bad Deutsch Altenburg when a small group of Slovaks arrived. Oars in hand, they had apparently given up on kayaking the wind-battered Danube tributaries. So out came the ukelele, the harmonica and the voices to bring us "When the Saints Come Marching In."

Video quality is poor (cell phone), but listen closely--the chorus has been reduced to "hallelujah" and the rest is in Slovak. Lovely, huh?

The U.S. Embassy and Its Stone Cold "No"

The last time I flew into Vietnam, my friend and local colleague Thuy (Twee) met me at the airport. On the ride back to the hotel she told me that her father was dying of liver cancer.

Thuy was devastated, of course. Her mother and father have been living in the USA for years now (Houston) and are American citizens. They had just visited Thuy in Ho Chi Minh City two months earlier and her father seemed fine. In fact, I was also in Vietnam at that time and remember her coming to work and reporting about the fun family visits the evenings before.

The following day, armed with letters from her father's doctors at the Houston Hospital, Thuy paid 130 dollars to apply for a visa, filled out the "emergency" application, and meanwhile started looking into flights.

But, no way.

She "failed" the visa interview (a sham to being with), and was yelled at by the US embassy interviewers--telling her she was lying. That her father probably wasn't sick. That she was really trying to move to Houston. This is worth repeating: They told her she was a liar, that her father wasn't even sick and that she was trying to finagle her way into the US.

Here are some facts about Thuy.
She is nearly 30 y.o. and engaged to a Vietnamese (living in Saigon).
She is a very successful art director working for Vietnam's top-rated newspapers.
She owns a hugely successful cafe frequented by ex-pats.
She employs a staff of about 7-10.
She has her MA in Advertising and Marketing from a prestigious university in Berlin. During her years in prosperous, democratic Germany, Thuy never tried to emigrate.
Her dad has been in the US for 10 years, yet she'd never been to see him there because she wasn't---believe it or not--particularly interested in seeing America.

While I was with Thuy, we sent urgent emails to her dad's congressional rep. in Texas--Michael McCaul. No response. No response. No response.

A few days after I arrived back home, Thuy sent a heartbreaking email, telling me her dad had passed away.

I got on the phone with Congressman McCaul's office. I told them the situation--that I'd written them from Saigon asking for help but hadn't heard anything back. I made the case again, making it clear that Thuy ONLY wanted to be with her mother to help bury her father, and that she would return for sure to Saigon. Although "sympathetic," they said there was nothing they could do... until I told them that I was ashamed to be American, given the way she was treated by the US embassy in Vietnam. I repeated it. "I'm ashamed," I said. "I'm ashamed to be American and to see us treat another human being this way."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "I'll mark this urgent. We'll discuss this tonight and be in touch."

To the credit of McCaul's staff, I was contacted within 24 hours, suggesting ways they could possibly help. But it was too late. The funeral had already taken place.

Unfortunately, as I see in this L.A. Times piece, Thuy's case is not unique.

24 years, +1

A year ago I was sitting in my dad's condo in Florida, watching news about distant Austria.
Today marks one year since Josef Fritzl (known as Josef F. in Austria) was arrested.

Big Wheel Keep on Turnin'. And Turnin'. And Turnin'.

Ahhh... 1968. In Woodstock, the summer of love. In Windsor Woods, the summer of the Krazy Kar. I wanted a Big Wheel but my parents didn't love me enough to get me one. Instead, they gave me this thing, which I had to power furiously with my arms. Was I a paraplegic when I was a kid? How tragic for me.

Mr. Postman, Bring Me a .... crowbar

Postboxes in my apartment building in Skopje, Macedonia.


Hope the check's not in the mail...

On Further Inspection....

I just posted a rant about a so-called newspaper blog that lifted my previous entry (Newspapers, Pneumatic Tubes, Kurt Vonnegut) without a link to my site or a mention a'tall.

But then I went back and actually read through the post and it's a riot. The Newspaper Quebec blog, which is really a French one of course, reads like a translation train wreck.

Take this, for example (translated into French from my original post, and then back into English):

As American newspapers on to implode, so does the grieving on. It’s not barely a forfeiture of an ply, but a practice of life–for those working within it, along with those slippered and robed, coffee cup in involvement, shuffling down the driveway to recover their morning infer from. What would betide if baseball was hastily bewitched a practice from us?

Bewitched Baseball--gotta love it! And did I write this?!

But, just for the record: Regarding blog posts themselves, if you credit me and link back to me, I'll compromise and consider that acceptable, but barely. If you quote me and use the post as a springboard for further discussion, and link back--well, that's an appropriate use of blogs. Anything else is stealing, as in what this blog did. It gave the headline as follows: The American Lady: Newspapers, Pneumatic Tubes, and Kurt Vonnegut (see previous entry), but plagiarized the full body of my post without ever linking to my blog, nor attributing the post to me. Even if it is bass-ackward and can tell where to put a verb not, nor which to use verb, well, you my meaning get.

Given that it's this new media industry (which I am not against) that is killing American newspapers, I find the misuse and lack of transparency ironic. I guess it's true that with the demise of American newspapers, there will be no checks and balances, no right to response, no sourcing: If we go the way of these kinds of blogs --we will only be left with: plagiarism and secrecy---the two dragons that American print journalism generally killed off. But now they're back. Or should I say: Now but have arrived themselves are.

Newspapers, Pneumatic Tubes, and Kurt Vonnegut

As American newspapers continue to implode, so does the grieving continue. It's not just a loss of an industry, but a way of life--for those working within it, along with those slippered and robed, coffee cup in hand, shuffling down the driveway to retrieve their morning read.

What would happen if baseball was suddenly taken a way from us? Except here, the consequences are much more dire, unless of course you're happy with tweets as news review and delivery.

And c'mon, without the gritty texture of the newsroom, where are we gonna stage all of our movies? The main character won't be an investigative reporter hot on a lead, but a dude caught up in a crowd for a single moment--or hearing from someone who knows someone who has a cousin who just this second shook hands with the president-- twittering about it on his cell phone.

So for some newsroom texture, and risking a few more broken hearts from journalists who are forced to stand by and watch the only lives they've ever known or ever wanted to know crumble in a heap at their feet, here's a bit from Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse 5:

I was also working as a police reporter for the famous Chicago City News Bureau for 28 dollars a week. One time they switched me from the night shift to the day shift, so I worked 16 hours straight. We were supported by all the newspapers in town, and the AP and UPI and all that.
And we would cover the courts and the police stations and the Fire Department and the Coast Guard out on Lake Michigan and all that. We were connected to the insititutions that supported us by means of pneumatic tubs, which ran under the streets of Chicago.

Those Wascally (Easter) Wabbit Eggs...

Given the traditional White House Egg Roll on Easter Monday--although not formally an Easter Egg Hunt--it seems like a good time to tell my story:

A couple of years ago I was talking with an Austrian friend about Easter. I told her we had the same traditions they have... the Easter Bunny, Easter Egg Hunts.

Easter Egg Hunts, she said. To clarify.

Yep, Easter Egg Hunts. It's for the little kids. You know--when grown ups hide the eggs and the little kids hunt for them.

She gasped in horror. "You SHOOT the EGGS?!?!?!?"



Only when we have to, I told her. Only when we have to.

Easter, Prater by Night, Etc.

The Prater, as seen by night with the train nearing.

My friends are renovating their apartment in the second district. It's nice that their living room has this view of Vienna's famous Prater.

Was kindly invited to spend Saturday evening with their family in Bad Fischau.

There was a bonfire, a starlit night, a full moon, good wine, good beer, chili, marshmallows the size of Texas (with Austrians needing assistance in roasting, of course!), stories about hikes in the Schneeberg, stories about a bucket of paint and the butt that landed in it, and Austrian folk music sung a capella by a family who knows how to open hearts and welcome you in.

Three sisters and a grandmother on Easter in Virginia Beach


Baby, contemplative, Mom, somewhat smiling, on a first Easter.


Mom, Dad, brood of five and one more to go to make it an even six. On Easter.

More on the Painful US newspaper situation

This is so painful.

I used to be a graphics editor at the Chicago Tribune. I know a few who have been "let go"--what a horribly neutral euphemism--, but it seems like child's play to what is going on in at Atlanta--the one time team of 16, now down to four, is now down to zero, after a few phone calls.

Play That Funky Music ...

As my niece says, you gotta love the "bum"* wiggle at the end. *(Niece can't help saying bum. It's a Brit thang!)

My brother, John, is the cute trousered kid standing with his hands in his pockets. Two of my sisters are next to him and the rest are cousins and my Aunt Marguerite.
Thoughts and prayers are with my brave and fabulous brother today. His big family is wrapping loving arms around him, even from afar.

Moldova in the News

Babushka in a Moldovan village. 2005.

Moldova has the only freely-elected Communist government in the world. Or not so free, depending on who you talk to.
I spent five months in Moldova as a Knight International Press Fellow, and was there near election time back then (about four years ago). It was common knowledge then that election fraud was rampant--either by stuffing ballot boxes or bribes or whatever it took.

One of my interpreters admitted to me one day while we were sipping coffee that he had voted several times in that one election, although for an opposition party, and that many are paid to go vote.

Elections this time have spurred violence. CNN claims that organizers planned on about 1,000, but that Twitter outdid itself in getting the word out, and suddenly organizers were faced with a whopping 10,000 protesters. By all accounts, it has gotten out of hand.

The motivation of protesters in Chisinau is understandable. Moldova is the poorest country in Europe. Many want to look toward Europe but the Russia-backed government keeps about facing them in the opposite direction. Twenty five percent of its population has gone abroad seeking work. Another 25 percent say they would do so if given the chance.

One of the biggest social issues facing Moldovans is the trafficking of women, and the country itself was found to be the "most depressing" by journalist Eric Weiner, who wrote "The Geography of Bliss."

Fatal Attraction? Or Just Hungry?

The poor Austrians seem to keep stepping in it. if it ain't dungeon incest monsters, it's a bunny killer masquerading as a popular gourmet cook, this time on live TV with horrified children looking on.

The unapologetic chef really just wants everyone to buck up and get over it, because, you know, life is gruesome and brutal so you better figure it out now, kids. Iin the meantime, enjoy this tasty treat!

It turns out that Glenn Close was just cooking Michael Douglas a romantic meal.

Anyhow, bunny-killing chef Sarah Wiener really wants to know what all the fuss is about. Maybe PETA, or the SPCA, or even Vick can have a sit down with her. I'd certainly like to have a go at her.

Christian Science Monitor Greats Say Goodbye

It's the physicality of a newsroom that will be missed. For me, it's Ed standing up and bellowing across the newsroom, night after night. Rex in the proof room, passed out and snoring on the floor. The AP wire beeping. Tim miscalculating a word count by 500 words. Mary's office stacked kneehigh with newspapers. That one copy clerk coming to work in a bathrobe. Shouting back and forth about whether or not Boris Yeltsin was missing a finger. Finding out he was, so a rush to change the headline from "The U.S. Lends Boris a Hand." Long talks with John Carpinelli while waiting for final close. I miss Carpinelli. Lou racing to my desk, practically toppling over himself, to see if I got the message he sent me 10 seconds earlier. Snowed in and eating lunches from the vending machine. Seeing Richard Nixon in the lobby. Seeing Jesse Jackson standing near my desk. Erica and her dog. 15-hour days. Laughing with Tim. The clock, the clock, the clock. Getting it right. Watching the sun come up as I drove home and knowing I'd do it all again tomorrow. Any newsroom, anywhere in America.
The Christian Science Monitor prints it's last daily edition tomorrow. It's hard not to be sad.

Helmut Zilk, the "Journalist"

Post-war Vienna was divided into four sectors, each ruled by one Allied nation. The exception here, and to my knowledge the difference with Germany's occupation, was that the very center of the city--the Innerstadt--was ruled by all four Allied nations, each one taking turns for one month at a time.

This created a nice little incubator of naughty spy activity--there were secrets for sale coming and going, forward and backward, every which way to Sontag. And journalists were "journalists" --if you get my drift.

Helmut Zilk was one such journalist, apparently. The former mayor of Vienna was accused about 20 years ago of having been a communist spy for the Czechs during the Cold War, although he flatly denied it.

Zilk died last year, but handwriting samples are being examined now, and experts say: Yep. Zilk was a spy.

Post-War Vienna and The Third Man

Just finished watching The Third Man. I saw it ages ago and read the book a few years ago, but the film really holds up well. Well-written.

This is a map showing Vienna's Four Sectors, the post-war occupation that lasted into the mid-1950s. As can be seen from the map, the Russians controlled the regions outside of Vienna (the American sector controlled western Austria). The map is courtesy of USFA Veterans Association.

February and March mark 64 years since one of the worst series of attacks on the city by Allied forces: 30,000 people killed, 270,000 homeless, 12,000 buildings destroyed.

The (Not So) Hidden Treasures of Engelhartstetten

The Home for the Criminally Insane Plaster of Paris Oversized Bearded Man Gnome Heads Attached to Naked Female Bodies is located just outside of Engelhartstetten.













































So how did this headless, armless eunoch get in here?

Fritzl Trial, Day Two

Johnny the ace cameraman, on the site of the Josef F. media frenzy, wrote and told me to get a load of Fritzl's shoes. Haven't seen them yet, but I'm on the lookout.

Meanwhile, all the reporters are interviewing each other about the madness of the very own media circus they have created.

And inside the courtroom, Fritzl was asked by the judge if he had anything to say for himself. He took the opportunity to blame his mother.

Fritzl and His Blue Binder

Josef F. hides his face behind a blue binder. Some in the courtroom allege they saw him smiling when charges against him were read out. PHOTO: Reuters.

It was nearly a year ago that Elizabeth Fritzl and her children emerged from the dungeon that her father kept her in for nearly half a century. The police at that time reported that the two sons, aged 19 and 5, were giddy with the thrill of the moonlight and the motion of the car they were carried away in. They said the boys spoke their own language to each other, and that the older one had a permanent stoop because he'd never been able to stand up straight once he grew taller than the dungeon ceilings.

The trial of Josef Fritzl--known in the Austrian press as Josef F.--took longer than expected to come to trial because authorities couldn't find jurors willing to listen to the 11 hours of Elizabeth's videotaped testimony, nor all the other heinous details. Not sure other cultures would be so hesitant to step up to the plate. Surely Americans would stand at the ready to deliver penance.

The reaction from Austrians (to Josef F) boils down to an exasperated shoulder shrug, as in: what can you say? a monster is a monster. But not only the year before another monster had kept a girl locked in a cellar for eight years, just outside of Vienna.

Each country seems to breed its own form of monsters: the Americans and German kind like to let loose on school campuses, for instance. But these crimes at least tend to lead to some type of national dialog, spurred on by outrage and grief. It's troubling not to see some form of national debate taking place in Austria, in which they question how to prevent this from happening again. The only thing that seems to have come of it is a campaign to promote the good things the country offers, of which there are admittedly many. But would it hurt to promote a"if you see something, say something" type of campaign? A "stop and think" campaign? Austrians are, as a nation, notoriously suspicious of outsiders. But there is a desperate need to look at what's going on inside. Could it happen anywhere? Possibly. Possibly. But that's no excuse not try to prevent it from happening ever again.

Rain, Sleet, Clouds, Wind, GrayGrayGray: Go Away

The little chimneys atop the little houses of Austria should not have to be billowing with smoke from kachelofens in the middle of March. Enough already. Fertig.

Baltimore and Neusiedle: A Tale of Two Cities

Flashbacks to Baltimore nights spent at VFW halls packed with beer and crabs.

Last night my friend Johnny the ace cameraman and his band performed in Neusiedle Am See, a pseudo resort lakeside town in Burgenland, Austria.



It was supposed to be a biker ball, but I beg you to find the bikers? It looked more like a teamsters meeting than the tattooed bikers in leather and studs I'd hoped to see. Again, my Baltimore Days.

And the parking lot was full of, well, cars. Apparently, it's too cold for Harleys. Wussy Euro bikers.

Johnny is the lead singer, "discovered" when he was singing in the shower with the bathroom window open, his Irish lilt brightening all of Breitenbrunn.

Austrian Finger Wrestling (Backstory), or New Meaning to the Phrase "Pull My Finger"

My Wall Street Journal article on finger wrestling is out in this weekend's edition--but only in the European version, I believe.

I visited the fingerwrestlers late last year (these "light" articles can take awhile to see the "light" of day).

Josef Bachleitner is mayor of the tiny town of Vormoos in the Salzburg region and he took me under his wing for a few days, introducing me to the fingerwrestlers. Unfortunately, I don't have a photo of him, but he's the guy that proudly, uh, drove me through Fucking, although there's probably a more delicate way to put that.
He's also the guy that grew up next to the priest who helped the Von Trapp's escape--the guy characterized by music promoter Max in The Sound of Music.



















Georg Baumann, Jr., his dad Georg Sr., and Gottfried Eder--in the Baumann's cellar preparing to train for fingerwrestling.




















Wrestlers each loop a finger through a small leather band like this one and the wrestling begins



















Chalking hands before a match is critical.



















Seven-year-old Alexander Eder, in his granddad's garage, takes a stab at lifiting an 87+kilo stone (nearly 200 pounds), part of the fingerwrestling training regime. Maybe in a few years, Alexander.




















I think this is the first time I've put a photo of myself on the blog. Anyhow, I was attempting to try one of the training exercise. Not much success





And of course here's the video. Don't wait for DVD.

Skopje in Difficult Times

I spent about a month in Macedonia back in the spring of 2001--coming up on eight years. At the time, the city was rife with tension. I remember one early afternoon in the newsroom when we all moved over to the big window overlooking a main pedestrian walkway to see a surge of protesters flowing through. The Albanian minority was hungry for more autonomy.
















Macedonia was on the brink of civil war and it really did feel pretty certain. A curfew was in place. No one was allowed outside after dark. I shot this one day on my way to the grocery store--yet another swell of protesters gathering strength in numbers.


Five years ago last week, Macedonia's beloved president was killed in a plane crash. Macedonians were devastated. At the time, I wrote a commentary about it for the Virginian Pilot.

Redesigning, Vietnam Style

My job in Vietnam this time was to help launch a new Sports and Entertainment newspaper--a follow-up from a December trip. Since combining sports and entertainment in one package is like asking a cat and a dog to attend the same party, I decided to have a 2 in 1: Two front pages--a flip front. This newspaper and design is the first of its kind in the country.

Here's a look at the prototype. The paper went live Monday, and apparently was very well-received by the publlic.

The violet here is darker in print, and the other colors are much more muted. The paper is tabloid-size--so this is a condensed version.

Vietnam doesn't have a history of strong newspaper design and graphic elements are completely new to the industry there. Completely new. But the staff learned surprisingly fast. And since this is a consumer-oriented paper--also the first of its kind in the country, graphics play a key role in highlighting quick bits of takeaway info.


Cover 08

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01 a 08 Cover

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In Budapest, It's All About Transparency

Between the Terminal Cafe and the Gun-Me-Down Bistro. The gulash was tasty. And not fatal.

Visit the Lumineux Cafe Next Time You're in Saigon

The art director at the newspaper I'm working with in Ho Chi Minh City opened this great cafe in "Korea Town" late last year.

I strung together this quick video tour. It's located in a former American house--built for high level American military and the like. The house was divided into three sections some times after the war, and the cafe owners bought "a third" last year from a doctor.

It's a great retreat from the overwhelming noise and clutter of the city.

Obama's Appeal in Vietnam

Poster outside a popular bookstore in Ho Chi Minh City promoting a new book about Obama.

The Thieves at The Agonist

So the good folks over at the Agonist are among the likes of those that liberally steal content (mine!) from freelancers (like me!) who are out there breaking our backs to eek out a living. Should I provide a link? Nahhh.

And when you track down an email for one of them (for instance, the one who calls himself "Quiet Bill") it bounces back.

Thanks, guys! Hugs and kisses to you from the front lines.

In Hainburg: Clouds Above, Snow Below

A long way from 100 degree Ho Chi Minh City.
Here's a view of Austrian fields, taken on my walk today with Remi.

Obituaries for Newspapers

The American newspaper death toll continues to soar. Here's a sad look at the final farewell of the Rocky Mountain News. The San Francisco Chronicle may be next. Terrifying for those of us in the industry; sad and deep losses for the country.

Yum, Yum in Ho Chi Minh City

On a menu in Ho Chi Minh City's first district:
Pig's heart and kidney gruel

Christiania Backstory

Last week the Christian Science Monitor published my piece on the commune conundrum in Copenhagen. In brief: a 40-year-old commune now on its third generation is getting more and more pressure from the government to "normalize"--its word for dissolution. But Danes love the place so it's hard to tell what will happen.




Here's a video (photos and video combo) that should provide a broader look. My personal feeling: the place looked cute, with a few funky houses, but nothing I wouldn't have found anywhere else. And there was a menacing feeling. Several times we passed really aggressive teenagers--Christiania's Crips and Bloods, I guess? A bit of hyperbole, for sure, but there wasn't the warmth and openness that some locals went on about. Not by a long shot.
Anyhow, I got screamed at for taking photos (in this case, video) of Pusher Street.



And here are a few thumbnail images from Christiania:


The commune is on the site of an old military barracks in downtown Copenhagen. Many first moved into the barracks, but others built homes for themselves, some of them quite nice.


..but most of them just kind of funky.


The area is situated on riverfront property, which developers have their eye on.



The Christiania flag flies high.




The commune is considered somewhat of an artists' haven. But I've seen lots of artists' havens, and even a few other communes, and this one didn't strike me as anything spectacular. And the drug culture was prevalent.

The Famed Zippos in Vietnam

Along with the "star" t shirts and caps, Tin Tin in Vietnam pictures, dominoes, chopsticks and buddhas that fill the souvenir outlets in Ho Chi Minh City and Hanoi, there are a lot of small shops sporting cases and cases of old Zippo lighters.

All of the Zippos to be collected have been, so there are a lot of fakes out and about. But their fame and value are rooted in the hands of American G.I.s., who made their lighters an iconic symbol of the failed war.

While Americans back home wrapped silver chains around their wrists engraved with soldiers' names, the soldiers themselves carried silver Zippo lighters engraved with their own names, or more likely with a message that only they would read.

Etched on many of those silver lighters were the words "Not scared, just lonely"

Ho Chi Minh City and Wakefulness

First full day back in Saigon. The "moto" driver across the street from the hotel recognized me this morning and came up curbside to meet me. He waved away the address to the newspaper with a smile. He knows the way. He's ferried me there enough times over the last few months.

Tired. So tired. Sleep comes, but not for long.

Carry Me Onward From Doha

Once more back at the Doha Armpit Airport, although I have not....
a) cried in the bathroom. But if I have to cry in the bathroom in the Doha Airport, I prefer the handicap toilet behind the coffee bar.

b) spent any time in the "Quiet Room," as I did last time on my 14 hour, You Cannot Leave the Airport layover (which accounts for all the crying in the bathroom.) Anyhow, the Quiet Room: It is quiet, but also smelly, which cancels out the quiet. I can buy earplugs to drown out the sound, but nose plugs?

This is my third time routed through here, and the second time I was allowed outside. And since it was my second time, and both times I saw all of a four mile circumference around the airport, I consider myself fully qualified to label Doha a dump.

Heavy Load

This photo is from an Austrian Times article about a farmer who transports his calves in a VW Golf.
Don't know what all the fuss is about. My friend Gloria used to keep her three pet sheep at a farm in Wolfsthal til they ran away. The farmer called her one day, frantic. She hustled on over in her little Ford to start the search, but got a call enroute from the farmer saying everything was okay.
"The police found them at the train station. I don't know how, but he got them all in his VW and they're headed back here together."

Which is why, of course, it is always better to use my London Black Cab to transport the sheep (and calves?) of Austria, like we later did. It's much roomier for them in the back and all you get is a little body slamming going on.
And a lot of poo pellets.

Ciao. And Sin Chao.

Tickets? Check.
Passport Visa? Check.
Bathing suit? Check.
Motorbike Helmet? Check.
Clothes? Toiletries? Medicines? Who the hell cares.


Goodbye coat.
Goodbye gloves.
Goodbye circular doses of snow, ice, sleet, rain and wind.

Tschus, Austria,
Sin Chao, Vietnam.


At least for now.

Click "Send" Again

Someone left a comment on the blog but it got let go as spam. I'm not sure it was, though, and I'm trying to retrace. Anyhow, Patricia, if you want to try to leave a message again, please feel free, but please give me more info to go on than your previous comment.

Lives of Dogs

Remi once put herself in harm's way to protect another dog, a friend of hers. Both dogs (jack russells) were out on the field when a romping, rollicking Rhodesian Ridgeback came gallumping up. The Rhodesian meant no harm, but was unaware of its own size. The other jack froze in terror as the ridgeback bound toward her. Remi jumped into action, wrapped her front paws around the neck of her friend to shield her from the big dog.

It was touching and a little bit heroic. Here's a look at a real hero. Get out your hankie.

Mauthausen in View

Mauthausen is located in one of Austria's most beautiful valleys, noted for its spectacular wine. The village itself is so cute it should get its cheeks pinched.

The site of the concentration camp is easy to miss. It's not poorly marked, but certainly understated.

A rather large (for Austria) farm sits in front of it, neighing horses and such.

But here are a few sobering facts about one of the largest concentration camps in WWII, and where "Dr. Death" Aribert Heim carried out his horrors:



• 320,0000 were killed here. Either by starvation, worked to death or specifically targeted executions.

• It was a camp generally designated for intelligentsia.

• The prisoners first slept two to a bed, then three to a bed. Then four to a bed. As bodies became more skeletal and shrunken, more could fit in the bed.

• The camp was built by prisoners of Dachau.

• It was controlled by the German state, but privately owned (granite quarry).


I visited there a few months ago. In my career I've seen and heard a lot. Not as much as other journalists, but a lot. I interviewed a dear friend who had his legs blown off in a car bomb in Bosnia, a woman sent to Siberia by her very own brother-in-law, a mother whose newborn baby was stolen by her doctor, a principal's secretary whose school was under siege by a student gunman in Kentucky. But Mauthausen hit me right in the chest.

Ride on a Winter's Day

Wolfsthal, with a view toward Hainburg

After a press conference in Vienna (attending, not giving), Remi and I tooled around Hainburg and Wolfsthal, looking for a good place to walk in bad weather.
We didn't find one. Too much wind. But we did enjoy a ride on dirt roads through the fields. Remi scouted rabbits and deer, and I rolled down the window so I could listen to the slush slap up against the car as I drove through puddles.

Oliver! Will Have to Wait for the Snow, Glorious Snow... to Melt

My 11 y.o. nephew didn't have to schlep into London's West End today (he's in Oliver! with Rowan Atkinson), because many West End shows were canceled because of snow. He didn't seem to mind.

Flying Firewood, and Other Austrian Feats

Like many old houses in rural Austria, the cottage here relies completely on firewood for heating--a "kachelofen" in the front of the house and a wood-burning stove in the kitchen. Very "Little House on the Prairie."
But look at this, Ma and Pa--my cords of wood being delivered by crane.

The Hotel Fire Hazard and Other Tales from Tbilisi

This time last year I had a room at the Fire Hazard Hotel in Tbilisi. The one where the front door was busted so instead of fixing it, they just stuck a bicycle lock on it and called it a day.

And for some reason after about a week they had to move me so they could "repaint." I was the only guest, and there were plenty of rooms that needed painting, but apparently mine just couldn't wait another minute. Alright, so I moved. And the little fridge I'd begged for in the first place, I was sure was coming with me. "Don't forget the fridge!--" --was my final warning to a guy carrying a table lamp and my suitcase into the new room.

They didn't forget the fridge, but since I didn't tell them to plug it in, well, that's my own fault that I had sour milk in the morning, isn't it.

Ahh, good ole Tbilisi. A friend of mine was making flight arrangements out of there this past December, and... well, I'll let her tell it:

"We went into the BMI office to confirm our flight and get our seat assignments. The woman told us we couldn't do that, but she'd write down the request on a post-it note and tell the people at the airport."

Level-Headed But Without a Level

Their German precision and engineering means they could thread a needle in outer space, but the Austrians ... cannot? will not? ... make a level parking lot. They're always sliiiightly off-kilter, never fully flattened, so unless you keep a foot locked around one of the shopping cart wheels while unloading your things into the car, the cart will always, always, always wander away.

Is it Okay to Pass Wind in Windpassing, Austria? And Other Rules of Etiquette for Delicately Named Places

So a couple of months ago I stopped in a shop called Hell, then drove through Windpassing, Austria, on my way to Fucking. Which is right next to Hucking, but since that has no known sexual or bathroom connotation, it's hardly worth mentioning.

But as this New York Times article points out, the Brits seem to take home the prize when it comes to gutter talk. Their streets are full of "butts" and "crap," so all y'all from Toad Suck, Arkansas, can just go on home. You're not even invited to the ball(s).

A Sobering Look at Kaisersteinbruch

Just about 3 miles outside of Bruck a.d. Leitha is this tiny road sign pointing the way to a soldiers' cemetery. I can assure you, no other signs are posted related to what was a very significant POW camp in WWII called Kaisersteinbruch.














The entrance is lined by trees, and the site is cared for by the Austrian military.


















50,000 soldiers were interned at Kaiserbruch, which is ranked Salag XVII-A--it was a camp reserved for enlisted soldiers.















This monument was put up by the Black Cross in 1989. Hard to imagine, really, that nothing was here before, but so it goes. The sign states that Russian, Polish, Romanian, French, Italian, Yugoslavian, British and American soldiers are buried here, along with "unknown soldiers."








































The info from the Black Cross says that 10,000 soldiers died here (I'm presuming this is the mass grave), but a local conscript who cares for it told a friend of mine that the number is fantastically low. He believes most of the 50,000 interned here also died here. So far, no luck verifying it. However, whatever liberation was done, likely would have been carried out by Americans, who also liberated a nearby POW camp in Deutsch Altenburg.







Here's some perspective on the numbers: the nearby county seat of Bruck currently has a population of about 15,000 citizens. Kaisersteinbruch itself (just 'round the bend in the road) looks to have a population well under 1,000.

Standards? What Standards?

I'm guessing something like "good design" would have just been too easy...

Spetses By Donkey

I tagged along today with my friend Johnny (the ace cameraman) on a shoot (if that's what you call it), filling in as news producer. It was surprisingly fun, and good to get out of my fogged and heavy head.

Over a lunch of goulasche afterward (or was it over coffee earlier?), we talked about Greece and why it is the world's best getaway spot, hands down.

The first time I got away to Greece was to the small island of Spetses.
No cars are allowed, but I did rent a motorbike and ran across this guy here, who clearly preferred a simpler style of travel.

President Obama

I just like the sound of it.

Thank You, Dr. King

In our house in Windsor Woods, we had a playroom (converted garage) that had two floor-to-ceiling bookcases. To my young self these bookcases were so vast and so impressive I may as well have been in the National Archives. Sometimes I'd go down into the rec room, sit cross-legged on the linoleum floor, and just spend alone time with them. 

 I once pulled a slim book off and took it out to my mother, who was in the kitchen. I asked her about it because I recognized the guy on the cover. She told me it was a speech that had been compiled into a book, The "I Have a Dream" book. She flipped through it and began to read a passage to me, but got too choked up to finish. Such a moving show of reverence and awe I'd never seen before.

Thinking of Green Grass and Warmer Days

It ain't my Chicago days of -30F (-35C), thank god, but still brrrr here in Central Europe. Thought I'd be spending a good part of February in a tropical climate but now it's looking unsure.
So these cold hands and feet have me thinking of warmer days. Specifically, a late summer trip to England to visit family and a wander through Thomas Hardy country.

Fading Papers

My father offered a little bit of clarity for me the other day. My life is fog-filled these gray days, so at least in this one aspect there was a little rubber raft I could hop into.

It was about the economy. Or rather, the fear of it, which has me waking at 3am with my heart racing and hands sweating. No kiddin.'

(Not) Breaking News: Newspapers are a bad biz to be in these days.

So we talked about the editors who had bit the dust, the slashed rates, the bleeding newsrooms.

Dad is an old railroad man. He told me he thought he'd spend his whole life on the railroads. And the way he talks about using the Pullman Car on his Richmond/Atlanta route, or explains the engineering and function of a steam engine, I can see it's true. He talks about it the way I might talk about leads and kickers.

"The railroads died on me," he said. "I never believed it would happen, but it did.

But you manage. It'll change, but you'll manage. You'll be okay." 

Gnomes Take a Mittag Pause

I pass by this house a lot because it's somewhere near the national park that Remi likes to romp around in Lower Austria.

It creeps me out. It's like some kind of prison yard for garden gnomes. The photo picks up only about half of the gnomes. There must be around 100 of 'em. And note the ones on the window sill, looking down at all their garden gnome buddies, watching everything they do. Nosy little bastards.

When I lived in Baltimore there was a story about two guys who set out cross-country at about dawn one morning. Just before leaving Baltimore, they kidnapped a garden gnome from some lady's front yard. They jotted down her address and sent her photos of the gnome from various points of interest along their trip. He was always bound and gagged with duct tape, but there he was in, say, downtown Dallas. And there again in New Mexico. And, aha, the Grand Canyon! And woo hoo, Californ-I-A!!!
As far as I remember, the Baltimore Sun started following the heist, and posted the photos in the paper. When the guys got back to Baltimore they reunited the gnome with his Baltimore family. Took off the duct tape, too.

On the Mend

There she is. My fantastic little one.
Today she saw her best buddy (besides me, of course :)) for the first time since her leg injury in September. Til now, she hasn't been allowed to play with other dogs, for fear of re-injury.
But seeing those two together again was like watching an Oprah reunion.
Lots of unabashed joy and celebration. Brought a tear or two to my eyes.
They both ran and wrestled in the park. Remi overdid it and was limping when she came home, so I have to be more careful next time.

Von Trappland

Christopher Plummer once (or more?) referred to The Sound of Music as The Sound of Mucus. Allegedly, anyway. He hated the film. Said it was drippy and sappy.

Austrians know the title but most have never seen the movie. Of course. Why would they?

If you're a tourist in Salzburg, it's a Sound of Music orgy, complete with a sing-along bus tour.

But if you go about an hour outside of Salzburg, along some very snaky roads set deep in the countryside, and you happen upon the hamlet of Vormoos, step out and look around. There are just a few houses here and this is where the priest who helped the Von Trapps escape was born and raised. Lived his whole life here. In the film, he was represented as Max the music promoter, but in real life he was a priest (was his name Warner? I can't remember.)

But the priest also promoted the Von Trapp Family Singers, and they used to have impromptu performances here.

Lonely Lower Austria

The "Forget Me Not" Hotel in a forlorn, forgotten and forgettable little town
in Lower Austria.

But still worth getting out of the car and snapping a pic.

Maybe not so forgettable after all?

A House and Some Irises

I dreamed about a house.

I walked into the yard, which was small and cluttered, but I seemed happy with it, knowing there was so much potential for it.

I walked into the house and saw on the counter a vase if irises. They had seen better days, but there was an easel next to them and someone had been painting them. The image was not quite finished.

I really liked the house. It was old and funky, with a lot of open space in the middle area, with rooms shooting off of that area.

Slovakian Mobsters

The first few times I traveled to Bratislava in the mid 1990s,(when I was living in Chicago) mob hits were carried out while I was there. One allegedly went down directly in front of the Danube "Botel" I was staying in, while I was staying there. My coworker and I remember hearing the shots, although that could be our memories filling in gaps. We did cross police lines to exit the hotel in the morning.
At the time, the fight seemed to be over control of the bars and nightclubs that were popping up in the downtown area, which was in a state of renewal after decades of communism. The type of violence seemed antithetical to the appearance of this slow moving city.

But according to this recent Chicago Tribune article, the mob has taken hold. Big time.

Answered Prayers?

Dear Jesus, Please Wash My Car.

Wheeee!!!!!

Blast away the notion that Vienna is a sleepy old world city. Maybe it looked ye oldy worldy with carriage horses careering through the street, but it was anything but sleepy New Year's Day.
Here's a more detailed account.

2008 was a hard year for my family. Divorces, deaths, broken arms, broken legs ... Glad to kick it to the curb.

Talk About Losin' Your Head...

These quiet, European hamlets... they can be rough.

Hainburg in the Media

A large minority population in Hainburg is Turkish--estimates range from 10-30 percent (the higher number being offered by those that are "foreigner-averse"), but the number of Slovaks is also high.
Here's a Reuters piece on the effect of immigration on towns like Hainburg.