Trinkets
The Walk
The most alone I have ever been was dragging two suitcases through the busy streets of Vienna. I had just landed from a 13-hour flight in a country whose language I did not speak and whose culture I did not know. As I walked through the streets, a broken wheel on one of my suitcases rattled relentlessly. I was headed to an apartment — an apartment that was to be my home for the next three months. The trip should have taken ten minutes by subway, but having got off at the wrong station, it took me an hour and a half by foot.
I knew no one in the city. I knew no one in all of Europe for that matter. I was nineteen, and this was my first time leaving North America on my first solo trip. My phone only worked in the occasional free Wi-Fi of public cafes. I was thousands of miles away from my family and friends. I was alone.
The first person I met was my flatmate, Allen, who spoke broken English. On my first night in the city, before I had a chance to rest from my nearly 24 hours of travel, he told me his life story. He was from Slovakia and was doing a master’s in history at a Viennese university. He also did not believe the Holocaust happened; rather, it was a hoax created by the Jews for political and financial gain.
How this man could believe such absurdities while living in such close proximity to the atrocities of the Holocaust (the ruins of concentration camps still scarred the landscape) or how he could be getting a master’s in history is beyond my comprehension. But what was crystal clear to me was that the person I would be living with for the next three months was not going to be the best friend I had hoped for. After meeting Allen, I was more alone than before.
Dear reader, I know this sounds bleak, but do not fear for me; this is a happy story. The months spent in Austria were among the most enjoyable and formative in my life. I made lifelong memories, found incredible experiences, and hauled tangible proof of my journey with a suitcase full of souvenirs back to my Ithaca apartment where they now adorn my walls.
Yellow Feathers
The first time I felt like I belonged in the city was the first night I went to a party. I started wandering the streets at 11 p.m. and soon found myself outside the Volksgarten. A queue had formed outside the entrance, and I joined it. Serendipitous luck had brought me to the best party in town.
The Life Ball is one of the largest charity events in the world. A small number of ordinary people get a chance to walk the red carpet with celebrities in this exclusive event if they put together elaborate and beautiful costumes. After the event is done, an afterparty is thrown and costumed partygoers dance until the sun comes up.
The five dance floors, costumes, and dancing were far from anything I had experienced. This was not a Cornell frat party.
I found my place on the EDM dance floor. The cultural and language barriers were irrelevant here. Dance is a universal language. The thumping of the bass united all the dancers into one rhythm. My phone’s pedometer recorded 16.3 miles of dancing I did that night.
The night continued and turned into morning. Still, we kept dancing. After hours of perpetual dancing, exhaustion and excitement forge a bond; faces become familiar and smiles are exchanged. At some point in the night, my shirt was exchanged for a giant yellow feather boa. I was still nowhere near as elaborately dressed as many of the party-goers, but that was no matter. I had been accepted into their ranks.
I attended many parties during my time in Europe. Dancing and having a good time are things I understand well. I felt at home in the clubs, where everyone spoke in the language of dance.
The yellow feather boa was the first of many things to decorate my Viennese apartment. A trophy from my first party in the city, it holds a special place in my heart.
Silver Snakes
Connecting with people on the dance floor is one thing but transitioning that ephemeral bond into a friendship is a near-impossible task. In the beginning of my stay, I struggled to make long-term friends.
The first time I met Anja we went swimming in the Danubekanal. She was wearing snake earrings that I remember only because one was briefly lost and only located after significant searching.
Anja’s earrings are now permanently lost, at least to her. At some point, they had been left in my apartment, and I discovered them while packing up. The two silver slivers now hang on the bulletin board above my desk, halfway across the world from where they were originally misplaced. They are a reminder of the many nights spent at the tables outside LOCO Bar, drinking 50 cent cocktails and swapping stories.
I made many good friends in Vienna. Gazing upon Anja’s earrings, listening to the song David showed me, or passing Lea’s favorite alcohol (black current schnapps) at the liquor store are all bittersweet experiences. I am so thankful for the experiences we had together, even though I now reside on the other side of the Earth.
The Ugly Bee
I worked 9–5 every week in Austria. That was the reason for my travel after all. I had found a company that was hiring online in my very specialized field and applied on a whim. To my surprise, I was accepted into a summer internship position and flown out to Vienna to breed mealworms for a summer.
My boss was a woman of small stature but with an incredibly large presence, who emanated confidence and commanded respect. I was the first of a ragtag team hired by her to launch a commercial mealworm farm. Next was an uptight engineer who used to be a sailboat captain. Then an entomologist whose previous job had sent her on exciting and occasionally dangerous collecting trips in pursuit of rare insects. The last team member that summer to join was another university student who was about my age.
I worked for many hours with this passionate group. We used tweezers to sort thousands of mealworms into categories: pupae, larvae, dead. We built Ikea shelves to house our thousands of worms. We gave the delivery man a back massage so he would deliver our mail first. Over our lunch breaks, I introduced them to the peanut butter jelly sandwich, and they introduced me to the kasekrainer.
On my last day, one of the entomologists gave me an enamel pin. The pin is a crudely drawn honeybee: ugly in a very endearing way. This goodbye present is a small token that represents the hundreds of hours we spent together, the laughs we shared, and the friendship we built. The feather boa, snake earrings, and bee pin are physical reminders of invaluable memories and connections.
My coworkers, friends, and the strangers who lived in Vienna turned a foreign city into a home. I no longer live in that home, but the trinkets I brought back are eternal reminders of my days spent in Austria — days not spent alone, but in the company of good friends.
This story was originally published in Cornell’s premier travel magazine: Guac Magazine.
