Fiss - Fiss, Austria
Fiss, Austria
This is a long post. Tl;dr version: stop being lazy and just read it. Quick credit card update: First and foremost, my sincere thanks and appreciation to those who have reached out and offered assistance. While still frustrated by the situation and dubious of my prospects for the room I booked in Vienna, I do have a backup card (one that will incur significant fees with each use, but a working backup never the less) and simply refuse to let some thieving asshat in Detroit have a negative impact on the rest of my trip. So beyond the frustration of the situation in general and anxiety brought on by this bringing me even closer in parallel to the second episode of the new Black Mirror season (spoiler alert, it doesn't end well for that guy), I'm going to be just fine. And hey, if I thought I was keeping this thing cheap before, now I don't really have an option, so... silver lining? Ok, now onto the Fiss post. To say the western-Austrian state of Tirol is beautiful would be a tremendous understatement. To call the Austrian Alps gorgeous or amazing or fantastic or pristine wouldn't even come close to scratching the surface of doing them justice. You could eat half a bag of mushrooms and spend the day in a fine art museum and still not approach the sensation simply (soberly) traversing this landscape on a train and taking it in with your own two eyes would offer. Slack-jawed and ping-ponging back and forth across the first class cabin in order to take pictures of the mountains, I proved annoying enough to send a Japanese family to a different car, in spite of the fact their reserved seats were important enough to them they had just booted me from one in which I had been sitting (in an otherwise empty first class cabin, mind you) as it was one they had reserved (translation: ****'em anyway). I re-read the interview my Aunt Janie conducted with my Grandmother in 1999, wherein Emilie Graham, formerly Schranz, recalled what she could of the first few years of her life spent in Fiss, the mountain town my train was rapidly approaching. Paying particular attention to the fact it was circumstance brought by the devastation of the First World War that prompted the move and really starting to take to heart how this point applies to current affairs, I had to push away a wave of despair at the thought of the country I would be returning to in a little over a week from that moment. To consider my relatives refugees would be both inaccurate and a disservice to those who have and currently are experiencing that awful reality -- and actually more so applicable to my own story, they were able to make the trip with use of an inheritance -- but the truth is clear and undeniable, we're all immigrants you ignorant orange ********** [reign it in, Kevin, or you're liable to get off topic]. In 1924, Martin Schranz and Rosa Hofer walked miles down a mountain with their two daughters and all of their possessions, boarded a train in Landeck, then a boat in Bremen, and months later arrived in Boston, ultimately settling in Chicago. The Graham family exists as it does today because they did. In 2017, I got off a train in Landeck and after uttering an involuntary "holy ******* Jesus" at the sight of the snow on the mountains (I was only aware it was audible as an old Austrian lady shot me a dirty look), was met by the son of Martin's cousin, Stefan Schranz. Stefan took me the short way to his very impressive modern-designed house in Zams, just down in the valley below Fiss. We shared a beer and spoke until his wife and daughter, Walli and Elissa, returned home and then all sat for a wonderful homecooked meal. The dinner conversation was unavoidably trump-based (**** that guy, I'm not even capitalizing his name anymore), but I knew it would be the better kind of that talk with just a quick glance at their library. (Fact: a large shelf of well worn books is signal enough you're dealing with rational human beings, but if you see they've read works by Mandela, Malala, and Orwell, chances they are jerks become virtually non-existent). Beyond discussing the horrifying laughingstock America has become in nearly a full week, we also shared stories of Emilie and Bud. Stefan told of his trips to the US, of the first time Grandma and Grandpa came back to Austria in 1979, and of the generations of Grahams who have continued to visit over the next few decades. I was honored to share my favorite Grandma story (middle finger in the pocket) and was delighted to hear Walli translate it in gesture-heavy Austrian-German for Elissa's benefit. The next morning we woke and shared a breakfast of fresh breads, cheese and homemade marmalade, the drove up the mountain to Fiss. I saw the Schranz house, still owned by Stefan and his sister Christine, then walked a few feet to the location my Grandma was born. Recently renovated into a tourism office and apartments, only two walls and the door still remain from the original structure, but that was enough. Being able to run my fingers across the petrified wood of the same door that stood there over 90 years ago when young Emilie was being born inside was an incredibly powerful moment, but one that was immediately dwarfed by walking across the street to the cemetery and church. The blanket of clean white snow was offset by black iron, brass plaques, golden crosses, and red glass of the many candles adorning the graves packed tightly into the small area just outside the church. The very first grave was that of the Schranz family -- Johann, Johanna, Alois and Hans Georg -- and resting on the pristinely positioned marker was a small plaque for Emilie Graham geb. Schranz, born 26.2.1921 in Fiss, died 20.4.2015 in San Diego. This was a moment I had been anticipating since I started planning this trip and still it hit me like the bullet train that brought me there the day before. Hell, even right now it's getting a little dusty (damn these allergies) in the train car as I type and recollect... you should see the concern growing in the lady across the aisle. I thought of the courage it took to make the trip to America in the first place. What it would take to grow up during the Great Depression, to live through World War Two, to raise a family of six and instill qualities of pride and honor and decency in each and every one of your children -- so much so that they would do the same with their children. I thought about beach camping and Crystal Pier. About August Court and climbing the tree in the front yard. I thought about sacrifices and loss, about my Aunt Barbara and my Mom. I thought about Brayden and Caleb and Jolie. I thought about all of this, and was overwhelmed with appreciation for the woman who was born just a few feet away nearly 96 years ago. It took me a minute to collect myself. Once I was composed, Stefan, Walli and I walked through Fiss, then rode the gondola up the mountain for lunch. The pictures will have to suffice for the views from the top of the mountain. I'm tempted to claim I'm just not a talented enough writer to articulate the beauty, but really it's the English language's fault. There simply are no words. Think Jodie Foster getting all speechless in space at the end of Contact "they should... have sent... a poet." It's like that. After lunch we went back down mountain, now graced with just the right amount of snowfall to give me a good bit of winter, but not so much it was at all uncomfortable, and then met Peli Hale at the Fiss museum (his family house, preserved and restored from the time my Grandma would have been there and before) for a private tour. From the museum we went to Peli's house for schnapps with his wife, Tina, and then Stefan and I went for an Aprés-Ski (a lot like it sounds, just a beer after skiing) in a Fiss pub, then headed back down to Zams for dinner. On the way home we stopped at the house of Walli's parents (to pick up dry grass to feed Elissa's rabbits) and were invited in for yet more schnapps. These people really do love their schnapps, and what, I'm going to say no? We finally made it home for a traditional Bavarian dinner (Spaetzle, delicious), and then I learned about the credit card shitiness and spent the rest of the night trying to figure it out. When I said yesterday that this was one of the most important days of my life, I wasn't exaggerating. I am forever indebted to Stefan and Walli for their hospitality and kindness, and for allowing me to have this experience. Thank you both. I'll be back in Los Angeles a week from today (as I write Tuesday morning on a train to Vienna), but even if the rest of the journey is an unmitigated nightmare, even if I do end up the victim of a video-game trial gone wrong (another Black Mirror reference, get to Netflixing already, people (not you, Meagan), I will know with absolute certainty that taking this trip was the right decision. Ok, two nights at the Wombat hostel in Vienna (assuming they still have my reservation), then one in Prague (lodging tbd) and Friday through Monday in Berlin at the Circus Hotel. Then I come back home to start training for the coming coup. (Is that still happening, guys? Are you just waiting for me to return or something?) Stray observations: - I've never felt more connected to my roots than upon understanding how universally Austrians love to break each other's balls. - I'd be willing to bet my cancelled bank card that Run the Jewels manages to rhyme "Reichstag" with "False-Flag" in a future song relating to prospects of our current political climate. Just saying. See you guys in Vienna! (Not really, but you know what I mean.)