I close, with the words of Ernest Hemingway

Ernest Hemingway lived in Europe for most of his career. Disillusioned with the politics and culture of America, he ran to a place where he could hide from his problems and fears. Luckily for me, I came to Europe not because I was running away from something. Instead, I was looking for an experience that would enrich my understanding, appreciation, and purview of life back home. And that is exactly what I found in Europe.

In many ways, Hemingways famed protagonist, Nick Adams, could not be more different than me. But there comes a point in Hemingways short stories about Adams that his character decides to return home. Skiing with his life long best friend George in an area of Switzerland right next to the area that I skiied, Adams explains to George that he is ready to return to the life that he left, and to the life that still awaits him back in America. In typical Hemingway fashion, his words are dry, sharp, and unstylized. My thoughts on returning are more optimistic, full of excitement and promise. But at the core of these words by Ernest Hemmingway are the same sentiments that I now feel. Though Nick Adams could never verbalize his emotions, the text of this story, when compared to the dialogues in his other stories, shows that the character has experienced things in Europe that will change his life in ways that he cannot even yet understand, yet are ways that will always be positive.

In every way, Nick Adams and I are polar opposites. And my writing is so very different from that of Hemmingway. Yet as we both stand atop a mountain and ski down one final run before returning home, we both understand that we have grown, changed, and been made better, more wholistic, more empathetic, more global, by our experiences. And that is why I close my blog with the story of Nick Adams, told by Ernest Hemingway in his collection of short stories entitled In Our Time.

This is the text of Cross Country Snow. I thank you for reading my blog over these past five months, and I sincerely look forward to seeing you real soon.


CROSS COUNTRY SNOW

The funicular car bucked once more and then stopped. It could not go further, the snow drifted solidly across the track. The gale scour¦ing the exposed surface of the mountain had swept the snow surface into a wind-board crust. Nick, waxing his skis in the baggage car, pushed his boots into the toe irons and shut the clamp tight. He jumped from the car sideways onto the hard wind-board, made a jump turn and crouching and trailing his sticks slipped in a rush down the slope.

On the white below George dipped and rose and dipped out of sight. The rush and the sudden swoop as he dropped down a steep undulation in the mountain side plucked Nick's mind out and left him only the wonderful flying, dropping sensation in his body. He rose to a slight up-run and then the snow seemed to drop out from under him as he went down, down, faster and faster in a rush down the last, long steep slope. Crouching so he was almost sitting back on his skis, trying to keep the center of gravity low, the snow driving like a sand-storm, he knew the pace was too much. But he held it. He would not let go and spill. Then a patch of soft snow, left in a hollow by the wind, spilled him and he went over and over in a clashing of skis, feeling like a shot rabbit, then stuck, his legs crossed, his skis sticking straight up and his nose and ears jammed full of snow.

George stood a little further down the slope, knocking the snow from his wind jacket with big slaps.

"You took a beauty, Mike," he called to Nick. "That's lousy soft snow. It bagged me the same way."

"What's it like over the khud?" Nick kicked his skis around as he lay on his back and stood up.

"You've got to keep to your left. It's a good fast drop with a Christy at the bottom on account of a fence."

"Wait a sec and we'll take it together."

"No, you come on and go first. I like to see you take the khuds."

Nick Adams came up past George, big back and blond head still faintly snowy, then his skis started slipping at the edge and he swooped down, hissing in the crystalline powder snow and seeming to float up and drop down as he went up and down the billowing khuds. He held to his left and at the end, as he rushed toward the fence, keeping his knees locked tight together and turning his body like tightening a screw brought his skis sharply around to the right in a smother of snow and slowed into a loss of speed parallel to the hillside and the wire fence.

He looked up the hill. George was coming down in telemark position, kneeling; one leg forward and bent, the other trailing; his sticks hanging like some insect's thin legs, kicking up puffs of snow as they touched the surface and finally the whole kneeling, trailing figure coming around in a beautiful right curve, crouching, the legs shot forward and back, the body leaning out against the swing, the sticks accenting the curve like points of light, all in a wild cloud of snow.

"I was afraid to Christy," George said, "the snow was too deep. You made a beauty."

"I can't telemark with my leg," Nick said.

Nick held down the top strand of the wire fence with his ski and George slid over. Nick followed him down to the road. They thrust bent-kneed along the road into a pine forest. The road became polished ice, stained orange and a tobacco yellow from the teams hauling logs. The skiers kept to the stretch of snow along the side. The road dipped sharply to a stream and then ran straight uphill. Through the woods they could see a long, low-eaved, weather-beaten building. Through the trees it was a faded yel¦low. Closer the window frames were painted green. The paint was peeling. Nick knocked his clamps loose with one of his ski sticks and kicked off the skis.

"We might as well carry them up here," he said.

He climbed the steep road with the skis on his shoulder, kicking his heel nails into the icy footing. He heard George breathing and kicking in his heels just behind him. They stacked the skis against the side of the inn and slapped the snow off each other's trousers, stamped their boots clean, and went in.

Inside it was quite dark. A big porcelain stove shone in the corner of the room. There was a low ceiling. Smooth benches back of dark, wine-stained tables were along each side of the rooms. Two Swiss sat over their pipes and two decies of cloudy new wine next to the stove. The boys took off their jackets and sat against the wall on the other side of the stove. A voice in the next room stopped singing and a girl in a blue apron came in through the door to see what they wanted to drink.

"A bottle of Sion," Nick said. "Is that all right, Gidge?"

"Sure," said George. "You know more about wine than I do. I like any of it."

The girl went out.

"There's nothing really can touch skiing, is there?" Nick said. "The way it feels when you first drop off on a long run."

"Huh," said George. "It's too swell to talk about."

The girl brought the wine in and they had trouble with the cork. Nick finally opened it. The girl went out and they heard her singing in German in the next room. "Those specks of cork in it don't matter," said Nick. "I wonder if she's got any cake." "Let's find out." The girl came in and Nick noticed that her apron covered swellingly her pregnancy. I wonder

why I didn't see that when she first came in, he thought. "What were you singing?" he asked her. "Opera, German opera." She did not care to discuss the subject. "We have some apple strudel if

you want it." "She isn't so cordial, is she?" said George. "Oh, well. She doesn't know us and she thought we were going to kid her about her singing,

maybe. She's from up where they speak German probably and she's touchy about being here and then she's got that baby coming without being married and she's touchy." "How do you know she isn't married?"

"No ring. Hell, no girls get married around here till they're knocked up." The door came open and a gang of woodcutters from up the road came in, stamping their boots and steaming in the room. The waitress brought in three litres of new wine for the gang and they sat at the two tables, smoking and quiet, with their hats off, leaning back against the wall or forward on the table. Outside the horses on the wood sledges made an occasional sharp jangle of bells as they tossed their heads.

George and Nick were happy. They were fond of each other. They knew they had the run back home ahead of them. "When have you got to go back to school?" Nick asked. "Tonight," George answered. "I've got to get the ten-forty from Montreux."

"I wish you could stick over and we could do the Dent du Lys tomorrow." "I got to get educated," George said. "Gee, Mike, don't you wish we could just bum together? Take our skis and go on the train to where there was good running and then go on and put up at pubs and go right across the Oberland and up the Valais and all through the Engadine and just take repair kit and extra sweaters and pyjamas in our rucksacks and not give a damn about school or anything."

"Yes, and go through the Schwartzwald that way. Gee, the swell places." "That's where you went fishing last summer, isn't it?" "Yes." They ate the strudel and drank the rest of the wine. George leaned back against the wall and shut his eyes.

"Wine always makes me feel this way," he said. "Feel bad?" Nick asked. "No. I feel good, but funny." "I know," Nick said. "Sure," said George. "Should we have another bottle?" Nick asked. "Not for me," George said. They sat there, Nick leaning his elbows on the table, George slumped back against the wall. "Is Helen going to have a baby?" George said, coming down to the table from the wall. "Yes." "When?" "Late next summer." "Are you glad?" "Yes. Now." "Will you go back to the States?" "I guess so." "Do you want to?" "No." "Does Helen?" "No." George sat silent. He looked at the empty bottle and the empty glasses. "It's hell, isn't it?" he said. "No. Not exactly," Nick said. "Why not?" "I don't know," Nick said. "Will you ever go skiing together in the States?" George said. "I don't know," said Nick. "The mountains aren't much," George said. "No," said Nick. "They're too rocky. There's too much timber and they're too far away." "Yes," said George, "that's the way it is in California." "Yes," Nick said, "that's the way it is everywhere I've ever been." "Yes," said George, "that's the way it is."

The Swiss got up and paid and went out. "I wish we were Swiss," George said. "They've all got goiter," said Nick. "I don't believe it," George said. "Neither do I," said Nick. They laughed. "Maybe we'll never go skiing again, Nick," George said. "We've got to," said Nick. "It isn't worth while if you can't." "We'll go, all right," George said. "We've got to," Nick agreed. "I wish we could make a promise about it," George said. Nick stood up. He buckled his wind jacket tight. He leaned over George and picked up the two ski poles from against the wall. He stuck one of the ski poles into the floor. "There isn't any good in promising," he said. They opened the door and went out. It was very cold. The snow had crusted hard. The road ran up the hill into the pine trees.

They took down their skis from where they leaned against the wall in the inn. Nick put on his gloves. George was already started up the road, his skis on his shoulder. Now they would have the run home together.

Where have you been!

Well I have been busy traveling across Europe at lightning speed for the past several weeks. It is difficult to know where to begin this blog post, which I write on my last day in Vienna. On Wednesday, I will be back in the United States, back in Wisconsin, and barring further volcano related delays, back at The Old Fashioned muniching on a cheese burger with curds and a Spotted Cow (SO to being 21 years old and not having finals during UWs finals week!)

The morning after my previous blog post, I boarded a train for Munich with my fellow trombone players Heather and Zach, as well as their friend Rachel. While I was anticipating a quiet train ride conducive to sleeping and reading, I was not disappointed when I did not get what I had wished for. Just before our train pulled away from the Freiburg Hbf, a bachelor party of 15 boarded the train, each of them carrying a large case of beer, all of them dressed in leder hosen, all of them bound for Munich and Fruhlingfest! While noise and constant chatter on a train ride can often be annoying, I found the persistent rounds of traditional German drinking songs to be a cultural experience. The Bavarian stereotypes were only beginning to be affirmed.

Our first stop in Munich was Fruhlingsfest, or Spring Fest. Basically a scaled down, less commercialized Oktoberfest, Fruhlingfest has just one beer tent, though the tent was more of a warehouse capable of holding several thousand people. Instead of hordes of American tourists, the tent was filled with friendly Bavarians, who were actually excited to share a table with American tourists. The liveliness of the conversations varied indirectly with the amount of beer that was left in their liter sized beer steins. Augustiner Beer, shrinking the world one weiss at a time. After three to four hours of revelery at Fruhlingfest, we were growing nauseated by the persistent smoke cloud that hung above every table. We said good bye to the festival as a host of soccer fans stumbled in to celebrate Bayern Munchens championship, won earlier in the afternoon. Between the enormous fresh pretzels, the rotisserie roasted chickens, the tantalizing smoked pork knuckles, the live polka band, and women in Bavarian dresses carrying 10 liters of beer, Bavaria was exactly what I thought it would be as I left the train station in Freiburg earlier that morning.

The rest of the time in Munich was spent appreciating German culture and history, thoguh this was often interspersed with rounds of beer and plenty of wurst and schnitzel. Throughout the rest of the weeekend, we explored the citys museums, churches, memorials, markets, and beer halls. For me, the highlight of Munich was an hour long hike to the monastery town of Andechs, a medieval town that has been brewing their own ale for 1000 years. A favorite site of Rick Steeves, the monastery remains undiscovered by most tourists. It remains a popular spot for aging locals to consume their daily half liter of beer, and a place for motivated hikers to enjoy Bavarian food and drink atop rolling green hills filled with small towns, onion domed churches, and landscapes that could easily be mistaken for northeast Wisconsin.

The following day I made my way to Prague on the Albert Einstein Express, a brutal 7 hour ride through mostly boring landscape. The saving grace of this ride was the layout of the train, which featured six person cabins instead of the standard layout. With few people on the train, I enjoyed my own cabin. This was very conducive to laying down and watching Its Always Sunny (again thanks to Annie for the portable Dvd player!). Prague, with its pointy cathedral spires, its myriad scultures overlooking the river, its medieval piazzas untouched by WWIIs fury, and its distinct neighborhoods that still maintain their own signature feel, was one of my favorite European cities. Despite heavy rain and brutally cold weather, I enjoyed several free tours of the Czech capital, in which I learned several uses of the verb defenestration.

However, a visitor to Prague can only make so many jokes about defenestration before being forced onward to the next town. The next stop was Vienna, the Austrian capital, and Europes classical music mecca. Here I am staying with a couple in their centuries old manor house. They have been wonderful hosts, taking me to a jazz club to here a Vienese jazz fest, to a restaurant for authentic Austrian food, and arranging a 3 and a half hour bike tour throughout the entire city with one of Viennas top tour guides. Throguhout my stay in Vienna, I have also enjoyed the company of my neighbor Paul, who has lived and studied in Vienna for the past year. Thanks to his expertise I was able to more thoroughly enjoy the city and its illustrious past, as well as its great art museums, cafes, and bars. It was truly an unforgetable reunion. I have known Paul since I moved to Appleton at the age of 4. I once chased him around his house with a large wooden stick, because he said he didnt want to be my friend anymore. After this week in Vienna, I am thoroughly convinced that chasing him with the stick was absolutely neccessary. As I have had some of my best memories of Europe in Vienna, I have no regrets about the friendship preserving beat down I would have given him had I ever been able to catch him.

Yesterday in Vienna, having seen many of the tourist sites already, I decided to wait in line for standing room tickets at the Opera. The performance was a special edition of Carmen, featuring the worlds finest opera singers. Tickets ran between 80 and 220 euros. But for anyone willing to stand in line for 8 hours, then stand through the entire opera, it cost a mere four. Though my feet were aching at the end, it was impossible not to be moved by the masterful performance of Carmen. Amidst the swaths of tuxedoes, pearls, expensive champagne, and bow ties, I stood with some of Viennas most passionate plebian opera fans. I met numerous Vienese people at the opera last night, including a couple who have stood in the standing room seats every weekend for the past 40 years. When the performance ended and the 20 minute long ovation ceased, the melody of the Toreador Song and the Harbanera remained on my mind throughout the rest of the night. As I faded off to sleep, I could still see the conductor leaping in the air at every fortzando, at the apex of every crescendo, at the clashing of the cymbals and the power of the low brass. Never before I have I seen such a powerful and spirited performance from an orcehstra or a cast. Clearly, I made the right decision in watiing 8 hours for a ticket.

And now, I conclude this blog post in Vienna. In 3 hours, Iwill be on a night train back to Florence, back to Italy, back to the air port which will carry me back to where I came from. And though the memories from this trip will last me a lifetime, though the experiences have helped me to grow in ways I cannot yet even begin to comprehend, it is time to return. Time to go back. America, here I come.