Eine kleine Nachtmusik

The other night I went to the opening party of a new academic festival, taking place in Graz. The festival consists of a series of public lectures and seminars about issues like Globalisation, the Arab Spring, and the work of students who call themselves ‘artists’ (usually defined by a cheap SLR and a reckoning that they see true beauty in mundane aspects of life). So I should have expected the amount of intolerable intellectual posers this party would attract. Retro, large-framed paedo-glasses and those eco-friendly cotton shopping bags were in revoltingly pretentious plenitude. Refusal of a good deodorant also seemed to be the way to brag about your artistic and academic ‘independence’. In fact, the other language assistants and I were so clearly dressed for a tidy night of Pitbull and Lady Gaga that we almost fitted in, hitting these kids’ penchant for irony right on the head. Having said this, it was a really fun night and I would definitely go again, but Lady Gaga and Pitbull there certainly was not. With regard to the music, most of the time I felt like I was having an attack. We arrived to a laser show on the dancefloor, set to music that can only be described as interference. The nerd responsible for said laser show was definitely the type to spend too much time in his bedroom in the dark, self-consciously posting that dubstep shit on the internet every five minutes. Since the whole thing was quite experimental, the crowd loved him. (More like an experiment gone wrong in my books though. See http://robinfox.net/projects/laser/. Not quite Flo Rida). When the DJs began their sets, it got a bit less weird (despite one of the DJs carrying his own parasol, even though the venue was deep in the cave of a large hill and it being pitch black and 4C outside). The music was trance and dancing trends were unusual: most people were alone and throwing about their hottest drugged-up aerobics moves, which, frankly, are nobody’s business. To be fair to them, it is hard to dance to Morse code. I definitely had the impression I wasn’t appreciating the music on the profound level that most of them seemed to be, but thought it was fun anyway. The really hard-core ones were wearing earplugs, I suspect to feel closer to their own superior thoughts. 

More Graz

Nothing much is new. After nine hours of work, the novelty of wearing smart clothes to school, making me look dashing and professional, has fully worn off. I once again no longer care what I wear, and would like to return to my ever-so-standard black jeans and plain t-shirt combination, plus that navy cardigan which is almost crawling off me but definitely going nowhere soon. In the interests of consistency, however, I think I’m going to have to keep the Mr Bean look going at least until the end of the week. This is also because I am anxious to give the three ties, purchased from a Uniqlo bargain basket for 90p each, the debut they deserve.

Food shopping is my least favourite chore ever – I have absolutely no idea what to buy. Yesterday I did the full circuit of the same shop about four times, holding an empty basket throughout, and then left with nothing for the shame of being seen empty handed five times by the same shelf-stacker.

Tonight I will add to the unending string of my culinary difficulties/disasters; dinner was meant to be chicken breast with a mixed salad. Owing to my severe incompetence and lack of general knowledge, however, dinner is actually going to be a chicken thigh. But as a matter of fact I am very much looking forward to this anyway. The salad idea is out the window too, as what I thought was lettuce turns out to be a cabbage, so I’m just going to have new potatoes with cucumber sticks and a tomato. I am certain it will be absolutely delicious. 

HyStyria

I just love when all cashpoints and tills in Austria reject your only bankcard. It really helps facilitate one’s capacity for intellectual development, linguistic intrigue, and relaxed cultural reflection while starving hungry in Spar. I’m actually really pleased that all bank clerks go home at lunchtime on Fridays too – I think we should all experience the exhilaration of having no access to funds and pushing one’s landlord’s compassion right to the edge over the weekend, facing the consequent possibility of eviction. I’m glad that many businesses do hungry and working consumers the inadvertent favour of closing for the majority of the weekend, yet being open from about 4am during the week. I even think it’s really good that about 50% of shops in central Europe don’t accept Mastercard anyway, just cash. It makes you feel such a love for people in general, so much closer to nature. I feel like I can identify with young Werther now.