What it’s like to take up ballet when you are old

I’m not going to build up any suspense here. It’s terribly frustrating and it hurts. And I’m not talking 60 years, bad knees and a dislocated hip old. I’m talking in your 20s old.

Your body has pretty much reached the peak of its form in your 20s, which means if you have one leg longer or one foot bigger than the other, there’s basically nothing you can do about it. Similarly, if you are not particularly flexible, you might not be very successful in doing perfect splits – or maybe you manage, after a long, tiresome and painful period of your life that is probably only worth it if you like ballet as much as I do. And to think that your perfect splits will probably not even get you in a lousy show with (and for) late bloomer-ballerinas! However, unlike little five-year olds that start ballet and can build their body according to the moves they make, our ballet movements have to find a way around the imperfections of our body, an old, lazy piece of crap that would not even move a finger to allow us to look more gracious when we do something as sublime as this classical dance.

The sad(der) news is, ballet is the worst type of dance to have an imperfect body for. Yes, it’s beautiful and gracious like delicate white doves flying against a background of coconut flakes; but at the same time it’s the most unnatural dance ever. It requires your body to do things which are absolutely out of its normal range of movement; you would probably never ever find yourself doing something remotely looking like ballet in your every day life, unless you would be trying to sneak through those security laser beam networks that we’ve seen in Ocean’s 11, and even then I am not sure your body would be twisted to such an extent. If your body is not perfect, or formed perfectly as a consequence of a lifetime of daily ballet practice, I don’t see how you would be able to correctly do all that ballet requires of you. That a dance you do with your body and nothing else – hence, a free, natural dance – should be so unnatural, yet perceived as magnificently beautiful by us, laymen, is fascinating. Anyway, here is an example of something ballet-y you can not do with an imperfect body:

This is called the “fifth position” in ballet and it requires you to stand holding your feet against each other, facing opposite directions (both to the outside). Ouch. If you are, like me, in the unfortunate position of having a leg longer than the other (and I only found this out because of taking up ballet), you’re screwed. There is absolutely no way you will get the right balance, or not look like a forgotten lopsided statue in the main square of a mountain village, that has been rained, snowed and sat on for drinking on Saturday nights.

Despite all this, I took ballet classes at the sports university of Vienna – and not just once, but three times; three multiplied by one semester = three semesters. In the first semester my teacher was heavily pregnant, constantly grumpy and seemed to not care about having actual students in her class. It was a “Pilates+Ballet” class; she did her pilates part well, but her ballet instructions were terrible. None of us understood what we were supposed to do, since from the very first class she said: “Ok, now we will do the following sequence: starting in the first position, demi-plié, three times, with port de bras, then tendu three times, en croix, and at the end relevé, soutenu, and the same on the other side”. That’s not exactly what she said, as I suspect that is not a legitimate ballet exercise, but if you have no notion of ballet and you’ve just read this, you got a glimpse of how I felt then; also, it was expected from me to actually do what she said. So everybody was doing something, moving their legs somehow, it was total anarchy and an awkward mixture of crooked legs and arms.

My second ballet semester made me love ballet despite complaining about it all the time. The teacher was not a ballet teacher per se (which was an advantage!), but she was a dancer and actress with more than sufficient knowledge to train a class of beginners. She was tiny, energetic and very dear, and repeated everything so many times that I can still remember some of her common instructions and gestures. To give you a picture of how complex the whole ballet thing is: for a group of never-ever-to-be-professional beginners, she still spent 15-20 minutes in the first classes, later 10-15 minutes only to explain and correct our posture (long neck, eyes looking straight ahead, straight back, shoulders down, belly muscles flexed, butt down, feet anchored in the floor…insert unnatural posture element here). From her I also learnt that the extent to which we can open our legs (from the hip) for splits, like so:

is anatomically conditioned (aka you might not practice it and still be able to do it to a large extent; if you can’t naturally do it, practicing might help you to get better but it’s not really entirely up to you, but up to your old body).

Finally, the last ballet course I took was a nightmare, and it made me complain about ballet all the time despite loving it so much. It was a course for beginners and intermediates. My guess was that the guy had dreamt to train a group of professional ballerinas but somehow ended up teaching at the sports university instead. I am sad for him. But that is absolutely no reason to train a group of students of anything else but sports as if you were training the ballerinas of Bolshoi theater. Sometimes I had the feeling someone had to remind him that he is still teaching some grown up girls who do ballet in their free time, mostly because they, themselves, have unfulfilled childhood dreams. He would come next to you to observe your moves, and, if you made a mistake, he would puff grumpily; he would tell you that you can bend your knees more than that and would insist that you do it in front of him; and, most terribly, he had a favorite student that he would give as an example all the time and call in front of the class to show the rest of us how it’s done. Unfortunately, this method does not have even a remotely motivating effect on me, probably ever since the second grade of school.

Not to mention that the girls in this “beginner and intermediate” class were not just the average girls you meet in a sports class or at the gym. Ohhhh no. Most of them had extremely much knowledge, they were very good and the pretty tutus, dramatic look on their face when they bent backwards and gazed to the side (cambré) and the perfect balance when standing on their toes gave them away. The explanation? It’s a vicious circle; most girls do not dare to go to the next level class, because the instructors are so strict and difficult to satisfy, that they make them think they are unable to do anything properly (alternatively: they are actually not able to do things properly because…ballet). Therefore, they repeat the beginner’s class. Over and over again. The real beginners in the class are doubly discouraged: by the strict teachers and by their colleagues who seem to learn much faster and be much more talented than them (when, in fact, they are just third or fourth round beginners). Therefore, they take the beginner’s class over and over again, discourage the real beginners, and so on. I would assume it’s simply a miniature of what the world of professional ballet actually is like, but what do I know.

Next week I am starting my fourth ballet class. Beginners. After Mr. Bolshoi Theater showed me that I am not able to do a deep enough plié, although my knees are definitely more flexible than I think and know (yep, some people just know more about your body’s capabilities than you do!), I realized I am a lousy ballerina and not at the intermediate level. So back to beginners I go. As many times around as I need to feel confident with my moves – and, if I don’t manage, hey, at least I am doing fabulous workout for my thighs, abs and butt.

I went to the hairdresser where employees are (probably) robots

And it was fun - and scary.

It was one of those very fancy salons; you know, the kind where you are greeted by one person, a second one shows you to your chair, washes your hair and sensually massages your head and, finally, a third one offers you drinks ("Coffee? tea? prosecco?" Yes, that's right: prosecco), cuts your hair and styles it. You didn't know that kind of places exist? Me neither. Until yesterday.

So I wanted a super duper cool haircut, done by professionals who understand that curly hair is a pretty crazy thing to have, live with and style. I wanted to get something for which you pay more money, but then it looks so fabulous every day that you are confident enough to get out of your bed and immediately go out the door - metaphorically speaking; or not. I also wanted to get a haircut which stops me from pulling my hair in front of friends and saying: "See how awful it is? See??"

So I went to Fancy Expensive Haircuts GmbH, in Vienna's richest, most bourgeois district, where specialists are supposed to take care of your hair, no matter how crazy it is - or how crazy you are, for that matter. I was greeted by a cool young assistant, probably around 16 (yes, that is the age when people can decide to become hairstylists in Austria), with a huge smile - like, extending from one ear to the other huge. She took my coat (said thank you), showed me to the chair (I sat down, she said thank you), brought me a hot lemonade (thanked me for taking it from her hand), asked if I am sitting comfortably ("Yes, great." -"Thank you!" - "You're welcome?" That was awkward). While she was away, the receptionist came and asked me to fill in a questionnaire "so that we can adapt our services to your specific needs and your hairstylist knows what you would like to have". Oh okay - but she could have come in person and ask (does she even exist? I've met two people in this place already and neither of them was her). While I was filling in what turned out to be a very complex and personal questionnaire (What do you dislike more about your hair? a. It's dry; b. Your haircut; c, d, e, f. You have no self esteem and hate your hair regardless of what it looks like), the blond adolescent came to ask me if I would like a "Relax-aroma-mumbled-words": it was supposed to be a head massage with some smelly stuff. I told her smilingly I am not into that kind of stuff, she thanked me and left disappointed - yet her smile, the same one, not one muscle more or less involved in it, was still stitched to her face; I thought she would go yay, less slave work for her, but I started to think she liked that slave work...or was she programmed to like it?

Finally, She appears. The hairstylist. All dressed in black, with amazingly soft, straight hair. Super nice, super smiley. Looking in the mirror, I see blondie and another young assistant looking at me, as if waiting to receive orders or expecting me to stand up any second and furiously ask "Where is my...?" (insert object that one definitely needs to receive while being at the hairdresser and can legitimately be outraged if they don't). We talk about what I want; she says "super" to everything. Then I show her a picture of the haircut that I had found on the internet. "Wow, great! That's so cool" Yeah it is, and I want it, and that's why I am here, so let's just do this. She explains to me how she would do it, I make some jokes about my hair and the current haircut - no reaction. Smile. She tells me a few more details, I ask something, she answers, smile. She asks me if I want to drink anything, takes a breath, and recites the "menu"; I ask for water (Why on Earth did I do that when they had prosecco?). She then sends me away with Blondie, to get my hair washed. Blondie sits me down, puts a towel on my shoulders, turns on the water, gives me a head massage (Urgh, why is this even a thing?!); she thanks me after each and every action. I know her smile - the same smile - is still there. She washes and styles away silently, but I can hear her smile in her breath. At the end, she thanks me for having let her serve me while I sat down, leaning back like royalty, and takes me back to the chair (In my head, she also makes a very deep courtsey).

And then the cutting begins. She explains to me the science of hair and curls and cutting and styling with so much confidence, that I start to believe there must be scientific journals and papers on this topic. When I ask her stuff, she answers. When I open a topic or say something just to keep up the conversation she answers with one sentence, or just nods politely and smiles, nothing else. Then she starts again with the speeches on the science of hairstyling, and I feel the need to look at her in the mirror to see if she is reading from some notes. She is not, but her speech is almost mechanical and so full of big words, that I am somehow surprised to see no stack of paper or laptop next to her.

She is done. The haircut is lovely, so great, and my hair is amazing, and now it looks even more amazing, because she cut it with such style, and it will be absolutely fabulous if I buy this amazing product to give it strength and elasticity and some other terms dangerously close to my research field in mechanics (Yes, I bought it, I am a very nice client and consumer). And that was it. 60 minutes of being served, 15 minutes of being styled. After paying, She brings me my cardigan and coat and - no, She does not hand them to me, She holds them for me; so all I need to do is stick my long arms in the sleeves. Then I get chocolate and a bunch of other promotional stuff. I can't find my phone and receptionist, hairstylist, and two assistants all put on worried faces (smiles are still on though), they look around the room, until the hairstylist offers to call me so I can find it faster. I find it in my bag, smile, and they all seem to relax their shoulders in relief. I say goodbye and leave.

Walking away from Fancy Expensive Haircuts GmbH, I can't help but wonder what sort of people come there regularly, for which this kind of service is necessary: excessive politeness, readiness to serve, fake smiles and mechanical speeches with no real interest for the person - but for the client as a master. How much training does it take to make these little robots? Also, should I make them work more and be more arrogant when I go there next time? Because I can? And, finally, is the bunch of hair stylishly hanging out of my freshly cut bob on the right side of my head longer than the one hanging on my left side?

The theory of the Romanian Queue

On Sunday, November 16^th, I queued longer than I had ever queued in my life. When I got to the Romanian Cultural Institute in Vienna there were around 850 people in front of me. It took me precisely five hours to get to vote in the runoff for the next Romanian president. For the first elections, two weeks ago, I queued for four and a half hours and I didn’t get to vote. But neither then, nor this Sunday, have I ever thought for one second to leave the queue and, as far as I could see around me, nobody else left either. My Austrian boyfriend told me two weeks ago that nobody in Austria would bother to queue anywhere for more than 10 minutes. In the runoff, he stood five full hours next to me, carrying sandwiches and hot tea in his backpack, for moral support. He experienced the five long hours but he was still puzzled as to our motivation: why wait for so long, in the cold, only to exercise a right that does not bring you much satisfaction anyway? And so I explained him the theory of the Romanian Queue.

The queue of Romanians waiting to vote was too long to capture in one picture. Now...

For us, the queue is an institution. It exists everywhere and nowhere, it has a will of its own and very strict rules. It is formed anywhere something interesting is happening, something of some (or very high) value: some “goodies” are sold (donuts; kebab; mici[1]); something is given away for free (perfume samples; bits of bacon in a toothpick in supermarkets; mici); there is a possibility of doing something against the will of “the powers that be” (praying to miraculous remains of saints; voting) – in the latter category I would like to include the queue in front of the doctor’s office, taking into consideration the commonly accepted idea that disease is given to you by God and can only be cured by God plus some good will and help from a doctor.

I am sure others experience this kind of events too; but nowhere are they of such importance as in Romania. Because the average Romanian is very determined, ambitious, unstoppable when pursuing their desire. If those fatty, spicy mici are sizzling on the grill right in front of our eyes, we want them now. If those miraculous remains of a saint came to visit our local church for a few days, we need to go there, queue and touch them, so we can get our miracle from above here and now. There is no triumph of rationality of the necessity over greedy cravings. Others may analyze the effort-profit curve, calculate the waiting time and decide against the queue if the latter value seems over proportional to the gain. The Romanian sees, wants, stands in the queue. The very expression for starting to queue can be translated as “to lay down in the queue”; there is an extensive verb there, suggesting not a point in time, but a whole segment of time. It is, in fact, the same verb we use for snow flakes starting to cover the ground in winter, denoting an all-covering, long term action: queuing, as determined for mici as we do for voting.

Let’s think about it: during communism, for so many years, we didn’t have things. We couldn’t do things. Things didn’t exist. No books, no TV, no food, no voting. Whenever there would be a rumor that there would be something, somewhere, Romanians wanted it, whatever it was. Hope “laid them down” in the queue and wouldn’t set them free to leave until it was clear there was nothing left, whatever it had been. We have queued without knowing what is for sale, hoping we would get something – and we wanted anything. So now, when everything is laying around on display in shop windows, on grills and on supermarket shelves or - going one step further – it’s being given away for free, what is the effort of queuing compared to the mere fact that these things exist? Between us and them there is now only a thin human barrier, easily breakable if we nudge the people in front us a bit more so they move faster or – even more inspired – we make an alternative queue to our target that may just move faster than the original one. Maybe for an Austrian this is a lot of effort for nothing – but for us, it is nothing compared to the thought that, at the end of it all, we will have something.

...and then.
Original capture of this picture I found on the internet: "Food line. Sometimes, people would queue up in front of the grocery stores simply waiting for merchandise to be delivered without evenn knowing what they might end up buying or even if there would be a delivery that day". (http://quotidianwonders.com/2013/08/14/romanias-passion-for-masochism/)

And all of this, only for mici or kebab. What about for the right to vote? People have taken to the streets, formed not queues, but rows and crowds and died for others to have the right to vote; they died so something changes – they called this something “freedom”, whatever that meant. So now, when we, the people, have the chance to vote, to cast an opinion and – with a bit of luck – be heard from “above”, what is the effort of queuing for a while compared to the possibility of making ourselves heard? Of having something which does not feed our stomach, but is infinitely more important: an idea, freedom, a voice. What are standing in the cold for a few hours, sour muscles, hunger and boredom, compared to what we could gain: something we haven’t had in so many years? Others might not have had to fight for things as much, they haven’t developed their ambition and endurance to queue for so long – but we have.

What amazed me about the queue that Sunday was not that people did it, but how they did it. Quiet, smiling, optimistic, up to the last moment. Dignified. You might say “resigned”, but I am bothered by the negative meaning of this word. If I think about it, as a child, I was waiting for Santa Claus already in late summer, but I was not crying with impatience; I knew it would take a while, but eventually he would arrive: I was waiting wisely. And this is exactly how Romanian were queuing to vote on Sunday: wisely. I was wondering if it is a gift that is learned or transmitted. It is not the gift of patience, which may be a personal trait of individuals: there were so many people in that queue, it is statistically very improbable that they all possessed the quality known as patience. It is something else: a patience learned and exercised, a proficient patience, or one which was transmitted from parents and grandparents. It is the wise waiting deeply rooted in the collective sub consciousness which knows that, after such a long time of not having something, it is now worth the effort to fight for it; that hope will keep you standing; and that if, by some injustice, you will not get to have what you were convinced you would get, you will stay there and not move a muscle, asking for what is rightfully yours. And all of this because, if, once, this collective sub consciousness accepted that things didn’t exist, now it refuses to accept that things do exist, but cannot be obtained.

---

[1] Our own “cevapcic” – minced meat rolls with spices 

Letter to the "modern" world or: Is this 1514?

Dear world, 

Please call me ignorant, politically unaware, childish and naive, but I want to ask you: why are we still making wars and using weapons in the year 2014? You know when it was okay (= socially acceptable) to kill people for close to no reason? Pretty much since the beginning of times until 300 years ago or so. We killed the neighbouring cavemen to get their dead animals and feed our cavemen families with it for days; we killed people because they didn't believe in God, didn't pay respect money to the church and dared to think for themselves; we burned witches; we killed people so we could steal their political position, whichever that was; we killed unfaithful women; heck, we killed women just because they were pretty much useless for anything else than carrying loads of babies. I am not sure when people decided murder is not a solution for everything, but it certainly was some time ago, and we pretend to have evolved since then. We have technology and smirk at the thought that, back then, people didn't even have electricity, let alone cinemas, e-book readers and Facebook - "How sad, can you imagine they had nothing to do all day?" We have (some more) knowledge of the world and how things work, and are proudly accepting the theories of the world that back then were considered heresies - "Haha they actually thought the Earth was flat!" We pretend to be refined, modern human beings, full of possibilities and opportunities - the only thing that might bother us is that we don't live long enough to use them all!

Under these circumstances, dear world, I dare to ask you - ignorantly, politically unaware, childish and naive - why do we, refined, modern human beings, still kill others? Why do we still have wars over territories, political ideas, religion? Why are we using our modern technology to make weapons that can destroy entire cities and kill (hundreds of) thousands of people? How can we pretend to have evolved in all other aspects but this still remains unchanged? Do we really think that killing 250 people with a surface-to-air-missile is more modern and refined than stabbing them with our own hands, as it was done in the 15th century? Guess what, world: it's not. The fact that we have this technology is not at all 2014, when we make it only to use it like in 1514 - or even worse.

So dear modern world, if you think it is normal to kill innocent people for any reason, if you tell me I don't understand politics, where war is a necessity and someone has to die to make it right, if you tell me it's all about each country's strategy and means to get what they want, here is what I think: you are still living in 1514. You will only be modern, evolved human beings, when your conflicts are solved peacefully and rationally, in an adequate way for the times we live in. When, instead of perfecting your weapons of mass destruction, you perfect your mindset and attitutide towards other human beings. And when your intelligence and knowledge, so advanced and refined, will be invested in making the world better, not worse.

Yours,

Someone who is tired of cliches about "making the world a better place", but finds some meaning behind these "big words"

A Romanian on Austrian exhibitionism

First of all, I want to apologize to all Austrians reading this for the use of the word "exhibitionism". You will surely understand that by no means do I mean it in any offensive way - on the contrary, some part of me admires this culture of yours and, after three and a half years living here, I am closer than ever to embracing it. You will surely understand that, in all this time, I have somehow come to understand it - how it works and how it came about. Therefore, you will also understand that I feel now I have enough knowledge to write about it - not independently, but in comparison to the Romanian pudicity*.

This being said, here I go. Damn, do you people like to be naked. Like, a lot. Like, wherever it is acceptable to have less than two pieces of fabric on. Regardless of the number, gender, or attitude of the people around you. And you don't hurry to put your pieces of fabric back on, either.

In Austria saunas are almost always mixed and everyone is naked. The sauna showers are mixed and everyone is naked there too. Because you are supposed to be naked in the sauna, it's unsanitary to have a bathing suit on, and the towel is too hot. Luckily, the changing rooms are separated. Or unluckily. Because it makes women feel even more comfortable in Eve's clothing: as if it were not enough that there is one common shower room, with several shower heads and no doors, and all women wash themselves together - they all walk around naked, too. Talk about "make yourself at home": going to the shower naked, coming out of the shower naked (now that's something I don't do even at home - it's cold out there after you've had warm/hot water on you for at least a few minutes!), putting on body lotion naked. Making human interaction naked: while changing for the gym it has happened to me at least twice to be trapped between two naked women having a casual conversation. Neither of them showed any hint of intention to put their clothes on - the conversation about yesterday's meal and how fast kids grow up was way too catchy.

Here is how it works in Romania: there are not many mixed saunas (I don't dare to make any clear affirmation on that, since my experience with Romanian saunas is limited). In the women sauna, women wear bathing suits (eww, gross, I know) or towels. In the locker rooms, women change one piece of clothing at a time and the showers are separate and have doors - if not, they are very rarely used by more than one person at a time. Why, I remember how us girls changed outfit for gym class in highschool: you would not see many of us standing up while changing pants, so as not to let the others see our panties. Everything was done sitting, crunched, and as fast as possible. Of course there were those girls that would compare breasts in the toilet mirror and show each other their latest bikini wax, but that was done in groups of two to four and always when no one could see (and yet, everyone would hear about it eventually, because, duh, highschool).

Let me tell you why we are like that. Because, growing up, we have been told that our private parts are ours alone, and it's shameful to show them around. You would never walk around half naked as a kid at home, nor would your parents (for that I am grateful though). I remember being around 18 and wearing only a long T-shirt at home in summer, and my grandma frowning and scolding me that it is too short to walk around in when there is a man in the house (my dad). Romanians have a huge sense of shame in that sense, and I am convinced it all comes from growing up with our parents constantly pointing their finger at us saying "That is shameful!", "You should be ashamed of yourself!", "How shameful! Everyone will laugh at you!" This applies also to when we would cry in public, fall down, pee ourselves, or whatever it is that babies/toddlers do that is not socially acceptable grown-up behaviour. 

Let me tell you why (I suppose) you, Austrians, are not like that. Because your parents were more free = relaxed, and you grew up like that. Because it was not a shame for you to be naked, and possibly neither was it for your parents. It was not a shame to do stupid things when you were small, and - oh my! - it was even alright for you to crawl on the floor in the street, put your hands in dirt and then in your mouth or whatever it is that babies/toddlers do because they are babies/toddlers**.

So you see, I now understand the difference. I have come a long way from desperately asking my Austrian friends why this is normal, and what is wrong with me, to accepting it as a cultural difference, or whatever the politically correct term for that is. I am not ready to start a conversation with a woman in the gym while I am naked and she is bent over, rubbing her breasts with body lotion, and I might never be. Also, I have a feeling my towel will stay on in the sauna at least until I am old enough not to care about my hanging everything. But I now understand why you are naked and I am not, and I'm okay with that.

* and it is beautiful that what is called "pudoare" in Romanian and comes from the French "pudebonderie", something quite moderate for us, is translated into German as "übertriebene Schamhaftigkeit"! 

** maybe also because you had washing machines and Pampers diapers, which were veeery limited to us until 1990 or so