“Wem keatsn es?  To whom do you belong?”

My favorite ice cream in Austria sits behind an unassuming window located in a village of 3,000 people. You ring the bell and the friendly face of a young restaurant server greets you before taking your order. You walk out holding a cone that contains a smooth, creamy work of art.

Rain or shine, full or empty stomach, I try to visit this window each day that I can. It’s like I have an internal ice cream timer that resets with each sunrise. As soon as I wake up, I’m obsessively craving another two scoops.

This sunny July afternoon was different. Theresa and I had unknowingly trespassed the entrance to this traditional restaurant/ house/ ice cream window prior to opening hours, because why would any Austrian villager lock their front door?

 

 

Day 524

16 July 2019

Upper Austria

“Maria? Who’s there!”

A deep voice called from above. Heavy footsteps came down the stairs. The father of the restaurant owner scowled at us before breaking into a chuckle and getting behind the window, because why would anyone in an Austrian village deny another villager of ice cream?

But before we talked about scoops and pistachios and stracciatella, we ladies had some explaining to do.

“To whom do you belong?”

He never asked for Theresa’s name, just for her man’s. Having never seen her before, he asked Theresa where she lived, to which she responded that she’s lived here, for two years. They discussed this phenomenon for a bit, then he asked a bit about the family. Who’s moved back home, who still hasn’t moved out, who else belongs to who else, etc.

Inevitably, his gaze landed on me. Clearly with a German vocabulary limited to “Eis” and “bitte,” Theresa explained to him that I was from the United States.

“Ahhh…and what is your name?”

“Vivian.”

“Like Vivienne Westwood!!”

“Actually, like Vivien Leigh. My parents are huge fans of Gone With The Wind.”

“Ohhh, and is it your first time to Austria?”

“No, it’s my second. But my favorite place in Austria is right here.”

At this statement, the man dramatically got on one knee. He was honored to have my blessing, a blessing that sat high upon the pedestal of my American citizenship. After some more banter and some comments directed towards a particular political leader of my country, my ice cream was scooped and safely delivered into my greedy hands. I gave him a banknote. It was tossed back at me.

Just when I thought life doesn’t get sweeter than spending July in rural Austria, it did. We thanked our new friend.

“Schuss!”

Theresa and I exited the shop mildly bewildered, yet giggling nonetheless.

 

*Starting the day early to visit the cities and historical landmarks of Europe, with the obedience and patience of a Chinese kid raised under strict Confucian values, and an afternoon ice cream cone at the end of it all, was the essence of my privileged and educational childhood. It had been nine years since my last ice cream in Austria, eight years since my last summer in Europe, and two years since my last summer at all (June, July and August 2018 were passed beneath the equator, in the winter of South America). This story, and every scoop of European ice cream, comes with utmost nostalgia.