Weddings + Kyla = disaster.

I don't know why I bother going to weddings anymore. Sure sure, I know it's because you love the people who are getting married, or they are family, but every time I attend a wedding I walk away with a story. Here is another for the books.

I was recently asked to babysit four children at a wedding two hours outside Vienna. Everything seemed to be properly arranged, I knew a few people in attendance and I thought it would be a quick and easy way to make money over a weekend. It is just never that simple. Getting lost on the way there should have been a sign, or even the pouring rain, but I was still naively optimistic.

The wedding reception took place inside a renovated barn and I was somewhat conveniently located directly across from the barn in the "kids area." The first few hours went by without any serious problems apart from the parents' incessant need to check on their offspring every ten minutes. In case you are a parent, this actually makes it harder for the babysitter. Every time you walk out of the room, the otherwise content child screams bloody murder for 5 minutes. I know it's hard to believe your child isn't miserable without you, but maybe you should be thrilled your kid isn't an anti-social disaster. Count your blessings and leave the babysitter in peace.

The situation started to go downhill around 8pm. Three of the toddlers were supposed to fall asleep around this time, however, thanks to the stimulation of the wedding, not a single one responded to my desperate plea for rest. Eating dinner at the kid's table with a screaming child on your lap is not what it is cracked up to be. For the next four hours it was my unhappy job to quiet three screaming, exhausted babies and run back and forth in the pouring rain to the kid's area (goodbye dry feet). During this time I was accused of not feeding a child, preparing their formula incorrectly and when I made a simple inquiry to one of the fathers he responded, "you are the babysitter, aren't you?" Around 12:30am, the toddlers started to pass out and I was permitted to have a drink and enjoy the rest of the wedding. Or so I thought.

First I made the poor choice of sitting by the bride's 70 year-old Swedish father. His drunken ramblings about Americans being the center of the universe were made even less pleasant as he repeatedly invaded my personal space. Soon we were ballroom dancing to Rick James' "Superfreak" where he nearly broke my wrist while trying to turn me. After three kisses on the cheek and an enthused profession of his love, I ran away to find other company.

Luckily a few of Chanda's friends were in attendance and despite their excessive drug and alcohol use, they made for a few good hours of dancing. Somewhere in the middle of my goulash and vodka I realized my ride was nowhere to be seen. After repeated unanswered phone calls I came to the conclusion that I had no bed and I should just dance to ABBA until dawn. I was saved by a 40-something man who drove me back to his guesthouse, asked about the appropriateness of a kiss (declined)and eventually let me sleep in his bed with one of Chanda's older female friends while he graciously took the floor.

After sneaking in and out of breakfast the next morning, I began to long for whatever bed I was intended to occupy the previous evening. I later discovered that there had been a hotel booked for me, but the parents incorrectly assumed that I knew where it was located, the name of the reservation, how to get there and that I had managed to check in. Keep in mind that I was in middle of a million apple fields, had no vehicle, and didn't even know the name of the bride and groom, let alone where my magical hotel may be located. This is a good working definition of miscommunication. The parents in charge apologized for the complication, but weren't overly worried that I had been abandoned after taking care of their kids for 12 hours.

This exciting wedding ended with an Austrian brunch (sauer kraut, sausage, potatoes) where I conversed with a few of the hungover guests. Several of the guests kindly inquired whether or not that I had managed to find a bed while the children's parents ignored me during the entire meal. Did I sleep well? Thanks so much for taking care of my child all day, I really appreciate it! Not so much. I felt a little used and abused and was excited for my after return to sanity. At 4pm I finally arrived back in Vienna a little less poor and in need of a drink and a big sigh. Weddings and babysitting should not mix.

Adventures in Jet Lag

I remember visiting Chanda for the first time when I was 13, mostly because I was SO confused about the everything. The feeling of waking up in a hotel room with blaring sunlight in my eyes at 11am was too much for me. The whole week was overshadowed by this feeling that my body was too heavy to carry around and the only remedy was to give in to the fatigue and sleep for the rest of my life. My flair for the dramatic began at an early age.

Despite my early intolerance for changes in time, a transatlantic flight doesn't get to me anymore. Depending on my arrival time, I am usually functional within a day thanks to sleeping drugs, red wine and practice. But mostly the drugs. My latest flying adventure through me for a spin; flying from Zambia to MI and then MI to Austria with a week of "rest" in between. As usual, the first flight barely registered on my radar. Sure I stayed up unnecessarily late playing on facebook a few nights and woke up feeling a little tired, but nothing I couldn't handle.

Traveling to Vienna a week later, I found that my body was slightly more overwhelmed by the change. On the third night of my sojourn, I randomly woke at 2am to discover that I was no longer tired. Far from counting sheep, I decided a bowl of cereal and four episodes of "The Office" was the only way to pass my time. Two hours later, I finally fell back asleep.

On night number four I managed to sleep soundly. Well, that is until the honking outside wouldn't stop. I eventually climbed out of bed to discover a small accident and domestic dispute occurring on the closest street corner. Awesome! Thanks to the damage on one of the vehicles, every time the driver started the car the entire neighborhood enjoyed a prolonged honking (and not one of those pleasant horns either). My enthusiasm for the situation was heightened as three police cars and two firetrucks arrived at the scene. Soon all my neighbors were staring from their windows and enjoying the 3am entertainment. The combination of the young Turkish couple's domestic dispute and my neighbors yelling at them made me desperately want to understand German. There is a first time for everything. Eventually I fell back asleep, hoping the next night would bring a juicier episode on the Viennese streets.

My jet lag subsided by night number five, which is great and all, but I do miss my nocturnal TV. Maybe after my next flight across the Atlantic? Here's hoping!