"Excuse me!"

A word to the wise - while living in a heavily Catholic country, do not attempt grocery shopping on a Sunday. No stores - none - are open Sundays. Now, there are many evils of capitalism but one of them is not that one shop can all day, every day. In Austria, they seem to attempt an observance of some form of a Sabbath. They still want to spend quality time with their families on the weekends. They’ll learn. Americans know there's ample time for worship, family togetherness and the mall. Not necessarily in that order.

I learned this important lesson the hard way on my first full day in Vienna. Roland and I arrived in our new home on a Saturday and collapsed with exhaustion, sleeping all day and through the night. We awoke, ravenous, to an empty refrigerator. We needed to shop for food on a Sunday.

Exactly what does one do in this situation? Obviously, one goes to the train station! You see, the above is not 100% true as, by law, train stations in Austria must have stores that stay open to provide things a traveler might need. Major train stations in the city - there are approximately three - have small grocery stores that are open on Sundays to sell only those things for travelers. That means the toilet paper is blocked off and you can’t buy things like laundry detergent. Items like these are literally locked up. You cannot get to them.

Every Sunday, half of the Viennese population competes with one another to get in the tiny doors of these three, tiny stores. At least, they are tiny when compared to the Super Giant. It was during a rude awakening to this small gap in Western capitalism that I also learned another tough lesson. As over a hundred people competed with me for the last box of corn flakes, I saw that there is no Austrian custom of saying “Excuse me.” Not on the occasion of getting by another shopper, not to grab something off the shelf, nor to cut another off in line. I am used to the most polite of all shoppers - Americans. We excuse ourselves each and every time we come within 25 feet of another human being. When you are used to this, Sunday grocery shopping in Vienna tends to feel as if a bunch of angry, mean people are pushing past you to get to the tomatoes.

When one travels, it is always wise to learn a few important words in the language of the country you intend to visit. At least, “please” and “thank you.” As an American, I always assumed this list of essentials would include one more phrase, “Excuse me.” So, way back when, I learned the three most important German words first - bitte (please), danke (thanks) and entschuldigung (excuse me). Yes, entschuldigung. I am keenly aware of how often I say “Excuse me,” as I let loose with this tongue-twister about 75 times a day. I feel like I have Tourette Syndrome. And the Viennese look at me as if I have Tourettes, too. They are not used to someone excusing themselves to walk in front of another on the train platform or to take a seat next to them at the bar. They don’t feel a need to say “Entschuldigung” when reaching for a book on a shelf. They surely do not excuse themselves to butt in line. But that’s another story.

Of course, none of this was any shock to Roland. He’s used to it; he grew up here. He’s having fun teaching me the ways of the road in his hometown and also enjoying the opportunity to learn what proves difficult in the international transition. A deeply ingrained, apparently American, assumption about “politeness” and the definition thereof is one of my sticking points.

On this particular Sunday, beyond the fog of jet lag and the overall goodness-filled satisfaction of newly-wedded bless, I sensed the first twinges of cultural difference. In reality, the Viennese must not be as angry as they seem in a grocery store. I am sure they also aren't mean. But why don’t they say, “Excuse me?” It seems so easy, so polite. What is the Austrian idea of politeness and honest communication between shoppers in a grocery store, passers-by on the street or neighbors waiting for the same train? I am still searching and learning but it seems that there is, in fact, almost no communication between strangers in public. It is not a time for small talk or chit chat. No one is sharing cooking secrets. It will take a while to get used to the idea that, in fact, “rudeness” and “politeness” are relative terms. In the meantime, I will just be sure not to search for inter-cultural togetherness in a train station grocery store on a Sunday.