December 9, 2003
VIENNA -- I am going to come right out and say it: There are times when it's seriously embarrassing to be a Nevadan.
Every time a list ranking states on something comes out, Nevada is inevitably on the wrong end of the list. We're high on the bad lists (teen pregnancy, suicide, tiger attacks on surgically altered casino act hosts) and low on the good lists (education quality, quality journalism, number of Tower Records stores). It sucks.
Of course, one of the most heinous lists Nevada regularly finds itself on the bad end of involves smoking. Every year, Nevada's percentage of smokers ranks either first or second behind some horrid state with a lack of orthodontics and an overabundance of pig farms, like Kentucky. (It should be noted that Kentucky folks are probably embarrassed to rank so close to a state like Nevada, seeing as we're generally associated with nuclear waste and legalized prostitution, but what do those dentally challenged swine lovers know, anyway?)
But let me tell you that when it comes to smoking, Nevada has NOTHING on Austria. I've heard the same goes for much of Europe, but I can't vouch for that; I CAN vouch for the fact that your average Austrian smokes more than Frosty the Snowman on speed.
My friend, Garrett, and I knew we were in for a lot of second-hand smoke when we went to the counter for shuttle service at the Vienna airport: The men running both the shuttle and taxi counters were smoking -- ON THE JOB.
During my time in Vienna, we've eaten in a LOT of restaurants, and exactly ONE restaurant we've visited has had a non-smoking section (making up about one-quarter of the restaurant). The rest of them allowed smoking anywhere. It's like the inverse of California, only without Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Having grown up with parents who, until fairly recently, smoked enough Marlboros to keep half of North Carolina fed, the smoking hasn't bothered me much. However, it nearly drove Garrett insane. He HATES smoking with a passion, kind of like John Ashcroft hates everyone but white men and women wearing skirts down past their ankles. You know.
Austria is simply a weird place. Our hotel -- called the Mercure, along with five other hotels in Vienna, for some mutant reason -- is about two blocks from OPEC headquarters. I've considered stopping by for a visit, but something tells me they aren't too keen on Americans right now, seeing as we've invaded one of their members and are repeatedly talking smack about most of the others.
Another weird thing about Austria is that most of the folks working in customer service-oriented jobs aren't exactly warm and inviting. Don't get me wrong; they do what they're supposed to, but they don't act the least bit friendly about it. One of the men who works at our hotel front desk has seemed highly annoyed at our presence during our entire trip, while at the same time, he's gone out of his way to serve us. The best example of this happened on the day we checked in. We arrived at the hotel three hours before our room was supposed to be ready, and he seemed basically disgusted to see us. After futzing around the neighborhood for 2 1/2 hours, we returned to the hotel and sat down in the lobby, content to wait the extra half-hour; when he saw us, he made a point of coming around from behind the counter to tell us our room was ready.
Another fine example of this phenomenon came one day at lunch. We wandered into a place a bit off the beaten path and seated ourselves; soon after, the woman running things came up to us and started prattling on in German. Garrett and I had no idea what she was saying, and Garrett blurted out: "We're Americans."
The look on the woman's face changed from pleasant to perturbed. "Ach! English!" she exclaimed.
It turns out that unlike most Austrians we've encountered, she spoke very little English. You could tell she was somewhat self-conscious about this, as she nervously came to our table only when absolutely necessary. Instead, she spent most of her time behind the restaurant's small bar, talking with some people I assumed were restaurant regulars.
And as she talked to them, she smoked -- the entire time.
We can't wait to get back to Nevada to be around a lower amount of cigarette smoke. Now, THAT is saying something.
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan in exile in Arizona. His column appears here Tuesdays, and he can be reached via e-mail at jiboegle@stanfordalumni.org.