Six years ago, I was absolutely ecstatic about going to my dream college. Or, as it was called overseas, university. You see, I had always been hugely talented in the domain of art, and hugely crippled in all others. I got through high school somehow, taking art classes at every single time I could, taking only the mandatory "other" ones. And then, acting on a spur-of-the-moment decision, I decided to apply for an art university in Vienna, Austria. Well, originally the intention was just to get to Europe, but then the choice crystallized through extensive research, and possibly the sheer spite I always displayed towards my father.
He insisted I go to Paris. I did not want to go to Paris. My father and I had always had a very...weak...relationship. For the first ten years of my life, he was off working clear across the States and my mom and uncle and aunt were the people who raised me. They kept telling me how my father was a man very dedicated to my well being and wanted to provide everything he could for me, but I could not get over the fact that he was not there.
For me, materialistic things were not important, but emotions were always sacred. Towards him, I had none but resentment. When he finally came, and lived with us (because I still refuse to consider him as belonging in that house) for seven years, my starting antagonism and his rather strict concept of how a boy should be raised clashed, and the products were constant fights, and many tears lost on my side. I never for a moment cared that he might have lost some tears too. It was his own fault.
My application for the university of art had been an especially trying time. At first, I filled the standard online application, and then they wanted to see a sample of my art. So, I sent it. It needed to be sent in the mail, so it cost me an arm and a leg, naturally. I received an email from them stating that the artwork had been damaged in the transport, and asking me to send another. I did. That one, apparently, never came. Deciding it was futile to trust the post service to do anything properly, I used the opportunity of my school's yearly trip to Europe to pay a couple hundred extra and extend the vacation for three more days, just enough to deliver the art by myself. As soon as they saw it, they told me that I was accepted.
After a month of hassling with getting a passport and all the paperwork done, I was ready to head for Vienna. I loved foreign languages, and considered myself fluent in French, Italian, and German. The day I came to Vienna, about four weeks before the start of freshman year, I was acting high and mighty, nothing could defeat me, I knew German quite well enough to find my way around the place. What the people who taught me the language forgot to mention was that the native speakers spoke at a speed exponentially greater than anything one might get the chance to practice. I was utterly lost. People laughed at my accent and the time it took me to figure out how to get the grammar to work, and then even more so when I stared at them with a bovine expression, trying to replay their words in slow motion within the confines of my mind.
After the first week, however, I was starting to get the hang of it. At the time, I was staying in a rather run-down hotel, and even that was burning holes in my wallet. I realized that if I were to survive in this place, I would either need to make colossal amounts of money, or find an apartment and a roommate...or five. I placed an ad in the paper, stating that I was a freshman in college and needed a roommate to share an apartment with, and giving the rough outline of what areas of the city suited me. I got a response, and I moved in with a girl named Gabi. We lived in the same apartment throughout my freshman year, during which my German had improved greatly, and so had my skills at painting, sculpting, music, singing, and almost any other discipline available.
When the year was out, however, Gabi kicked me out, her boyfriend moving in. This time, it was not as bad as when I first came. I could communicate my way through daily life, and my artwork was quickly getting the acclaim that it almost immediately had back in the States. I do not intend to boast, but I really am good at what I do.
Second year in college was spent cruising between small studios and sharing apartments with random people, on a few occasions really weird, disturbing people. I sold my artwork here and there, and soon quite a number of coffee shops had at least one of my drawings posted. I spent most of my time in the beautiful parks, or just walking among those wonderful buildings of the city. Naturally, Stephansplatz was the place I spent most of my afternoons, drawing the passing tourists, and my addiction to coffee and cozy places was more than quelled by the bountiful cafes sprawled all over the city.
or And so, with an air of careless disregard for a permanent residence, third year rolled in. This time, I knew I needed to find a permanent solution. The projects I had to do for school were no longer as easily moved as those of the first two years. My ad was in the paper again, but this time no one had been answering. For a while, I lived in the dorm, but that place was way too loud and crowded to be able to actually concentrate on creation. A man finally answered my ad, called me, and told me that I needed to pay for half the rent on the apartment, and he would let me stay for as long as I pleased.
Jumping at the opportunity, I disregarded the perverse sum of money that was required for the apartment and answered that I would be delighted. My first and last month's pay was barely gathered from the money I had on me, and I quickly scuttled to find a job. I did, in one of my favorite cafes very close to Stephansdom. The reason I got the job at this exclusive place was that some of my art was hanging on their walls, and I once painted a portrait of the owner's eight year old daughter, free of charge. The kid was such a sweet thing; there was no way I could have made them pay for it. So, the owner decided to pay me back by hiring me when he saw me cruising from café to café and coming out of each one more crestfallen than the previous.
It worked out for several months, since the person I was sharing the apartment with ended up being gone most of the time, and when he was around, he strictly held to his half of the apartment. He himself had arranged the place as almost two separate, completely independent apartments, and apparently his major source of income was, in fact, the rent. The rent equaled half the price for which he bought the place, so over the months the money just piled. I knew always that the price was very steep, but I had no alternative.
I must digress from the story now, for it is about time the reader received a description of what I looked like at that time. My hair was thin and silky, very soft, and fell to about halfway down my shoulder blades. Indeed, I had not been immune to the stereotype of the artist. Its color, before I started dying it at a later age, was pitch black, as dark as the night, and I usually wore it in a loose pony tail. I had one of those elongated, thin faces people often seemed to describe as having distinct lupine features, and my smile, without false modesty, had always been absolutely dazzling. It just lit my face up, some would say.
When I originally came to Vienna, I had been rather chubby, but the lack of money emaciated me quite a bit, and when it rolled in, it was the loss of the snacking habits that preserved the narrow hips and lack of fat. I started working out, and soon began frequenting the college campus just to participate in the sports, whether casual or competitive. From that, I got a rock hard six pack and slightly pronounced pectorals, but my biceps were threatening to rip most of the shirts I had. Somehow, I always ended up helping people carry heavy objects this way and that. I had very long and very muscular legs.
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written by odasRATE THIS STORY
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