The sleep of death

I just woke up from a near 12 hour sleep. Hard and on the couch. I feel like I have woken up in another world like Mork, only it's just the world of Saturday afternoon. One of those so good but so wrong kinda moments.

Friends with kids are thinking 'cry me a damn river' I am sure. But seriously, it is a slightly surreal feeling especially when unintended. But when the horizontal body talks, I'm not about to interrupt for a coffee break. The back story is that I re-arrived in Budapest six days ago from ye olde transatlantic flight and I realize that the nine hour time difference from LA is that much much more of an ass kicker. And I arrived to an incredibly intensive week of twelve hour days in the office with a couple of semi-sleepless or at least sleep-light days in between. So I deserve the hours and have some credits remaining in my sleep deposit balance sheet, but the sensation of missing an entire day (ne the only opportunity to buy proper fresh food til Monday), fills me such awe and guilt, the only way I can forgive myself this indulgence is to reveal all online!

Oh well, better get ready for dinner soon!

Zee rules are zee rules

Ok, so I am on the overnight train to Serbia. Yes, I am aware it sounds like the start of a bad joke. Or an Eagles song. It's bad enough I will be awoken at 3am for an aggressive passport check (Twice! The Hungarians have to say goodbye before the Serbians can say hello), but I was just subjected to the most cranky rule-abiding Austrian who runs a tight ship on train carriage 417. You see, the wackiness of inter-Europe rail is you end up with the strangest amalgamation of actual train carriages all mixed together like a multi-cultural mixer circa 1878.

But I miss the Hungarian overnight train conductors because they look out for a single gal traveling alone such as myself on these smuggler's trains. Last time, I had a conductor insist I change carriages to one that had 3 working locks rather than 2. As much as I appreciated his concern, the thought that a mere two locks might not be enough did give me a moments' pause. Although the train ticket sales people are among the least friendly civil servants, the actual train conductors are sometimes among the nicest, at least the ones who are infused with a sense of pride in their job working the rails, traveling these dark and dusty byways of Eastern Europe. My biological grandfather rode the rails for the post office so I feel entitled to essentialize train conductors!

Anyhow, back to my Austrain carriage en route from Vienna to Belgrade via Budapest. There are two sleeping compartments with human life in them on this carriage of about 8 compartments in total. One has a couple in it, the other, the one I was assigned to, had an grey, bearded man who smelled a bit like Palinka. Not to judge, but it seemed perfectly reasonable that I might be given the chance to move into an empty. Nische don't think so.

"If you wanted a cabin to yourself you should have reserved a private cabin. You can pay for a private cabin if you want one." "

"But there are so many empty cabins - this one is also for 6 people just like I paid for. Why can't I stay there?"

"You think I should open up all these cabins to make a private cabin for everyone on this train?"

And back and forth we went. The weird thing was, he only responded to me when I got a bit huffy - you know, the kind of reaction you finally come to when you know all is lost, the snotty "I just don't see what the big deal is? Why is this so complicated?!" I finally snapped, preparing for a night of bunking with Father Christmas. The something even stranger happened. He just started to unlock an empty and told me to get inside and give him my ticket. Maybe some people just like the rough talk.

Sensing a frost, I thanked him sincerely, but thought I had cooked my own goose when I asked him if he was Hungarian or Serbian. "From Vienna!" he replied. Not even bothering to claim himself Austrian. I should have known. Not just from the interchange, but the clean train car, the matching embroidered button down shirts, and oh, the German he tried to speak to me at first.

Anyhow, that is likely an unnecessarily long recount of my adventures in cross cultural communication. Now I should go to sleep. And hide my stash before the border crossing. Kidding!

The right continues to implode on itself, angers mustard lobby in process

Ketchup is of the people, mustard is of the man.

See also.

Pretty!

Hungarian countryside I visited on May 1st at the top of a lookout we hiked to. This is the Danube Bend (or 'Dunakanyar' !) where the river gets all crazy and heads due north towards Slovakia.

Christmas for scavengers!

Today is one of my favorite days of the year in Budapest. It's Throw Your Crap in the Street Day.

This is the day that each neighborhood gets twice a year to literally kick to the curb anything they don't want, regardless of size of condition, and the rest of it get to go picking through it in search of treasure.

Ok, the scavenging aspect is an unintended consequence, largely attributed to rising poverty, declining state support, and a society devoid of yard sales. I think the only people out there looking through the tat are me and a couple of ex pats and a lot of middle aged Roma people, many of whom strikingly spent the night on the abandoned couches on my street in preparation. Perhaps it's a cultural thing. I mean, there isn't the kind of thrift store culture here. People used to buy well made things and they lasted. And you would never think to throw out a desk or an armoire or a working but dated vacuum cleaner. That's what yard sales and the Goodwill are for! Yes, there are flea markets and of course antique shops, but one cultures' 1960 retro minimalism is another's 1980 Soviet socialist functionality.

The saddle and the tunnel

My bike commute to work is pretty glamorous for the most part, so far as bike routes go. My ride takes me casually through a park, down one of the rare and illusive actual bike routes in this city, across one of the more elegant bridges in bridges in Europe across the Danube, with a view of the Basilica and Parliament there, and the Castle Hill and St Gellert on the way back. Not bad! The downside is that it also involves dodging photo snapping clueless tourists on the bridge, one of the most stressful roundabouts, and this tunnel as pictured here. The tunnel is a cross between the Second Street tunnel in downtown Los Angeles, minus the endless car commercial filming, but with all the urine smells of a pedestrian underpass in Echo Park and the air quality of Centralia, PA. It's a ride done quickly and with full knowledge that a little piece of you (or your lungs) die with every pass made without a full face respirator.

This, however, is a photo of the tunnel the other night while I was biking home. Being from LA my first thought was "Skoda commercial? Here?" Nope, just a freshen up. But it was a thrilling ride with no cars, minimal lighting, and a number of pedestrian lookeeloos.

Ship Ahoy

Pirate music for Christian kids!

I don't know what to be more frightened by - the video from Funcle Sam telling the tale of Pirate Saum and talkin' bout being a soul winner, the ventriloquist dummy on the boat, or the fact that Mrs Hook is wearing glasses.

Go for the music, stay for Believin' Bear and the Confession Canon.

Back in the saddle!

(photo of Critical Mass Hungary 09 from Time magazine of all places!)

I am back riding my bike to and fro, commuting as a biped to work each day just in time for Earth Day! This, thanks to a generous and very pregnant friend who is lending me her bike.

It's such a cliche, but I feel a renewed sense of freedom and liberation. The downside is that Budapest remains a decidedly unfriendly city for bikes. Despite the biggest Critical Mass rides, the roads are too narrow, drivers too aggressive, and paths too nonexistent. I have already had two minor mishaps and the problem for me isn't so much the sense of eminent danger as it is the growing feeling of righteousness within.

I am a Libra's Libra, and my sense of fairness, of balance, and clearly of wreaking justice and judgement are in my nature. So when a middle aged father stopped his car to yell at me for blocking his passage on a super narrow bit of road behind the Mammut mall where I was riding as close to the parked cars as I could without rubbing against them for a cuddle, I was outraged. Of course, I felt obliged to let him know how I felt with my instinctive middle finger making its obligatory salute. Then something happened. We were stuck at a light together and thus began the battle of the self-righteous expletives, concluding, or so he thought, in an almost trance like utterance on his behalf of "fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck YOU." I mean, how could I top a quad? Well, after reaching into the darkest corner of my insult bag, I grab the most obvious, but perhaps most deadly insult to throw at him. So with all the haughtiness and tut-tutting I could muster, I yell back at the man who has been screaming the f word at me while leaning across his 9 year old expressionless daughter: "you are a horrible driver and a terrible father."

Bamb! Gotcha!

Of course I couldn't quite leave it at that and followed up with some blah blah how dare you yell at me in front of your daughter blah blah to someone on a BICYCLE (like he had afronted the gods of lance). But somehow, it didn't make me feel any better. I felt little high calling him on his bad parental role modeling, but I didn't get the satisfaction I thought the trump card would have gotten me. But more to the point, what strikes me about me in this regard, is my obsession with thinking, nee knowing, I am right. But not just that I am right, actually, but that I must right the world of its unfair ways and behaviors. Sadly, this doesn't manifest itself in organizing productive responses to the evils of the world. Instead, I am like the Fairness Police, conducting verbal citizen arrests to right the petty wrongs of the world. Last week, I Let The Manager of the Pizza Stand at the Budapest Airport Know that they were ripping people off with the lack of difference in size but double the price salad bar bowls. She hardly spoke English but I just Had To Let Her Know. Politely of course. Just like how I can't help myself from letting people know their cutting in line Did Not Go Unnoticed.

Righting the petty wrongs of the world. I am indeed a crank old lady before my time.

Katey likes the blue dolls

In a moment of headache desperation, I asked my Romanian colleague if she had some aspirin, paracetamol, ibuprofen, anything to stop the pain. She did one better and with a gleam in her eye, dug into her purse and handed me her wonder pills.

"Take these! They are magic! From Romania."

"What is it?" I inquired, eyeing the package and not recognizing a single ingredient except for caffeine, which got me immediately perked up.

"Dunno, but take 2!" was the enthusiastic reply.

I get bad headaches. They come on unexpectedly and cane wipe me out for a day if I am not careful. Advil Liquid Gel caps are my drug of choice - the only meds that ever work and that I can swallow. But Advil had yet to have its Liquid Gel Caps infiltrate the Hungarian market. Regular ibuprofen just doesn't work - believe me, I've tried. I've tried everything in fact. Everything except these mysterious, uncoated generic white, flat pills about the 2/3 the size of a dime. I took two as suggested, sat down, and felt my headache just wash over me, leaving me within a mere 15 minutes, headache free, relaxed and ready to get back to work. I was curious, but not one to look magic in the eye and ask it for a reference, I quickly asked how I could get my hands on more of these wondrous and apparently over the counter pills from Romania! And proceeded to have a ridiculously productive afternoon.

I was convinced they were maybe some kind of codeine derivative, maybe a vicodin-lite. I feared addictive qualities in the long run, but figured that until my next visitor arrived with the gel cap delivery, whatever these dolls were, they would get me through the spring.

But file this (predictably) under too good to be true. I decided that ignorance was not the best policy when it came to meds, I did a proper (Google) search for the only to learn that metamizol sodic was actually banned by the FDA in 1977. Apparently, in .2-2% of users it can cause something to happen that could possibly lead to death. Whatever. A small price to pay for such good headache relief I say! I also learned that it is the most popular headache / pain relief med in other countries as well like Spain, Turkey, Mexico, Nigeria and other parts of Eastern Europe. The FDA spoils all the fun.

Did I mention it has caffeine in it?

This, of course, does raise some serious questions about differing standards across countries. At the same time, it really works! Ibuprofin is supposed to rot livers, but the pill that works even better 'might' kill me. Dilemmas dilemmas.

Ok, I will cut myself off from the wonder med, but not until someone comes to visit with a big box of gel caps! In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy my temporary new lover while it's around.

Exedrin Migrane anyone?

Big in Bosnia

Not me, Obama!

Happy May Day!

I was a Campfire Girl when I was a kid, what I suppose was some kind of neo-hippy suburban alternative to the Girl Scouts. Where they had Brownies, we were Bluebirds. To their (albeit addictively delicious Thin Mints, an industry unto themselves), we had Peanuttles and Sunkist Fruit gems. We earned not badges but wooden beads, and would stitch them on our felt vests in random patterns whilst in deep thought selecting our Indian names that we would be called by during the campfire ceremonies. My name was Wah Ton Yeh, or "Brave Bright Eyes". My mom picked it out for me. At the ceremonial campfires we would chant "Wo He Lo" (in extended, drawn-out, dramatic fashion, a rise and fall so it sounded more like "wooah HEEE low". This stood for work, health, love. What else did a Bluebird need?

What does this have to do with May Day? Nothing on the surface, but it represents my only point of reference for May Day, which was not a celebration of workers' rights, revolution, standing up to the man, or what could today in Eastern Europe be considered a more complicated connection to a Soviet socialist past, but it was about wearing white and wrapping colorful crepe paper around a tether ball pole in Mrs. Fogg's backyard and afterwards, practicing our do-si-do and eating homemade donuts. I know flowers were involved but I forget how - I was way more interested in the donuts.

My research into the subject (consisting of a Google search and quick skim read) tells me that the Maypole is connected to German Paganism.

Now, here in Central Eastern Europe, the red countries have a big public holiday akin to our Labor Day. It's still a big holiday here and while I celebrated by going on a hike with friends in the nearby Pilis Mountains, Hungarian comrades have big worker's celebrations at Hero Square. I even ran into some labor groups getting off the train
while I was leaving the city. They were full of energy bringing some life into Nygati Station with their chating and team spirit. But to me it seemed anachronistic, or just weirdly misplaced. Even though I should be cheering for the May Day ideal, to an outsider, it's hard to tell what this all means in post-Communist Hungary, with a corrupted (even if recently changed PM) Socialist government, the economic crisis, falling forint and near bankruptcy of the entire country and subsequent rising nationalism, racism and violence against Roma people, it's hard to read what going on in the streets on 1 May anymore.

Makes me miss the days of the Peanuttles and Do-Si-Do's.

Strawberries, asparagus and lettuce, oh my!

The pussy willow has disappeared as suddenly as it came to the market, but it has been replaced by the first signs of berry season! The bounty of strawberries was in full abundance!

It seems a bit early for the full glory of the asparagus, but today both white and green varieties were spotted at multiple stalls.

And lettuce--- for the first time in like ever I found a fresh, crisp and dare I say glamorous head of red leaf lettuce (red leaf! not iceberg, not butter! red leaf!) calling my name.

I didn't have my camera out but I did come home to enjoy a lunch of coke and strawberries. Caffeine + fruity fix = yummy spring Saturday!

and hopefully this counter-acts the trauma of the Great Kettle Caper! Seriously, I have No Idea what was going through my head when I did that (see previous post). No idea.

This is what stress looks like

This is an electric kettle.

This is an electric kettle after I mistakenly placed it on the gas burner and turned it on instead of placing it on its' electric cradle on the counter.

This is what a burnt out kettle with its' melted plastic dripping all into the gas burner looks like once the fire was put out that would have created significant damage to the kitchen if I had gone to the loo rather than start washing dishes where I was at least in proximity to smell the burning plastic and see the roaring flames from said electric kettle accidentally placed on the gas stovetop.

Um, I don't quite know what else to say. It all sorta speaks for itself. Opps?

This is an observatory...

in Zagreb!

I LOVE this humble effort at bringing a bit of space exploration, star gazing and cosmonauty to the region.

I don't know if you can tell the scale in this photo exactly (there was no one actually inside the museum, making proportionality not so easy to deduce), but this observatory, located inside the national Museum of Technology in Zagreb, is about the size of a really generous playhouse with a dome on top.

The museum itself is a wonderland of kitsch. Hard to know where to start. From the poorly groomed model horses demonstrating the horsey part of horse and buggy, to the extensive amount of space given to the Fire Extinguisher History exhibition (I couldn't make that one up), to the Tesla, Tesla, Tesla ! (read like 'Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!') vibe, it was a visual feast in gotcha museumology.

I don't mean to mock too hard (but certainly a little) because what would a glorious space like the Griffith Observatory or the Franklin Institute be were it not for efforts of countries with less investment in public science education, but with a history of massive contributions to the sciences (that they won't let you for get for one hot second)? And really, how boring would it be if all the museums of the world were well funded, I mean cookie cutters. Stumbling upon socialist era gems like this one that somehow manage to survive, if not thrive, is so much fun. On the other hand, it would be nice to think that all science and technology museums were awesome.

Until then, go learn a little something about the fire extinguisher. It may save your life one day you know.

Near death by automation

On my last train trip abroad, I almost fell out the back of the train. Seriously.

Borders stop trains in this land of EU meets Balkans. Paperwork is shared among passengers and police, contraband is searched for, train carriages disconnect and reconnect. This is the life of the rail in this region. Don't expect to get there on time. Don't expect there to be dining car. And don't take the overnight train from Budapest to Venice and think you will get sleep when you cross the borders with Croatia.

So it was not much of a surprise to emerge from the on-board toilet to notice that all the train cars behind me were no longer there. Likely left on the other side of whatever border we just crossed. Perhaps they left their passports at home. But what WAS a surprise was when I leaned towards the door to get a better look out at the big wide world of train tracks illuminated by the moonlight to find the automatic doors open up. As in, the doors at the back of the train that would typically open up so you could move about from carriage to carriage, just opened up to the great outdoors. Just like that. On a moving train. That was moving. I seriously had to take a fast step back cos if I leaned forward any further I would have found myself not on the wrong side of the tracks, but on top of the tracks. I swear I didn’t push a button or press eject or anything. I didn’t even touch the door. I just leeeeaned in. To take a look outside the window. Not jump out of it. Scared the crap out of me! I'm just not used to automated anything around here so much. I mean, the nice Hungarian train conductor's validate your ticket not by punching holes in it, or scanning it through anything, they actually just make a few squiggly lines on it. I recently deduced that these scribbles were in fact numbers, but I sorta had to laugh. Not that I'm complaining! I love the fact the low tech is truly low tech. I mean, is it necessary to have some fancy kit like the Austrians. No. A man, a moustache, a hat and a pen. That's all you really need to run a proper train service.

In any event, the pen is not mightier than the automatic back door.

And to think I had just been going pee complimenting this new Hungarian train carriage that actually had ac outlets for laptops and flushing toilets.

Wanted: ability to follow orders while creating the perfect yet open-minded power point presentation

Perhaps among the more odd academic job postings I've come across, this one has some very particular prerequisites:


* Available, open-minded;
* Scientific rigor and motivation for research;
* Efficiency in the work and capacity to understand theoretical developments;
* Ability to follow orders;
* Excellent spoken and written English;
* Perfect knowledge of power point.


Should I mention the position was in France?

Hiding hobbits...

in marzipan!

At the Marzipan Museum in Szentendre of course.

Apparently there is also a marzipan museum at the top of Castle Hill here in Budapest, but I think I may have gotten my fill of marzipan pop culture. Besides, I'm saving myself for the WWII Hospital in the Rocks below the castle...recreations of 1940s nurses in wax!

More photos...in marzipan!

Posh pigs

While I appreciate an article in the NY Times that is about both Hungary and pork, it reeks of a kind of unconscious classness that, while barely tolerable in the folksy tales for the educated class on Weekend Edition or All Things Considered, is more masked within the depths of foodieness with it's a touch of 'let them eat succulent pig!'

That said, it certainly was interesting to learn about the history of the most coiffed pigs ever. And it's a great story of man versus pork machine.

It's not just me who has one eyebrow up at the article - chew.hu, the English language foodie paradise enjoyed some snark at the article's expense. But even better is the completely fascinating exchange in the comments section between chew's editor and the author of the NY Times article. It gets so good / bad that the NYT guy even does a 'nya nya nya nya nya' to chew for not being, well, the New York Times. Er, um, yeah. It's a fun read!

(photo courtesy of NYT article!)

Something in the langos ain't right

I took a couple of friends to one of the places in Budapest I'd been longing to go to but never quite managed to get to - the Escheri Flea Market.

I'd been looking forward to this excursion for some time now. Billed as the Best Flea Market in All of Central Eastern Europe, perhaps it was bound to disappoint. Just not in the ways I expected.

First thing to know is that it is way the fuck out of the city center. But located in such a spot to give one a real sense of how more Hungarians live than the ex pat life I am living. It's grim, desolate, communist era block flats mixed with dingy duplexes and lots of run down auto mechanic shops. It's the kind of down to earth urban reality that makes me so angry when I read articles like that in the recent Guardian weekend magazine on poverty chic. Poverty porn is bad enough, but no, um shabby chic decor and mix matched thrift store chairs does not bring one closer to 'the people'. Certainly not like a visit to Escehri does.

I happily enjoyed the chaos of the tat. The dusty stalls, the randomness of the objects. What I didn't enjoy was the copy of Mein Kampf for sale alongside a few other pieces of Nazi memorabilia. The items in question were on display along the main promenade, sitting alongside a reprint book by Lenin, hammer and sickle belt buckles and other communist kitsch being sold by a Chinese woman at this decidedly very Hungarian flea market. It was all just a bit too much. Given the location of the stall, it was as if Hitler himself was greeting us to the market, encouraging us to come in, have a looksee. Seriously, I felt like this stall was haunting me throughout my sojourn.

If that wasn't enough, it all just kind of fell together (or apart) when we hurriedly left (not because of Mein anything, but because some pervy busker creepily brushed himself against my friends' ample breasts whilst passing her in the cookery section), and found ourselves waiting for the bus along with some of the local yoots. The one in question was, on the surface, your run of the mill shaved head / bomber jacket 20 year old looking to bum a light. After my other friend helped in out, we both noticed his jacket sported the words "White Power". There is no mistaking the semiotics there. He was far more disturbing than Adolf's visage from a book jacket. We three just kind of looked at him after he walked off dumbfounded. In fact, I think if you look up the word 'dumbfounded' in a dictionary, there would be a picture of our faces (see also 'speechless' and 'what the fuck just happened').

Of course, when I tried to regale my story later to a Hungarian friend, something got lost in the translation and he kept asking me why would someone have on their jacket the words 'white powder'. After explaining to him that no, he was not in fact a distributor for Este Lauder, or a stagehand for a traveling French mime troupe, I decided that would be the new code word for, well, white powder.

alt.culture

On Friday, I went to a public lecture on alternative culture and urban spaces that was part of an alternative cultures project coordinated by the Open Society Archives, the most amazing archival resource that I just want to fall in to and get lost for about a month. The talk was held at one of the venerable Budapestian institutions - a semi-squatted courtyard complex in District VII, the old Jewish quarter.

Tűzraktér is a pretty great space. New to me, having opened last year around the time I was heading back to the states. And like many attempts to reclaim unused urban spaces, set for demolition by the end of the year.

This is, in fact, my favourite parts of Budapest. Not the demolition, but the way thoughtful groups come http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.giftogether to reclaim spaces, and in a way that makes them accessible to everyone. Like the pussy willows and daffodils, places and people spring up all over this city once the sun starts to come out in April. Nearly every available pitch of park or abandoned courtyard makes way for a cafe, bar or club in the spring and summer months. My favorite is Corvin teto, a rooftop bar atop an old socialist department store. An building that is a glorious monument to corrugated steel. And one slated for demolition some time next year.

This is also the story of cafe culture in Budapest: grab it while you can!

I should write more about the talk itself. In summary, there are a few key things I learned: 1) There are really interesting debates about urban space taking place in Slovenia including a former prison turned youth hostel that I actually stayed at once and how alternative is indeed a tricky, slippery and decidedly relative term; 2) always invite a Ukrainian because they travel with bottles of local vodka and like to share; 3) never let anarchists arrange something prior to that which is supposed to start on time.