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.

A Nordic eve on the first weekend of spring

Budapest is most definitely a city where there is always something going on. At the risk of sounding like a Time Out Guidebook entry (btw, a new Time Out monthly has started here and it makes me happy! I am biased since I know people there, but it's still exciting for a certifiable ex pat like me, but I digress...).

The past week has seen both the 2 week long annual Titanic International Film Festival and the 3 day Budapest Fringe Festival overlap on the same weekend. While I question the timing convergence, it's sort of thrilling in an oh my god where should I go, what should I see kind of frenzy. And the city is small enough that you can pretty much count on no more than two options coinciding. And small enough that most of your friends are likely to, if not be at one or the other, be contemplating going to one or the other. And isn't contemplation just somewhere in between procrastination and mobilization?

In any event, I split my cultural allegiances. Last night was fringe. Didn't mobilize until 10pm so I missed the fire dancing (although after multiple Burning Man excursions, it's hard to get excited about urban fire dancing. If there aren't giant explosives, dirt, and a feeling that someone might actually get hurt, it's not really worth the effort). But I did catch a painfully mediocre band, an example of gut instinct being on the money. If I am to confess to my ability to make snap judgements on appearance only, I knew by their photo that they would be dull, earnest yet bland. I was right. But actually had to leave after the 'heartfelt' black clad, flowing lock second lead gave it his all with a wooden flute. Which came painfully close to bringing me back to that place where I must mock all things Peruvian Pan Flute. I'm sure if I ever make it to Peru and experience it in its natural habitat I will feel otherwise, but Hungarians and pan flutes are like poppy seed and ceviche. Which of course brings me to my other recent insight and that is that there are in fact Peruvian pan flutists EVERYWHERE. In the city park in Budapest, pan flutes. In the square with the Easter market. Is this globalization? Transnationalism? Glocalism? Or just an effort to make me resent woodwind instruments?

Ranting aside, after that, laura and I soldiered on and were rewarded with a completely amazing Klezmer band! Everything you want in a Klezmer band, including a totally cute butch clarinet player who brought the veritable house down.

Tonight, as the post's title implies, a range of Nordic film options filled with snowy backdrops to make one glad it's spring I guess. Eva and I are opting for "North", a film described as somewhere between The Straight Story and Into the Wild. How can you go wrong? Cheekily, I am also excited to pay my first visit to the national film theatre which looks like everything you want in a European national film theatre. All the glamour of an old movie house at central European prices!

Did I mention the whole three day Fringe festival is free?!

Spring had sprung!

Today I bought pussy willows and daffodils form the market and put them in the same vase. Escandalo!



And by vase I mean emptied pickle jar.

God hates wolves AND foolish children

In Alaska at least...

Sexism starts at the reception desk *

I had an interesting conversation with a colleague today about the pink collar ghetto w both somehow managed to escape after many years of toil. Perhaps not coincidently, it took Europe and grad school to get us each on a different flight path.

But as I think about my own future, moving on from the luxury and security of a multi-year research fellowship at a prestigious and inspiring university, into the worse job market since (insert reference here). But I'm no stranger to entering job markets at the crappiest of times (1991 anyone?). For a hot second I was considered uber successful among my female friends after landing the coveted position of part-time receptionist at a commercial radio syndication company. This, after six weeks folding sweaters ala Janene Garafalo at the Express store in the Del Amo Mall. Doesn't get much more successful at 22 now does it?!

My point here is that no one ever taught me how to look for a job. Or think about the range of things I could do. I had a political science degree with a communication minor. I didn't understand the creative industries, the non-profit world, what it meant to work in politics, and lacked the chutzpa to take off and travel. I had somehow bought into my dad's notion of The Company, even though The Company I fell in with was more a product of National Lampoon than Wharton.

I was clever, industrious, and not lacking a terrible resume upon completing of my undergraduate degree, but the recession and the lack of vision beyond pink collars eluded me. Perhaps it was the six year history of crappy 'women's work' jobs I had fallen in with to pay the bills during college and high school. Either way, it took me a decade to break out of the common female administrative trajectory. And once you get on the train boys and girls, it's not easy to get off it! Which is fine if that's what you are looking to do. But I wasn't and my job history started to track me on a path I didn't want. I envy and am inspired by young woman packing a take no prisoners approach to their own destinies. Admittedly I am sometimes annoyed in a way that reeks of jealousy.

But not knowing how to use a switchboard isn't the worse thing. Although I stand by the view that it never pays off to be dismissive of the receptionist. Cos she may be the next coordinator. And you just might need something from her someday.


(* Susan gets full credit for that sage line)

"I'm a Roma Woman"

Decade of Roma Inclusion on International Women's Day! (even if I'm two days late...)


From the press statement:

For International Women's Day 2009, the Budapest-based Romedia Foundation and Amnesty International, with the support of Duna Televizio, created a video campaign about Roma women. The four-minute "I'm a Roma Woman" public service announcement includes statement by five Roma human rights activists along with footage from Roma settlements across Europe. At a time when extremism and violence threaten Roma in Hungary and elsewhere, the campaign urges the public to respect Roma in all their complexity. A 30-second version of this video is being screened on hundreds of public screens in Hungary from March 6 to 10.

Are you there god, it's me...hello?

America less Christian...that is until people stop praying at the alter of Walmart and start getting up earlier on a Sunday morning!

I feel vindicated that this article connects the decline of those identifying as Christian might actually have something to do with the Republican party's co-option of Christianity. Are you with us or against us, god and 'merica? I turned in my Catholic id card after Prop 8. Well I would if I had one that is. I spent about twenty minutes one evening in November researching how one can excommunicate oneself from the Catholic Church and it's not easy. Or necessary, really. I can either take the deeply radical route of, er, stop going to church (I clearly left in junior high then) or I can write a letter to my parish and have myself removed from the books. Except since I don't have a parish I can write a letter to the Cardinal and tell him how I feel. I'm sure he would be personally devastated as soon as he returned from mentoring his West Hollywood flock.

But I digress.

Second point is that if they are trying to assess the rise of non-Christian religions, polling in English and Spanish will only get you so far. Clearly they haven't spent much time in Alhambra.

More argh than ARRRRR

Who needs a Renn Faire when you can get your own lancing courtesy of the Hungarian health system for only $65??

I went in for a minor eye surgery today to have an infected gland removed from my lid (yum!. I was secretly looking forward to the eye patch I'd be sporting afterwards, reckoning I could really work the pirate theme for a day. What I didn't realise is that I would look more like an extra from the Red Badge of Courage than Pippi Longstocking. What a waste of a patch. The more ridiculous thing is that I was planning to go teach afterwards. I actually had to cancel class. I had no idea I would look so, so injured. Thankfully, I look far more damaged than I am.

However, it was strange coming home because apparently a patch on the eye doesn't elevate you to disabled or elderly status. Not that I am arguing it should, but I am embarrassed to say I was a little disappointed in the lack of a reaction I got. I mean come on, how many patchy-eyed foreigns are running around on a daily basis??! I wanted to feel like I got something in return for having my festering eyelid flipped upside down and sliced in to! No one offered me a seat on the crowded metro. When I blindingly bumped into someone, I got the requisite dirty look without even a hint of sympathy. The check out lady at the market where I stopped in didn't even look at me in an awkward way - no side eye, just like any old foreigner who happened to fancy some yogurt and had to lean all the way in to the register to read the total amount due. Like I said, it's not like I am injured, but it's not every day you get to walk around with a monster eye patch and I just wanted something - anything - to make me feel special! I know they've had it rough here what with the Soviet socialism and the wrong side of two world wars but it felt like the whole of Budapest just flat out refused to give me what I was looking for today. Instead, it told me Suck it up. It could be worse!


PS - did I mention it was only $65 for the whole thing?? My co-pay in the US would be more than that for outpatient surgery...starting with $20 for the primary care visit for the referral, (ouch, there is something in my eye!), $20 the initial visit for the specialist to say yes! there is something in your eye!, $20 for the tests to determine that indeed yes, there is something in my eye!, and as much as $75 for the outpatient surgery where they get the thing that took the GP in the ground floor of my university three minutes to examine and send me to the eye specialist who took one minute to identify the very common and clearly inflamed gland and another 15 minutes to fix it right then and there. I (heart) Hungarian health care today. Yes, the office was in a building whose exterior screamed with neglect and age and a broken window or two, but you just have to learn to look past the facades and embrace what is inside, which was a perfectly normal and nice, new interior of the office suite!

Next stop on the Hungarian healthcare highway, dentistry!

monks, lamplighters and economic collapse

So many ramblings to report on, so little focus! In the past two weeks, I've experienced Austrian Monks and their wine, exhibitions on Hitlers' artistic designs, to Burning Man Swiss-style if Burning Man took place rather in a medieval Swiss town and involved villages donning pagan garb and fire safety helmets, and instead of a singular man to burn, they all carried bundles of burning wood over their shoulder and ran through the center of town whist the onlookers cheered. I couldn't make this up.

In any event, in the meantime, as I've been adventuring across the Germanic world for work (industrial East Germany next weekend! Holla for Halle!), the Hungarian economy has been in a freefall, http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifor what that fear-mongering publication the New York Times refers to as "a state of near meltdown." It's an awkward feeling as foreigner because their downward spiral and rapid devaluation of the Hungarian forint means that the whole city has one big 25% off sign attached to it for people like me. It's sort of like showing up to the craps table and betting on the "Don't Pass" line. Cos what's good for Kate is bad for Hungary.

So in effect, I just got a pay raise because I earn dollars which is for now a stable currency and actually doing quite well internationally despite our own domestic downward spiral (figure that one out? The world is at the "pass" line and it's only Rush Limbaugh and his ilk gunning for 'merica to fail. Nice one, Rush.

Bring it on! (so say the Russians)

All together now

Stand on the right, pass on the left.

Pet Shop Boys! Brit Awards! Yeah good pop music!

Seriously, I can't think of the US equivalent of an electropop band that would get a) high honors at a (televised) awards show and b) a ten minute medley on said live tv programme! Three cheers for the eighties!

Take the skinheads, er, fruit and veg shopping??? **

File under only in Hungary (?)

Last night's wintry wonderland of snow falling, white, fluffy, Laura and my virgin footprints along the snow covered tram tracks after midnight on the near-carless eve...you get the idyllic image I'm sure. It was purty.

The scene could only be marred of course by our seemingly innocent detour to the non-stop produce stand at Déli Palyaudvar (that's the southern rail station to the rest of us) where the late night hangers on were standing around, sipping their Hungarian beer from the can, with the tunes cranking, only the unmistakable and painfully repetitive refrain said stereo was some aggro tune that sounded somehting like "blah blah magyarol SKINHEADS blah blah magyarol". There was nothing ironic about the message, whatever the missed nuances might have been. To be honest, there was nothing about the looks of the possee that made the reading of this scene any less vague.

This encounter might be less telling were it not for a very real sense that the oppositional political landscape is being dominated by right wing nationalism rather than liberal, progressive opposition. And the most visible face of this right wing nationalism is of course a growing (did it ever shrink?) skinhead crowd. This is the same crowd that throws eggs, epitaphs and verbal assaults and threats at gay pride marchers. The same ones that are kicking off in the streets on Hungarian national holidays. And they are the same ones who support the growing skinhad music scene dominated by bands that lash out in hateful language against jews, gypsies and queers. It's ugly. It's dangerous. And it's increasingly violent and confrontational. I mean, when I was in London, and a rock was thrown through the window of a decidedly dodgy (and quite gnarly punk rock) bar, the thought that it might have had any racist tinge to it never crossed my mind. Even in Millwall country. Drunks abound, and drunks do stupid things like throw rocks through windows. But last week, while at Siraly, a really lovely cafe that is known (and promotes itself) as a hip space for Jewish youth culture, someone throw a beer bottle at the glass door. maybe just a drunk, but that's not the immediate conclusion my friends came to. Even if it was 'just' a drunk, the thought that it was a very real possibility that it was a hate crime, changes the stakes immensely. Last year, I was waiting for a taxi with a friend Ivona (read- female) outside of Cafe Eklectica, an openly gay-friendly restaurant in a city with few such self-defined places. We had an egg thrown at us in an aggressive fashion from a slow moving car. Coincidence? I quite doubt it. It would be difficult to come up with another reading of that scene, especially considering the violent and aggressive backlash against the gay pride march later that year.

I saw with Eva a really great documentary about this movement in Hungary, a film that focussed on one particular band from this scene. The film is called Rocking the Nation and it is very good. Scary, disturbing, depressing, but very good. While there are some critiques that would of course be shared across ideological perspectives (anger at the corruption of the existing government and party politics, concern over the power and shape of global capitalism, opposition to the former soviet communist regime. But these broad, sweeping concerns is about where the sharing stops.

Anyhow, my point is that it's all fine to watch a film, or avoid the nationalist uprisings on Hungarian independence day, but it's not so nice for the aural assault when all you really wanted were a few oranges on a snowy night.



* reference to Camper van Beethoven, a great and yes, ironic, song about bowling with skinheads :)

How do you say 'downward facing dog' in Hungarian?

I went to an incredibly kick ass yet profoundly focussed and straightforward yoga class today. I have been getting increasingly tired of the 5 props, too many awkward positions you don't hold for very long until you move on to the rope tow, or the place the block under your spinal cord moves. Seriously, in Philly it got to the point where you have to grab enough props and toys like a kid going to the beach for the day or a pastel dominatrix going to work. At heart, I am am a simple girl. With simple yoga needs. A mat to take the edge off, and a good teacher who doesn't have to demonstrate all their tricks in one go. Oh, and they have earth-toned mats here. Hey, it's the little things.

The other things I realized is that the whole chanting part is so much more tolerable when you don't understand the words. I am certain it had something to do with calm and inner piece. Maybe even our bodies' inner core. Or maybe it was about being in the moment and b-r-e-a-t-h-i-n-g. I like the moment of relaxation and centering one's energy. I recognize it is important to the practice of yoga. But if I can enjoy a great class without all the new agey affirmations but all the zen-like focus, sign me up!

Keep Hope Alive!

In these trying times, I thought it would be a good time to reconnect with the heady, glory days of yester, er, week! I have, among my backlog of things to upload, photos and anecdotes of the inaugural viewing here in Budapest. In the meantime, Hope! Don't sue it!

http://mf.index.hu/player_ng_169.swf?file=/kulfold/obamapestenClick here to view!
(link here is to watch the video - same as the hyperlinked one above. You gotta watch the whole video for full effect. We were big news on the Hungarian online portals that night funny enough...) I am the mildly homeless looking woman in the front who looks like she is about to burn Hope cos I am not so good at the multi-tasking with fire. I will also take full credit for the Oh-Bah-mah! chant in the video. This group was a little too somber for my taste. They were all Give Peace a Chance to our Fight the Power! In the end, no one knew the second verse to This Land is Your Land except for me and about three others who clearly spent a lot of time in school chorus. The whole thing was starting to feel a bit like a memorial service instead of a celebration so I sort of tapped my inner West Philly pride and started the Obama! chant which I had hoped would liven things up, but these old hippie ex pats just wouldn't loosen up! Freedom rings, but freedom also has a beat!

Anyhow, this all feels so quaint and distant. So maybe it's good I am only just now posting this. Retro hope!

Nannerpuss?!

I'm pretty sure there aren't ads like this on Hungarian television, and I'm doubly sure no restaurant chain would give away free pancakes. Even though they call them palacsinta. And they are more like crepes. And there is no such equivalent as a grand slam breakfast. And in fact, I can't even think of anything close to a Denny's here. I think Hungarians just keep drinking. Or leave it to the late night kebab to soak up all the grease.

That said, Nannerpuss left me speechless. Oh, and this ad apparently ran during the Super Bowl. I wouldn't know, I was too busy watching the World Handball Championships that night. Talk about your sports spectacular!

from Dlisted!

When is it not okay to eat a Snickers bar for dinner?

Again, just a question.

Holy Hungarian Haircuts!

Karen asked me how I managed to communicate my wishes with the half hunky/half prancy Hungarian hairdresser. She asked if I showed him a photo, which would have been a far better option come to think of it.

Instead, I pretty much just point at my hair, shrug my shoulders, pull on the frayed ends with a scowl on my face, and make cutting pantomime with my fingers. In about that order. As for the bangs, I think I sort of pull them over my eyes look at him inquisitively, then push them to the side and repeat the same expression - a mixture of befuddle, anxiety, and desperation, with a touch of hope that he, in all his hunky pranciness will have the answer to my prayers. He then repeats the same process of moving my bangs to and fro, with a look of focussed, calm contemplation not unlike a zen master. Zen master hunkyprance ends up pushing them to the side and nodding the final nod. Well, that and the fact that he has the undaunting task of 'fixing' the 'trim' that I took upon myself in Zagreb when facing a particularly bad hair day on the road.

In short, the whole haircut experience is a total trust situation. The best part is there is no pressure to buy some over-priced hair straightener palmade. The worst part is that I need to learn the key word 'only' before I dare enter the salon again. nd when I say only, I mean only as in I 'only' want a haircut that will take under 1 hour and I don't want to go into the strange seemingly hyperbolic chamber of fancy hair wash where you get the head massage and timeout while you wait for the hair masque to work its magic under the strains of soft euro rock. Tho I love a good head massage, it was not what I had in mind, or in my pocketbook, when I walked in for a simple cut. It is of course an extra service fee, and apparently one you must actively decline. Especially if you walk in speaking broken Hungarian. I like to call it the foreigner tax.

The only other downside is that no amount of arm waving and head shaking was going to deter him from a one can assault of hair spray in the end. My modest Hungarian language skills had not prepared me for that. So just sat back and let him spray me into the 1970s.

Did I forget to leave the house today?

After two years living on and off in Central Europe, I have bangs, I tweeze my eyebrows, and there is always salami in my refrigerator. But spending Sunday as a shut in cos it's raining? I may as well have been drawing my eyebrows in with a sharpie cos there's just no excuse for that!

Trade you!

Have Car, Need Briefs? In Russia, Barter Is Back

What frightens me about this NYT story is while I appreciate a barter economy as much as the rest of the grey market world, the future of the Hungarian airline supposedly rests in the hands of Russian investment. So what will I have to trade to get a better price or an aisle seat on Malev??!

Boo fucking hoo

Only in the New York Times.

Things you do in foreign countries that you don't do at home

1. Visit museums!
Sure I go to see special exhibitions. I like museums in general. But it's different to have, say, 90 minutes between meetings and go pop into some super random space for a looksee when in places with modest collections like Zagreb. When in Vienna or London or Paris you go for the big stuff. The Great Museums of the World stuff. But when in Croatia, skip the national art gallery's Raphael show and go to the decidedly quaint - and empty - Croatian Museum of Naive Art. (photo to follow...see previous post as to why not here now...but I don't want to spoil the then-Yugoslavnain interpretation of the Jonestown Massacre...in naive art style. creepy and amazing).

When you are done there, head back down the hill to the Technical Museum with its timeless tribute to the fire extinguisher and planetarium that seriously looks like a high school science project made of dry wall and leftover timber from the last tree house project. Yeah, Griffith may have its fancy observatory and telescopes that you can actual see Stars and Planets and Spacey Things through, but do they have this:

1.5 Experience environments in which OSHA doesn't exist
Also at the Technical Museum is all things Tesla! Where you get to watch the curator demonstrate their Tesla Coil without benefit of safety glass and sound proofing (who knew they were so loud?! well, I know someone who might), and place an audience member inside a metal cage whilst pounding said cage with Tesla coil currents which amounts to a whole lot of electricity ala Dr MegaVolt at Burning Man!!! Take THAT Griffith!

2. Eat alone at restaurants!
One of life's weirdly enjoyable pleasures, but only when out of town. And better when you can't really communicate your needs and wants but it doesn't matter cos you are a women dining alone, indulging in an array of idiosyncratic dining behaviour and writing in a journal. Eavesdropping on everyone around you!

3. Write in cafes!
I can only manage to do this productively when in foreign cities. I'd like to think I'm the kind of person who can stroll on into a cafe, laptop in tow, and write like Carrie on Sex and the City. But it never happens. I have tried, but I fuss, I procrastinate, I over order. And I have to get up and pee so much more then if at home where the security of my possessions is assured. I tried writing at the downtown Los Angeles library but something about the pipped in air being the antithesis of the pro-oxygen pickmeup in Vegas that I actually curled under the desk with my laptop and took a nap. I was in the DIY engineering and automotive section I think.

4. Watch tv in bed!
Oh this is by far my favourite hotel activity! I often lament that I am out and about so much when traveling that I don't get to enjoy this ultimate pleasure. And you learn a lot about a place from it's tv offerings. Der, I study the media! Don't bother me, I'm working! In Jordan, I learned that the Arab satellite space is filled with on demand video channels with racy, largely Egyptian pop music videos with all the women in hot pants one could ask for. In Ghana, I learned that the best way around low budget public affairs show production is not to pretend to be something you are not. I fully appreciate that the talk show sets had much more of an African flavor than as if they were trying to recreate the staid backdrop of the NBC nightly news. In Croatia, I learned that soft core is alive and well on terrestrial tv in the Balkans. The first thing I get when I turned it on was Kalifornication. David Duchovney and Charlotte's bald husband from Sex and the City talking about getting fingered up the ass (their words, not mine!). I was actually a bit taken back. It seemed all shades of wrong but mostly because that show sucks and seeing it with Croatian subtitles didn't make it any more entertaining. Oh, I also learned that while Hungary, Spain, Greece and most of Europe love the dubbing, Croatians are clearly a far more sophisticated (or cheap) people and actually have written subtitles. Which is like tv heaven for me here.

5. Order unfamiliar liquors! Go to the same restaurant two nights in a row!
I'm of the 'try it!' variety when it comes to food and drink when traveling. And the homemade honey schnapps I had one night is a taste I will not soon forget. Yum! At the same time, I am also of the 'if you find something you like, why not get it again?' cos really, the search for the perfect restaurant gets a bit old. And I really wanted those incredibly affordable grilled squid just one more time! Hungary doesnt' have much seafood except for a few lake fish on their menus. I think it reminds them of the ocean view they once had.

Handball? Seriously? Handball?

I arrived to Zagreb to find out that I would be here for one of the most exciting evenings of sport in the region - the night of the World Championships in Handball. The exciting thing was that it was being played in Zagreb. And that Croatia made it to the finals to play reigning champs France. I enjoy championship sports regardless of the actual type. I like that there is something at stake. Outcome unpredictable. Live, semi-unscripted television. A media event. A final outcome. Winners and losers. Blah blah blah. But getting excited about handball, which I erroneously imaged as a team sport involving a backboard or jai alai court, is a bit of a stretch, even for me. Ergo the challenge that led me to stand outside in a crowded city square in sub-freezing temperatures to watch this final match alongside Croatian youth

A few things I learned:

1. Celebrate the victories along the way.
Following the semi-final game that catapulted Croatia to the finals, the main city center square erupted in fireworks, and not such a modest display either - perfectly respectable fireworks like those I witnessed every summer night from my kitchen window when I lived across the bay from Sea World in San Diego. I digress. Perhaps it was the thrill of this victory, perhaps a foreboding that this might be the last night they got to celebrate a win in this tournament. Either way, I fully appreciate the sensibility of embracing the victories along the way! With such a 'winner take all' mentality pervading American events, this struck me as quite profound an appreciation for making it this far. That, and the fact that they just knew the French were a damn good team and why waste a bunch of nice fireworks?

2. You can tell more about a people in how they lose then in how they win.
It's true! I arrived at just before half time to the central square to find a lively, and robust atmosphere of flag waving, cheering and upbeat crowds, complete with a live band on stage to keep the crowd festive during the break in action. The score was tied. With about 10 minutes left to play, things sort of went belly up for the Croatian side and defeat seemed the only plausible outcome. With the square packed I asked my local friend if we should leave before the game ended so as not to get caught in any post defeat chaos. She assured me that the fans would be an unhappy but non violent group. She was right! Sociologically speaking it was far more interesting to witness the loss, although I sure was rooting for the home side! So game end, the band immediately striking up to drown out the sound of the post game commentary on the not so jumbotrons, fans bursting into heartfelt renditions of national pride songs, the 'handball anthem' (yes there is a handball anthem!), and other singalongs. Flags waving in the air, complaints abounding about the crap referee (isn't there always one?), and the slow dispersal of sad faced fans who could still walk away head held high cos they had made it to the finals at least! In any event, the predictable post-game firecrackers on the ground, though carrying a different tone then in victory, were still not wasted in defeat.

3. Handball is sort of like basketball for short white people. Aka Europeans. I jest, but it's kinda true (save for the French team, thankfully). It moves fast, they dribble, the have a court that they run back and forth on, but instead of a large ball with tall baskets, it's a palm-sized ball and you throw it in more of a hockey net. I had never seen anything like it and am frankly, in shock that when some Euro friends would poo poo my interest in basketball as a totally boring American sport that these same people failed to mention they have a half-assed version of the same thing. without any of the slam dunks, lay ups, and all net shots and, well, tall people. I give Europe (and the rest of the world) the win on soccer v (real) football. But handball v basketball? Please.

4. Who knew sports fans could be so malleable when it comes to the church?
Apparently, each team is annointed with a nickname, I suppose to give the fans a sort of mascot to rally around and some constructed macho image for the players to method act in. For example, the football team is "the boys made of fire". The handball team was "the boys form hell", but the powerful Catholic Church here decided that was not gonna happen so they changed it to "the cowboys". BORing. I found this story out cos in the post-game images of the commentators on the screen they were all wearing really goofy cowboy hats that in no way inspired menace and a sense that their eye was on the tiger. Instead they looked more like half-hearted frat boys at a fancy dress party.


p.s. - I have photos but I cant find my battery charger for the camera to get them off! Check this space!!

pps. apologies for the sporty ramble...did i mention the entire team came to the square to greet their fans after they lost? I thought that was pretty darn cool...even tho I was already in the bar warming my frozen fingers with some schnapps...

Hungarian schadenfreude

Still smarting from Laszlo Cseh's three silver swimming medals to Michael Phelp's yellow ones, even the Hungarian press are going crazy for this story:

Papers? I don't need no stinkin' papers!

Er, yes you do if you are trying to go to Croatia by Hungary.

Sounds fairly obvious, right? Leave one country, go to another neighboring country, bring your passport. Ok, so we used to be able to go to Canada and Mexico with a drivers license (can you still do that to Canadia?). But still. You think about the appropriate documentation one might need. Ticket? Bank card? Passport? So imagine my horror when I was on the train to Zagreb from Budapest only to realise about 30 minutes in to the 6 hour trip that I had indeed left my passport at home. But not 'left at home' as in shit it's on the kitchen counter next to the recycling I forgot to take out. But, oh my god the thought never even occurred to me to bring it. Seriously. Yes I CAN be that stupid sometimes.

It's actually quite remarkable that I didn't even think about it. I mean, from forint to kuna, what about that screams Euro?? On one hand, it's the casualness of the train trip. You pack sort of like a car trip, toss in the pbj fixings for the road, no thought about shampoo and toothpaste cos it's all just one big carry on. But the reality is that it's the downside of emigrating from a country so big you can sit on an airplane for 5 hours and only just make it from one end to the next (did I say emigrate?!). Six hours on a train and I'm in Boston from Philly - not exactly passing though rolling countryside and aggressive border police (unless you count the people in the quiet car). There is a joke that the trains are slow in Hungary not because of lack of governments investment in rail, but to make the Hungarians feel like their country is bigger than it is.

So I finally arrived 8 hours later to this small conference than I had planned to and was able to entertain the others as the resident town fool / silly American for leaving the country without her papers. Classic. And truly an accomplishment only American could pull off.

The best part of my folly is that I got to spend some quality time waiting for my return train back to Budapest on the Go get the Passport Express in a little town I like to call bumfuckhungary. Others call it Szekesfehervar. Any way you call it, it is a town with no cohesive plan for clarifying what track has which train to where. I take it they don't get much non-local action there. But even worse is that I asked a number of people for help and got a different answers each time. And it's not due to my lack of proper magyarol because the question is simple- look like a pathetic traveler with your modest suitcase and ask "Budapest?" It's sort of either yes or no. The question is in the question mark. The one train conductor guy said to me by way of response: "Eger". So I thought oh, ok, not my train, this one goes to Eger. But uon further reflexion I thought hmmm, isn't Eger on the other side of Budapest as in you pass through the capital to get there? So I ask someone else who gave me a long, complicated answer in Hungarian, not of which encouraged me to climb aboard this same alleged Eger train he was on. So I sit some more. Then a young, blond women is getting on and I ask her the controversial question: 'Budpest?' She simply smiles and nods her head. That's all I needed. And yes, it was the same train I had been staring at, the same Eger train and 'blah blah magyarol blah blah' train. The thing that was confounding me is that it's not like I was trying to go somewhere obscure. Or that I was very far away from. Budapest - ever heard of it?!

Anyhow, this began as well-eared self mockery for not understanding travel 101 and turned into a rant against my fellow travelers. Hungary 1, Kate 0. And the Croatian border? Priceless!

P.S. there does now exist safe passage (aka paperless travel) from Hungary to The West since Hungary has joined the Shengan Agreement. But er, seeing as Croatia is not EU, um yeah. Keep the passport handy!

An amazing, rare 1956 Hungarian Revolution film...now on the youtube

Köszönöm Szepen Márton!

When is it not okay to eat peanut butter on celery for dinner?

This past weekend I treated myself to what I both lovingly and facetiously call the ex pat market. Basically, it's like Whole Foods if the organic products were all replaced with name brand, everyday products from everywhere but Hungary and with the occasional box mix of Betty Crocker Brownies. But similar in that the average person cannot afford to go there for every day shopping. Suffice to say there few Hungarian nationals (and few ex pats) who can afford a $7 chocolate bar, even if it is Swiss. But nothing spells living large and abroad like plunking down $5 for a bag of tortilla chips. It's like a rich stoners paradise. Everything the munchies imply can be found even if at a premium. I was in full faculty during said spending spree, but here you see what sentimentality and $90 can get you at Culinaris:



It made me think about the phenomenon of ostalgia, the nostalgia, or longing for of certain aspects that had been part of every day life and culture in the former East Germany - the things that disappeared after reunification and were swept away in the immediate transition as ancient symbols of the old communist system that were best left in the past. While the term can also refer to a longing for systematic aspects of the socialist system for people who held on to the belief in the socialist ideal, and even for those who, a decade or so later, longed for what they remembered as a simpler time when housing and health were taken care of by the state and provided for, for the majority of people, it is connected with a nostalgia for certain products. Like pickles, for example. Or in Hungary, Traubi soda. Coke was the product of imperialism but what kid doesn't enjoy a carbonated sugary beverage? Ergo Traubi soda, which tastes sort of like if cream soda, ginger ale and Fresca had a fight and Fanta won. It's delicious!

So in the fervor to rid the bad memory of separation, and recognize the so-called victory of the west, these products of daily life were quickly cast aside and put out of production. But is the Cold War the fault of the Trabant car or the Spreewald pickle? Imagine if suddenly our most everyday items were take from us, wouldn't Mother's Cookies, for example, suddenly take on retro-chic status if we had to find them online. Oh shit! That one already happened! Ok, how about Zima for those of us who wanted to move beyond Bud Lite and Cactus Coolers in 1986? Damn! They got that one too! You get the idea. Jello pudding? French's mustard? Vlasik pickles?

And then imagine you are not thinking in terms of the politicization of your food preferences and are on the surface merely driven by your desire for tarter sauce or green chili salsa? You shop upscale. You go to the most expensive - and to many - gourmet - shop in Hungary and load up on peanut butter (but not Skippy, cos even you won't pay $9 for heaven in a jar but will pay $6 for some Dutch offbrand that is damn good.

Communist kitsch also includes uniforms, flags, the now forbidden symbols. In Hungary, you can experience the kitsch at Marxim Bar where you can order your "Snow White and the Seven Small Proletariat" pizza or "Comrade Master and the Margheritta" (sic). And in East Germany, be sure to pay a not so retro price to drive around the neighborhoods in a Trabant on what is now called a "Trabi Safari". Don't all snap a photo of the sleeping cheetah at once! Maybe in LA we can start to offer guided tours in your choice of a Toyota Celica or Country Squire station wagon.

Oh, and this is best captured in the excellent film Good Bye Lenin!. At the same time, there exists a backlash from the German west, articles like this one eager to see the East-stalgia come to a close and the critical look at the communist past reclaim center stage. However, I think being dismissive of what is scoffed at as misguided sentimentality betrays a profound lack of understanding on the culture of every day life. There must be a better way to reconcile pickles, politics and philosophy.

In Honor of Data Protection Day

I aspire to bite the hand that feeds. Or at least nibble a little less at the teat of the source of a lot of services I use but sort of hate myself for.

ideals + google - spare time = self loathing.

In any event, this article is disheartening to say the least. It sort of out big brother's Big Brother. And this from London, the city of surveillance cameras.

We are constantly wrestling with profound concerns about the future of public space and privacy - very real and very scary debates related to data collection and retention, surveillance and privacy infringements on a scale once only the stuff of science fiction and dystopian novels. To quote a character from the film Strange Days, the question is not if you are paranoid, but if you are paranoid enough. So we fight against the abuses of data capturing and infringements on our right to privacy, and yet sometimes still have to struggle with where we draw the line. Because on one hand we get Google trucks with video cameras and denials for health insurance or jobs based on faceless information, and on the other hand, we sometimes get this:



Hazzah! sayeth the knights as they fight against unnecessary and unwanted invasions into our personal lives, profiling, and data collection and retention.

We are pork products

This better than the week New Model Army and Chumbawumba both played in Budapest!


Thanks David!

Papal deniability

So while the British are loosening their ties on the whole catholic v protestant thing that's plagued them for centuries, the current Pope decides to reward a holocaust denier. Nice one.

A nation without Stains for a whole afternoon!

I love this graph because it is not easy to visualise what it looks like when an entire country looses internet access for a few hours. What do you show - a close up of some frustrated would be browser pounding at their keyboard rebooting Firefox for the 3rd time with that really heinous and oh so familiar WTF expression that is one keystroke from full blown meltdown? The expression that, come to think of it, is not so different from that of Stains.




Point is, the mothership went down here in Hungary on Sunday afternoon, as evidenced by the big drop in internet usage round about noon. According to Index, it was sabotage! Someone cut the veritable cable. Not sure why or how cos, well, that would require greater depth of Hungarian. But crazy that we are one snip away from connectivity!

Sham dog cupcake turtle like?

I am awash in a flurry of memes.

My sleuthing inadvertently led me to the derivation of Zombie Boy, aka, World's Greatest Turtle Fan, or something like that. I also find that I am completely transfixed with Stains the cupcake craving dog. Totally kicks spaghetti cat's ass. Any four legged feline can sit and look cute in a chair with a plate of naked noodles in front of it, but the pathos, the barely - just barely - contained rage morphed with the process of suppressing desire, the heart so nakedly competing with the mind, the dog that just wants a damn cupcake.

And yes, Stains speaks to me. If only.

I am just one rickroll away from Shamwow. Who by the way, is fighting the good fight one shammy at a time. Read that article in the last link. My Aunt Nancy swore by those shammies. They really work!

What is wrong with these people?

No, I am not talking about the viewers or the makers of music videos. Or even that channel that has lost all stink of every having played music videos cos we all really need a realty show from Whitney Port, a name I may never be able to forgive myself for actually knowing. I am talking about the damn fool who pretends to be a journalist and the public broadcast network that pretends to have editorial integrity. Look carefully at the photo here (yes, I should get off blogger and on to a real blogging for losers who cant be arsed to learn html where I could make big photos). Ok, so get a magnifying glass and look reeeeal careful and you will see the following disclaimer:


"Correction: An earlier Web version of this story incorrectly identified Martin Scorsese as the director of the "Thriller" video. In fact, the director was John Landis."


A) who in their right mind could confuse Martin Scorsese with John Landis and B) oh my god I am old cos who over 35 doesn't know the fabled tale of the Making Of Thriller, aka The Best Music Video of All Time if You Were Born Long Enough Ago to Remember Having Seen a Music Video on MTV? WTF NPR!

Of course I jest. Last week a Russian journalist is killed. And here I am pathetically wallowing in the fact that I am officially on the wrong side of core demographics.

sombitch

I am so weak this, er week. I am just posting some random links that I have enjoyed. Too much time on the internets is bad for your health! Unless you make this recipe for the bounty of brussel sprouts lurking in your fridge!


I have a growing backlog of a few other things but I may just let my internet stick do the walking and catch up on Friday when I am on a six hour train ride. In the meantime, Reddit and David suggest you listed to the second sound sample. Merriam-Webster go gangsta?

jesus was a race car driver!

From lowering the bar.net:

A driver who rammed another car at high speed outside San Antonio last week told police that Jesus had told him to do so because the other motorist was not "driving like a Christian."

In my experience, He is usually satisfied if you just give a lousy driver the finger, but in this case I guess that wouldn't have gotten the message across.

According to a news release from the county sheriff's office, the driver told first responders that the driver of the other vehicle "was not driving like a Christian and it was Jesus' will for him to punish the car." He similarly told a policeman that "God said she wasn't driving right, and she needed to be taken off the road." The Lord does work in mysterious ways.

Read the rest here