12 March 2009
11 March 2009
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)
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)
10 March 2009
"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.
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.
09 March 2009
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!
06 March 2009
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.
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.
05 March 2009
19 February 2009
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!
18 February 2009
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 :)
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 :)
16 February 2009
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!
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!
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!
14 February 2009
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.
09 February 2009
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??!
05 February 2009
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.
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.
03 February 2009
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...
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...
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