Chance Progression

With the coming of the New Year, I thought it was time to make a couple updates to this site. The layout is slightly different, but mostly the same. The title picture I snapped somewhere in Budapest. Where? I have no idea. There is so much graffiti in this city its hard to keep track.

The most noticeable change is the name. The evolution from 'Praha in Life' to 'Budapest in Life' was a natural (and obvious) progression. As I embrace more of the culture and language in my adopted city, I thought something in Magyar echoing my sentiments in life and love would be a fitting tribute to my journey here.

Szerencsevadász translates from the Hungarian into 'Soldier of Fortune'. However, literally translated it means 'Hunter' (vadász) of 'Luck' or 'Chance' (szerencse). I'd like to think my journey from the States to the economic wasteland of Prague, and finally to the fruits of Budapest, is an example of chanced opportunity with a lot of luck thrown in. And to think this is only the beginning, that chance (and hopefully luck) will take me to new places, with new opportunities and relationships: this is what I look forward to.

For now, Budapest is my home, and I am happy to be living in such a city. I'm not sure how long I will stay, or whether I will leave at all. But that's the journey, and its good to keep the future free of restraints, and let chance infiltrate the road ahead.

I hope that goes the same for all of you.

Tales from Wroclaw: The Toilet

It’s the morning we have to leave, and we’re walking around in the streets of Wroclaw, swearing about the drizzling rain and worrying about how long we have before our train leaves. I’m clutching my stomach because my bowels feel like someone just set off a small nuclear bomb down there. I need to find a bathroom in the next five minutes or I’m finished.

Jaro Jaro Jaro we need to find a toilet dude really I mean really first place you see lets go in ok?

He’s staring at me like I’m insane and I might as well have been at that point. I’m looking around wildly for the Holiday Inn that saved us the first time, but it’s nowhere to be found. Uuuuugggghhhh.

The train station comes into view, so at least we have that going for us. Earlier, we had no idea how to get back to the station, so we just started walking up a main road that looked like the road we had begun walking down the first night. As luck would have it, it was, but I was much more worried about the fact I didn’t have an extra pair of jeans to change into if things got much worse.

On the corner beside the station, is a small bar. There! I’m saying, and Jaro is already walking in, with me hobbling in behind him.

Ok, we have to order something first. Damnit. Uh, two beers please, I’m saying, ignoring the clock on the wall that says its 10 in the morning. Jaro slips into the bathroom first, for some unknown reason, and I sit at the table with two beers in front of me, none of which look appetizing. I try to think about something else besides my bowels, and finally notice the bar around me. It’s a small room, dirty, with one wall filled with slot machines, and two or three patrons, taking drags of hand rolled cigarettes and sipping their beers. All of them are staring unnaturally at me.

I shift in my seat, thoroughly disturbed by the situation around me, and inside me.

Jaro sits down beside me. He’s smiling at me. Uh oh. Something’s up.

You’re not going to be happy.

What? Why? Is there no toilet paper?

Just trust me.

Jaro’s ambiguity would usually arouse my curiosity, but I am way too mentally and physically fucked up at the moment to wonder what he is talking about.

I’ll be right back, I’m saying, approaching the bathroom door, and passing the bar, I notice the bartender watching me. Her eyes follow me all the way to the door. She looks sixty but is probably thirty-five.

I open the door, and immediately understand Jaro’s smile.

There’s no toilet seat.

I ponder my situation for about 5 seconds, and close the door behind me. I remember my first encounter with a Bosnian toilet, where it was just a hole in the ground and you had to squat and pray you didn't fall in. This was the same situation, wrapped in a deceiving Westernized package. Damnit.

Five minutes later I walk out, and Jaro hasn’t touched his beer.

This place is weird, he’s telling me.

No shit? Really?

I’m just shaking my head and trying to forget the awkward situation of the last five minutes.

Let’s drink these and get the fuck out of here.

Places to Visit: Miskolc-Tapolca Cave Baths

I needed to get out of Budapest.

Sometimes these things happen. The walls start to close in, and the world feels like it will snap if something doesn’t change. Soon. Like right now. So I decided to leave the next day. Just go somewhere. Anywhere. I just needed to get out of Budapest.

The next day I’m rushing, trying to get everything together for the train ride. Ok, do I have everything? Yes, I think so. Fuck the train leaves in 25 minutes! Gotta go! The plan is Miskolc-Tapolca, a place famous for its baths located in caves.

Baths + Caves? Oh I am so there.

Two hours later, I’m stepping off the train into the wintry air, and that sinking-I-forgot-something feeling hits me right in the gut. My swim trunks. God damnit! I even brought my towel! The most important piece of clothing on this trip and it slipped my mind!

Note to self: pack the night before. Not 5 minutes before you have to leave.

So I had one more thing on my day’s agenda. Find cheap swim trunks. I’m in a town famed for its baths. How hard can it be?


Three hours later, I’ve walked through the main streets, which are remarkably reminiscent of Poland, and gone to every main shop and chain store I can find, with no luck of finding swim trunks. I even went to a sport shop, and was looking at soccer shorts until the woman behind the counter told me to stop.

What?

Women only!

I look down at the shorts in my hand, and then around the rest of the small store. These are the only shorts in the entire place.

Uh, I don’t care. I need shorts.

No, women only! You are man.

Ok, yes, I’m quite aware of that. But I need to go swimming and I don’t have swim trunks!

All this does is confuse her, which seems to frustrate her, because she comes over to me, takes the shorts out of my hand, and puts them back on the rack.

Women only!

Uhh…

My quest was not going well. My next plan of action was to buy non-descript boxers or briefs and just say fuck it and go in those. But again, no store had any type of underwear. I mean, none. I spent an hour in a mall and nobody had a basic tool of human nature: under garments.

What the hell is wrong with these people?!

I’m at the point that I’ll wear my boxers that I’m currently wearing. They have little hearts all over them. I’m already imagining the looks I’m going to get.

At the last store, the last chance, I walk in and find not only boxers, but swim trunks. On sale! Holy shit, this is amazing. Only problem, they’re all two sizes too big.

Well, better then my heart boxers.

At the baths, I walk in and make an unfortunate discovery: inside the main lobby, on the left, is a sign above that says ‘Swim Suits Available Here’.

Great. That makes sense.

The baths, though. Oh, the baths. They are incredible. It’s a pretty large network of caves, with crazy ceilings of stalagmites or –tites or whatever they are, and most of the time I was wading through the water gazing at the ceilings, expecting to see a drove of bats at any moment.

I can’t really explain these baths. You just have to go. You have to see them, because its one of those things that you need to see to believe. Amazing might be too strong of a word, but they are very cool. After a time, however, I started to notice something odd.

There were couples everywhere. And not just young couples, as per usual in Budapest. This place had couples ranging from the young to the very old. And each couple weren’t just holding hands and exclaiming their amazement at the place they were swimming through.

These couples were going at it. Young and old. The water was like a sex lubricant. Nobody was physically fucking (though I did hear suspect moaning in the Star room), but they might as well have been. I had never seen anything like it. And considering you were swimming in the same water as they, well, you get the idea. Of course, this place is romantic, and would be the perfect place for a couples romp. But I was alone there, and this is during my lull in relationships. Not exactly the right time to see other people, happy as all get out, and going at it like rabbits.

So I waded past an old couple making out under a waterfall, slipped past what looked like two models grinding against each other, and ignored the couple who was doing whatever they were doing while I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like to have my own girlfriend in a place like this.

I saw a young family start going up a particular passageway, and I wished I spoke Hungarian. I wouldn’t go up there if I were you, unless you want to teach your little boy about sex early, is probably what I would say. But I let them slip past, and wondered what it would be like to be that little boy again, innocent and not understanding the natural world around me.

There were also thermal baths, which were around 35 degrees Celcius, which is basically a hot hot tub. These were not part of the cave systems, but it didn’t matter at that point. You could release the stress that built up in your muscles just by sitting there, looking up at the tiled ceiling. The couple across from me was releasing something else, however.

After a time, I decided it was time to go, but the place left a mark on my mind. Come back here. With your significant other. I told Jaro and Szilvi about it when I came back, and they took my advice. On their own return from the cave baths, they were glowing.

I suggest you come out here and do the same.

Some Sort of Terror Response

I’m standing in Budapest Airport’s Ferihegy 2, the main terminal for international flights leaving the country. Above me, some woman is talking in Hungarian, and it seems that everyone around me is groaning at once. The airport workers are striking, and it has wreaked havoc throughout the building. It looks like there is one airport employee working the security checkpoint. The line is leading out the door into the cold, ten people deep. Most are shifting from foot to foot, shaking their heads, or swearing at the person in front of them. Some time ago I saw a mini scuffle, as unintelligible yelling arose from the crowd. But I’m not interested in the mewing mass of people behind me.

I’m more interested in the camera bag sitting on the floor, with no one accompanying it. I know this part in the movie: The terrorists yell ‘Allah Akbar’ (God is Great! …I think) and detonate the charge inside the bag, killing or brutally disfiguring anyone in a 100 yard radius.

I’m 5 feet away so this is not going to end well for me.

I motion at the big cop lounging near the entrance, pointing at the bag and shaking my head. He looks at the bag, looks at me, back at the bag, back at me. I don’t feel I need to explain myself to this guy. It should be pretty obvious what needs to happen. The guy gets up, and goes out the door.

Well, so much for raising the alarm.

Five minutes later we still have not moved an inch in the line, and I’m still nervously watching the bag. No one has picked it up. No one else has even looked at it. Jaro, Szilvi and I are discussing who will inherit all our stuff when it finally does go off. Then two guys come in with AK-47s strapped to their backs, pushing the mass of people back from the bag. I’ve never seen an AK before, and for the time being I’m much more interested in the Russian-made automatic weapon than my impending death by airport bomb. It’d be like seeing an airport security guard carrying around an M-16. These things just don’t happen (Ok, maybe it does in LAX).

Now, the lobby of Ferihegy 2 has gone from really bad to really fucking bad. The workers are still striking, and now men with really big guns are pushing the pissed off would-be passengers back from the would-be terrorist bomb. People are losing their places in line and they are vocally telling the cops to go put their big guns where the sun don’t shine.

Sometimes I can’t believe I live in a place like this.

Even more cops file into the building, developing a sort of human shield around the radius of the bag. Oh good, if it goes off, at least this crazy Magyar in front of me will go first, I’m thinking. A man wheels in heavy lead sheets and places them around the bag. I’m shaking my head at the situation developing around me. Szilvi is asking, If there was a suspected bomb in an airport in the States, what would they do?

Well, for starters they would shut down that part of the airport, reroute all incoming planes to a nearby airport and evacuate the building. Then they would question every single person in the building. Meanwhile, the bomb squad would move in and assess the situation.

Are you serious? Why?

What do you mean, why? You think after 9/11 we’re going to risk another catastrophe related to airplanes?

It’s not that Szilvi doesn’t understand the danger, or the situation. It’s that Hungarians don’t understand the necessity of being careful. Why would they evacuate the building when it might not be a bomb? Here, that 'might' is such a doubtful thing, whereas back in the States it’s the whole point. Yes, it might not be a bomb, but then, what if we’re wrong?

It seems the consequences are much more important back home than where I currently stand, wondering about all these things and what will happen when they bring the bomb-sniffing animals in. Almost on cue, they bring the bomb-sniffing dog in.

Ok, this should answer our question.

While the people around me watch, with television cameras trained on the suspect bag, the bomb dog sticks his nose in real close, backs away and sneezes.

That must have been international canine language for ‘All Clear!’ because his human counterparts begin to pack up the lead flaps and let the crowd flood back into the supposed blast radius.

And that was it. I saw one of the cops open the bag and take out a nice new Canon SLR camera, take a snapshot of the floor, and stuff it back into its bag to be brought to the evidence locker (or back to his flat and later the pawn shop). It was one of the most thrilling airport experiences, and yet nothing really happened, and I felt left down. I’m not sure what I was really looking forward to. The idea of a bomb going off a couple feet away isn’t exactly up there on my list.

But hey, anything is better than waiting in a strike-riddled Hungarian airport, watching the line move an inch an hour.

Tales from Wroclaw: Jaro Leaves

I’m sitting in a ‘Mexican’ restaurant, looking at a full plate of nachos with cheese, chicken and jalapenos, and two full beers. Nobody sits opposite me, because Jaro has just inexplicably left me. Wtf? I’m trying to remember how we got to this point, me alone, and him somewhere in the Polish night.

Ok, let’s go back.

Two hours prior, we’re sitting in our hostel with a bottle of Zubrovka Vodka between us, talking about the most basic thing drunk men seem to like to talk about: sex, women, drugs and sex. We drink our vodka with apple juice, because it tastes the best with apple juice. Now and then I sing out ‘Almalééééééééé!’ Almalé means ‘apple (alma) juice (lé)’ in Hungarian.

One hour prior, we’re now properly shit faced and trying to get on the bus back to the city center. Jaro keeps saying something like ‘How did I get here?’ but I can’t be sure, because I’m not really listening.

Thirty minutes prior, we get off the bus and Jaro immediately says, Let’s go back. I look at him, supposing he’s made a joke, and laugh. Yeah right, c’mon let’s go! But he’s standing there steadfast, with a real serious face. No, seriously. Dude. I mean it. Let’s go back. Now.

I have to say, I am utterly surprised at this point. What do you mean, ‘Let’s go back’?! Are you fucking out of your mind?! We just got here! But Jaro is swaying now and looking around with darting eyes, but they don’t dart like a man on speed, they dart like a man squinting underwater. Slow-like.

Jesus Christ man, we’re not going back just yet. Let’s push ahead! And with that, I grab his arm and we start moving forward, passing the buildings that make me feel like I’m in some European dream.

Ten minutes prior, we sit in a Mexican restaurant, watching the Olympics on the television above our heads. I get up to order beers at the bar, and ask for nachos. I doubt this will be good Mexican food (it’s almost impossible to find out here), but I don’t care. I get back to the table, and Jaro is standing, out of his seat.

What is it?

I have to go now.

I’m looking around, wondering what just happened. What happened?

Nothing, I just have to go.

I hand him the extra beer in my other hand. Here, here’s a beer. Drink this and chill.

He knocks the beer down on the table, making a clear resounding CLINK. I look at the sound, then look back at him. Ok…

I’m sorry. I have to go.

But I just ordered nachos! I start to protest.

In the present, he is gone. The nachos have arrived, my beers are slowly bubbling, and the Olympics play above me. I should be happy. I should be eating, enjoying my meal. But my fuck hole friend just left me, obviously drunk out of his mind, to go on some adventure.

Of course, he said he would go back to the hostel to sleep. But I know Jaro better than that. He’ll get himself into some situation, and he will come back to himself, talking his way through his life with some stranger, like he always does.

Oh, and he has the key to the hostel, I finally remember.

Fuck!

These nachos are becoming more and more less appetizing as my mind whirrs ahead of itself. That son of a bitch.

So I mechanically eat, watching what was once the Olympics and has now somehow turned into extreme kickboxing and drink one of the beers. The second, I hold in my hand as I walk out, ignoring the calls of the bartender. I stumble across the main square of Wroclaw and snort at the drunk tourists around me. Stupid tourists, I mumble.

Thirty minutes later, I’m looking up at my room’s window at the hostel, still holding my (Jaro’s) beer. It’s one story up. Two minutes earlier, I learned that Jaro had done just what I thought he would do: He did not go back, and was still somewhere in the heart of Wroclaw. Hell, I can climb that, I tell myself, and proceed to climb up the building, still holding the beer. I get one hand and foot up, and the beer slips and crashes to the pavement. I get down and go inside.

Hello yes, my dumb fucking friend left me without the key, would you please let me in?

Silencing the Ringer

When I moved abroad for the first time, one of the most annoying parts of my stay in Europe was the fact that my cell phone was still connected back in the States. I had to continually renew the hold on charges every three months. Most times, I forgot about it (a lot can happen in those three months), and one day I would check my email and lo and behold, my cell is ready for business, charges and all, three thousand miles away from me!

Well that’s fantastic, I would say. And then swear uncontrollably because I had to pay for the next month before I would be able to put the hold back on to the phone.

Now, why would you put your phone on hold when you are all the way out here in Budapest? Because I knew I would be coming back to the States after 9 months. I still had a year left at university, so I had to come back.

Fast forward: it’s after graduation and I’ve been living in Poulsbo, Washington for four months and I’m gearing up to move to Prague with my girlfriend. I had moved abroad once, and I went over everything that I knew I would need or not need. After all, this was a big move, and I wanted things to be perfect. Not only that, I did not have a return date, nor a return ticket.

So certain things needed to be settled, or put to rest. My Verizon account was on the top of my list, but I could not bring myself to pay the $175 deactivation fee. It was over the top, and Verizon wasn’t that good to me anyway. So when the time came to leave, and I still had not coughed up the money to cancel my account, I knew what I had to do.

I called and put a three month hold on the phone.

My reasoning was that in three month’s time, I would surely have the job and the money to pay off the deactivation fee, and my cell in the States would be no more.

In a perfect world, this would work. But I was moving to a foreign country, with no job, following my girlfriend, and really knowing nothing about what I was actually getting myself into. Getting a job in Prague with only English and no Czech skills? Good luck. Sure, you could teach English, but it wasn’t what I was looking for and I was stubborn enough to not teach.

So I floundered, and picked up remedial jobs here and there. Anything to stay afloat. And then the three month hold came to an end on my American phone. And I was now worse off than I was back in the States. There was no way I could come up with the money to silence my ringer. So I did the only thing I could think of. I called them and put the phone back on hold.

I was starting to determine the length of my stay abroad by the time it took for my cell to go back online.

It was frustrating, and ridiculous.

Fast forward: one year. I’m now back in Budapest, working in a stable office environment, but I still don’t have the money to deactivate the phone. Every three months I make the call to Verizon, and they always wonder what it’s like out there in Budapest. I start to get the same guy, who happens to live in Seattle. It’s a small world.

And then enters Courtney, the Canadian-turned-American-turned-Marketing Coordinator for our office. One day I’m harping about my American phone and she just says, Why don’t you tell them you are no longer in their coverage area and that you are unable to use their services?

But what does that mean?

It means, Hunter (as she clears her throat and looks at me like I’m a child), that you can cancel your account with no deactivation fee because you are no longer in their coverage area. It’s some clause in the contract that no one knows about.

Well, it looks like some good actually does come out of this girl.

But I’m still skeptical. Would that really work? Why haven’t I heard about this before? Though she does have a point. Without coverage, there’s no way you can use your phone. You can roam, but that’s not the point. You have an agreement between you and your service provider. If the service is not available, then the agreement is void.

So I send an email to Verizon explaining the situation. 3 hours later a man with an Indian name emails me back, asking for my exact address in Hungary and that he would forward my information to his colleague, who would check for service availability in my location. If it is indeed true that my claims are correct, then the service agreement would be shut down with no fees.

The next day I get an email stating that Verizon Wireless is sad to inform me that service availability in my current location is non-existent, and that my contract has been shut down with no charges.

Just like that. I was free!

There’s probably a reason no one knows about this clause in your cellular provider’s contract. That $175 deactivation fee is a boon for the industry. I’m sure thousands of people deactivate their contracts every month. Recently, I heard the FCC is considering changing the rules for deactivation, and that for some providers the fee was either greatly reduced, or dispelled altogether. But you would need to meet certain requirements in order to qualify for this.

If you don’t meet those requirements, and you’re unhappy with your contract, then you’re out of luck. Or, you can always fly to Budapest and cut off your Verizon account for free (T-Mobile is here, so no luck with that – though I have not seen Sprint around here either). I would expect the Verizon employees checked the html properties to make sure my email was actually sent from a Hungarian server.

Then again, it might just be more economical if you pay that $175 fee, instead of the $1,200 plane ticket to get here.

Tales from Wroclaw: Arrival

Jaro and I step off the train, and look at our bleak surroundings. Besides the fact that its after midnight, drizzling, and homeless bums are pandering around the train station, we have no idea where our hostel is.

Let’s see. What did Ewa say? Just look up a map in the city center… Find our street, and go from there. Sounds simple enough.

But where’s the city center? Is there even a city map in the city center? And what if the hostel is on the outskirts of town? Crap. We are completely unprepared for this.

Ok, Jaro is saying. First things first. We find the nearest non-stop and buy a beer. There is no way we are doing this sober.

Agreed.

Two blocks later we enter a non-stop with an old lady behind the counter. She starts talking in this completely non-intelligible language. Oh my god, what is that? That’s Polish, stupid. Oh, right.

At the point that she pauses, when it’s clear she’s just asked both of us a question, I just stare at her, thinking maybe she can read minds. Jaro, on the other hand, has another idea.

Zsu-Zsa-Zsu-Zsa-Zsa-Zsa-Zsa-Zsa-Zsa-Zsa.

The lady is staring at Jaro like a frightened child, and so am I. What are you doing dude?

I’m speaking her language, he hisses back at me.

I wait for the meltdown. C’mon, he just made complete fun of this woman’s language. We’re fucked. I’m watching behind me for the skinheads that are surly going to come to their mama’s rescue.

But the atoms never smash together. Instead, she gives him a wry smile and keeps talking to him. Oh Christ, can we just get out of here? I’m saying. Grab the beers and go before we get into some real trouble.

We pop the tops out in front of the shop, and I’m shaking my head at Jaro. Nice. Just smooth dude.

What? Their language is insane. Might as well make fun of it.

This coming from a guy who’s lived in Hungary for three years, and speaks a fair amount of Hungarian; arguably one of the most difficult and ‘insane’ languages on the planet.

We both take swigs, and then look at each other. Now what? We’re stuck in Wroclaw, with no idea where we are, or how to get to our hostel.

Hmm.

Let’s just start walking that way. I’m pointing up what looks to be a main street, and praying the city center is down that particular way.

We start walking and talking and looking at the architecture, which, as per Central/Eastern European status, is always fun to look at (nevermind those Soviet blockhouses).

After about 20 minutes of walking, with no sense of let-up, I’m worried. This is not going well.

And suddenly, Jaro stops, and says, I have an idea.

Well what is it? It better be genius or we’re in big trouble.

He points to something behind me.

I look over my shoulder and see it: Holiday Inn.

Oh thank god for American chains.

The most important lesson I’ve learned while traveling through Europe: if you ever get lost, get to a hotel and ask directions. No matter how posh the place is, they will help you. And they absolutely will speak English. And since Holiday Inn is in just about every city in Europe (not to mention the States), it makes life easier when you run out of ideas. Plus, they usually have free maps of the city.

It turns out I’m the designated direction asker this trip. You go in, Jaro is saying. I’m going to stay out here and people watch. There’s a small club around the corner of the Holiday Inn that looks to be a teenie-bopper affair. Everyone looks like they’re 12. But they’re all drinking alcohol.

Umm, ok, you do that.

I walk in to the hotel, and don’t even try to act like I know Polish.

Hello, I’m lost. Please help me.

That’s about as clear as it gets.

The guy looks at me, and then whips out a map of the city, and asks in crisp perfect English, Where are you trying to go?

I show him the street name and he nods and bends over the map. Here’s us, he says, pointing to the red dot on the map that looks to be in a central location. It must be a Holiday Inn sponsored map.

Then he starts tracing his other finger from the Holiday Inn red dot on the map, moving farther and farther away from the warmth of the dot. Uh oh.

His finger finally stops. Here we are: Grunwaldzka Street!

I’m staring at the length between his two fingers and it reminds me when Calvin and Hobbes decide to go to the Yukon, and look on a globe and think the couple inches between the Yukon and their home will be no sweat to travel by foot.

Shit. No way are we going to walk that, I’m thinking.

What? He asks, eyes arching.

Umm, that’s far. Do you have night transportation to there?

He blinks, obviously thinking, and then, Of course! Just let me look up the correct line.

This guy is good.

So for the next 15 minutes, the Holiday Inn Front Desk Man is diligently looking up my route. It seems difficult to get there, because it takes him so long to find the line. He’s on the internet, calling people, talking with another attendant. And I didn’t even pay this guy.

Jaro comes in, goes straight to the bathroom.

That’s my friend, I’m telling him, when he gives Jaro the death-what-the-fuck-do-you-think-you’re-doing-using-my-bathroom-when-you’re-not-a-guest look.

Finally: Ok! You walk up this street, get on the first tram. Take it to the bus station. Get on this bus. And it should take you to your street.

So it’s pretty far from here?

Yes.

Damn. Oh well. Jaro finally comes out of the bathroom. So? We know how to get there?

Yup. Let’s go. I turn around to the attendant, and say, Köszi szépen, thanking him in Magyar and forgetting I’m in Poland. He just looks at me with a confused look on his face. You’re welcome? Is all he can say.

Outside in the cold, as we walk towards our fate, Jaro is asking, So what took so long?

We had trouble with the exact night transport route.

Oh. So it’s pretty far huh?

Yeah. Just remind me to kill Ewa the next time I see her.

Snow Falls

There's just something about snow.

I'm standing in my room, thinking about something, and I get a call from Jaro. Have you seen it?! Look outside!!! I look, and sure enough, light snow is falling into the courtyard. The first snow.

I walk to Burger King, because they have these chili cheese jalapeno nuggets. They sound disgusting, but actually are an amazingly tasty snack. The BK employees are all lined up on the opposite side of the counter, looking out the windows. I try to make an order but they are all laughing and pointing behind me, to the snow falling on the streets of our city. One girl is jumping up and down with a big smile on her face. I can't help but watch her and wonder what else makes her this excited.

I walk to Jaro's flat and I see a young mother and her daughter walking along the street. The daughter, no more than 3 years old, has snow caked to her little snow gloves and is beaming, looking directly up at my face. She's so happy that I smile back. Her mother smiles, but I move on. No matter how happy the people are around me, it's still freezing. Snow is falling. This isn't summer. It's winter. And it's time to move on.

Tales from Wroclaw: The Beginning

Jaro, Tamas, Ewa and I step out of the car, and stretch our legs after the seven hour journey. Before we had left from Budapest, Jaro and I had bought two small bottles of Unicum and promptly drank them in the car out of a Subway cup. It was only after we had started the second bottle that Tamas wondered aloud, ‘Why does it smell like Unicum in here?’

We had neglected to tell him.

Oh that’s nothing, I’m saying, eyeing the back of his head while he drives. Do you want some Coke? And I hand him the cup.

Ahhh!

He finally realized where the smell was coming from.

C’mon Dad! Drink up!

We had been calling him Dad the whole trip. He’s such a dad.

Now we’re stretching our legs in some little town just south of Wroclaw. So wait, why don’t you just drive us up there? Jaro is asking.

Because I would have to drive all the way up there and then all the way back to Ewa’s house!

All the way? I’m squinting at our map of Poland. The blip that supposedly is our current location is directly underneath, and close, CLOSE, to Wroclaw.

All the way? I keep asking.

Five minutes later we’re all standing on the train platform. Ewa is explaining to Jaro what we have to do. Just take this train up to Wroclaw…

What the hell are you talking about? We don’t even know where we are right now!

Just then, we all hear the approaching train. Sure you don’t want to just take us?

No. Get on the train.

Fuck.

We say our goodbyes and board the hulking metal beast, but Jaro has a funny look on his face. What?

I just totally grabbed Ewa’s tit.

What do you mean, you ‘just grabbed Ewa’s tit?!’

He’s laughing hysterically now and I probably look horrified.

I went to shake Tamas’ hand right when she went in to kiss you goodbye!

He’s practically on his knees, he thinks it’s so funny. I’m just shaking my head, but smiling, because I can imagine exactly what happened, and how utterly embarrassing it was.

You fucking idiot.

Well, he’s shrugging. What can I do? They ran in to me!

Obstacles Ahead

I’m walking down the street with Szilvi. I’m stumbling along on the sidewalk, and she’s parallel to me on the street. It’s 1 in the morning and I am tired. Ten minutes prior to this moment I had been sitting in a bar with Szilvi, Dave and his new girlfriend, to which I have now completely forgotten her name. We all order drinks. They come. I take a gulp. And get up to leave.

Where are you going?

Home. I can barely keep my eyes open.

Dave just looks at me, half smiling the way he always does. What about your beer, he asks.

Drink it. I don’t care.

Szilvi accompanies me, probably understanding once I left it would just be her with the happy couple. She caught the whiff of freedom and jumped on it. I can’t remember if she also left a beer behind. We probably left them with two extra drinks. I didn’t care. I just wanted my bed.

So we’re walking along Múzeum körút, talking about something. I can’t remember, because of what happened next.

I said something to Szilvi that made her laugh, and I looked down at my feet. Right at that moment I blinked, but it didn’t seem like I was blinking. The darkness was too long. My mind was engulfed in darkness, and I thought insanely: Maybe I just went blind.

But then pain shot through my right side, erasing any thoughts of blindness. Arghhhh, I remember hearing. My forever blink ends and the lights of night come back to me. I look around and see where my pain had originated from: I had run right into a pole. To my right are a group of five girls, completely silent and watching the confused idiot who just ran into a pole.

Um. Where is Szilvi, I’m wondering. I look past the group of girls, who are giggling now as I massage the right side of my chest. Ow damnit. She’s nowhere to be found. Vanished. What happened?

And then I remember.

Szilvi had gone back to Jaro’s a while back. She had gone right at Kalvin tér, and I had gone left. Yes, we had been talking and walking down the street together earlier, but that was then. She left and I continued towards my home, my bed, and from everything I can tell, I continued the conversation as well.

I had fallen asleep while walking down the streets of Budapest, and had a vivid dream while doing it. Something akin to reality, but not quite. Still, I can’t be certain. It felt real. But then, I was actually walking on that exact same street in my dream, as in reality.

It made all the sense in the world that it was a rigid jolt that brought me back, brought me back into my conscious self. I’m still walking down the same street, but I better watch for those obstacles ahead.

Medically Challenged

I'm sitting there at the stadium, with warm beer in one hand and a hot dog loaded with condiments in the other. Jaro is munching down on his hot dog so fast I'm waiting for him to choke. But not to worry. There are medics directly to my left so I'm not too worried about his state of health.

We're there to watch Lodzi play his American football game. Yes. American football. They actually have this here. And it sure looks like the same thing too. But Lodzi is sitting on the bench, looking bored out of his mind. The minutes stretch into months. Christ, I'm saying, since when was this game so boring?

There's a big hit, someone topples over. He doesnt get up. The coach runs out to assess the situation. And starts screaming for the medics. But no one with a stretcher runs out, like usual. Where the hell are the medics? People are looking around.

Sometimes, in this crazy city, you can have a shitty day and one beam of shining light makes up for all the bad stuff that happened before. This was one of those moments. The game was a disaster. Really. We didn't care about it. We were there to support Lodzi, and carp about the Americans chasing skirts in the stands. And then...

Medics! The coach is screaming for someone to help his injured player but no one comes out. Jaro and I are looking at the medics now, the exemplary Hungarian medics that should be out on the field. They're sitting in the ambulance, backs turned toward the field, smoking cigarettes and talking like it was a Sunday afternoon in the park.

We start to laugh as the coach has to physically run over to the ambulance and grab the medics. They stub out their cigarettes and look confused. What do you mean someone was hurt?

It's times like these that you remember where you are. I mean, really remember. That shit just would not fly back home. And certainly no medics would be caught smoking inside an ambulance. I'm not saying this is only the Hungarian's fault. This might happen all throughout Central Europe. But I'm not all throughout Central Europe. I'm sitting right here, munching on my hot dog and grimacing at the warm beer (where the fuck are the coolers?!) and watching the way the Hungarians do business in the medical services.

I can't even imagine what surgery is like here.

Later, after the top-notch medics haul this big mother of a guy in full football gear onto a stretcher, they can't seem to figure out how to get the stretcher into the ambulance. They're fiddling with switches and the stretcher and just looking at the back of the ambulance with a deer-in-the-headlights look. Jaro can't even believe what he's seeing. Do you see this dude? He's asking. Yes. They're fucking retards. It takes 5 minutes for the medics to figure out what they're doing. And the football player is just laying there, sometimes waving at the small crowd, sometimes watching the medics do there thing. This is a total clusterfuck, I'm saying.

I get up to piss. And stop. There on the ground is a 9mm shell casing. Just sitting there. Holy shit! Look at this Jaro...

There is a funny aspect of gun culture in Hungary. Guns can be bought in stores all over the place. There is a shop with all types and sizes across the street from Jaro's flat. But none of these places sell bullets. Its like the NRA's personal hell. So many guns. But no bullets. They have to be procured by other means (I'm sure the Mafia have their ways - open Schengen borders help a lot).

This is why the bullet casing sitting on the stone bleachers in a diminutive football stadium in Budapest was such a surprise to me. You could even see where the hammer snapped into place and started the chain reaction to send the little bugger on its lone journey through the air.

What happened here? If there was someone here with a 9mm popping someone you would see other casings, or dried blood, for that matter. But none of that is around. Just one casing. Just sitting there. Waiting for me to pick it up. The last journey it will take.

I still have it now. Sitting on my desk, collecting dust. I want to remember that moment, the medics, the warm beer, the guy on the stretcher waving to the crowd. It's all part of the Budapest experience.

...and the streets will run red...

Last night I’m sitting with Dori on a pedestrian lane, on a park bench, a stone’s throw from her old secondary school (high school in American-speak). She’s telling me how weird it is we are sitting there on this bench, the only bench on this lane; that she used to sit on for four years, with her friends and talk and chatting and laughing and gossiping. I’m listening and thinking about my own high school experience. How long ago was that? What’s changed? Who’s still back there…living the same lives that they were when I was still there, struggling with adolescence and drugs and alcohol and sex and girls and wondering if this was really what I was going to amount to in my life. But then I remember.

I got out. I left. I changed my life. For the better.

She’s looking at me. Those eyes. We go in to kiss and it feels good. I’m aware of someone walking up the pedestrian lane, but I don’t look who strolls past. But they don’t stroll. It’s shuffling. I can hear the shoes scraping along the pavement, dirt crunching and moving beneath the feet, exchanging a mutual touch with the hard stone beneath. I ignore the moment, thinking only of the kiss, but the sound still touches me somewhere, somewhere back in my mind. Something I should be listening to. Something I know I need to listen to. But I’m not. I still have that fear of someone walking behind me, that I have to stop and let them pass, and watch them walk ahead. Its not a fear. Its…something else. Like I’ve known it before. Like I was a spy in a past life, during the Cold War, and I felt the blade enter my back as I walked, irresponsive to the sound of footsteps behind me. Maybe I was a bad spy. I don’t know.

I won’t ever know.

Now I see the person. It’s a woman. She’s standing, back turned to us, with two bags in her hand. Dori is talking now, and I train my attention on her. She’s speaking about the differences between our high schools, why she feels high school was the best point in her life. Its because she never left her home. She never left for college. She’s been stuck in this city her whole life. A sobering thought. I think back to the debauchery of my college experience. And smile. The memories come through, jagged, but still there, still real, like I was there yesterday. She will never understand the feelings. The first day. When I turned away from my mother and sister, choking back tears, but wanting them to go, to leave me alone. I wandered around the dorms, watching people but not saying anything, still not understanding that everyone was in the same position as I. Alone. And then I met a Russian, chain smoking in a place clearly marked ‘Non-Smoking’. And I lit up too, and began speaking with him, me stumbling over my words, he with his thick accent and racist appeal to the masses. It was only later I understood he was a bad guy. But he introduced me to a friend, Nick, one of the best.

I guess the bad sometimes do good.

Now I’m speaking to Dori but I can’t remember about what. You can be sure it was about life and what the point of all it means. I tend to do that. But now my eyes are drawn to the woman. She’s sitting down the lane, maybe twenty feet away. Just sitting there on a ledge. I can’t see her face.

She begins to talk, in a low voice that booms. Dori stops and listens. I stop too. Did you hear that, she asks. She’s speaking broken English. But that’s not what I heard. I heard the words ‘reszeg’ (drunk) and ‘absolutemont’. Which are both Hungarian words (the latter was totally stolen). She just spoke Hungarian, I’m saying. No, that was English, Dori is trying to convince me.

What a sweet girl. But I’m right.

Now the woman stands, and I think she’s talking on a cell phone. I see her face for the first time, and it looks normal. Middle-age, but nothing too craggily. Completely, utterly normal. Nothing seems to be wrong. She just said she was absolutely drunk. Which would make sense if she’s talking to herself on a deserted pedestrian lane. But its not deserted, I’m thinking. We’re here. Watching her. Listening to her.

I don’t know it yet, but she’s about to put on a show.

She starts to walk away, with her hand next to her face. Yes, definitely a cell phone. Just talking with one of her middle-aged friends. And then she turns around.

There’s no phone.

I can see her face. Something has changed. It’s contorted and her burning eyes are staring right at the lovely innocent couple sitting on the bench. Uh oh.

When she starts to speak, a hollow voice that does not seem to come from her throat, I automatically know something is wrong. I’m the only one watching her. Dori has been staring at me the whole time, probably wondering how she got so lucky (No Taryn, I’m not vain). But her face changes instantly when she hears the voice. Something bad is happening. And I can’t understand a word.

What is it?

Shh! She shushes me.

I hate getting shushed.

The woman is speaking, staring right at us, at me, I can feel her stare, and she’s gesticulating with her fist. Where the phone should have been. But no. This bitch is crazy. Dori’s face isn’t helping the situation either. She hasn’t turned around to look at the woman, not yet, but I can see on her face that it’s not good. Whatever she’s saying it scares her. I don’t see that look too often.

Finally the woman says her share, turns around abruptly, and walks off. She turns around again way up the lane, but now its not clear whether she’s looking at us anymore. She’s speaking again. To someone. I fight the urge to yell after her, ‘Speak up!’, but the look on Dori’s face diffuses that urge.

What? What did she say?

She said…and she looks back, behind her. She said…

What? Tell me!

She turns back, and looks at me, eyes glinting in the light thrown down from the lamp above us. I won’t ever forget her look.

She said she would kill the both of us, and that our blood would spray across the pavement, and the streets would run with our blood.

I’m staring at her like she just socked me in the nuts. WHAT?! Are you sure?

Yes. She’s very sure. I can see it.

We stayed there on the bench for some time, but the thought never left my mind. Why? Why would she say those things?

And will I see her again?

Crash

I’m sitting, like many nights before it, on Jaro’s couch listening to the convoluted conversations erupting around me. English and Hungarian intermix, but I’ve stopped listening to the people around me. I’ve just heard a loud bang outside, and my ears are perked up.

Car accident.

Jaro is listening too. Did you hear that?

Yeah.

We both run to the window at the same time, knocking people over unlucky enough to be in our way.

It’s like that Dane Cook joke: ‘You’re sitting around and you hear a car screech on its breaks – SCREEEEAAAAAAAARRRCCCCHHHHH – and then, Damnit! So close!’

People love car accidents. Just a fact of life.

We’re leaning out the window, searching for the culprit. I don’t see any debris. But there’s a car idling at the end of the street, Pál útca, just sitting there. It looks like a nice car. Black. Sleek. New. Renault? I can’t tell the make. This is a first.

The passenger door opens. A guy in shorts and t-shirt jumps out and inspects the front end quickly. He looks at the driver’s side, shrugs, and jumps back into the car. The door slams shut and the car takes a sharp right, jumping the curb, and driving up the sidewalk, out of sight behind the opposite building.

What the hell was that?

Did he just make his getaway on the sidewalk?!?

We’re both in hysterics, because of the sheer stupidity (genius?) of the events around us.

Only in Hungary, dude! Only in Hungary!

Western Journalism At Its Best

I generally prefer to write about events happening around me, because the story is mine and no one can lay claim on it. Sure, someone else can have a similar experience in the same place and write a similar story, but they aren’t writing about your experience, they’re writing about their experience and telling you about it. That’s called journalism.

I’m no journalist. Maybe something like a personal journalist, but I just can’t see someone saying journalist when they come to describe me. Whatever. The fact is, when real journalists are writing their articles or creating their television shows, I would hope they know what they’re talking about.

It would help if they had correct information. That’s the first step.

The second step is making a compelling piece that hooks you throughout, and trying not to blow it at the end.

Which is exactly what CNN did today. Way to go guys.

Pestiside, one of the best (and sarcastic) blogs about current events in the Hungarian nation, alerted readers as to the strange events happening on the CNN Video page. One of the videos, titled ‘Serb ultranationalists rally,’ focuses on the disintegrating situation in Belgrade, home to war criminal Radovan Karadzic, the fellow who finally was apprehended after 13 years in hiding. His followers, who seem to remember who he is after all this time (and neglect his genocidal nature), came out en masse to demonstrate against his imminent extradition to The Hague.

Police in riot gear with shields and batons beat back the demonstrators, running around dispersing crowds and bowling people over. The demonstrators respond by throwing rocks and whatever they can carry. But they don’t look that old. Are you sure you were around when this guy was in power? Or is this just your right wing parents telling you what to do?

This relative mayhem goes on for a minute and a half, and by the end I’m thinking, Ok well that was a riot, when’s the next one going to happen around here? And then I stop on the last sequence in the video. People are running around and hiding from the falling tear gas grenades, and a fire is raging in the middle of the street. Someone looks to be running for cover down the stairs of a metro stop. It would all be fine and dandy to end it on this image of Serbian outrage if it weren’t for one small problem.

That wasn’t Serbia. It was Hungary. The yellow metro stop sign enshrouded in tear gas (on the left) is none other than the symbol of the Millennium Underground, the oldest metro line in continental Europe.



Wow. You just fucked up that one.

I find it hard to believe that the leading outlet in Western journalism somehow messed up footage from the Serbian riots of 24 hours ago, with the Hungarian riots of 2 years prior. Really. What are you guys thinking? Sure, both riots were led by right wing nationalists, and both were set in a land far far away from a New York office. But being ignorant about two sovereign peoples is just retarded.

Someone should fire their Continuity Specialist.

UPDATE 1:

The video has been taken down from their site. They must have realized their stupid mistake (or angry ultranationalist Magyars called their New York offices threatening to riot on the streets of Budapest until CNN figures out who they really are).

Solicited

So there we are, sitting on the steps of Sándor Petöfi’s imposing statue, sipping beer, smoking cigarettes and planning out our next short film. Jaro and I had gotten it into our heads to make the same type of videos I make for my work, except make it as sarcastic and disingenuous to the viewer as possible. So, as the voice over praises the beauties of the ‘Jewel of the Danube,’ we show neo-Nazi skinheads chanting or a dirty homeless couple fucking in the stench of a metro station.

All can be easily accessible in this beautiful city.

The Danube is on our right, with foreigners and Magyars alike walking up and down the strip next to the river, called the ‘Korzó.’ This is prime real estate in Budapest: major hotels like the Marriot and InterContinental are based side-by-side on this strip of riverfront, giving guests unparalleled views of the Danube and the hills of Buda.

What we didn’t know was that it was home to something much uglier.

Jaro is talking 100 miles a minute, writing about what shitty juxtaposition we should show next, and I’m taking a drag of my cigarette, not really thinking about anything, letting my eyes wander across the faces passing by, looking at the river, looking up at the statue, talking to their friends or families, and…. I stop. My mind is trying to comprehend something but it takes a second. That guy. He wasn’t looking up at the statue.

He was looking at me.

I size this guy up pretty quick. He’s just standing there, looking at us. A younger guy, a boy almost, stands next to him, looking at us but looking away every few seconds to follow the steps of passer-bys. This guy staring at us, he looks like Nicholas Sarkozy. Except really tan. Brown almost. He’s smiling too, but I can’t tell what its about. Something is wrong. A chill goes up my spine. I nudge Jaro.

Umm. What the fuck is up with this guy?

Which guy?

That one. The one staring at us.

Oh. Ummm… I don’t know.



I’m looking behind me, to make sure he might not be looking at someone else. The only thing behind me is the base of Petöfi’s statue. There’s nothing else behind me, but…

Jesus, do you think it’s the statue?

Jaro looks up. What?

The statue! He might think its sacrilegious or something to drink beer on this thing. Or something.

I doubt it. I bet Sándor was doing the exact same thing in his day.

I’m shaking my head, looking up at Petöfi, still very aware of the man’s eyes on us. Could that be the problem? Does he think we’re pissing on the Magyars for sitting and drinking on the statue of Hungary’s most famous poet? Petöfi was supposedly the model Hungarian; no one could beat his patriotism. But I can’t believe that. This is Hungary. I’ve drank, pissed and thrown up over these streets, and nothing has come to pass. My gaze returns to the Korzó. The man still stares, with his little smile, and eyes like a vulture’s. Except his boy companion has been replaced by another boy, younger this time, who does the same as the other: watch people walk by like a hawk.

What the fuck is going on Jaro?

I don’t know. I don’t even care. Just ignore him. He’ll get tired of whatever he’s doing…. Jaro trails off. Or he won’t, he finishes.

I look at him. Uh huh.

So what about that story idea?

We continue to talk about ridiculous juxtapositions in our city, and all the while the man with his boys stares at us. He rarely takes his eyes off of us. We don’t ignore him. We stare back at him, but later it would become clear that was not the thing to do. It probably wouldn’t have mattered. This guy was on a mission. We just didn’t know it yet.

After twenty minutes of talking about our new idea and writing it all down, Jaro finally stops, and says, Maybe this is something else. Maybe we’re not seeing the whole picture.

Yeah genius, it obviously isn’t about the statue, or else he would have just yelled at us to get the hell off his precious hero.

Jaro’s phone rings. He picks up. I’m trying to listen to who it is. Szilvi? I can’t be sure. I look back at the guy, and he’s talking on his cell too. But. Wait. No he’s not.

Shit. Jaro. I jab him, and motion to our admirer. Watch.

Jaro is still talking on the phone, but now he can see it too. The guy is playing copycat. The guy is twenty meters away but I can see his eyes. They’re afire.

Oh no. It’s not the statue. It’s something else. A game.

Jaro is now obviously talking into his phone and staring right at the guy, gesturing like, Yeah we know you’re fucking watching us dick head! The guy’s eyebrows jerk up. The signal. He looks like Sarkozy on crack. He gets up.

Oh crap.

Oh, now you did it, you fucking idiot. I’m shaking my head at Jaro. Why the hell did you have to do that?!

I don’t know!

The guy is walking up the steps, but stops, looks beyond us for a second, and then continues towards us. I look on my right, where our creepy friend has just observed, and I see an older man sitting with his son. But… His son. He looks familiar. Wait, I’m saying. But I don’t have time to finish.

Our stalker is upon us.

Where are you from? He asks in fluent English.

Where are you from?! Jaro shoots back.

God damnit Jaro.

Here, he says.

California, Jaro says. What’s your problem?

You like boys?

Oh. No. I hate these situations.

Jaro must be drunk. Oooh so that’s what you are about! It all makes sense now!

The guy looks excited. Yeah? He asks.

No! We both say at once. We’re not into that, I finally pipe up. God damnit.

No? He’s asking us. What are you into?

We both have girlfriends!

So?

So? So… We don’t like men!

Boys. He corrects us.

Ugh.

Fine. Whatever. We have girlfriends and we are very set thank you.

He nods his head, views the scene for a second, then starts back on us. You know where you are? He asks.

The Duna?

Sex Row.

What… Here?

Yeah. This is where I work. Everyone comes here for sex. And I give it to them.

Fantastic. We’ve just entered a conversation with a fucking Hungarian pimp.

We don’t like what you have to offer, Jaro is saying.

I’m looking back at the old man I saw earlier. His son… He picked him up. Christ. I grind my teeth and look at this guy. He makes me sick. Jaro is egging the pimp on, possibly not aware of the situation to our right.

We’re not interested, I finally say. And that’s it.

Oh, ok. He looks slightly hurt, but his grin returns almost immediately. Well good luck, is his finishing line. At least I think it is.

Jaro is yelling after him, Yeah good luck to you too!

Dude, do you know whats going on around us right now? He shakes his head. What, you mean the crazy gay pimp? No, not him. Well, ok yeah, that was weird. But look over there. I point and he looks.

Now its his eyebrows that arch. Oh…

Yeah. Oh.

The ‘son’ is now sitting closer to his ‘old man’, laughing and giving his older companion a look.

I wonder how old he is? I ask.

Umm.

I look back at the guy, but my eyes are drawn to three girls walking by. They look Swedish. Wow. Ok, that’s nice. I forget about the fucked up shit happening around this venerable hot spot of Budapest, and watch the three blonde hotties walk past. As their flip flops slap past our statue, the pimp catches wind of our search, and as they pass by his position, he looks at us with big crazy eyes and does a motion with his tongue. I don’t have to tell you what he was implying. It was sick enough. I have to look away, but all I can see is the old man and his own catch. Christ.

I glance back and now he’s coming back.

Oh shit, he’s coming back! I hiss. Jaro looks back, and sure enough, he’s walking up. But he doesn’t say anything, just looks at us and sits on the other side of Petöfi’s statue.

Ok… Dude. Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough of this situation.

Yeah, is all Jaro can say.

We get up, pack our things and go. We say good bye to the pimp. He sits, legs spread, watching us with eyes filled with light. Im just glad he doesn’t wear a kilt. He doesn’t say anything at first, just stares and watches us go.

Good luck! He screams after us.

Yeah good luck my ass, I’m saying. That guy was a fucking creep.

Dude I know. I have to piss so bad though. Oh here’s a bathroom!

Jaro goes in. It’s one of those bathrooms available to the public, for a price. Always some small amount of change that really shouldn’t matter, because c’mon, I just have to piss and really do you need to charge me the equivalent of a quarter to get in? But yes, they really do, and they’re usually underground – so European – and have not been cleaned in years.

I have to go too, but I wait. I hate those places.

I stand, leaning against the railing above the river, watching it pass underneath Erzsébet Hid. I’m still comprehending what just happened. I look up, and gulp.

He’s standing in front of me.

Shit.

Oh, hi, he says, and walks past, looking at my ass as he goes by.

God DAMNIT!

I see Jaro coming up, and make a beeline for him.

Let’s fucking go, Jaro.

Um, ok. Jeez, what happened?

Our friend is following us. Now lets get more beer and forget about this horrible experience.

We walk three blocks up and find a CBA, which is basically the Hungarian version of 7-11, except better (no slurpies though). I look behind us before entering, but the street is empty. Ok, good. That guy was fucking weird, I’m saying. Yeah no shit.

The aisles are narrow but we finally find the beer section. Hmm. What should we get? Well, do you want to go cheap or get something else? I don’t know. We’re leaning over looking at our choices and someone brushes past me, but a little roughly, and fuck I hate these Hungarians, can’t they see where they’re going? I shake my head, neglecting to look at the moron who whipped past me, and grab some new bottles.

We saunter up to the register like we own the place, and then I stop. I think Jaro stumbles, but I can’t be sure. There he is. The guy. The pimp, in front of the register, looking at us with that same smile.

And then I know who bumped into me while I was bent over. Christ. That fucker.

Now I’m pissed. What are you doing? Im asking, acid slurring my words.

He doesn’t answer, and the check-out lady is looking between us and him, alarmed.

Jaro is silent, and I collapse in silence, because I know what is going to happen if we don’t get away. We’re going to kill this guy if he keeps following us. And both of us know it.

We’ve had enough of this guy.

We walk out the door, and the guy is still inside, watching us. I take a deep breath. Jaro and I look at each other. Lets. Get. Out. Of. Here.

Yes, lets.

We left, but not before checking behind us for some time. He was gone, at least in the now.

But I can’t shake his face. The grin. The eyes.



The sick pimp.

It's Still Coming

I have found birthdays can be funny things. Some people really don’t like birthdays. They don’t like any holiday, and especially not personal ones (which of course are the most selfish of the bunch). Whenever I meet said people I nod like I know what they’re talking about, look off into the distance, and say, So wait, why don’t you like birthdays?

I’m not one of those people.

But it is interesting to think about. What if you looked back, and focused on each and every birthday you’ve ever had. So, say you’re 50. That’s fifty days out of…umm, 50 times 365. 18250 days. Damn. That’s only an infantile percentage of your life. Would be a good film though.

Ok. Where was I going with this. One of those posts I know what to write about but I don’t know how to start…

Well shit, I know I had a deeper meaning, but I’ll just talk about that Saturday. My birthday. I’ve never been out of the States on my birthday. Unless I was really young and don’t remember going somewhere. I think my not being in my homeland must mean something for this one. Because it was a good one. One of the best birthdays I’ve had. Definitely the best tailored for my state of mind, the place, and occupation.

I started, like many other days, at Jaro’s. I brought my little man-bag-purse thing. Satchel I suppose. All the Hungarians call them purses. Even for men. Ok. Inside my man-bag-purse thing are my video camera, my still camera, my keys and my sunglasses.

I would be racking my brains later as to what exactly I had in there.

So I started at Jaro’s, like always. Before I came over, he calls and says, Hey Boldog umm…umm…Szilvi how do you say Happy Birthday?

Christ. What a guy.

So there we are. Tamas is there too, but he’s studying his stock exchange. He wants to get rich this way. I expect a percentage of his monies after having to listen to him talk about it for hours.

I feel really good though. The weather is perfect. Clear sunny skies, but windy. Such a great feeling. And of course I’m riding high. It doesn’t matter that I’m incredibly broke and still looking back on some decisions I’ve recently made. All that seems to melt away and I’m free of whatever has been worrying me.

Jaro and I set off in the direction of Lanczhid, or the Chain Bridge. The bridge closes down every weekend during the summer, and they have this festival for all ages. Basically it’s a way for Budapest to sell little trinkets, and incredibly overpriced kolbasz sausage, but its still damn fun and damn good to eat. Probably bringing in good money for the system too.

I, of course, have to shoot for one of the Budapest videos. At first I was pissed about this, like, why the hell do I have to do this today of all days? But then both Jaro and I had our cameras. And we were stopping every 3 minutes to shoot something. It took us 2 hours to get to the bridge. You can walk there in 30 minutes. No problem.

We were obviously caught up.



When we finally finished shooting the Duna and Statue of Liberty, we clambered up onto the bridge. I swear I never heard Hungarian spoken. It was German, French, English, Spanish…other languages I don’t know. Probably Polish. I’m glad I didn’t hear Czech. I’d have probably socked them.

There were stalls set up every few meters selling traditional Hungarian trinkets. But that’s not why I go to these things. I like to watch the people. It’s probably the best thing. Jaro and I sit and watch a Magyar acoustic band playing under one of the huge archways of the bridge. It’s cool. They are cool.



We get to the end of the bridge, exhausted of shooting and hungry. There’s a sausage stand at the end. Yes! You’re finally doing something right Hungary! It’s 1000 forint for a sausage. Damnit! You were so close Hungary. You just had to fuck it up.

Like always.

We ate (hunger > wallet) and wandered up the Duna, on the Buda side towards Gellert Hill. Jaro tells me how Gellert Hill got it’s name. It was named after a priest. Gellert. When the Pagans and Christians had a power struggle trying to determine which way Magyarorszag would lean, the Pagans took it upon themselves to show the Christians who was boss. They took Gellert the priest, shoved him into a barrel with spikes - on the inside - and threw it down a big fucking hill. Which would later bear his name.

And you know what? Christianity still won. That’s what martyrdom does for you.

I’m listening to this story thinking about Gellert’s last thoughts. Yeesh. ‘That sucks man!’ is all I can say.

And suddenly, Jaro gets it into his head: wine tasting! Umm, ok yeah. Don’t worry I’ll pay for it. Its your birthday.

Allright!

The one day I can do this.

We go into a Best Western, asking where the closest wine tasting cellar is. The old Hungarian with perfect English says, Go outside, walk two meters. Its on your left.

Sweet. The wine cellar is next door!

But what we walk in to is no wine cellar. Instead it’s a courtyard filled with a wedding. Some woman is reading the vows to the bride and groom. Have you ever seen Wedding Crashers? Jaro asks. I look down at our clothes – ragged t-shirts and shorts. Umm. I don’t think that’s going to happen Jaro. But really, good thinking!

We walk upstairs, thinking the cellar is upstairs (sometimes my genius exceeds me). Suddenly we’re standing on a balcony now overlooking the wedding. People are staring. No, every person in the wedding is staring at the two retards looking lost above their heads.

Excuse me!

We look down. Is that guy talking to us?

Excuse me! Come down from there!

Oh yeah, he is. Should we go down?

We’re looking at each other, at the man yelling at us, and at the wedding going on directly below us, which now has the entire crowd staring at us, including the bride and groom. Man, who knew we could screw up this bad?

We saunter downstairs. Where is the wine bar?

The guy ushers us out the way we came in.

Go around the other way. There’s another entrance, he says.

Oh.

We walk around and find an outdoor patio. Oh! Jaro exclaims. I’ve been here!!

Well fucking great. Should have told me that before we walked into the awkward wedding service.

We sit down. Waiter comes up. Looks like a nerd. But cool. He speaks English. Of course. What would you like? He asks.

Wine.

Yes.

Glasses of wine.

Yes.

Dry wine. Suggestions?

Would you like a suggestion?

Umm.

Dúzsi Tamas. Excellent choice!

Ok fine we’ll have two glasses.

Oh no, you can only order a bottle!

But we just said… and I trail off. The guy is looking at us, smiling. Is he fucking with us or is it the language barrier? I can’t tell.

I look at Jaro. I can see he’s weighing his options. 6000 forint for a bottle of wine.

Happy birthday, Hunter. This better be fucking good.

I look at the guy, walking away. You’re telling me, I say.

Two hours later: Oh man this wine is like so good dude! So worth it…



We stumble along. I think Jaro has paid for the bill. It’s my birthday! I’m yelling.

I know dude, as Jaro shakes his head.

Fast forward three hours. Wait how did I get here? I’m scratching my head. Before us is Heroes’ Square, packed with thousands of drunk Magyars and possibly some foreigners. Oh yeah! I’m thinking. Carlos Santana!

I saw he was playing a free show two months before, and I was like, alright if there is anything I want to do, I want to go to a free show, featuring Santana.



But it was a little hard to maneuver. There were thousands of people milling around. It was hard to walk anywhere. Where we finally ended up, somewhere on the street about 3 blocks away from the actual concert (they had big viewing screens up so that those losers in the back – us – could at least enjoy some of it), a guy with a bicycle carriage sat. One of those things you see in footage about the streets of China. And he’s just sitting there, in a giant crowd of people, and two older women are sitting inside the carriage, waiting for someone. Or something. I never stayed around to see how they got out of that mass of people. It was probably a good story though.

We only stayed for three songs. Or rather, we got there at the end so we could only see three songs. At one point we saw Santana on the giant screen. But the rest was blurred debauchery, set in some foreign land. Night fell, and we left with the rest of the crowd.



Before the trudging along got to us, Tamas and Miki (who I just remembered was there) started playing football (soccer) with a crushed water bottle. Jaro, Tamas and Miki are running around swatting at this bottle, bouncing off people, not seeming to notice. I have to pee like its my job, and I look up the lighted streets of Andrassy utca with the mass of people and cops lining the sidewalks. Hmm. Gotta get something to keep my mind off urination.

So I run after them. Leaving Szilvi behind. What the fuck?! I think I hear her yell after me.



We run and jump and kick and run into as many people as we can, falling over police cars and making fools of ourselves. Someone asks me what my problem is and I scream ‘its my birthday!’ and run off. I don’t look back to see if he understands. Probably wouldn’t if I wasn’t drunk and had to pee like a mad man. Only the running after the ball – plastic bottle – keeps me sane.

We reach Oktogon and I’m standing there looking up at the lights and dark night sky, hearing the masses of language and people pass behind me, around me, through me. I must be smiling. I can’t really remember, because after everything, after all that I had gone through and all that I knew I would have to go through soon, after all that came crashing down on me, I was still there, looking up at the lights and night sky. Still standing. Still alive.

I’m hungry, I say, looking around.

We dip into a park where I once told Szilvi she could never hurt my feet with my boots on. She looked at me that night and said, Are you sure? Of course I’m sure, I boast. Her heel comes crashing down on my toes and I’m bowled over like a hurricane just ripped my big toe off. What the hell is wrong with you?!?

We never played that game again.

Jaro, Szilvi and I sit on a bench and talk. She gives me a box of toffee filled chocolate, and chocolate covered banana. Did you really get this for my birthday or did you just get this to eat? I say, looking at the boxes with a dubious expression on my face. I don’t think she answers me, but tells me Happy Birthday instead. It was actually really good, the chocolate with toffee and banana.

We get up to leave. Someone has mentioned McDonald’s. It’s up the street at Oktagon. At this point I can eat anything. I look back at the bench as I leave, and at the homeless people laying and drinking on the opposite bench. I don’t know it then but I will be wishing I had photographic memory.



45 minutes later we’re standing on the 4-6 tram, going towards Jaro’s flat. We’ve just eaten at McDonald’s and wow. Such a drunk food. Whenever I eat it I think of Super Size Me, but obviously that hasn’t stopped me. Sometimes, it is good to splurge on really bad food for you. After all, Hungarian food is really bad for you, but at least its not fake food. Like McDonald’s.

I call it McFood.

So we’re standing on the tram and I’m watching the lights go by and people around me are talking. Something is bothering me. I check my phone. No, it’s not 12 yet. I can still pull off the birthday thing. What is it? I shake my head and continue to watch people around me. Jaro and Szilvi are close and talking about something. I can’t hear them, but my mind is racing. What is it?

Oh SHIT.

My mind is jumping back throughout the day. The shooting. The bridge. The sausage. The wedding. The wine. The concert. The park. What did I have with me the whole time? My bag. I look down.

Hmm. No bag.

FUCK.

Jaro is looking at me now. Szilvi too. They look concerned. I must be ash white. I’m still thinking back. My heart is somewhere near my ankles. I can’t fucking remember where I last had my bag! I haven’t said anything, and now Jaro is asking me whats wrong.

My bag.

His eyebrows arch. Uh oh.

I make a quick inventory of what exactly I had in there. Hmm, let’s see. Video camera. Still camera. Wallet. Keys.

Fuck. Me.

I look at my phone again. It’s still not the 29th. God damnit. So much for an amazing birthday.

The tram comes in to Blaha at this point. I’m getting off, I say. Tamas and Miki say something like, Ok have fun. Jaro and Szilvi get off with me. I think they understand my predicament.

Where was the last place I had it. In the park? I’m thinking back. Hard. I can’t remember. Jesus Christ. If I left it there, those drunk homeless Hungarians are sure to have it by now! I can’t even think about it. They’re probably having sex with my camera by now.

No. I didn’t leave it at the park. Remember? I looked back. I looked at the bench. I put the chocolate in my bag. And I had it with me. Yes!

And then my heart falls again.

McDonald’s. God damnit.

I’m standing at the night bus stop, with Jaro and Szilvi in tow. I’m saying something incomprehensible. Like, Fuck me fuck me fuck me I cant believe I did that that is my life oh my god oh my god I am so fucked and McDonald’s really what the hell was I thinking?!

Jaro is looking at me again. He tells me not to worry. He’s left his stuff places all the time. I’m just going through the natural frenzy that happens when you lose something.

I’m trying to ignore him. God damn logic.

‘And plus, you had this coming.’

I look at him. What? Why? And then I think back. Oh yeah. The shit storm. He had made this point earlier in the day: I had a shit storm coming. It was on the horizon. And I had a good reason for it, too. I had just broken up with Jamie, and while it was the best for the both of us, I still had it coming. That’s what karma is. It doesn’t let you go for good behavior. It will come. Because it always does.

God damnit. I can’t take the shit storm right now, I’m mumbling, now on the night bus back to Oktagon. The bus rolls up to the rippling square, and I jump out, running towards the entrance to McDonald’s. I’m ready for anything. Except for what was waiting for me.

My bag. It was still there.

I run in and snatch it up with a big smile on my face. People are staring. I look at my phone. What is the time? 11:59. No shit. I walk out with my bag on my shoulder. Jaro and Szilvi are laughing. I’m laughing.

My 23rd birthday. It was amazing. And it even had some drama thrown in. I take a deep breath. And think back. And frown. The clock ticks twelve. I can hear it somewhere. A church?

The shit storm.

It’s still coming.

Yes. I'm still alive.

Some time has passed since my last post, and while I have been taking a hiatus from writing (I have been thinking about the reasons behind this, and they will be shared soon), I plan to be back soon in the pilot seat. And just to make sure you believe I'm still around, this is I three nights ago:

Some future stories I will share involve my long birthday, being solicited for sex (you wouldn't believe where), getting stuck in the rain in Buda with no night transportation (that's me above soaked to the bone) and whatever else comes to mind.

Injured.

Mail. It’s something we all take for granted. We know it will get to the place you send it because damnit that’s how it is supposed to be. You put a stamp on a letter, drop the letter into a drop box, and you know it will get to it’s intended destination. It’s like email, but so much slower and yet still dependable.

I can imagine, way back in the day, the post workers galloping on horseback across the American West, making sure to get the ‘rush’ (who knows how long, 2 weeks maybe?) mail to the waiting person. I feel like I am encountering this 19th century occurrence in Budapest. Except everyone has cell phones. And its modern day.

Wait. Let’s go back.

It is a commonly known fact that when it comes to postal services, Hungary is a black hole in which nothing escapes. I say this because one of the first things I was told on arrival on my first tour of this crazy country, was: Do not let anyone send you packages or mail or anything of the sort. You will not receive it, don’t even think about, you will be sorry if you did.

Well, damn. There goes those care packages.

That first year I’m fairly positive I was never sent anything. I do remember sending out some post cards, but those never went anywhere (or the people never told me they received them). Either way, it sucked. Just think: What would it be like if you could not trust the post? No Amazon (!). No eBay (!!). No Netflix (Fuck!). Really, when you think about what you use the post for (although it is totally archaic and really when are they going to invent the teleport?), it is mind boggling to think that you could not put your trust in it, and therefore never use it.

This is just one of the many problems I have run into over here. And while I do miss it (I could kill for an international Netflix account – if I could trust the post I was receiving it from), sometimes you get used to things that you once had but now are gone. Such is the life of the young (poor) expat living away from his homeland. Then again, that young (poor) expat living in his homeland might be in the same situation. With many more vices.

So when I heard I would be receiving a package with a certain birthday present inside from Mom and Taryn, I was more than apprehensive. I was waiting for the bomb to drop. Or is it the other shoe? After all, Jamie had sent me a letter, and the local post sat on it for over a month and a half. I know this because there is a stamp on all letters and packages and whatnot that customs has received it. And when I looked at the date, it was a month and a half old. This was not a good sign.

It went like this:

I walk into the office, late – of course – and reception hands me two things. One is an envelope containing massively important stuff – a new debit card – and a small sheet of official looking paper. Its all in Hungarian so I look at the receptionist and say, What’s this?

Your package was injured. You need to go pick it up at the post office.

Oh great.

Just the fact she used the word ‘injured’ makes it even worse. Sometimes, I wonder if Hungarians use English words which they think they know the meaning to and actually it’s just a wild guess. Sometimes this works. Other times, its just stupid. I could understand something had happened to the package. But injured? What the hell am I supposed to make of that? When I asked her she just kept saying ‘It’s injured’. Which of course did not help my situation.

So I look up the address to this post office, and its somewhere behind the Keleti train station. Which is a couple blocks from my office. So I start on my journey.

Half an hour later I walk through the post office door. Sweat is running down my face, neck and back. Its only 85 degrees F but the humidity adds another 10 or 15. It was a bad situation because when I looked on the map, it really looked easy to find. I was wrong. Also, no one at the other entrance spoke English, so explaining how to find the ‘injured’ packages was a hoot. And when I say a hoot I mean fucking kill me please.

I walk up to an unhappy looking lady and hand her the official looking piece of paper they had sent me. I doubt its legible. I’m surprised it didn’t randomly combust on the way over here. She goes into a back room and I’m standing there with my arms and legs spread out. There’s no air conditioning in this place. I look like a really skinny (American) football player. Two other conversing ladies stop their conversation and stare at me.

Ok, lets see what injured means.

She brings out one of those large envelopes, not quite a package, but the thick envelopes found in any local post office or Fed Ex in the States. I bet they don’t even have those here. But this one is wrapped in plastic. She hands it to a guy who starts speaking to me, to which I just ignore him and look at the package wondering what exactly the problem is. He finally figures it out and says ‘Oh angol!’ and proceeds to call someone on the phone. I think he’s trying to get someone who speaks English on the phone, but at this point I have no interest in what this guy has to tell me.

Before I left my office, my boss/supervisor/co-worker/friend tells me: Don’t sign off on anything if anything is missing. To which I reply: But it’s a birthday present. I have no idea what is inside. His reply: Well you better start making some calls then.

Wonderful.

While my trusty Hungarian postal worker is on the phone searching for an English speaker (??), I open up the plastic around the envelope and look inside.

Ohhh. Yeah. Now I see why they said it was injured.

The envelope is ripped in half. Literally. And it’s ripped in such a way that you know someone in blaring heat decided it was a good idea to loot through a package from the States, and did nothing to cover his tracks. I look at the guy. What the hell happened? I say. He looks back at me, looks at the gaping wound, looks back at me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. And hands me a form to fill out. To which I have no idea what it’s asking, so he jabs his stubby finger at the signature line and states: Sign.

I look at the wound and the innards still inside. It doesn’t look like anything is missing. And then I realize, Well fuck, even if I knew there was something missing, there would be nothing I could do about it. The package was even insured, but that would mean nothing in this country. First they would hand me 10 forms to fill out, all of which I would never understand. Then they would probably enter me into some sort of legal program that would never go anywhere. And then I would probably end up paying my own money to pay someone who could figure out what to do in this situation. And in the end, nothing would be accomplished. My goods would still be stolen, and the black hole would still continue to wreak havoc on those retards who still use post.

I thought about this, as sweat trickles down my back and four Hungarians stare at me, waiting for my next move. God damnit.

I signed it, and got the hell out of that place.

Only later, did I know that nothing was actually stolen. But if there had been anything of value (and if your name was Hunter Hadfield), then maybe I had more to worry about. But as it turned out, there was no problem. Except for the ‘injured’ package and my journey into a hellish mind fuck known as the Hungarian Posta.

To add insult to injury, I received a letter two days later that stated (officially) that the injured package was received from the States that way, and that your trusty Hungarian postal workers are always there to help you with your goods.

I will remember that when (if ever) I receive a package unscathed.