Szerencsevadász

Stupid Nazis

2010-01-02T20:07:00.017+01:00

Back in September of 2009, Jaro and I decided to get out of the flat and check out the gay pride parade that was supposedly going on. That particular parade had become synonymous with far right neo-nazi protestors ever since the year before, when a couple protestors dropped acid and eggs on the parade from a window above the procession. It got a lot of press.

When we left the house, Jaro was commenting that he was sure we would come upon the nazi protestors. For some reason I felt the opposite. I guess I still had this notion that something like that would just never happen, that I would never be caught up in such a terrible mess of humanity. I guess it was that, and straight naivety.

Yes, I had seen Hungarians protest against the police (it’s become a common thing over the last couple years). Yes, I was aware of the gaining popularity of the Hungarian Parliamentary party named Jobbik, the farthest right group in the country. And yes, I know Hungary still has not come to complete terms with their gay population.

After all this, I was still incredulous to find myself right smack in the middle of a crowd of neo-nazis. I kept an eye on the people around Jaro. He’s not exactly white.

We started talking to two tourists who were wondering what was up with the angry crowds and police in full body armor.

So what is going on?

It’s a Nazi rally against the gay pride parade.

Are you serious?

Very.

Turns out they were trying to find the gay pride parade, just like us. They couldn’t believe the reason they couldn’t find the parade was because of a roadblock, built to keep the Nazis out. The very people we were shoulder to shoulder with.

They make a cameo in the film, btw. The girl on the bike at the end of the video, who looks scared as all hell. Yeah, welcome to Budapest.

Seeing as this was my first far right protest, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I was near the roadblock, and there was a gay man right up against the fence, trying to motion the police over. Around him people were casting sidelong glances and making comments to his face that shouldn’t be written about. I felt sorry for him, because he stuck out like a sore thumb. And he was supposed to be proud of what he was, and walking in a parade. Instead, he walks out of his door to the exact opposite. Finally the police let him through the barricade, but there was a moment when the crowd around the poor guy looked like they were going to strike.

It’s amazing to see such a shitty example of modern humanity.

After a couple minutes it became clear the police were about to make their move and push the protestors back. Jaro starts saying, Ok its about to start, lets go! I, of course, with my little point and shoot camera recording away, I say, No wait wait, hold on. Like Im some sort of reporter. Jesus.

It was when the cops started shooting tear gas into the crowd it was time to go.

You wont hear it in the video, but I whinny like a little girl as I’m running from the riot police. Looking back, it was the funniest part in a very unfunny scenario.

When they were finished with their push to disperse the crowd, the cops began to filter back to the main roadblock. Everyone else seemed to be stunned. The two tourists, the ones that were wondering what the fuck was going on, had stayed with us when we all started running. They still looked like they didn’t know what the fuck was going on.

Which was not unsurprising. What the fuck is going on in this country?

The look

2009-08-13T22:29:00.003+02:00

Being in a relationship is a funny thing. You love the person you’re seeing, but still sometimes check out another woman when she walks by. The whole system can work if you don’t let the look become anything other than just that look. It also works when you don’t let the person you’re seeing see you give that other woman the look. Because that just never goes over well.

I’m standing on the sidewalk with Noi, and we’re talking about something. I cant remember what. And a woman in a dress walks by. I must have made a discrete glance towards the passing woman because I suddenly found myself in this situation:

"

You just checked out her ass!

What? No. I…uh…was…ok so I did! But who cares?! Its not like it meant anything. I…just…looked…reflex…

Sometimes I don’t even know how I put up with you.

No, it didn’t mean anything. You know…its there…you look…it just…happened. (sputtering) Her butt isn’t even hot! Look at it! Not even hot. No attraction. Damnit.

Well you could at least wait until I was gone. I check out guys but not when you’re around.

That’s…great. Awesome. Thanks.

I can totally read you. Did you even think that look was discrete?

Well, actually, yes.

You’re not that smooth. You are so predictable. And that you almost tried to deny it! Really?

What? No! I didn’t try to…hide…anything. You know what? Lets just drop it. You cant read me. Stop that. Seriously. I hate when you’re in my head. Get out of there.

"

And now, that’s just one more story to remind me of. Like the time I watched a woman talk to her colleague with Noi standing next to me (she said I looked as if I saw rainbows and puppies in the face of the woman), or that other time I walked arm in arm with Noi and stared at a woman’s breasts as she walked by, only to have my eyes meet Noi’s as she watched me watching another (I was drunk – not an excuse but I tried).

Yeah. Those stories are not going away.

So be careful about that look. It might seem harmless. And it usually is. But when you take that chance with your own woman around, be ready to hear about it for the rest of your days.

Two Horse

2009-07-07T14:43:00.010+02:00

Below are some pictures Im putting up on a new website that Jaro and I are making. And by making I mean using a tumblr blog and carving the shit out of it. But, since we're doing this on the fly (and cheap), we're not buying servers or anything like that. So all our media will have to be put somewhere. And what better place to host images/whatever then your own blog? Video will all be hosted by vimeo. Anyway, there will be more images coming, but its not important for this blog. Plus, it will really only be relegated to this post, so hopefully not so obvious. Hopefully.

We Should Have Listened

2009-05-06T22:40:00.000+02:00

The following story is true.

A long time ago, in a land far far away, there was a man. His name was Hunter. He had a friend named Jaro, and they saw each other through the darkest, and lightest, of times in their adopted home, named Budapest, Hungary.

Both men were steel headed and knew what they wanted, and said things that they thought were true. Most times, they were true. Some times, they weren’t. But not for lack of trying, or lying. They just did not know all possible meanings to the questions they posed.

One day, they decided something: they would live together in an unbeknownst flat. They figured with all the time they spent together, it would make sense that they should live together, because really, who wants to walk home in the dead of night in the freezing cold when they could walk across their living room instead?

Three weeks into their flat searching, the search was coming up dry. It was stressful, because each knew what they wanted, but they could not find what they were looking for. There was a strict set of rules they wanted to see implemented in this new flat, but each time they went to see a prospective property, it came up lacking.

Finally, a day came that would change everything. It was a Sunday. Hunter, tired of waiting for Szilvi, Jaro’s girlfriend, to find a flat that seemed un-findable, got onto the website that never seemed to fail. Craigslist.

There, upon chance, he saw something that was incredible, nay, indescribable, for the price. A flat in the center of the city, nearest the most expensive street in the whole of Budapest, for a pittance.

He emailed the proprietor immediately, stating that he was interested in viewing.

One day later, Hunter and Jaro, with their girlfriends, Noemi and Szilvi, walked through this flat wondering how it could be so good. And really, how could it be that good? The owner, named Sean, from Canada, seemed like a nice gay man with all the right answers. Everything Jaro and Hunter asked, he seemed to have the answer that both were looking for.

Within 10 minutes, they were negotiating the terms of the lease. It was too good to be true. Everything they were looking for in a flat, in the right neighborhood, for the right price, was placed in front of their face, on a silver platter. Both were ecstatic with the prospect of living in such an area, with such a nice flat, with such a knowing landlord.

They would say later to themselves that they could see themselves hanging out with Sean, kicking it in some unnamed bar and laughing at some rude joke.

One week later, Jaro and Hunter sign a lease, right in their nice new future flat. Everything seems to be working. Sean has all the paperwork, both the leases, in English and Hungarian, that is custom in Hungary.

Two weeks remain before they move in to the flat. Sean states that some things must be re-painted, but neither of the men are much listening. They are admiring the new digs around them. Things are going well for both Jaro and Hunter.

One week before they are supposed to move in to their flat, Hunter finds he must travel to Prague on a business trip a couple days before the set move in date. He relays this information to both Sean and Jaro, both of which acknowledge.

One day before leaving for Prague, and three days before the move in date, Sean tells both Jaro and Hunter that they can move in their stuff, but that they will have to wait until the actual move in date to, well, move in, because they are re-finishing the floors. Since Sean has kept in communication with Hunter and Jaro continually over the last three weeks, and being the nice guy that he is, they agree and thank him for the opportunity.

Hunter leaves for Prague, and waits to hear from Jaro, when he is lounging in the flat without him after moving in. Hunter thinks he will get a call, stating something like this: I’ve pissed in all the corners and now you’ll have to piss in the corners you want. Either way, the whole flat is mine and haha you are not here to stop me.

Or at least, something much funnier than this, but that seems funny in Hunter’s mind.

Instead, Hunter gets a very unnerving phone call from Jaro the day after Jaro is supposed to have moved in. It goes something like this:

I’ve got some bad news. I don’t know where Sean is. He’s disappeared. I keep trying to call him and he’s not picking up. I have no idea whats happening. I’m practically homeless at the moment, but this shit is ridiculous. That flat has all our stuff in it, and we’re not able to sleep in it? What the fuck is this shit?

To which Hunter dutifully replies: Wait, what?

Now both Jaro and Hunter are searching for answers where none exist. What IS going on? The next few hours Hunter cannot think straight, because his mind is trapped in the situation miles away, in Budapest. Still in Prague, he cannot deny the growing helplessness that grips his gut. No…. He couldn’t have.

On returning to his hotel room, Hunter grabs his laptop and proceeds out of his hotel room and into the stairs right outside the lobby. The wifi signal has decided to boycott his room, so he is forced to sit on the stairs and write a thoughtful yet condescending email to Sean while listening for people who are approaching, wary of the looks he might receive while sitting on the stairs outside the lobby, writing an email.

He hits send, and takes a deep breath. This should all be over in a… and then, there is an email in his inbox, instantly.

Send failed. Recipient’s email does not exist.

That was Sean’s email back, because his email was deleted.

Now Hunter is finally seeing the big picture, and just as he drops his hand into his pant’s pocket to call Jaro, Jaro calls him.

You’re not going to believe it, he starts. But Hunter already does, though he is still in shock.

The lease, worth something around $1,400 with 2 months deposit and first month rent, is gone. Sean Kirkham, if that is his real name, has just conned two Americans in Budapest out of a shitload of money.

Later, Jaro calls Hunter to tell him the story keeps unfolding, that there were multiple people who were in the same predicament: They all signed leases and gave over their hard earned money. They all were caught with their pants down.

Later still, Jaro calls again to tell him that now its official, that he absolutely knows they were fleeced. And how is that, Hunter wonders aloud. Because the owner is coming to the flat now to open the door, to let us get our stuff.

For a second, this doesn’t make sense. What do you mean, the owner? Sean owned the flat.

No, Hunter, he didn’t. He never owned shit.

Much later, Jaro calls for the last update. He tells Hunter that their bags and boxes with all their belongings have been ransacked. Some have been stolen, but its still not clear what. Hunter asks about his most important items he knows were stored in his suitcase, but Jaro cannot be sure. All the contents of their bags are strewn across the floor. It’s like carnage, he keeps saying.

Hunter sits in a restaurant, a restaurant from his past, when he used to live in Prague, when things looked peachy to begin with. But as he learned, the life that was supposed to happen in Prague never happened. And as he clicks off the phone, he sits watching all the smiling and laughing faces around him, and wonders about the future.

Ahead of him, there are many things he can see, but what he cannot see, is where he will be sleeping the night he gets back to his home, Budapest. That place, was supposed to be reserved for his new and tidy room in Sean’s flat, but was so forcefully shattered by the enigma that was Sean, a con artist that caught the best of them.

Hunter recalls what should have been a flashing light in the darkness, showing them the way. Fifteen minutes after looking at the flat, and agreeing with Sean about the price and time of move in, Jaro, Hunter, Szilvi and Noemi sit at a small bar on Andrassy ut, the most expensive street in Budapest. What they think is their new flat is just around the corner, and they are all glowing with the discovery that they finally are moving up in the world.

Everything seemed to working. Everything seemed to be right. And Jaro says: It just seems too good to be true.

And we should have listened.

the Reservation

2009-01-31T17:20:00.000+01:00

Back in December, Jaro’s birthday is days away and I wanted to treat him to something everyone in Budapest must experience at least once: Mongolian Barbeque. It’s a big restaurant in Buda, banquet-style, but instead of cooked food in front of you, they have a large banquet of uncooked meats and vegetables and whatever else they happen to serve. You put everything on your plate, take it to the ‘chef’, and he cooks everything on a ginormous skillet in front of you. I’ve seen variations of this method in the States, but nothing that you pick the marinated meat out yourself and just hand it over to the chef.

It’s all you can eat, and for the measly price of 5,000 HUF (roughly $23), it’s all beer, wine and sangria you can drink as well. This place is incredible. I’ve known people who over-eat and puke by the end, however. My advice: Watch how much you eat and drink.

So there we are, riding the red line of the metro all the way up to Déli pályaudvar, the last stop in Buda. From there, it’s a quick tram ride up the main street, and a 5 minute walk down a small side street to one of the culinary gems of Budapest.

We’re sitting on one of the wide benches watching people (one of the only things you can do on the metro). Jaro nudges me and motions to two girls sitting up the car, and I smile approvingly. Not that they were particularly attractive, but just that there were two of them and two of us. That whole thing like, Well, if I didn’t have a girlfriend I would go over there and start something. You ready, Mr. Wingman? It’s mainly an inside joke between him and I, but I think this is a pretty universal thing between two male friends. Regardless of their relationship status, there is always something about having your buddy around and coming upon the same set of the opposite sex.

But then again, I thought nothing of it and continued to watch the other people around me. We get off at Déli and walk to the tram stop. While waiting we notice the same two girls walking up to our stop.

What do you think? He asks.

What do you mean, what do I think?

Think I should ask them for a night on the town? With that sly smile of his. You know when he’s maliciously joking while he smiles like that.

Yeah sure buddy, why don’t you go over there and do it? Lets see those skills of yours.

But then, he didn’t. We just laughed about it and shrugged our shoulders and swore about how cold it was. The tram comes, we all get on, and jump off at our stop. I turn around, and the same two girls are getting off behind us.

Huh. You don’t think they’re going to Mongolian Bbq? I wonder aloud.

Naw, I doubt it. But that would be pretty funny if they did. Come to our table, ladies. This is fate, since we were on the same public transportation as you.

Yeah that’s going to work.

We turn up the side street and see the restaurant’s sign. I’m salivating just at the thought of entering this place again. Both of us cannot wait to get inside, and then we hear the same click of heels we’ve heard for the last 10 minutes behind us walking up the street.

Shit I think they are going to Mongolian Bbq! Haha!

This is fate man, this is fate! I knew it!

We’re laughing as we walk in, and the smells of the freshly cooked marinated meat hits us like a wall of heat. Oh yeah.

Hello, yes, table of two please?

Shouldn’t we ask for a table of four?

Shut up dude!

I hear the door ding and the pair of following girls walk in and start taking their winter layers off. This is going to be interesting. I turn back to the guy, because he starts to ask me something.

Reservation?

Uh, no.

Oh, I see. His brow crinkles and he goes into the other room.

Jaro and I exchange looks. Uh oh.

The man from before walks back with a friend. The other guy speaks:

Hello yes I am very sorry but you need a reservation tonight. Here is our card. Please have a nice night.

He hands me the card and Im staring dumbly at it in my hand. What? No Mongolian Bbq? Reservation? I’m not eating amazing food? How can this be?

The first host turns behind us to the girls, and they both smile and give him a name. He looks down at his list, smiles, checks something off, and waves them inside. They both walk past us and look at us like we are weak insignificant lost souls wandering through the night.

My mouth is hanging open. I am so embarrassed.

Oh my god. Did you just see that?!

Jaro is shaking his head and covering his face in shame with his hands. Oh god, lets please leave. I cant believe this.

We both walk back outside, and just stand there for a full 60 seconds looking out at the night. Not moving. Going over the last 10 minutes. And the utter fail, the utter embarrassment of getting turned away after acting like the shit, while two girls who we were half jokingly trying to impress, walk right in behind us and see our failure in progress, then flit by like they owned the place.

Oh my god. I cannot believe what just happened. I just can’t believe it.

Jaro is still shaking his head. We were so burned there. So burned, dude.

I try to get over my embarrassment for 5 seconds and take stock of our situation. Well now what?

I don’t know.

C’mon lets find a bar.

We run into a kócsma, which is basically a locals-filled bar that can fit into a small closet. Think Cheers on a vastly smaller scale. And filled with old drunk Hungarians who don’t speak a word of English.

We both sit down and look deftly at our beers. I’m still holding the Mongolian Bbq’s business card in my hand.

After five minutes of just sitting there, its pretty clear we both feel the same way: Totally embarrassed by the situation, and now resigned to our fate of drinking a cheap beer in a total shit hole.

Of course, I should have known to make a reservation. But it was a Wednesday night, and I thought it would have been empty at a time like this. The past three times I had been it was easy to get a table, even when there was a massive group of us. But that wasn’t the worst thing about this. Not eating the amazing food, ok, yeah that sucks. But the looks the girls gave us when they walked by. Jeez. Made the culinary heartbreak and social humiliation all the worse.

By the time we finished our beers, we’ve both vexed considerably about the whole situation.

Jesus Christ that was bad!

I know I know! I just still can’t believe it.

Of all the things! Argh!

Damn. And those looks…

I know! Oh god that was terrible.

We continue to shake our heads simultaneously until a loud CRACK wakes us from our shame. The noise has come from a patron who passed out while trying to walk, as her head smacked into the concrete floor. I look at the time. It’s 7:30 at night. Jesus.

Now all the patrons are swarming around her, trying to wake her up. Her husband (or father, I can’t tell) is holding her head up from the floor and telling the bartender (in Hungarian) to get her a glass of water with sugar. But before she can get this, another tells her, No get her a glass of orange juice! The bartender is searching through her bar. There’s no orange juice! Fine then, any juice! She pulls out pineapple juice, pours a glass, and brings it to the lips of the girl who looks to be having a minor seizure on the floor.

Jaro and I look at each and nod. Ok, let’s go. We get up and walk out the way we came, away from the craziness of the locals and their drunken woes.

At least something was able to make it clear to us that, really, a little embarrassment was the least of our worries.

The Illusion Can Only Last So Long

2009-01-13T21:01:00.011+01:00

I’m standing in the concessions line at the movie theater at MOM Park. The Park is a shopping complex in the hills of Buda. It’s hugely popular among expats, probably because their million-dollar homes are a stone’s throw away from it. I rarely hear Hungarian, and I often times forget for a split second where I am, thinking I’m wandering through an American mall. But something always brings me back. The illusion can only last so long.

MOM Park is also one of the few (or last) places to find films in their original language. In other words, American films released in English. I could go on and on about how much I hate the dubbing (or ‘synchronizing’ as these Magyars call it) practice in film, and even more that most Hungarians somehow believe the film is better when dubbed than in the original language. I only see red when I encounter these people (most happen to be my friends).

Films were meant to be in their original language. Period. That’s why it’s called the ORIGINAL language.

The movie theater in MOM Park is one of the last havens for these. Dubbing has become the norm, and I see no end in sight to this terrifying trend. Magyars just love their speech pasted over the lips of American actors. So I get to the Park often, because this dubbing manifesto seems to be gaining strength of iron and will.

Which is somewhat ironic, because I’m there to see a Hungarian film. With English subtitles. One of the other reasons I love MOM Park: the only place in Hungary with Hungarian films subtitled into another language.

But back to the concessions line. Noémi needs water so we’re there. I never get concessions. I never buy stuff at movie theaters. I can’t stand the way they over price the stuff. I might think twice if they sold beer, but then I would have to pee half way through the film, so I shake that idea out of my head. Plus, I’m more interested in mentally swearing at the guy in front of me. Really, what is this guy doing? We’ve been standing here for 5 minutes with NO change. Argh!

My eyes wander the faces around me, and settle on a man a couple yards away from me looking at the movie posters. He’s not so imposing, but I notice people are keeping a wide berth around him. I mean, there’s no one around him. It’s really crowded too. And everyone is staring. And pointing.

Wait, what’s going on here?

The guy turns around and I realize why the people are staring. He wears a sweater and jeans, glasses and this funny half smile. Like he knows something we don’t. And he probably does, or is putting on a half-assed display to make people think something that may or may not be true.

After all, this is the same guy that got caught (via secret recording device) telling his colleague Hungary was broke, and that he had lied to the people to win an election. The same guy who stood fast in 2006 as some of the worst riots since the Soviet invasion of 1956 occurred, watching as angry Magyars chanting for his resignation ripped up the streets and laid waste to anything that lay in their path. The very same guy who shrugged his shoulders as Hungary’s currency went from strong to such a devaluation that the IMF immediately approved an emergency $31 billion loan to help the struggling country to its feet again, wary of the Iceland economic disaster.

This man is Ferenc Gyurcsány, the Prime Minister of Hungary.

And he’s now standing not ten feet away from me, looking at movie posters.

At first I don’t really know what to think, because this is such a strange occurrence. Gyurcsány is Bush’s equivalent, and hated almost as much by his own people (possibly more so, as Gyurcsány’s approval rating among the 10 million people across the republic of Hungary is slim to none). That being said, he’s still the PM. He’s famous. I’ve seen him speak once before (never understanding a word he said), but still, that was up on a stage in front of the Parliament building. This is me standing across from the man in the lobby of a movie theatre.

With everyone staring. Or no wait. Glaring. Yeah that’s it. Eyes boring into his skull.

I poke Noémi and motion behind her.

Look, isn’t that…?

Oh. Yeah. Weird, it is.

People are staring.

They should. That guy fucked our country over.

And that’s the opinion I’ve encountered among most, if not all, the Hungarians I’ve talked politics with. They’re all Victor Orbán supporters, the leader of the opposing party. But I see no difference between either of them. They’re both part of the Old Guard, something I try to explain to every Hungarian who happens to express an interest in what I think about their country’s political situation. The conversation usually devolves into a shouting match about why Hungary sucks politically, but before that happens, I try to tell them that the Old Guard is dead. The economic and social situation will not change once Orbán takes control in 2010 (he has previously held the PM position). Hungary is fucked until they usher in the next generation.

The country will never change unless the New Guard rises up out of the shit their older counterparts left behind.

This view/arguing point usually leads to dejected faces and statements like, ‘Well, what can I do?’ or ‘I’m just one person, how can I do anything to change a whole country?’

And it always makes me laugh, which only makes things worse.

For a people who are so proud of their revolutions, they seem to forget their history. But then, how can they look past the centuries of occupation, border re-structuring and bad decisions made over the years? That would make anyone a cynic.

And these people are the mothers, fathers and children of all cynics.

Meanwhile, back at MOM Park, Gyurcsány, the most hated man in Hungary, turns around and walks into the same theater Noémi and I are just about to make our way in to. I still am a little shell shocked, seeing a major political figure, with absolutely no secret service crawling up the walls, and about to watch the same film.

It’s like a joke: The American professional with his Hungarian girlfriend walk into a movie theater in Hungary. The film is Hungarian, with English subtitles, with the Hungarian Prime Minister in attendance, in a Cineplex devoted to those foreign expats who control all the money in the country.

But what’s the punch line?

Chance Progression

2008-12-26T11:30:00.005+01:00

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

2008-12-26T11:02:00.002+01:00

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

2008-12-25T11:54:00.005+01:00

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

2008-12-20T17:05:00.003+01:00

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

2008-12-17T20:15:00.000+01:00

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

2008-11-26T13:30:00.003+01:00

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

2008-11-25T12:42:00.000+01:00

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

2008-11-24T19:46:00.003+01:00

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

2008-10-14T19:49:00.004+02:00

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

2008-09-30T20:51:00.003+02:00

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

2008-09-21T13:17:00.004+02:00

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...

2008-08-28T20:33:00.003+02:00

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

2008-08-06T18:38:00.001+02:00

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

2008-07-30T18:51:00.005+02:00

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

2008-07-28T21:01:00.004+02:00

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

2008-07-25T19:29:00.004+02:00

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.

2008-07-20T18:57:00.004+02:00

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.

2008-06-26T19:06:00.003+02:00

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.

Sack!

2008-06-21T11:48:00.007+02:00

The first clip of our short film, Sack.

This was the dreaded dropping the cam out the window scene, of which we had to do it twice. This was, of course, because Jaro in all his genius did not get out of the shot when Dori drops it. To be sure, all of us were apprehensive, especially me, waiting two stories down wondering when the hell they are going to drop the thing. So I don't really blame Jaro for being a complete moron the first take. Even though we were adamantly opposed to multiple takes for this shot. Because I really could not see us taking the chance a second time. And of course, we did.

Also of note: Watch Dori watching Jaro running out of the frame. Classic confused look.

When Light Bends

2008-06-17T18:49:00.021+02:00

There is a place in the VIII. district called Ambient. One of Jaro's places, that one day we found our way to and I was captivated. And not because that day I played shrink with Jaro and Szilvi. That was just an added bonus. What I saw in this place was Szimpla kert, compressed to its roots, and still cool. Oh, you don't know what Szimpla is? Don't worry about it. In 5 years time it will be anything but.

Ambient is a corner bar, supposedly something different downstairs, but that has been closed for as long as I've gone there (two weeks). They say you take your shoes off downstairs. A novel idea in one of the dirtiest cities on the planet. That aside, they were smart in creating this place. The tone, while hippy in some ways, is never yuppy, and always opens its arms to the next visitor. Even stray dogs.

So. I wanted to share some photos from the place. I've been playing with the settings on my camera (some have called it a piece of shit -- fair enough), and found that I can do some things with light that I wish I had known years ago. Seriously. Why the fuck does it take this long to figure this stuff out? Oh right. Welcome to the world.

Circles of light.

While blurry, a face can still tell a story.

The three wise shadows: light bends and what once was is now different.

The color is broken. And that's ok...

Jaro watches. A lone moment.

Light plays across their faces like...like...color.that.can.be.seen.but.really.is.it.there?oh.yes.it.is!

The street brings all kinds of things inside. When you are ready, you will see what you don't want to see.

We left Ambient. This is now a park somewhere in the VIII. District. Somewhere. Dave sits, whining 'Why do I have to pose?' Godamnit just do it! 'But this is stupid' You will thank me later 'What you mean now?' What?!?

I see Dave as Jesus. The next. The one that is supposed to come. Sacrilegious? No. Ok, maybe. Armageddon on the horizon? Yeah that's scary.

the Last Stop

2008-06-09T20:12:00.005+02:00

Sam, Jaro and I sit at a picnic table. We’ve just hiked around Zugliget, a huge park up in the Buda Hills for the past five hours. You take the 21 Bus all the way up. To Normafa. That’s the last stop.

It’s an incredible place. The view from the top gives you a bird’s eye view of all of Budapest. It also reminds you of the capitalist system now in place in Hungary. There are rich families. With big fucking mansions.

It feels like Malibu. Only greener.

I had come up here the day before on a shoot. It went like this: Go up to Normafa. We need that view in this video. Whats Normafa? What do you mean ‘What’s Normafa?’

Next thing I know I’m sitting in a slow smelly bus going up into the hills. Its over 90 degrees Fahrenheit. I haven’t been this hot since last summer. And at least I had the Puget Sound to jump into. Now I’m stuck on a bus, sticking with sweat, with some weird girl staring at me. I look away. I figure she’s slightly retarded; by the way she’s staring. Some time later she shambles off, her arm and face pointing in the wrong direction, every way she turns.

I was right.

By the time I finally reached Normafa, I’ve gone through a transformation. There are rich Hungarians! No fucking way!! It really is a revelation.

Then I start to wonder if that’s all the expats that own those houses that I’m trying get to come here to buy more expensive houses in the hills. I wonder what the Magyars in Pest think about this place? It probably doesn’t matter. They won’t ever understand.

I was only there for 30 minutes, but it was worth it. The view can be caught on camera, but it doesn’t match the feeling. Maybe that’s what happens when you get used to city life. I hop on the bus back. I know I’ll be back soon. This place is awesome.

Twenty four hours later: Sam, Jaro and I sit at a picnic table. We’re exhausted. Or at least I am. Jaro and I sit on one side of the picnic table. Our view is this magnificent meadow with the sun raining down upon it. A large group of Hungarian Goth musicians are tuning their instruments up under the trees across the field. They hide from the sun too. Sam’s view is different. There’s a wall of trees behind us. She tells us there’s a snail crawling up the tree. I’m watching the Goths.

Some time later this conversation came to be:

Sam: Do you brush your hair every day?
Hunter: Yes.
Sam: Why?
Hunter: I don’t know. I just do.
Sam: What would happen if you didn’t?
Hunter: I’m not sure. It would be messy.

(silence for a while…Sam starts to laugh and hides her face in her hands)

Hunter: What’s up?
Sam: Nothing.
Hunter: No, you’re happy now. What happened?
Sam: I don’t know. I just am now.

(we both look at Jaro at the same time. He hasn’t spoken in 5 minutes; its like a record)

Jaro: Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just watching the leaves fall.

It was that kind of hike.

A Sort of Calm in Magyarorszag

2008-05-29T20:06:00.016+02:00

Like I said in my last post, I’ve been struggling to keep up with my life: the office, the nights of planning, the shooting, the waking and aching in the morning. After last weekend, it was time for a change.

And change I did. This week has been low key, to the point that I can actually think straight without stopping to think, ‘Wait, what happened last night?’ Not that that is necessarily a bad thing, because its not, as all are shaking their heads, but it is something different here in Magyarorszag. There’s an accent somewhere in there, but I don’t feel like racking my brain to figure out which letter. (It means Hungary.)

Instead, this week has been a sort of detox. Jaro almost got fired from his job after sleeping through another English lesson (it was the homemade wine) and he has sworn off alcohol for seven days. I’m broke, because it’s the end of the month, so its not like I can do much of anything anyway. And the general surroundings have just calmed down. It’s probably the excessive heat, which is really that bad. I walk to the office (10 minutes) and it feels like I’ve taken a bath. In sweat. With my clothes on.

Lovely.

….I love when I’m writing and I’m thinking of the end product of what I really want to say and I get halfway there and then poof! Its like I was never meant to write that paragraph because I really have no idea where I was going with it, at least now, now that I’m actually writing about how I don’t know where I’m going with it. I think that sort of defeats the purpose of writing. It’s like Jamie said back in Prague: In the past, people have written masterpieces all their lives and never got published. Now, any chump can be published online.

I obviously take that to heart.

And what I can’t write, I can show with pictures. This is the second (of many) mini-albums which I hope to put online over the next couple months about what I see and do in my crazy life over here.

But first, some back story.

As I said before (I think I just remembered where I was going with this back in the first paragraph), Jaro and I have taken it upon ourselves to shoot our first film together. It just so happens we throw the most difficult and ridiculous attributes into the mix, that we must be crazy. And I don’t doubt it.

The first weekend of shooting went well, though we’re going to have to shoot everything again. The reasons are plentiful. Sometimes it was the actors, forgetting lines or just not being off paper. Or it was me trying to hold the camera against the gravestone mimicking a POV shot (and failing). I can’t think of what Jaro did wrong but I assure you there were plenty of things.

The best story that came out of all this involved Jaro, Tamas and I. Tamas plays the philosophical homeless man (seen below) teaching the weed what his purpose is, and he definitely looks the part and did a good job. But when it came to the climactic scene, when he leaves the sack on a gravestone and walks off…well it did not go off as planned. To explain: Jaro was the voice of our green and mellow hero. He stood off camera and said his lines (all of which we realized needed to be dubbed – but that’s another story) while Tamas spouted his unending wisdom to the camera. The whole point was that he was always looking at the camera, because that’s where our protagonist’s voice was ‘coming’ from.

It took me a couple takes to realize he didn’t understand this difficult concept.

As he walks off, Jaro yells ‘Hold on! I’m not done yet!’, and Tamas turns and looks at Jaro, and says his line, ‘You’re absolutely right’ (but its in Hungarian and I cant remember exactly how it goes). He hit the line perfectly, but every time he looked at Jaro. Not at the camera. The lense is the character and the audience, and he’s standing there saying the line and he’s not looking where he’s supposed to. After going through it multiple times, Jaro and I realized that he would have to stand behind the camera for him to look at the camera.

Sure enough, Tamas still looked off camera. Damnit…

In a normal shooting situation (when you actually had paid actors and permits and lights and money), this would not be a problem. But our shoot was especially difficult because of our scenes being entire long shots, as I’ve already mentioned. Any fuck up, which is sure to happen, brings you back to square one. It’s one of the most frustrating film exercises, but when you pull it off, you feel like a golden god.

We were not golden gods that day.

However, we found that our original blocking was wrong, and needed to change. So some good did come out of it. Next weekend (heavy showers are forecast – why not?!) it should be better.

Here are some pics that I thought were worth mentioning:

The light that day was pretty amazing.

Tamas was ready for anything that day.

Cemeteries are sad but so beautiful sometimes.

Jaro tries to make Tamas look homeless. It's tough (easy?).

We throw the camera out the window. This is the view. The open window in the middle...thats the window it drops from.

The opening scene. I probably should be on my post. But I love the shot.

Kristof and Dori take a break...this is what happens when two people get camera happy.

Elvis wants you!

Jaro relaxes between bottles...I means breaks.

Our three actors after a long afternoon. They deserve a sitdown.

A Birth Day

2008-05-24T13:29:00.007+02:00

I'd like to stop and wish my little bro a very happy birthday.

Talon,

Happy Birthday.

I love you buddy. I wish I was there to watch you grow taller than your big brother.

Not Just Another Stoner Film

2008-05-24T12:57:00.002+02:00

I've been wanting to post a bunch of stuff over the last week, but Jaro and I have been working hard on getting this short film off the ground. Today and tomorrow is the shoot, as long as the weather holds. The last seven days has basically been getting the actors together, going through the script, hard, going around looking at locations, running from security guards with beat sticks in the air, playing with f-stops, explaining to the actors ok this is what we want, they do it, stop them, ok this is what we really want, watch them and do it again.

So I have two full time jobs these days: My work at Move One, where I edit short informational videos and print business cards, and I get home, have an hour to eat, and then do the film thing until 2 or 3 in the morning. I can say one thing: this shit is hard when you're going full tilt running on 4 hours of sleep and its just non stop.

Be that as it may, it has been an awesome experience so far, and I'm going to post short excerpts and photos from the shoot once (if?) we get through the next two days. The editing and music process will start soon thereafter, and whenever it is a polished project I will most likely put it up for all to see. It depends on what happens and if we take it to small short film festivals over here and what comes of that.

But I'm jumping ahead. Here is the short plot synopsis:

One day someone wakes up to find he is a bag of weed. Or, depending on your viewpoint, the weed gains consciousness. The latter is probably the most correct. Anyway, this is not turning out to be a short plot synopsis. So he gains consciousness to find two guys talking, and after a brief interval, a pissed girlfriend comes around and throws the weed out the window, to where he is swept into a trashcan and found by a philosophical homeless man. Unlike the prior two guys, our homeless hero is able to hear the weed and begins to tell him a story about life and purpose, going to a cemetery, where he is left to find out where he is going in his life. By freak coincidence, the nemesis girlfriend finds him again, and learns a little about herself while in the presence of the sack.

I know what you're thinking. Oh christ its just another stoner story, and maybe it has a little of that, but this film is completely shot in the point of view of the weed, with only long shots. So there's a lot of dialog, tons of blocking, weird camera angles, long periods without cuts and lessons on life. Oh yeah, and it's shot in Hungarian. The only English used in the film is the weed's lines (which are minimal).

Jaro and I had to choose some of the most complicated attributes to put into our first short film.

Which makes it all the more fun.

So more to come on this exciting adventure.

the Mind before the Bear

2008-05-19T19:28:00.005+02:00

The human mind is a pretty amazing thing. It is the titular evolutionary significance that puts us ahead (depending on who you speak to) all other life forms on the planet. I don’t mean to start off on a philosophical tone, because that would just be so unlike me. But I do marvel at what we are capable of doing, just because we somehow came upon this unique attribute of the human body. Which just so happened to be a highly advanced super efficient super computer. Housed in bone and tissue. Pretty remarkable. Some would say this was evolution, and others would say it was religion. Others might say it was something else.

What really amazes me, is the stuff that comes out of people’s mouths. Because you know those words are coming from somewhere. And it’s usually spouting from that super computer everyone has (some might say men have a second processing and computing zone…fair enough). I have heard many conversations that I have disagreed with completely, and others that have been right up my alley. Of course, I have had my fair share of ridiculous moments, that I argue just for the sake of arguing, and half way through I realize that I’ve already lost, but I want to keep it up just to make sure I don’t look wrong (ask Jamie—she has stories).

However, I did not start out writing this to talk about any of this. I really only wanted to talk about the bear story, which is really only an anecdote, but for some reason, after a glass of wine, I started pondering the human mind. Yes, one of my favorite quotes is this:

‘I am not prophetic! I don’t know what that word means! All I know is what the future holds.’

This, is exactly what I sat down to write about, and just got sidetracked. But it’s a perfect example of the workings and intricacies of the brain. What you do and say is not always explained, and can forever remain a mystery. Oh yeah, and that was me up there, prophesizing about knowing the future, while not understand what I was saying. But I still believe it, at least in a certain sense that I could never explain.

My story, what I wanted to just begin with and then didn’t, is this:

I was sitting with Sam and she was obviously bored and started flapping her arms about and starting to go into weird dance mode so I looked up one of my favorite web sites, which is really just a bunch of collections of photos from all over the place. The best are the collections of old Soviet machinery and huge projects. Gotta give it to them: they really thought big. If only they had gotten those space-capable fighter jets off the ground. What a world it might’ve been.

Instead of monstrous Soviet projects, I clicked on ‘Funny Animal Photos Part 11’. I thought that might catch Sam’s attention. And actually, it was funny. Those animals do the darndest things. When this photo came up:

This was the conversation:

Sam: That’s a strong rope.
Jaro: That’s a ballsy bear.
(laughter ensues)

That was it. That was all I wanted to tell you about. I had all intentions of starting and ending with the bear story, but I made off with some weird intro about the human mind and how fucking crazy it is.

And this might just be the perfect example.

self portrait

2008-05-15T17:00:00.004+02:00

I was on Erzsébet Hid (Elisabeth Bridge) shooting for god know's what and I captured a short self portrait of mine.

I thought it was pretty cool.

Kossuth Lajos tér

2008-05-04T14:53:00.006+02:00

I’ve been toying with putting pictures and video on here, and I want to start making mini photo albums. While words are the key component to any story, images might give you a better idea of where I am and what I do over here. Especially those people without facebook, where I put up all my photos (I was never one for flikr or jalbum), miss all that stuff. So. Here is the first of the mini albums:

Kossuth Lajos tér.

Sam, Jaro and I are walking back from Iguana, one of the only Mexican restaurants in Budapest. It’s decent. No Mexican food like home though. Iguana has shut down the street (conveniently located 50 meters away from the heavily fortified U.S. Embassy) and has lights and tents and a Mariachi band. We get there early but by the time we leave, it’s packed with expats. All speaking English. Jaro and I see a couple real (!) Mexicans, those from back home. It’s amazing to think they actually came to Budapest. Of all places.

Iguana’s also happens to be located right by the Parliament, which as probably all of you know, is amazingly beautiful. Across the street, there’s a metro station named after Kossuth Lajos, one of those famous Hungarians (there really are too many of them). And this is where we begin:

Waiting for Jaro to stop talking and finish his cigarette.

Down into the depths...

Waiting with a man and his dog.

The metro finally comes in.

It's not ours.

What not to do in the metro.

After waiting 15 minutes, a woman came down and told us to leave the station, because the last metro had run long ago. Then why the hell didn't you block off the entrance to the escalator?! Her answer is incoherent. Great.

So we walk. As we're going back the way we came, towards Deák tér, we stop by Imre Nagy and pay our respects.

Imre Nagy was the political leader of the 1956 Revolution against Soviet oppression. After his friend sold him out to the Russians, he was hung for his misdeeds. Today, long after the Hungarian battle cries roared above the city and Soviet tanks came marching in, Nagy still stands watching his rightful place: Parliament.

the relationship between twister and age

2008-05-03T14:26:00.007+02:00

When adults get together, they can do stupid things. Not to say that kids don’t do stupid things when they get together, but they usually don’t know any better. Unless their parents told them not to do something stupid. You can probably count on them doing it. Right after you told them not to.

Now, take Twister. The game. What’s the social demographic for this game? I’d say 40% for 8-11 year olds. 30% for 12-13. 15% for 14-15. 5% for 16-17. And so on…

Notice as the age increases, the proportion of people playing lowers significantly (data not actually based on scientific figures).

There’s probably a reason for that.

So when Sam says we should play Twister, we all look at each other like what the fuck no way am I playing Twister that’s a stupid game that no one wants to play!

Five minutes later 6 of us are standing above the mat, beers in hands and arguing about how to play Twister. We couldn’t agree how to start. Jaro and I said on each roll (twist?) everyone went, it was a collective turn, but Sam was adamantly opposed to this and stated that each roll was one person’s turn. And I realized we were never going to win this argument, because really, we’re standing there drinking and arguing over the rules of Twister, one of the most self explanatory games ever invented.

Screw it! Ewa! (Ewa was designated roller. Her foot was broken.) Roll it!

As everyone knows, or, I would think everyone knows, Twister is pretty ridiculous. Your hands and feet are splayed across this mat filled with giant colored dots, and your face is stuck in some nook or cranny of your perspective neighbor. The beer probably didn’t help the situation. And it gets hard. Like it’s a workout. I mean really. At the end of the second game, it was just me and Sam left, and my arms are giving out. It looks like I’m doing the crab walk, with Sam arching over me in what looks to be some type of yoga move. Wait how did this happen? If she wasn’t a dancer I would’ve won by now damnit. And I’m still there, arms about to snap. Ewa is talking to Tamas or somebody and Ewa roll the damn thing!

I lost. But not before taking Sam out. Which is what I did in the last game too. Like dominoes.

The point of all this, and yes, there is a point: games are fun! Too many times we’re just sitting around discussing the universe, wondering what our real purpose in life is. And we could be playing fucking Twister instead!

So all of us are excited about this newfound knowledge. Oh yeah lets play games! Sam and I sit down. What games do you know? I don’t know any games. What do you know? Umm. I know telephone. But I hate that game. Well that’s great. I get online. I google group games. Its all children stuff. And exercise stuff. Ah! Idea! I google adult group games. This looks interesting. I click on the first link. Hmm. I don’t think this is an appropriate game… actually I’m fairly certain that’s not a game at all. I click on the next one. This one has ‘legitimate’ games, but its all stuff like ‘the name game’ and ‘the kissing game’ and ‘spin the bottle’ and I’m thinking huh this all sounds really familiar.

When adults get together, they’re just like a bunch of children. The rules are different, true, but the basic principles are the same. They entertain each other with what is around them. Usually, adults entertain with drinking, talking, smoking, dancing, and drinking. Now mash that together, and throw Twister into the mix.

When you’re bent over backwards with five people weighing down on you from all sides, you realize the recipe is stupid and seriously how did I get myself in this position (literally)?
Somehow, it just makes sense.

Dave's Last Euology

2008-04-28T18:53:00.005+02:00

This was what we cut together that fateful night...

the Performance

2008-04-26T23:21:00.002+02:00

Monday. I’m standing on Király utca watching people cars bikes pass me by. I’m looking up the street, waiting. Drinking a beer. The next one stands by me, on the curb. I wonder how the hell I’m going to open it. I might have to use one of my keys. I am not looking forward to it.

It’s Dave’s night. The performance. He invited us via text and I thought, well what the hell I did contribute I should be here. Problem is, he says its four hours long. Impossible.

He was right.

I see Jaro. Walking toward me in a leather jacket watching people. Those shifty eyes. You get shifty eyes here. I don’t know why. So, he says (his favorite intro). What now? I look down at my beer. I’m not sure, I say. I peer at the bottle in my hand. I think I’m drunk after one beer. Is that possible? No I must be imagining it. We start to talk about religion. Fucked up Mormons. His favorite topic.

I look up and there’s Anne-Marie riding a bike. What? Anne-Marie! I yell out. Her face turns as she passes behind the next building. I start running. Jaro is confused.

Five minutes later. I work with her. Uh huh. No really. Yeah I know. I didn’t introduce you, sorry. Yeah I know. You’re bad at that. Yeah…

Turns out she lives right up the street from the ‘art gallery’ we are going into. I say ‘art gallery’ because its not a usual art gallery. It’s a large building with an enclosed courtyard and very visible elevator in the middle of it which couples go in and make out for the masses but the floor is glass on the level, so the underground cellar (part of the art gallery) has the strange attribute of being able to see the people above you through the glass.

While Jaro and I were down there looking at the costumes after the show, two girls wearing skirts ran off the glass as we were admiring the glass. The glass. I’m not sure if this is a common occurrence, but we were laughing our heads off.

Anyway, I’m bandying about. Our project was last. Dead last. Three hours of waiting. Anne-Marrie left after an hour. We’re just sitting there watching these crazy thin girls wearing nothing and looking at our (non existent) watches. When it finally did play (below) it was good. But we realized that we had no idea what we were editing for. If we had creative license, access to the suit, and whatever else, things would be different.

It was a competition. And we did not win. The judges took an hour and a half deliberating, and in the end chose the wrong group.

So it goes.

Unrendered

2008-04-26T23:20:00.000+02:00

I’ve met some people during my time here. One of them is David. He’s a Magyar in the School of Architecture here in Budapest. He’s a pretty ridiculous guy but so far my favorite. Anyway, he mentioned this project he was supposed to be working on to Jaro and I, and our ears perked up. Besides the fact that it had to do with film, we just wanted to get our creative flow going. A kick start, if you may. So he says, Yeah its this competition and prestigious and we really want to compete but we’re not really sure what to do. You have to make a costume: one in a different reality. A suit that is basically a bio suit. Your home away from home. You have, and can do, everything that you would do or have in your home. (Jaro and I look at each other, perplexed, and yet, intrigued.) So we have to make a suit, and we have to make a short film with it and then submit it.

When’s it due, Dave?

Friday.

It’s Wednesday night. You suck, Dave.

So that’s how it started. While I was at the office editing and working away the next day, Jaro shot some footage (basically B-roll of whatever, it didn’t really matter now that I look back on it) and we met up later that night to make something. Jaro is telling me well Dave doesn’t really know I think you should just edit it together and this should take an hour max and really he didn’t say it was a big deal.

That’s what they all say.

Five minutes later Dave walks in. So I want the footage we shot today in quick bursts for about 45 seconds, and then the last minute is trippy background colorful shit and this has to be how it is because this will be on the background on a big screen as our model walks out in the suit and models it around for people, he says.

Ok. Not like we have a deadline or anything Dave!

Five hours later. It’s two in the morning and the video is exporting. Finally. Final Cut Pro is relatively new to Jaro (he just needs to get used to it again), so I had to take over throughout the night. And basically it was my show (not to toot my horn). When its done, we put it on and damn it looks good but fuck what the hell was that did that frame just say unrendered?! Halfway through the video, soon to be played on a big screen somewhere in Budapest, one measly frame was not rendered correctly. Christ.

We bring it up again and sure enough, there’s that damn frame. How the hell did that happen? Nobody knows. Ok fuck it just take out the transition there and it will be fine. We wait for the export, watch it.

It’s still there.

Well jeez do you think they will notice?

A big fucking unrendered sign in caps against a blue background? Yeah maybe.

So I’m sitting there and thinking and blazing a hole through the screen and Jaro’s talking to god knows who on the phone and I’m still thinking and then it comes to me. FCP is obviously retarded. We can’t change that. Take out the frame that’s unrendered, it will be black but who cares its one frame and our edit is fast anyway, it fits! So I do that, cut out that shit and export it and it works.

Its perfect.

Three in the morning. Making a DVD.

Ok which program do you want to use, iDVD or DVD Studio Pro? I don’t care let’s just use one. No wait. Let’s not use iDVD that would be too easy. Wait what? Do you know what time I have to be up in the morning? Here we go DVD Studio Pro! Ok. Now what? Why is the program grey? Where’s the video? Where’s the menu? How the hell do we use this program? Use a button. Button? Yeah, you know, to hit to start the movie on the menu. Well where are the buttons? I don’t know. This isn’t my computer. Well that’s not helping at all. These fucking buttons are no where to be found and we’re sitting around here like a bunch of…

I’ll spare you the gory details. Dave got smart for once and used a flash drive. Saved it.

No more DVD Studio Pro.

And that was the making of.

The Family In Front

2008-04-23T21:02:00.001+02:00

The next day. 4.20. Jaro and I are sitting on the bank of the Danube. Talking about religion and watching the clouds bloom and filter across the sky. ‘Do you know about the Gnostics?’ he asks. We go deep.

One hour later. We’re sitting above Görög Club at Deak Ferenc Ter. It’s like hippy day or something. All the freaks are out, laying on the grass. Dry sex is prevalent. We’re just watching people for kicks. A family sitting directly in front of us naturally catches (and holds) our attention for the duration of our stay.

There’s the dad. He looks fifty, or somewhere around that age. He wears glasses and looks British. He reminds me of my old soccer coach Tom Armitage. Jeez, that was his name right? I think so. No. That was his son. Anyway, he looks just like him. And he’s playing with his kids. All four of ‘em.

There’s the eldest. She’s about 9 or 10. Freckles. Bored out of her fricking mind. Dad tries to play with her but she gives him that look and he shuffles off. Reminds me of Taryn, in her later years.

The second is probably 7. He’s having fun with a balloon. Kicking it about, running into people. At one point he barely makes it over a couple doing what they do best. He has to learn some time I suppose.

The next is 4. Has to be. Looks up to his brother with absolute stars in his eyes. Would walk off a cliff for him. Reminds me of someone. But he wants the balloon his older brother has. So he snatches it away and runs off, his brother in tow hollering after him.

The last, and youngest of the bunch, is this little girl about 3. Pigtails and the funniest out of all of them. She’s got her own balloon, and kicks it about sometimes, or just stares off into the distance thinking. What are you thinking about right now? Some other little girl, really young, maybe 2, grabs her balloon and stumbles off. She goes after her, explains to the younger one that its hers, but nope, she ain’t giving up that balloon. She found it, it’s hers. So 3 year old runs to Dad and now he’s dancing in front of us trying to make the eldest daughter laugh and she’s not even watching him.

‘Where’s the wife?’ we both ask at the same time.

Meanwhile, the little girl is getting really pissed at the girl who stole her balloon. She keeps running at her, and then stops, walks back, runs at her again, but can’t figure out if she should clobber her or not. She tries to talk to her, but this girl has the death grip on the prize balloon. So finally the girl figures it out, grabs a balloon (not inflated of course) and hands it to the girl, as a trade. She says ‘Blow on it’ (I think?), and the young one sticks it into her mouth and sucks on it. Like hard.

Jaro and I are laughing uproariously. The last 45 minutes we’ve been watching and making our own voice over for the play before us. Best fun I’ve had all week.

Mom finally shows up. Damn. Get me in touch with her trainer. She looks Scottish, or British. One of those. The 10 year old is already as tall as her mom. She looks to be in charge. Within 5 minutes of her showing up, they’re gone.

Jaro and I look around. No more families about that we can put words into their mouths. Damn. Well. Let’s go.

We get back to the flat, and tell Sam about our day.

‘What kind of creeps are you guys?’ she exclaims. She’s really disturbed.

Umm…the family watching kind?

Futbol Storm

2008-04-23T20:48:00.007+02:00

Saturday was an eventful day. You could feel it was the weekend. People everywhere, riding trams, making out, window shopping while the store was open. Typical Magyar day. The weather was the best part though. It was windy. Blustery. A storm was coming. The rain was just beyond the next hill. But this under current of warmth. That’s what made it special. As the biting wind slapped against my face, I hardly felt it. There was a warmth, humidity coating the air around me. You could almost see it. Light thunder dappled the senses. Or did it? It’s hard to tell what exactly was happening in the distance. But the clouds. Ominous. They were coming directly our way.

Sounds like the perfect weather for a futbol match.

Jaro teaches at one of the major soccer stadiums in Budapest. He teaches the owner of the local team in the ‘President’s Box’ located above the stadium. I guess Liverpool (of Great Britain) recently bought out the Magyar team. We’re still scratching our heads why. Anyway, he has a friend in there and she offered to give him three tickets so that he and two friends could come watch a match. It was (naturally) Szilvi and I.

Going to the match was a little surreal. The weather was already shaping up to be epic, and the three of us didn’t really know what to expect of the game. We had an idea about what the crowd would be doing, but not really the level of game play on field.

The first thing we noticed going over on the blue Metro line, was that everyone was clad in green shirts and green shoes and green jackets and green scarves. It took a genius to figure out that Fradi’s (the local Magyar football team) color was zöld (green). Everyone was pounding beers down, rollicking along with the rocking sway of the Soviet-built metro. There was this blonde girl from Virginia talking loudly about her special life next to us. Two Hungarian men (friends?) stood watching her, blank faces, listening. Jaro and I looked at each other. We knew what they wanted.

When the metro stopped at Nepliget, our stop, everyone got off, beer in hand. Jaro is bitching about forgetting beer. I’m watching the sky. And almost run smack into a cop, clad in big heavy looking riot gear. I look up, and they’re everywhere. Oh yeah. Riot police. Goes hand in hand with football. They’re standing around, smoking, shooting the shit, watching. One has a video camera trained on the drunk milling crowd around us. I want to go up and hug one of them, just to see what they do. I don’t though. That would just be stupid.

Jaro calls his friend with the tickets. Where is she? Oh yeah, she’s answering! We meet up with her in the front of the stadium, and I stay back for a second and watch Szilvi. I can tell. She doesn’t like her. Jealousy. It’s a bitch.

It takes us a while to get into the stadium. First we go in on one side, but this stadium isn’t like a stadium in the states. Maybe it’s a European thing, I don’t know, but this stadium is partitioned off into sections. Probably helps when the Magyars riot. So we have to go out and then all the way around on the other side of the block to get into the section our seats are in (nobody adheres to the seats, we just wanted to be in the right section damnit). The game has already started. We’ve got tapped beer in hand. Tastes like water. Actually I think this is water! I say. But I look up. I cant hear myself think. Someone behind me is heckling the football players. Both sides. Szilvi leans over and shouts into my ear, ‘He says they go fuck their mothers and have niggers for fathers and suck their own…’

Jesus. I always forget how non-pc the Magyars are.

Both teams are pretty bad. I’m not surprised. We find out later Fradi is in the second division. Before the game, Jaro was touting Fradi as the best of the first division. I was not impressed. It was like watching my team in early highschool. Ball handling skills were pretty good, but sometimes they just booted it into nothingness. It started sprinkling now and then. The light was grey, people were yelling, both teams were sucking. And then the cheerleaders came out.

This must be some job on the side for them, because they were just bad. My video doesn’t really capture it, because I honestly got bored with them after a few minutes, but you get a taste while watching. At one point, they picked up the smallest one and she did an airborne spread eagle in the direction of the crowd. Szilvi shoots me a smile. Somewhere in the crowd, an old man has keeled over.

Some time throughout the hullabaloo, I walked down into the bathroom. There is this guy, swaying and texting and swaying and watching me now and Christ I cant pee when someone is staring. So I just keep walking and he keeps staring, finger in mid-text, and I walk out the alternate entrance. Damn that guy was weird. The next men’s bathroom (right next door…which was weird honestly) had no strange men staring. Heaven.

The rest was filled with lots of swearing, heckling, screams, and cheers. Fradi won, but only because they were the ones who sucked less. They were playing a team from a small village even Szilvi hadn’t heard of. They were supposed to win.

One thing was sure. It was a cultural experience. Learning racist words in another language. Watching bad soccer. Dodging strange bathroom men.

And the rain was about to wash it all away.

Red Pants

2008-04-17T19:28:00.003+02:00

I was sitting across from Tamas and Szilvi at one of those hidden pubs in Budapest called Potkulcs. Potkulcs doesn’t have a sign on the outside displaying its true identity. Hence the hidden pub part.

Some girl walks by in complete red. She’s just ablaze in color. I remark offhandedly, ‘Huh, she has red pants,’ mostly to myself, because it really didn’t have any meaning to it. And Tamas looks around and spouting, ‘She has red pants? How do you know?’ And I’m looking at him like he’s crazy. ‘Because I can see that her pants are red!’ ‘You can see her pants?!?’ Now he’s looking around wildly. What the hell is he getting excited about?

Szilvi: Hunter, he lives with a British girl. Pants means ‘panties.'

Oh.

Me: Tamas, no damnit! I didn’t see her panties. (thinking) Actually, have you guys heard that when a woman wears red underwear it's her way of saying she really wants to have sex?

Um no.

Me: Yeah, its true. Or at least, I think its true. That’s what Ive heard.

And then I stopped, and we all sort of look at each other. And look down and check the color of our respective underpants.

We’re all three wearing red under garments. Mine even have little hearts on ‘em.

The theory works.

story of the flat

2008-04-15T20:55:00.001+02:00

I mentioned moving in to my new flat in the last post, but it was a little jumbled so I thought I should clarify on the situation. The flat is actually really nice. It’s located on the corner of Rakoczi (one of the main thoroughfares) and Nyar utca. Which is ‘summer street’ in Magyarul. Not that its acting like summer or anything. But the flat is really cool. Three blocks away from my office. It’s a straight shot up Rakoczi. Seriously. I turn left and walk straight and I get to the most modern building in Budapest and go inside. That simple. So it has that going for it.

Kati, the woman or chick or lady or girl (what is the PC term for a woman in her mid 20’s?) who owns it is studying law and I don’t see her around much. I guess now is the time of the big exams so she is studying like a mad woman, and so is my other flatmate Edgar. So actually I don’t really see either of them around much at all. Kati has lived here all her life. She was born somewhere in Budapest 25 years ago, and then grew up every single day of her life in one place. It’s pretty unheard of in the States, but its normal here. Once you are in a flat you stay there. I guess it was easier to buy and own in the Communist era. But this flat used to be her parents, and they handed it off to her to keep up and rent rooms out to foreigners. It’s a good deal really.

My room is situated right off the kitchen, and both the kitchen and my room are in another wing of the flat, so its pretty secluded (besides the fact that both my flatmates are studying for exams). When she first showed me the flat, a couple weeks ago, Kati came into the kitchen and said ‘This is the main hang out area’. And I looked around and said, ‘But this is the kitchen’. I was going to ask where the heck was the living room, but I held my tongue. I would find out soon enough. And she showed me my room and while it was small and there really was no natural light and the curtains are god awful and Im pretty sure were placed there just to be an eyesore, the room is nicely situated and Im really loving the whole set up. I’ve made a schematic for you to really understand what I’m talking about. Szilvi came over and told me it was like having your own little flat, which essentially it is.

As you can see, there is my room and the kitchen, and the bathroom and entry hall way. Everything in pink is what I have access to (don’t ask me why I chose pink). And then what I have labeled ‘bed room’ is Edgar’s room, and then the living room. Now. The living room. Why don’t I have access to the living room? For a while I was wondering about it and I decided that she must have the living room as her room, because it just didn’t make sense. A couple reasons for this: on the lease, it listed the area of the whole flat and it was 125 sq. meters which is big. Bigger then most flats in Budapest. Then, there was the fact that she never showed me that room nor Edgar’s room when I came over, or when I moved in. So something had to be behind those doors I just didn’t know what. And lastly, even Edgar hadn’t been in that room, even though he had been living here for about a month before me. So it was quite a mystery what exactly was in that room.

Then came the day when I wanted to get our wireless router up and running (it was a fruitless effort, but we will prevail!) and the only internet connection is, get this, behind those doors. So I sauntered in and yep, it was the living room all right. It’s a big room, has all the classic Hungarian furniture in it, and is old. But then, what is that? I spy another door leading off from the living room! And Im looking at that but Im also looking at a futon that’s in the living room and Im thinking wait does she sleep on that or will she even tell me the truth? So I ask her if she sleeps on the futon in the living room and she says yes, but I see something terribly wrong here because really what is behind those other doors and I know I wont ever get in there unless invited. I never do, but I do get a glimpse inside because I came into the living room one night to use the internet for a split second, and the mystery door was open.

Hence my ominous label, because it really is unknown back there.

There is a club downstairs, called Alcatraz. Yes, named after the infamous island where the mutants battled it out in a last stand and…oh wait, I guess that was a movie. Anyway, I can hear the music when I get home at night and in the morning, which is even weirder because seriously who is up at 7 am drinking and listening to house music? There are four locks on the door and when no one is in the house Kati has instructed us to lock all of them, which I find ridiculous but it really is safe and secure, but when I stumble home and start jabbing the door handle in a fight for my right to enter my own home I usually lose.

Kati is 2 years and 364 days older than me. That was funny when we figured that out. Im not sure Edgar’s age, but he just got back from Amsterdam and seemed to have a good time.

And that’s the story of my flat.

motherofallupdates

2008-04-14T20:23:00.000+02:00

I’ve been thinking about it for a long time now. Why do I choose at certain points to start writing? And why, to continue that thread, do I not write when I’m thinking about how I’m not writing, and that I really should be writing down what I’m thinking right now but then I’m not. So why the hell am I not writing when I tell myself to write?

I think it’s this: System Overload.

In Prague, when I was sitting around, the writing sort of just came out, manifested itself in such a way that I was sitting on the couch, and the next second I was bounding for my computer, because I knew, I knew, that I had to get whatever was in my head at that very second down on some type of stationary, whether it really was my computer or a scrap of paper. This wasn’t happening every day. It wasn’t happening very often actually, but when it did, when that need and desire to express whatever thoughts I had at that very moment, I just did it.

Budapest is a little different.

There are many reasons why I have left my writing in a stunted state of neglect. But I don’t want to talk about those reasons. It would be long-winded and full of yawns…maybe. I want to give you all an update of what the state of things in this crazy country has brought about in ‘the life’. In order to do this though, I need to take a page from Bret Easton Ellis, and write it a la Rules of Attraction.

So. Listen:

I arrived in Budapest. Things were looking up. In a new country, but not so new, because I knew it from before but it was still new because it just felt new. Jamie is in Prague but that’s ok she is only a bus ride away and she will be here soon. Work is fine but it’s a lot of filming conferences and fuck that sucks sometimes. The editing. Oh fuck the editing. I cant wait to be bored out of my mind. I meet back up with my friend Jaro from back in the old Budapest days and his (semi) girlfriend and our mutual friend Tamas who is a crazy Magyar but I love him for it. Things are good things are fine its raining and grey but hey Im in fucking Budapest and I don’t want to be anywhere else. End of the month approaches and oop there go the funds. Drinking all the time, smoking crazy amounts of cigarettes, watching my body mass slowly shrink. Buts its great its Budapest! Soon it will start to get warm and then all hell will break loose, but in a good way. Beginning of the month fuck that is a great feeling! Going out having fun, laughing with friends, staying up late, rolling out of bed bloodshot eyes oh crap do I really have to go to work right now well fuck I do actually have to go now I just have to get up. Sleep through the alarm and oh no how could I sleep through my alarm? Middle of the month and things are still ok but jeez did I really go through that much money? Where did it all go? Play soccer on Margit Sziget watch people laugh at stupid people drink wine beer palinka and oh jeez Im falling over and Im still falling. Jamie emails me ‘Im going home its my only choice’ and fuck that’s going to be a long time but we’re going to make it, because we’re in love and nothing can break that. She comes down for a weekend before she leaves, has an interview at my office, and my boss gives us hope telling her she might be hired in a matter of days, if she could only stay. We hope for those days and then let down Im miserable she comes by the office the last day shes here it’s a fucking Monday I hate fucking Mondays and it’s a Monday right now well that makes perfect fucking sense so she comes by on my lunch break and its heart wrenching she leaves and I have to go back up to the office and work for 5 more hours the worst 5 hours of my life but not really but it got pretty fucking close. And then she leaves and Im stuck without her but Im going to keep it going and enjoy what I can without her but crap now it’s the end of the month again and Im eating rice like its my job but just wait until the 3rd of the month when my check clears but fuck im paid in dollars what was I thinking my country fucking sucks balls because really I just had to be born in this generation when the dollar is worse that toilet paper and the depression is coming. But yes! The third of the month its good everything is good and Ive moved into my new flat and one of my flat mates is a Hungarian girl named Katalin or Kati for short and my other flat mate is Edgar from Belarus but he says Russia so they must still have that Soviet mentality there but I have no idea really Im just trying to take it all in but it really is good because the people I meet make me laugh and smile and the friends are good work sometimes sucks but isn’t that just work is supposed to be about and theres this weird fucking clickage sometimes in the office and it annoys me but what can I do about it when I go to lunch every day I sit by myself and read a book because I guess Im a loner like that but really Im not its funny that this is the way it goes. I have meetings at work too and I watch the demarcation line wait is that what im thinking of when you had a war then it’s a stalemate and you just sit there watching the enemies on the other side but probably they’re your brothers and sisters and who knows wives maybe. No wait that’s not a demarcation line, that’s a demilitarized zone but I really think im thinking of a demarcation line fuck anyway theres the line and it keeps getting pushed back into my territory and honestly I really don’t have any say because Im nobody in the company just that video guy or the video kid as I’ve heard they sometimes call me because im the youngest in the company but oh well. First it was the company phone that never happened which I really didn’t care about anyway but hey when its promised to you and you think well shit now I can have two phones well that is just fantastic but no that’s not the way it works and I just get 10 bucks in credit for my old phone but really what the fuck is that shit as I said its fucking toilet paper and really not worth it anymore. And now I hear stirs that I wont even be traveling anymore to the offices around the world and that I will just edit what the people send me and fuck if they were paying me what they pay in the states you could strap a harness on me too but they’re not so fuck that. I took the job for that experience and now it just gets thrown out the window yeah fucking right might as well piss on me while you’re at it. At least the whole immigration thing is happening now but jeez that took a while to get into effect and really was it that hard to figure out. But enough about the company Im bored with them and Im thinking and drinking and wondering where Im going with this oh yeah my buddy Jaro who I mentioned earlier I think jeez did I mention well I must have because I’ve hung out with him straight for a month now and that can get to anyone seriously I started dreaming about that whole group Im hanging out with actually it was a pretty weird dream Tamas was hooking up with Szilvi and I don’t know that’s weird and I don’t know where Jaro was but he was around. I cant remember what I was doing probably just sitting there watching jesus really I hope not but I cant remember. Anyway fuck where was I going with this one oh yeah Jaro got a pretty nice camera, not HD but a Panasonic dvx100b and damn its pretty sweet my other buddy Scott Bourne I know right a fucking awesome name well anyway he got one back in school and I used it for some projects and really it is nice. Not the future of cameras but it pushed the bar in its prime and now the future is coming but its not here yet but soon just as soon Panasonic pushes down prices on their new P2 cards because damn flash drives are the way to go seriously I cant wait to pick me up one of those but damn wait I don’t have money to eat so why am I thinking of buying an $8 grand camera seriously man what are you thinking but oh one can dream I suppose. Anyway yeah this camera and we’ve got scripts in line and we’re going to be shooting in this prime location and we’ve got friends who want to act or say they want to act you never really can tell until you start shooting but sometimes they aren’t good any way. Its all in the experience and that’s why Im here I guess but I couldn’t get a job in the states anyway even Jamie hasn’t gotten a job yet and shes been trying for a month and jesus she is amazing at getting a job but the US economy is in such a shithole that I feel bad that my brothers are growing up in this muck right now because they deserve better and I wish they were around and I could hear their laughs and damnit Im tearing up but that’s how I feel and I have their picture up next to my desk with Taryn there too and shes holding Holden and Ive got Talon on my hip and that kid is a fucking giant jesus that was a while ago I bet he’s as tall as me now. My friend Szilvi told me the other day that Hold means moon in Hungarian and that the name Holden must have something to do with the moon actually she just said Hold means moon in Hungarian and I took that to mean that Holden had something to do with the moon and she thought it was cool when I told her I named him and shit I think its cool! And now it’s the middle of the month again and damn its April and sometimes its warm but it still rains here and when the hell is it going to get warm for real because seriously that’s what its all about and you know another thing I really like light coming into my room or my flat at all times at least when its light out but how my flat is situated in the foundations it lets no light in at least on the side my room is on and fuck that sucks because I really like my light but there’s no light for me now. Not that it really matters though because really its just raining and it feels like Seattle and I thought I had gotten away from that place but I guess not it never leaves you. And I watch the people here in Budapest and some of them are funny but the couples oh the couples are the worst they just sit there making out and having dry sex if my brothers are reading this then don’t worry about what that means it isn’t actually what you think it means just because it has the word sex in it. But really it is ridiculous and Budapest is just not the place when you’re in a long distance relationship and the one that you want to be holding and kissing and laughing with is thousands of miles away or however much that is in kilometers and really what is up with the metric system but anyway these fucking couples are having all the fun and I actually saw some guy stick his finger in his girlfriend’s mouth while they were making out what the fuck is that is that some new kinky thing that couples do I don’t know but really. When I was on Margit Sziget that means Margaret Island for all you non Hungarian speakers which I know is none of you and when I was there playing soccer or football as it is called here in Europe there was a couple laying down and petting and fooling around and making out and I launched a big kick straight at them fully meaning to hit them and sure enough ball bounced off the girl and man they were pissed they got up to leave right then and there and the guy oh the guy was perfect he was staring at me for a while and I was just looking at him blatantly but not really laughing just waiting to see what he would do they were probably in highschool or whatever the highschool equivalent is here but damn you could tell he was mad, but probably only because she got hit with a soccer ball and everybody else was acting like I was the bad guy except for Tamas oh my god you should have seen him he just stood their and glared like really glared not some pussy glare but this serial killer glare like Im going to rip out your liver while you’re tied up and im going eat it and move on into the next bodily organs but damn that’s a fucked up image but he really was looking like that and I think that’s the only reason why the guy never came up to us none of us are really imposing except for Tamas he’s like a big bear but not like a thin bear and im tall but now im thin as hell and then Jaro well he’s just thin and kinda short and Szilvi is a girl and would do nothing against an attacker and I doubt they will read this but maybe oh who knows but the guy never came up and Im pretty sure its because of Tamas because really he looked scary. Right after they left with the guy throwing imposing looks over his shoulder and holding his girlfriend Jaro said that the first film with a serial killer that we shoot we already had our serial killer because Tamas was just the right guy for the job but he’s not a serial killer in real life only incredibly stubborn and Magyar and starting to speak to me in Hungarian and now I understand him mostly because of the endings of the words I don’t have to understand what the words mean I just have to know that he’s talking to me to me because when I know hes talking to me at least I can rip him a new one in English. And Szilvi has started to speak to me in Hungarian too and slowly Im beginning to understand but it takes a lot of time to figure out what exactly is going on. Oh ok Jaro just called me he and I had this idea the other day like what would happen if your weed sack gained consciousness and really did not want to get smoked and I thought it was genius and so did he and he wants to write it and film it and I think it would be pretty funny if you shot it right but who knows some times what you think is really good just isn’t and sometimes those things that are bad are really great and you never really know do you because things are just things and fuck its raining again I cant believe this weather because really is it that hard to get

A Short Guide to Current Events, and More

2008-03-12T20:45:00.006+01:00

It seems I write every two weeks. This, of course, is not my intention. But things are going at a rapid pace and I am generally exhausted all the time. The 8 hour work day, while most people have them, is something generally new to me, especially after working part time here and there in Prague, and then not working in general. The coin has definitely flipped, though I'm not sure in my favor...

Some things I have noticed now that I am back:

Chivalry is alive and well in Hungary. When I wait for an elevator in my office, the women always enter first, and exit first. This is just how things are. Even if the elevator is filled to the brim with people in suits, and I am leaning against the opening and closing door, I have to wait for the women to exit before I can go. I'm not saying this is a bad thing, but I think its funny how it is here. Of all places. And no one told me this was how things were. I had to watch and learn, which I generally do anyway. I still sometimes forget myself and leave before the women. When I get nasty looks I smile. That generally does the trick.
Never ever ever write an email when you are stressed and missing someone and fucking mad. It might be one of the most eloquently bombastic emails you have ever written, for that very purpose, and you might be speaking your mind and the whole truth...But the one who reads it probably wont think so. I had the unfortunate opportunity to send one of these emails to my last landlord in Prague. I can safely say I will not be receiving a Christmas card from her. Nor her from me.
While chivalry is not dead, it seems that monogamy is. My friend Jaro, who is American but has been living as an expat here in Budapest for some time now, went off on a tirade a couple days ago about how many girls there are out there. And that once it got warm there would so much tail running around it would be hard to keep track. Now, in his defense, and because he is my good friend and I wouldn't want him reading this and thinking I had sold him down the river, he is the type of guy who doesn't like the monogamous lifestyle and has no one to really talk to about the tail running around (so it seems). His example is a bad one, but the next couple are not. There was a conference in my office that I taped, and I got to know the participants pretty well over the past weekend (read: margaritas, dancing, and the next morning thinking it was better to chuck myself out a window then to endure another minute of hang over land). During that time, I met one guy who was married and another with a girlfriend, and both of them had their eyes out for whatever came their way. Now, to be fair to them and Hungarians alike, they werent from Hungary. But I feel like this is a common theme with men in this region. They have wives and girlfriends at home, and when they travel, someone else is waiting for them. Another one of those cultural (global?) mysteries one can muse over.
The more I think about writing or doing something productive, the more I seem to veer away. Not because I want to, but because I get caught up in Budapest and the living and everything that seems to drag me away from those things. Is it a bad thing? For now, I suppose not. With Jamie gone I don't have that physical (tangible-not sexual...) relationship that I had become accustomed to in Prague. And now, without that tangible relationship, with only email and the occasional skype call, I am cast out alone in this crazy world of Magyars.

Ok, enough of the bullet points. For those of you who don't know, and none of you should, because she has been mum on the situation and I just have not had time to write. Jamie is going back to the states in less than a week's time. The reasons are numerous, but the most pressing matter is the Schengen laws, which for you readers who have read my angry rants against the (new) immigration laws sweeping the EU know a little about them. Now, this also has a lot to do with me, but I will leave that to your (and my) imagination. I don't know what I am going to do, honestly, but I will figure it out in due time. Whether this means moving to the Russian or Ukrainian or China office for 3 months, officially remains to be seen.

So Jamie is leaving, for at least 3 months. She comes to Budapest on Friday afternoon, to say goodbye to me, and then I will probably not see her for 5 or 6 months. There was a time when I was angry and frustrated with this whole situation, but when that girl gets something in her head, even I can't get it out. Oh, and, she has to leave in order to be legal. She has to be out of the EU for 3 months in order to come back in, and get a work permit legally.

So that's that. I am still staying in the company flat. I managed to persuade Jon to let me stay until April 1st, but even then, I probably won't have enough for the 2 months deposit plus one month's rent that is uniform in Hungary's real estate.

I hope my future land lord likes graduated payments.

Two weeks in

2008-02-28T19:06:00.002+01:00

So wow, it's been almost two weeks since I got here, and I have not had the time to write. Its been a whirlwind, much the same way as Prague was when I first arrived, but this time its because I'm working 40 hours a week. I'm finally just now finishing up editing this conference I filmed when I first arrived. It took about a week to figure out how to transfer and convert one of the camera's footage onto the Mac. You gotta love those PC-only cameras. They did just about everything to keep their PC consumers on a PC. Luckily for me, and a lot of other people (I read a bunch of forums where people wanted to crucify JVC for making a camera that was practically useless on Mac OS), there is a bunch of free software floating around the internet, waiting to come of assistance.

When I finally figured out that hurdle, which took me close to a week, I was able to upload everything and start the editing process. I told management I would be done by the end of the week, and tomorrow I will be finished. It helps having a deadline to keep you motivated.

I would talk more about the conference because it was pretty interesting, and I've been watching it nonstop for five days straight, but I signed an agreement that all information and material having to do with the company is strictly confidential. They don't want their competitors getting any whiffs. So ok, that's fine. The contract I signed was pretty funny, but strict, going into a lot of details about what I can and cannot do while I am at the company (and after, for a specified period of time). Very intriguing.

But not much else has been happening over here, besides me working my butt off. I'm basically lying low until my next paycheck. I was able to hang out with one of my EAP colleagues last weekend. EAP was the program that I went on to Budapest, the abroad program 'Education Abroad Program' to be precise. His name is Jaro, and has been teaching English and messing around in the film industry for a while now. He was the first to come back to Hungary. From everything I've seen I am the second. But it was good to see him, and he's living at this flat that Jamie recommended to him. Her friend Tamas, a Hungarian computer engineer, is her friend from back when she was walking the streets of Budapest, and she gave his information to Jaro. A couple days later, they were housemates. Imagine that! It is funny how things work out.

Anyway I went over to their place and caught up with them. It was pretty nice, talking to people I know. I still had to tell the same stories again and again (something that gets on my nerves now and again), but my origins were already known. The friendship base had already been established. It was a good night.

Honestly there is not a lot happening, not a lot to report (even though I havent put up anything over the last two weeks). I think when I start really getting into the groove here, and I get my own flat (whenever that will be), that I will be able to relax and think of what to say. This office life that I have been thrown into has definitely been something different for me. While I know what I am doing, I still have that overwhelming feeling of 'Ok dont fuck up, the first couple weeks are essential to what everyone thinks about you!'

Yeah...it will be good when those are over.

Budapest Living

2008-02-17T19:09:00.002+01:00

I woke up at 4 AM today (no small feat, I couldn't get to sleep last night...probably that combination of anticipation, stress, and fear of the unknown going on), kissed Jamie goodbye, got on the bus, and started on my merry way. It was a pretty uneventful trip, besides the fact that we only stopped once (thankfully my bladder was not going all out against me) in Bratislava, just about my least favorite place besides Spain. But we finally did get into Budapest (pronounced Budapesht), half an hour early. I had to look around a while for an exchange. Meanwhile my big bag on wheels continued to fall apart. Some one on the escalator handed me a part of my bag which had snapped off. Thanks Mister!

At least I was back though. It was pretty surreal walking around the streets again. I went to the Move One office just off of Blaha Luiza Square, and it was housed in the only modern (read all glass and silver) building on the stretch of (main) road. I met a couple office people upstairs. There were probably 100 computers spread out across the entire giant floor, and they were all PCs. Only my computer stood out. The latest generation of iMac. Huh. I thought, Well thank god its a Mac, but jeez, everyone will know who I am. Some of the first words out of Jon's mouth were, So its not great filming weather at the moment in Europe. What do you think of Dubai?

I told him to get me on that plane right then and there.

I'm staying in the company flat, which at the moment houses three other Move One employees. They are all here for the conference I'm filming tomorrow and the next day. They seem to be all heads of offices around the world. For instance, the first of my roommates I started talking with is the station head in Afghanistan. He offered to have me film over there straight away. And the other is station head of all those other '-stan' countries. I can't even spell them, that's how ridiculous it is. My spell check doesnt even recognize them. Hmm. I wonder if that's a sign.

So that's interesting. I went out to eat at Jamie's favorite restaurant. I had goulash and Chicken Kiev. So amazing. I can hardly move right now, I'm so full. My typing skills are completely sub par too for some reason at the moment. But I said it earlier, and I'll say it again. Walking these streets. It's surreal. When I got back after my year abroad, I never really thought I would come back, at least this soon. I proved myself wrong. Thankfully.

Leaving...Two Days Later

2008-02-14T11:03:00.002+01:00

My plans have changed, but only by a few days. Hungarian rail workers have gone on strike, over low wages and a one time payment that they feel is owed to each worker (the Hungarian rail corporation was bought out recently, and the workers think they deserve an equal portion of the buy-out, which amounts to 1,440 USD/worker). So when I tried to get my bus ticket, both the Friday and Saturday morning routes were sold out. So much for buying my ticket a few days early. Luckily, Sunday's route still had space, so I leave at 6:30 AM from Prague, and arrive in Budapest around 13:45. Just enough time to get set up for the big corporate meeting that is happening at the Move One Budapest office. It's a two day event, starting Monday, and I get to film it for all those lazy business men and women who are not able to attend.

So tonight is my going away last night in Prague party/Valentine's Day party, but then again, it is not my last night in Prague. I'm sure the party-goers will forgive the inconvenience in the name.

Some (Negative) Thoughts on Prague

2008-02-12T20:03:00.000+01:00

As the time counts down to my inevitable departure, I find myself looking back at the times that I have had in this place. Not that I have much choice. I sit on my butt reading or trolling the internet all day for reasons amounting to staving off boredom just for a little while. This, of course, is not my choice. If I were employed in Prague I would most likely be working. But I'm not. And that's not bitterness. It's...a way of saying, 'Ok Prague, you had your chance. Time for something new.' But I do get caught up in the nostalgia. Who wouldn't in this city? I have started writing my thoughts about this very subject a number of times, and have never finished the first sentence. So this time, I'm off to a good start.

Prague is unique. In a bad way. When I'm walking around the little cobblestone streets and admiring the intricate artwork and architecture on the building facades, I run right smack into the person in front of me. Not because I didn't notice the person. No, I am pretty good about keeping my eye out for dog shit on the ground (there is a lot of it, but not as much as in Budapest, hooray!), people on the street, and the facades that I was just talking about. No, people here tend to stop in mid stride for no apparent reason. In the middle of the street. So the bumbling person behind him, let's just say for humor's sake, is me, walks into his heel and makes an awkward scene. No amount of 'sorry' or 'pardon' really does the trick. They don't actually notice you just ran into them. This is their common practice.

I have run into Czechs who stop mid stride literally hundreds of times. I'm pretty sure it's a national pastime of theirs. 'Let's fuck with the people on the street today,' says one. 'No, we do that every day!' says the other. 'Oh c'mon, you know you love it,' the first will say. 'Allright, but make sure they trip and fall down this time!' is the reply.

This is just one of the many problems I have with Czech people. They can't walk on sidewalks. You would think after the millions of American, British, Canadian, and Australian tourists who pollute this city and walk around in droves, that the Czech locals would figure out how to walk in large groups. Not so! My friend Hunter, and yes, his name is Hunter, weird right? Two grown Hunter's in the same city districts. Crazy I know. His favorite game is to walk right into a Czech person and do that weird awkward walk dance. You know, the one where you run into someone, you try to walk one way, they go the same, you try walking the opposite way, and they walk the same, etc. etc. Yes, he likes to do this on purpose, but keeps going the same way the other tries to walk, so it becomes a play on the Czechs' consistent (non)walking habits.

Prague is not unique in all bad ways. The city really is beautiful. And if it were not for all the English speaking tourists and retarded Czechs not walking around where they are supposed to, the city would be encapsulated in the nostalgia of a different era. I've read many books that speak of this very thing. A city steeped in mysticism and magic. Prague really is like that. When you get by all the bullshit that is so in your face, that is impossibly to deny, then you will see it. The city still has that magic touch. But not many will notice, and not many people even know about it. The ones who come here go out for a good time, drink great Czech beer, visit the Cabarets, and stumble back to their hostel; they don't really know what the city is. They see and feel and smell what the 21st century has made it. Which, if you look beneath that sweltering blanket of sleaze, you might see something else. Something that is scary. Haunted.

But that blanket is usually too much for most people. I feel like even the Czechs who have lived here their whole lives don't see the city for what it really is. Even me. I sometimes forget that I am living in such a place, in Prague for Christ's sake. I am too caught up in worrying about money and work and what the next meal is going to be. I lose sight of my being here, which I wanted to always appreciate.

And then I run into someone who just stopped mid stride.

What I said above, about Prague being unique in a bad way: That's not always the case. I am really glad that I came here, that Jamie and I were able to live a different life for a while. But it takes a lot out of you. It's not the cheap destination that everyone says it is. As more and more tourists embark on their quest to conquer the Czech Republic, the more inflation rises. The more the food just absolutely sucks. For all you Czechs: Your food sucks! Really! Go learn from the Hungarians something. Like cooking. That's one of the worst things about living here. What I cook in my own kitchen is better than what 95% of restaurants are dishing out to their customers. The other 5% just got lucky. Seriously.

I guess this has turned into a bash the Czech capitol bonanza for me. Maybe I needed to vent. But all these things have been weighing on my mind for a long time now. Most people I know here are not happy living here. The Czechs who I have interacted with and met, don't seem happy. If they are, they are amazing at acting unhappy and sad. I wouldnt say it was a mistake to move here. It showed me what I did not want in my life. That this was not the place for me. Sometimes, it takes you having to live through those experiences to really understand what you like and what you don't like.

I don't like Prague. Or rather, I don't like living in Prague. I think one day I will come back, when I have money, and I can enjoy the subtle things, like going out, but for now, I look forward to leaving this place for some place I know I love.

Budapest.

Carnal Schism

2008-02-08T15:25:00.000+01:00

This little short I just re-edited because the first try had no timing, the photographs were each timed the same, and there was no music. So I thought a few things needed to be done to it. It's actually the first production project I had in school. The following is a much much more cleaned up version of that first project.

And...

2008-01-31T18:17:00.000+01:00

And, the best (bittersweet?) part, is I get paid in dollars.

C'mon U.S. economy! Don't go into recession now!

It's Official!

2008-01-31T17:52:00.000+01:00

I move down to Budapest in two weeks time. I just got confirmation tonight.

Jon says, You better get down here because all you are right now to the brass is 'some kid Jon met in Prague'. My first test: film and edit a company meeting. (Read: Cakewalk)

Prague Test (Below)

2008-01-31T08:32:00.000+01:00

The post below is the short (:90) test video that I shot and edited for the bosses at Move One Relocations, to show them I had what it took to be brought on the team. It took less than 24 hours to put it all together. And while I hate using iMovie, I had to use what I had in front of me. As you can see why, I will only have it up for a short time.

Also, the weather was not agreeing with me in the slightest, so much of the video has a gray quality to it. This could not be helped.

Prague Test

2008-01-31T08:13:00.000+01:00

I may be moving to Budapest

2008-01-30T19:54:00.001+01:00

As you can probably read from the title above, I am moving to Budapest. Or rather, I may be moving to Budapest. At this point it seems like a sure thing. How, and why you may be asking yourselves right now?

Well gather around, I shall tell you a story!

A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away....Oh we're not auditioning for Star Wars? Damnit! No, really, a while back, I posted how I had had an interview with this guy named Jon, who works for a corporation called Move One Relocations. You can find their website at www.moveonerelo.com

At first, I thought nothing of the interview, because it was more funny than serious. I had gone in to interview for an editorial position (something I'm really not qualified for, but why the hell not?), and came out thinking about my film credentials. Let me go back. When I went in, I slid my CV over to Jon, not really thinking much of it, other than this was just another interview that I was getting nothing from. The smiles, the small talk, the questions, the pained expressions at the end. I really was not in the mood for interviews, being my last week of work at Anagram, and I was thinking of what I was going to do after Anagram. Who knew that the interview I was in right at that moment thinking that very thing, would do anything for my life? Who knew?!

Well now I know. He took one look at my CV (oh yeah, that's a resume for all you non European dwellers...actually I'm pretty sure its called a CV in every other country other than USA, Canada, and maybe Mexico), and said, Oh you do film? We're looking for someone to start filming our locations. But it wasnt that easy. This position was not open. There was no position. Jon was creating a position out of thin air. From scratch. And telling me about it. I just went with it. He said, You would go to each of our locations, film it, come back, edit, and then post each video online. Hmm, maybe I should go back, again. Move One Relocations is a rather large corporation based out of Budapest, with offices all over Eastern Europe, extending to Asia, Africa, and the Middle East. Their clients are mostly Americans who move abroad, with families, and need help adjusting to their new lives. In other words, they help with visas, schooling for their children, whatever else.

What I would be doing, is showing these people what their lives will be like when they finally arrive in their final destination.

I shot and edited a 90 second video for Prague, and sent it off today. But we have been talking over the last two weeks, and Jon has been pushing for this position to be worked in house, with one person. Technically, it would be a lot cheaper, rather than hiring out someone who you dont know and dont trust from each location. And then, they have a company flat in each location, so I would go to those places, sleep on the couch, and shoot for however long. Anyway, Jon has been fighting for this position to his superiors, and basically for me to work this position, which has been pretty amazing. Considering he created the position, on his own, and pitched it to upper management, and got it approved. That's big.

Anyway he gave me an offer tonight, but he personally was not happy with it, so he was going to go back and talk to his boss about it to make it higher. Hmm. Sounds fine with me!

But the fact of the matter, is that I will be in Budapest in three weeks time, if not sooner. Jon wants to get Jamie there with me ASAP, but I told him that she has commitments until June, and that is not an option at the moment. But, what is good, is that he is willing to look for something for her, when she gets into Budapest.

Things are looking up, as they say.

Bad News

2008-01-30T19:30:00.000+01:00

This is 'Bad News,' one of my projects for school last year. It's old for some of you, but new for others. My assignment was simple: film something for an extended period of time, with no use of editing (post or in production). It's called a Long Shot, for those non film buffs. I finally figured out how to compress it a minute ago. So enjoy.

Internet is Down!

2008-01-22T09:56:00.000+01:00

I haven't written in a while, because there has not been much going on (still adrift in these shark-infested jobless waters). But now, I won't be able to write for a while, because our internet in our flat dried up. It doesn't make much sense, because the cable television still works (the internet and tv are hooked up through the same router), but the internet is defunct. I felt like the Hulk last night....except I didn't turn into the green giant...and I didn't smash anything...not that I did not want to.

Anyway, I am currently writing this down at the bottom of our stairs. The Cafe Louvre (three stories below, but only a story above me at the moment) has free wifi, and I am totally jacking that shit. Oh, the wonders of modern technology.

So that's that. When, or if ever we get the internet back up, I will write a story about it.

Snow

2008-01-12T15:48:00.000+01:00

The view from our flat a couple days ago. I'm not exactly sure how many inches it was, but you can see the pile up of snow on the building opposite ours. It has since melted away, but the streets are still pretty icy.

An Incredibly True Short Story

2008-01-11T16:16:00.000+01:00

I walk down the steep steps into the depths of a club I've never been before. I've walked past the entrance for months now, and this is the first time I've even noticed it's existence. Things here seem to want to hide, to let your gaze wash over it, and yet, there is nothing to pique the mind, draw the person in. Its all word of mouth. How did I get here? I was led here.

The group ahead of me is laughing and screaming, stumbling down the steps and gripping the persons in front of them in vain. Those are my friends. The ones laughing and screaming and falling. The staircase seems to go on forever. How deep does this really go? I wonder. At the moment someone is sure to break their neck, we reach the club. It's a catacomb. Or a wine cellar. It's tough to gouge. Every place here seems to be underground, with a cellar catacomb-ish feel to it. The cobblestones that were just beneath our feet on the streets are now above our heads, arranged in the famously powerful Roman arch. This place looks ancient. The floor below us creaks as we explore the vast cellar club. Every room seemed to have 2 rooms leading off of it. I'm sure to be lost in a matter of minutes. I follow the group ahead of me. Safety in numbers! And then find myself looking down a new staircase. Great. More steps.

Downstairs from the downstairs, we enter the fray. People everywhere are dancing, drinking, moving their bodies to the music that blasts too loud. A DJ is set up in the corner. He's not good, but people don't seem to care. We all peel our outer layers off and throw them on a table. Will that be safe? Who cares! Let's dance!

A disco ball hangs over the dance floor. Red and yellow and orange lights from all across the cavernous room are aimed at the ball, and it refracts along the bodies that thrive for the music and the light. Our group makes our own little circle. Are we any good at this whole dancing thing? It doesn't matter. Camera flashes go off every 4.3 seconds. I'm blinded for a second. How can you dance when you cant see? I wonder in a haze. Someone hands me a beer. Where did this come from? Hmm, I better drink it to find out. To my left is a giant lady. She's taller than me, and is dancing with some guy shorter than my chest. She doesn't seem to notice, but the man keeps knocking his face right smack into her chest. He looks like he's in ecstasy, with the biggest smile pasted across his face. She bobs up and down, and he keeps smacking his face against her tits. I look away, wondering what the hell is wrong with these people.

And in that moment, everything seems to fall away. There's a moment when the music sweeps me up, us up, everyone around me, onto the crest of some metaphorical wave. But the wave. Its real. My mind smiles at the thought. The. Music. Has. An. Effect. Over. Me. The dancing bodies next to me are moving to the beats, the sounds, the wave. They move as one, a thriving mass of living beings, probably drunk. But it doesn't matter because that moment, when everything dropped away, when the world made sense, that's what's important. All that's left is a group united in the music, hearing the same beats, smelling the same smells, experiencing the same...experience. I smile, and take the last drought of my beer. The dancing light plays tricks on my vision. I see a heat wave above the heads of the crowd. Jesus, are we in the desert? My mind wanders, and I watch the surging mass of bodies move around me, against me, inside me.

And I think, wool socks were a bad choice.

'Varatlan'

2008-01-11T16:05:00.000+01:00

As some of you may have noticed, I have added a link to something called 'Varatlan' (translated as 'Unexpected' from the Hungarian) in my Link list. It is Jamie's blog. Though in it's infancy, she has been adding her stories and memories from her time in Budapest. It is a pretty accurate story of the feelings that one encounters when walking down the Budapest lanes. In her own link list, she has links to her photography, where I am prominently displayed (is that a bad thing?). No, of course not. But for those of you who do not have facebook, my pictures are basically cut off from you. So her links are definitely something to look at. And her writing reminds me of Thomas Pynchon, except in a traveling vein. His style is tough to emulate, and I speak pretty highly of his literature.

So, you know, when she gets that publishing deal things will be better.

Updates

2008-01-11T15:34:00.000+01:00

So, those of you to read the last post about the origins of the word 'o.k.' were nice enough to forward some links to me concerning the true origin. As it turns out, my Czech counterpart had it wrong. Supposedly OK was in common usage much earlier than the middle of the 20th century. I'm not going to go into all the stories, because it seems there are a bunch of conflicting reports. But I do not blame Pavel. He must have read that in one of his history books and whoever the author was had it wrong.

Oh well.

For those of you who are more interested in the 'real' origins of the word OK, you can look up this link: http://www.askoxford.com/asktheexperts/faq/aboutwordorigins/ok
Thank you for the link Frank.

As for the second post, I finally heard from my former employer Robert, the one I thought was sick or dead. Turns out he was deathly sick, and his laptop crashed when he was at home during the holidays, so it was 'impossible' to get a word out to me. He was nice about it, but said that due to the real lack of work for me, and his diminishing funds, our working relationship would have to be cut short. For a second, when I was first reading his email, I thought we were back on track. And then, oh crap, I'm still back where I started.

Anyway, I had an interview this morning with this firm that helps expat professionals moving abroad. I went in with the notion that I was interviewing for the editor post of the newsletter, but as it turned out, my training and skills in film production became mighty interesting to my interviewer. The company has decided to film videos for each branch of their company (they have posts in Budapest, Prague, Moscow, Bucharest, Warsaw, and Bratislava). Our very very tentative agreement, and by tentative I mean speculative, was that I would shoot, produce, and edit the video for Prague, and then if all went well with the upper management, I would get the green light to travel to the other locations, stay in their company flat in each city, and shoot and edit the other cities.

Sounds exciting.

Unfortunately, this would only happen after it started to warm up, because they want to show blue skies and happy people. Not gray overcast skies and people grinding their teeth against the bitter cold.

And its not supposed to warm up around here until May.

(sigh)

So it sounds pretty cool, and again, is only speculative, but it definitely made me think about what I could do with the video. And, they would actually have a script, so it would be as close enough to a cake walk if I've ever seen one. You can check out their website at: www.moveonerelo.com

For now though, I need to concentrate on what I can do in those months leading up to the thaw of winter.

OK

2008-01-08T19:54:00.000+01:00

Pavel, my old boss at Anagram, asked me something that I found interesting the last day of my working for him. He said, "Do you know where the term O.K. comes from?"

To which I said, "Of course, its from...its...ummmm..."

And I realized that I had no idea where the hell it came from.

The answer, that he provided me, which makes a lot of sense, and I would have no reason not to believe him otherwise, was this:

During World War 2, British RAF pilots coming back from strafing and bombing runs would have to radio to their command posts their number of downed planes. When it was a good run, and no planes had been hit, they radioed in 0 killed. Which was soon shortened to O.K. And then somewhere along the line it became a staple of the English language.

I'm not sure why this is so important, but it has stuck in my head for a long time now. Sometimes, the things that seem so meaningless and pass in every day conversation, have an important story behind them.

It reminds me when I was riding on a bus from Prague, on my first trip to Prague, heading back to Budapest, and my future room mate Ryan is staring at the lines of telephone poles whizzing by, and in one of his rare sober moments that semester, wonders out loud, "How do cell phones make calls? How do they really work?"

Sometimes it is those questions that seem so easy to answer, that really make you think about the world around you and what everything really means. When those answers allude us, do we stop and take the time to really think? Or does our 10 second attention span doom us to not question the obvious?

the Work situation

2008-01-07T17:48:00.000+01:00

While the New Year celebrations were indeed fun, I suddenly found myself in a familiar situation. I was out of a job. Again. And when I look back on how exactly this situation crept up on me, I want to laugh, because it is so ridiculous.

Up until the end of 2007, I had three jobs. The first, with Anagram, the second, with Culinaria, and the third, with T-Mobile in the States. I knew when the New Year was rung in, that the first of these, Anagram and Culinaria, would disappear. I was not so sad about this, though I had developed an attachment to Anagram. The third, and ultimately the cash cow of the three, was the one to keep if all else failed. I seem to have failed somewhere along the way.

The reasons for this are simple. The guy stopped speaking to me. After the last payment he sent to me regarding my work with him (all was done at home, basically creating new customer requests and new drafts and updating excel sheets, etc), silence. Not a word. Which is strange because I talked to this guy, Robert, almost every day on Google Chat, and he was always on when he said he would be and never went back on his word (i.e. paying me). It's a mystery to me because there is nothing to suggest that he was unhappy with my work. The only solution I can really think of is he's dead.

Let me go back. Some time in the middle of December, he started to be on less frequently, until I did not see him on for days. Finally, after biting my nails wondering what the hell had happened to the man, he sends me an email stating he's been really sick and that he was on his way to the bank to honor our agreement.

And then, nothing.

I find it hard to believe that Robert could have met his end. What with all the modern medicine and technology, his being sick should not have been a huge deal. Unless he had bird flu or west nile or something. But even then, you go to a hospital and the doctors should be cognizant of these types of things.

Or, he might have realized that he really didnt want me to work for him anymore, and did the unprofessional (and childish) route and just stopped the conversation. If he thinks I'm going to track him down in Seattle from all the way in Prague, he's right. It would be pretty hard, and I don't have the resources.

As the Emperor in Gladiator said, 'It vexes me. I'm terribly vexed.' Eloquent words. I know how he feels. (Note: I think those are the two most ridiculous lines in the film, and they don't even make sense. But in my context I agree completely.) So, I find myself caught with my pants around my ankles wondering where the hell it all went wrong.

I did manage to find an old email from him that had one of his colleagues in Seattle in the forwarded message, so I sent that guy an email asking about Robert. Who knows if I will ever get a reply, but I am intrigued to find out what really did happen. I wouldnt even care if he wanted to fire me, I just want to know what happened.

So there it is. Again. A mad dash to the finish line, but there's no line. No track. No race. The illusion of stability that I held fleetingly, is just that. Fleeting.

One good thing that is happening these days is I've been working with this guy thats starting up his own website. He travels the world with his buddy (the director and cameraman) and hits the sites, restaurants, night clubs, cultural scenes, films it, and brings it all to the interwebs. The guy's site is: davidsbeenhere.com. Its still under construction, and wont open until April 20 (those familiar with this date should be smirking right about now). When it finally does open up, you can click on Prague, and find me in a couple of the clips. They leave for Dublin in a couple days, and like the last crew to come through Prague, it will be sad to see them go.

So, I'm back to where I started.

The Street on New Year's

2008-01-07T13:22:00.000+01:00

New Year's Celebration

2008-01-07T10:39:00.000+01:00

It has been a hectic past week and a half so I have not had the chance to really think about what to write. Finally I have a day off and my feet are able to relax after the hours of walking around this beautiful city. But more on that later.

Happy New Year! Yes, that is a week late, but it had to be said. And, Merry Christmas, I suppose. New Year's was pretty fun. My experience with New Year's celebrations have, on average, been less than stellar. My past experiences include puking, getting ditched, and being punched in the face! So when this holiday comes along, I am usually a little apprehensive. But it went off without a hitch. Our flat was the site of a little party, for the four or five people we know here in the city. Jamie and I had bought 4 bottles of Russian champagne, for ourselves (bad idea), and everyone had their own to boot. Byob and all that good stuff. Basically we drank and played cards, drank some more and forgot about the cards. One of the only guys I know here, Eric, we got to talking about where we come from and our past. This is pretty much the conversation we had right after I learned he was from the Boston area:

Boston? Oh my Dad's from Glosten. Glosten? You mean Gloucester? No, I'm pretty positive it's Glosten. But there's no Glosten. There's a Gloucester. That's where I've lived the past four years being a wood worker. Yeah, thats great, but I know its Glosten. I should remember this. No, but there's not a Glosten. It must be Gloucester. Nope, definitely Glosten. I already told you, there is no Glosten. Oh...maybe it is Gloucester.

Something like that. He didnt remember the conversation the next day. So it goes.

Around 11:40, we went out onto the street and ran to the river. Our flat is in the center of the city, and about a block or two from the river. Prime real estate. The streets were packed with people. Some interesting facts, real quick: Prague is the Number 2 place in the world to be on New Year's, according to a trusted poll (I have no idea from where). All locals leave the city during the holiday. The flood of foreigners (mostly those Brits) take their place, and batter the bulkheads. The view from the river is pretty amazing, with the castle dominating the skyline, while fireworks burst in the air above it.

At this point of course, everyone was drunk and yelling and singing and doing whatever else they were doing. An old man gave out sparklers to us, and looked like the happiest man in the world. Eric and I contemplated jumping over the fireworks set up in the street, and decided wholeheartedly, that yes, that would be the smart thing to do. Luckily for us, that subject was quickly forgotten. I should mention here that everyone was shooting off fireworks. At one point we were walking up a narrow street, and someone at the head of it aimed his rocket up the lane, and fired it off. Instead of going straight up, which is the common practice (and safest way) for a firework, this guy's efficient aiming managed to let the rocket fly just feet over the surging crowds' head and explode somewhere behind us. Jesus, I thought later on. What if that had been aimed a little to the left, or right, and hit the building? Or flown into an open window?

After midnight, we just started walking. And got swept up in the crowd of thousands, walking like the rest of us, but stumbling mostly. Jamie hugged and embraced and shouted 'Happy New Year!' to everyone and his brother. It was ridiculous. I had to keep an eye on that girl for much of the night. At one point, we ran into some Italians who I swore were Spanish. I told them I hated Spain and that they should never have come here. Probably a good thing their English was sub par. Nevertheless, they still looked at me like I was crazy. No, No, they would say, Italiano! To which I conveniently replied, I hate the Spanish!

Yes it was quite a night. Oh, I almost forgot. One thing that all the Czechs here have always told me, was to never go to the Old Town Square. According to them (and I still believe them), people get so rowdy that they start throwing bottles into the huge crowds. Some even throw bottles with fire. I'm not saying Molotov Cocktail fire, but enough to seriously injure people. As our crew walked with the surging crowd, I was looking around and thinking, Huh, this really looks like the way to the Old Town Square. And there we were, at the mouth of the dragon. Shit! How the hell did we get to the place that everyone said not to go to?!? Thankfully, at that moment, around 2 AM, there was no bottle throwing. I could definitely see it happening later on in the morning, but not at that point.

It was pretty uneventful in the Square, to be honest, besides the masses of people. Jamie ran up to a group of Scottish men and tried to look up their kilts. When she found that they all wore underwear, she was mighty displeased. Ten minutes later, one of them came up to our group and showed her his underwear in hand and a smile on his face. Great. The whole time in that square was pretty blurry though. There are conversations that I had with people that I now have no memory of.

Finally we got out of there, and everyone used the bathroom at a strip club. One of the girls, Caeli, who is soon to be in Vietnam teaching English, stole a large bottle of Jagermeister. Smooth. Stealing from pimps and the Czech mob (who run those joints) is the first thing not to do.

It was a fun time. No fights, no puking, and especially no arms or limbs being blown off. When that is accomplished, you know you had a great celebration.

(Editor's note: Dad did actually come from Gloucester. The coy in the last post were actually carp. They are from the same line of...fish. But not the same.)

Coy, Feminism, and Fajitas. All indiginous to the Christmas Holiday

2007-12-29T19:23:00.000+01:00

How time flies. I blink and a week goes by. I've worked practically every day over the past week, except of course on the little known holiday Christmas. It's a big thing here. Who knew these crazy Czechs were Christian. Or Catholic. Or whatever. There is this tradition here, which trust me when I say it is weird. The Czechs buy a live coy, put it in their bath tub in their flat (most flats have but one tub), and let it live for a couple days before Christmas, swimming around in the small volume of water that is provided. And then, on said holiday, it is promptly eaten.

My first question to all of this, was where did they shower, or bathe, when they had their very own carp enjoying its last days? Do they not bathe? Or worse, do they shower with that thing swimming around, nipping at their toes? I am still at a loss.

In the days leading up to Christmas (actually, we noticed it the night we came back from Dresden), they set up large tubs in the street, filled with hundreds of coy. Their, in the freezing weather, men pull one coy out after another, gut it, stick it on a scale, and sell it for a price. Poetic, I know. Thousands of innocent coy lost their lives over the last week. The Czechs, in their bountiful knowledge, tell us that the coy live for over fifty years if they are left to themselves. The Czech nation, obviously, is one of the leading mass murderers of these long living fish.

It has also been told to me that the women bake cookies in the whole month of December. And bake they do. Non stop. The Czechs are still backwards in that way, where women are still solely in the kitchen. Which, for us Americans watching on the sidelines, note how really fucked up society is here, but they dont seem to mind. At least on the outside. Plus, they're baking cookies and forcing them on you. How could you go through a feminist movement while baking cookies? I've never heard of such a thing.

Anyway, I don't feel like going into the social implications that my earlier paragraph just wrought. Better to tell of our Christmas! We had a Mexican Christmas, to be sure. Jamie and I cooked chicken fajitas, drank homemade eggnog (pretty good actually), and laughed. I'm sure we did other things too. That eggnog was pretty strong.

We each opened a present on Christmas eve. I got Jamie books, and not only because I got a large discount at a certain bookstore. No, these were books I really thought she would like to read. She got me a wallet, the very one that I had exclaimed upon laying eyes on it, "I wish I had a new wallet!" She took that to heart. Good girl. She got me a tie too, which I wore on Christmas day. Very nice gifts. It was pretty funny, because the next day when we saw our fellow American friends on the street (it rarely happens), they told us in detail how they made enchiladas for Christmas dinner. What a coincidence we said, we made fajitas! A good laugh, that was.

By the way, Pavel, my manager at Anagram, had no bloody idea what fajitas were. I said fajitas, he thought I said vahitas, which is ridiculous, and even after I corrected him, he was still wondering. So he said, is it like burritos and I said yes.

Close enough.

Dresden

2007-12-21T11:30:00.000+01:00

By the time Jamie and I got back to our flat in Prague last night, we were wiped. The jump to Dresden had gone over as expected, with some minor troubles. It started out like this:

Jamie and I sat at the Holesovice Station watching the various different people walk past, all staring at whoever or whatever was staring back. The train station is the happening place to be it seems, and to watch (see: check out) the inhabitants of the dingy station. It would be a major juxtaposition later in the day when we would be sitting in the Dresden station. Jamie remarked, "The Germans must have a lot of money. Just look at this station, compared to Prague." Indeed.

It was funny how it all worked out, us going to Dresden. We had just enough between the two of us to buy our tickets out of there (essentially our travel visas), with a couple crown to spare. Those couple crown went to buying freshly baked pizza from the vendor in the train station, enough to calm our frenzied growling stomachs. Oh, and when I saw freshly baked, I mean baked. I'm not sure there is a Czech word for 'fresh.' We just happened to have 30 euro between us saved from our debacle in Madrid, which would be used towards whatever happened to come our way in Dresden.

The ride north was really beautiful though. Most of it was riding along a river (not sure which, the Elbe? the Vlatkva?), with little towns and small cabins and cottages dotting the riverside. Those little dwellings remind me of an easier time, life without modern frustrations clogging our arteries. I could feel my being pulled towards that simpler lifestyle, but it didnt last long. For all its woes, I do enjoy modernity. While still in the Czech Republic, the train conductor spoke three languages in succession: Czech, English, and German. When we crossed the border, the conductor graciously spoke one: German. Those Germans. They are antagonistic.

Oh, and whats with the border guards stamping your passports with stamps sans ink? What is that a cruel joke or something? I'm trying to be illegal and you're fucking it all up! Have some decency!

When we arrived in Dresden, I was excited. This is the city I've read about engulfed in a firestorm, burned to a crisp! The RAF bombing units 10,000 feet up in the air could feel the magnificent heat of their thousands of incendiary devices exploding over the 'Jewel of the Elbe'. People trying to survive the fire jumped into fountains filled with water, only to be boiled alive due to the intense heat. Us Allies really knew how to stick it to those Germans, bombing a non-fortified city. But...I guess they had it coming.

Anyway, it was cold. And not a haha I love the cold. And not a haha I live in Seattle I know what cold is. This was a cold that creeped through your eye sockets and froze your very brain. Jamie complained of brain freeze. I couldnt feel my fingers. We needed to find some place warm. But before that, we walked the wide boulevards of a remarkably new city, looking at the giant shopping malls that seemed to be everywhere. I wasnt too surprised that everything was new. Kurt Vonnegut said when he crawled out of slaughterhouse basement and he came upon the ruins of Dresden, it was like looking out on the face of the moon. So a lot of this stuff was recently built. But I could see buildings that looked pretty old, that I'm guessing were rebuilt after the bombing, that we were steering for.

By the time we finally reached those buildings, right on the Elbe, there was some sort of graduation going on. Military graduation, to boot. Hundreds of young German military students stood in formation on a large plaza, awaiting the military band that was getting set up behind us, and I'm sure their commanding officer and whatever else they had in store for this graduation. I love seeing so many Germans standing in military formation. Reminds me of those olden days.

When we came upon the future of German's military, Jamie was visibly shivering and I could no longer feel either my hands or feet. So that was bad. We ducked into a restaurant right of the staging ground of the troops, a little place on the river called 'Radeberger Spezialausschank'. If you ever travel to Dresden, I highly recommend it. I ordered blood sausage and liver sausage with sauerkraut and mashed potatoes. I have to say, I was going out on a limb. I never eat liver, and I certainly never order anything with the word blood in it. But, to my delight, it was excellent! Best German meal I've had by far. And the portions at this place were great. You were meant to eat a lot. Jamie and I drank hot wine (Gluewine) and talked about family, the future, and whatever else came up. We stayed there 3 hours, drinking the hot wine and just staving off for the cold that would envelop us soon enough.

It was sad when we had to go. When we got outside, I wasnt even cold! That wine sure did the trick. Why didnt we think of this earlier?? I thought. With the last remaining light of the day we did a photo shoot. I saw a little Chinese boy go head first down some steps. He didnt even cry. Just stared at me while his mother got all bothersome over him. Kid was a trooper. I'd probably cry if I went for a nose dive down some wide German cement steps.

My camera died when we were at this cool little Christmas market. We saw some people just laughing, choking up on their own laughter and laugh some more. Apparently, some people had had more wine than us. Jamie and I danced in the courtyard just outside of an ancient (or rebuilt) church. Jamie kept saying, "Dip me! Dip me!" Which I did but it didnt look as good as in the movies. We got some looks. People were jealous.

The remaining three hours of our stay we prowled the mall. That was about all we could do. The night had come and it was cold. We found a 1 euro store. Everything was 1 euro except for a dildo. That was 3 euro.

As we sat in the nice new train station, we watched 5 or 6 police officers corner 3 Arab men, demanding their passports. They were still there determining whether or not they were terrorists by the time we had to go, about 30 minutes after they were originally cornered. By that time, more cops were called in, and standing about, watching for any sudden move. I wondered, What happens if they missed their train? What if they needed to be somewhere at a certain time? And then I wondered, What if they were terrorists? I'm sure the police were thinking the same thing. I guess I'll never know.

The ride home was relatively uneventful, until a man who I swore was homeless, and had no control over the voices in his head came on board and sat next to us. He would say anything that he was thinking. Which seemed to have something to do with 'Aero City,' because he said that about 2 hundred times for the 10 minutes he was sitting next to us. I was relieved when he left, muttering about Aero City and god knows what else. I can only take a certain amount of insane in my life.

We got our stamps going back into the Czech Republic. This time they had ink. Which is good, because that was the whole point of our trip. And that it basically was a Christmas present, decidedly since all that money had been earmarked elsewhere. There are always birthdays I suppose...

I do hope to go back there, soon. When the winter starts to thaw, especially. They had some of the most amazing electronics in the mall. I will have to go back and see what crazy things those Germans are engineering next.

Schengen

2007-12-18T10:40:00.000+01:00

A couple days ago when I was about to leave Anagram after a hard day of watching customers and reading, my fellow American colleague asked me what I was doing for Christmas, and whether I was going home. I replied of course not, where the hell would I have the money for that after working for less then half the minimum American wage. Turns out he was going home, and then said, I just hope they let me back in the country. As in CZ, the country I live in now. To which I was slightly confused, and said, What are talking about? Of course they will let you in. Not so, he said. Here is why:

The European Union has passed laws dropping all border controls along all EU nations' borders starting this Friday, December 21. In other words, when you travel between the Czech Republic and say, Germany, the border guards will no longer stamp your passport. The border guards thankfully all get to keep their jobs, but it puts us expats living abroad in a slight fix. The problem is that while in theory this is a great idea, which has been imposed on all Western EU allies for years now, it is something new to Central and Eastern European countries. Effectively, the Schengen Laws (which they are called), makes it near impossible for illegal immigrants to hop out of their country of residence and renew their three month travel visa. This has been the practice for many of the thousands of expats living in Central Europe. Instead of going through all the ridiculous hoops of obtaining a work permit and work visa (two separate entities), expats have been renewing their travel visas (allowing them to stay in that country for 3 months) by hopping on a train to a nearby country, and coming back in, letting the border guards stamp their passport for another stint in that selected country. The EU has decided to crack down on these travel visa tyrants.

I find it ironic that after 17 years, the laws change right when I arrive. Fantastic. Fate has a sense of humor.

What is worse about all this is that there is no information anywhere about this. There are articles published in the Prague Post, which I duly noted once I had heard about it a couple days ago. But nothing posted around Prague or on the news networks. No wait, let me rephrase that sentence. Nothing posted in English around Prague, which is just the sort of thing that should be published. Only now, when I walk down the street, I see small billboards with an outline of the Schengen Laws. All in Czech. The only reason I know it is that is it has a large picture of Europe and something about Schengen in the title. Thanks for the heads up guys.

When this information finally came to light, a couple days ago, I had my little freak out session but after that, I knew what we had to do. Get out of the country and back in before the December 21 deadline. Give one last Fuck You to the system. Until March, when we get to figure out what to do about the illegal status. Luckily for us, by that time, Jamie should have her visa covered. She has heard that I can have status on her visa as her non-marital spouse. But that is still hearsay and not confirmed. I could technically get a visa, but I need a company here to sponsor me. I do have the option of letting Culinaria sponsoring me, but to be honest, I really don't like the business, and the non stop 12 hour shifts are ridiculous, and boring. Why would I want to put myself through hell every day? Its either that, or staying illegal. Tough choice.

So Jamie and I leave for Dresden on Thursday for a day trip. I told one of my Czech coworkers about it and she had no idea where Dresden was. It's the closest city outside of the Czech borders. 1.75 hours by train. Christ what is wrong with these people?

If I wanted to stay illegal I could always hop on a flight to the UK in March. Since they are not in Continental Europe, they are exempt from the laws. Also they wanted no part of them, anyway. You gotta love those Brits. Stickin it to the rest of Europe.

In short, the Schengen Laws will change the way I and many others living in Europe deal with the system. As the EU cracks down on immigration (much the same in the US), lives change and it gets tougher. But I have no worries about staying here. The cops are all corrupt and you can buy them off if need be. But I hope it does not come to that. I have never bought someone off and I dont expect to start now. Jamie's parents have decided to urge her to come home if things do not start to change and look up by the end of January. For all of you who know how I feel about her parents, I don't have to say anything. For those who don't, they suck.

If these Europeans think they can get the better of us, they are wrong.

hair

2007-12-10T21:56:00.001+01:00

Thought I should put an image to the face...or hair.

a little Culinaria

2007-12-08T20:37:00.000+01:00

Second day of this Culinaria job. Basically give people what they want when they ask (and hope you know the language they speak to you). The Czechs obviously have no idea about the legal implications working 12 hour shifts without extra pay. Oh yeah, by the way, I work 12 hour shifts. For 70 crown an hour (so I hear). That's $3.93 at the current exchange rate. And no overtime. Frickin wonderful. And this is the place that my producer friend naively told me that the owner payed wages worth of the United States. Not so...

Its not hard work but its difficult staying on your feet continually for 12 hours. You do have on 30 minute break, and thankfully my flat is one minute walk away (literally), so I can go home and eat or see Jamie when I can. Still, that's 11.5 hours of work. And this aint no PA job where you actually get paid according to what you do (sort of). Anyway, it was my second day, and I've already figured out the system. Which is good, because I dont have to be nervous about what will happen next. My first day was actually the one day Sylvia (owner, Canadian, the 'bitch' from an earlier entry) was down in the shop for most of the day, adhering her loyal workforce to her wishes. They were not always loyal, though, and this would cause outbursts. But she would usually cause these outbursts to begin with. She was pretty ridiculous and supposedly she is never like that. I feel that she is always like that and she just happened to be in the shop more than a fleeting minute in her busy schedule. So my first day was a challenging one, and now that I got through the second, it has become clear what the usual atmosphere is like in the shop.

So I'm working 7 days a week, for shit pay. Lovely. Not to mention my online work that I do for Robert, the man at T-Mobile in Seattle. He's paying me so that is good, but I still do minimal things for him. The problem, as can be imagined, is that I do actually have to undergo training for this job, and he is rarely able to speak long enough on gmail to really go over comprehensible material. Its annoying. But typical.

Jamie and I are good. We always seem to get into at least bickering argument every night after I get home. And maybe its because ive been on my feet for 12 hours straight, or she's frustrated about work or whatever. Or a combination of a number of things going on at that moment. And it just sucks. We've always pulled through, and I am forever thankful for that, but those times just suck. Thats all that I can say.

Well, I must bring out the recycling, so I will have to go. Until next time...

update 5-12

2007-12-05T22:46:00.000+01:00

I got a haircut. Very Euro. Jamie and I saw Swan Lake last night for free. She is applying to teach ballet at the State Opera. The director escorted us to our seats. That's service. The ballet however, was not so good. Even I could see inconsistencies (Jamie was much more harsh). Friday I start training for the new Culinaria job, but it wont last long. The owner will not hire me past December because I am an illegal immigrant/worker (who knew?). I met my landlord's godson. A big burly man who fixed our bathroom light. He works in a film too. I gave him my CV to pass off to his producer. Build contacts.

The Producer and the 'Bitch'

2007-11-30T10:47:00.000+01:00

Wednesday saw a couple of new developments. I finally was able to meet up with a local producer over here in the city. We have been in contact for a couple months now, and circumstances were always limiting our ability to meet up and talk about film and work and whatever else. So I went over to his office in the morning. Turns out he just started his own production company, called The SoFa. When I first called him back in late October, he was just starting out, literally. So it makes sense that we could not meet until now, what with his trying to figure managing a business and flying back and forth to the States (I think for financing, and probably shoots I would think). His offices are in the same apartment as a larger production company, called Sebel. I havent heard of it, nor have I really looked it up yet. But it seems that they were gracious enough to let them set up house in the same area as Sebel.

So the producer, Fady Salame, turned out to be a really down to earth and nice guy. Almost immediately he told me he would help me with whatever I needed, and that whenever a shoot came up he would call me up to be a runner or PA or whatever. Basically the lowliest job in the business, but everyone starts somewhere. Usually at the bottom. It caught me off guard because most people around here are not that honest, nor gracious to people whom they've only just met. He wondered about Brian Carmody (my contact who provided me with Fady's name and number) and our meeting up. Who knew a trip to Australia 5 years ago would provide a contact now. Anyway he was cool and balked at my current wages at Anagram, and told me he had a friend who owned a business. It's called Culinaria, which is basically a store/cafe with an assortment of foods. Its hard to describe, because its not a restaurant, but it has food. It has wine and alcoholic beverages, but it is not a bar. But the best part about it is that it basically imports all their items from the States. It has Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Ben and Jerry's! Holy crap! That's nuts.

So he gave me the name and email of this woman, who he described outright as "She's a bitch, but she's my friend. Just remember, she's a bitch. But I'm sure you will be fine." Great, I thought. Four minutes after I emailed her she called me to set up an interview. I dont know about bitchiness, but this woman is prompt.

So I go in for the interview in about a half hour, and I am excited to see what comes of it. Especially since he seemed to think I would get much higher wages working for this woman, Sylvia, than slaving away at Anagram. And besides, I'm being let go anyway, so it really doesnt matter. So we shall see what becomes of it. Fady told me he has a shoot coming up, and that he would call me. But it's not finalized, so its still up in the air. But that is still good news.

jobs outsourced

2007-11-23T15:46:00.000+01:00

One other thing that has been brewing the last week. I got another job working as a personal assistant to this guy in Seattle. He has his own company and deals with T-Mobile (USA). In essence, he offloads some of his work to me, which is basic stuff like setting up new users and transferring their information on to the next part of the set up. Really easy stuff. I thought it was funny and ironic that this guy from Seattle outsourced to Prague and found another American from Seattle.

So that hasnt really started up yet but we've had discussions on what the work is (and I've gotten a taste of it when he sent me a name and let me set up his user interface), the pay, the contract, the taxes involved, the under-the-table-ness. All that good stuff.

It's getting so dark so quickly now. And Jamie has started to make fun of my blogging right about now, so Im going to sign off.

Giving thanks?

2007-11-23T15:23:00.000+01:00

Yesterday was Thanksgiving. The Czech Republic obviously does not celebrate the American holiday because the Mayflower never landed in Prague and the settlers never gave thanks to the Czech Native Americans...if that makes any sense at all.

So it wasnt much of a holiday for Jamie and I. I worked in the morning until the late afternoon at Anagram. When I was about to leave, Pavel asked me to step outside to talk for a second. I thought this was ridiculous, considering it was below freezing at that point. But I stepped out anyway, wondering what the crazy Czech had to say to me that it had to be said in the frost-bitten air.

Do you want to continue working here, he said? Now what is this about, I wondered? I told him that of course I did, leaving out the fact that I liked the work and the atmosphere, regardless of the fact that the pay was shit and I wasnt exactly getting any good from working there. He continued to tell me that he thought I was a good fit in the bookshop, but that after reviewing finances with the owners, he was going to have to let me go in the beginning of January. Which caught me quite by surprise, considering the fact that in the beginning, he told me that he did not want anyone who was going to have to leave in a couple months. He wanted someone who he could rely upon to be able to work in Prague for at least a year. And here he is telling me that I was going to be let go after a couple months. Mind boggling. And the fact that it was a financing issue. It was not as if they were giving me a good salary. It is equal to American minimum wage at the beginning of the '80's. Maybe. If the minimum wage sucked big time. If they even had minimum wage back then.

But I have to take it all with a grain of salt. They do pay me shit and I did feel anchored by the part time aspect of the work. I should be working somewhere else anyway. The fact that they were letting me off is probably the break I needed to really figure the work thing out here, but I love the bookshop and it makes me sad to think that I wont be there in the future, employed. After all, it was my first job here in the city, and it gave me hope. Without the spark that the thrill of work gave me, without that I would have had a hard time slogging through financial strains and emotional upheavals that come with those strains. In short, I am thankful for what it gave me. It is too bad that it must end so soon. But, in much of the cases, you have no choice. This is absolutely one of those cases.

So that threw a shadow over my Thanksgiving. Not to mention that I did not get to have any pumpkin pie. That's like a tradition. My favorite dessert, and its almost impossible to find the pie here. Finally, Jamie and I found a place that makes it, and it only costs something like 40 USD. Talk about gourmet pumpkin pie. So no pie for me this year. Which is very very unfortunate.

the flu and other endeavors

2007-11-10T10:53:00.000+01:00

The past week has been hectic and crazy for a couple reasons. First, I was I was sick and it hit me like a ton of bricks. One minute I was on my feet feeling good, the next minute I'm bundled in all the clothes and towels and blankets I could find, still freezing and wondering when my head would stop pounding. All this while Jamie stood over me with my camera, taking pictures of me, telling me how cute I looked all bundled up. Yeah, thanks. That's really what I wanted to hear right about then.

The debilitating fever only kept me down for a night, though. A combination of factors probably led to my sickness. Everyone seems to be getting sick, and then I was working at Anagram and with the breakfast documentary that was shooting at the time. The running around in the cold with the camera equipment probably had the most effect on it. But finally it ended. Being sick is one of those things that everyone has to go through, but when it starts to happen, and you feel the sickness just about to rush in and blitz your sinuses, I cant help to wonder: Why now?

Unfortunately for the Czech workers in Anagram, they came down with some virus and all are bedridden. Which makes me wonder if I happened to be the one who passed it on. The other American working in the bookshop, Brent, isn't sick. He made a quip about the 'superiority of our race' to Pavel, the manager. Understandably, he was not amused. Then again, I would never put anything past his dark humor.

So I said goodbye to the documentary crew last night over dinner. They were good guys and are only at the beginning of their journey. It is sad to see them go. A part of me wants to continue with their shoot, stops in Budapest, Nice, Barcelona and Marakesh. But I am happy enough here to be in Prague. I shot off an email to one of my fellow EAP alumni who is still living in Budapest, gave him Bryan's (the director) email, and told him to expect them. So hopefully he will be able to get them into contact with his local friends and show them the sites.

The documentary was pretty funny. It's all about breakfast, and what different cultures eat for breakfast (if they eat it at all). We would interview people out on the streets of Prague and the answers ranged from eggs to pig legs. And most of these people spoke broken English at best, so Henrik, the host, had to do a little deciphering on the beat to keep the subject talking. It was fun and good to watch. And be part of a shoot again. I miss that lifestyle and the work.

Their production office is up in Sweden, so I told them if they ever needed an editor, to shoot me a call. I wouldnt mind a trip up to Sweden. Plus, Henrik was telling me its warmer than Prague. Which is hard to believe, considering how farther north it is. I guess I'll just have to find out.

What else is going on...Jamie's friend Katie came in from the States two days ago. I was worried about her staying with us for a second there, but we hit it off so nothing to worry about. We went out to a dance club called Akropolis last night with the rest of Jamie's TEFL students, now graduated. It was fun to a point. Akropolis was less of what I was expecting, which is too bad. There was a drunk old man dancing and sloshing a beer around. A woman in a wheelchair was out in the middle of the dance floor, and I thought that was pretty awesome to see. I have no idea how she ended up in that chair but I was glad to see she had never given up. There were a line of men staring at the girls dancing. It reminded me of when Jamie and I were in Split, Croatia, and a US naval regiment had just docked, and all the men were sex starved and eyes aggogle. I've never seen so many guys blatantly stare at the female half of a couple. It was ridiculous. Thats what it felt like, but it was in a dark room with music and packed with a bunch of drunk American girls.

The Greek Statue at Post

2007-10-25T21:43:00.000+02:00

Today was my first opportunity to start working in Anagram Bookshop. It was more of a 4 hour training exercise, but then again, there is only so much you can train for in a bookstore. What it came down to was really quite simple. I was shown all of the sections of books (not many, considering this is an independent enterprise), the filing system (the same program I used at Jigsaw Editorial), and the cash register. That was about it. And, since no one was coming in for the first two hours, I was literally left with browsing the books, getting to familiarize myself with all of them. I have a reading list now. Its long. And those books are expensive! Even with my 20% discount.

Something I found odd in the first minute of starting out, was the closet. This was no ordinary closet. And no, it wasn't like a magical doorway leading into a land of talking animals and parallels with Christianity. No, this closet had a toilet inside it. Now, when I say a closet, I mean that the area of the closet would probably never be able to house a human being, and especially hard with a toilet inside. I'm not sure why anyone would want to be so claustrophobic when using the bathroom. Doesnt make much sense to me at all. But there it was. Of course, this "bathroom" was a bathroom no more. It had been transformed into the coat rack, and small storage area. But still. Weird.

My manager, Paval, is this funny Czech guy that I am still trying to figure out. When I first met him he didn't seem like much of a reader to me. He has this pessimistic attitude, but it can change off and on. And he's pretty funny, but I dont think he is trying to be. It just sort of happens, and it surprises himself when it does. But maybe he is trying to make it seem that way. I'm still not sure. After the grueling four hour shift I had today we were having a smoke and he says, "You know, you are too serious. You are like one of those Greek statues." And proceeded to laugh at his own joke. But then, I want to be serious on my first day of work right? Business is business. I told him he had not seen me with a couple drinks in me, to which he got serious again. "Never at work, Hunter." Jeez, I was just kidding. Of course not at work.

I think its funny when people walk in and start talking in Czech to me in an English language bookstore. And then when they figure out I don't speak their magnificent tongue, they can't believe it. And then they don't know English. What the hell are you doing in an English language bookshop then?!?! Thankfully Paval is always there to save me, but he won't always be there. Which always gives me the warm and fuzzy feeling that soon I will be left to fend for myself in the confines of an alien language. At least I will have my books to save me.

new contest

2007-10-17T20:24:00.001+02:00

Today was pretty normal for what has become my 'days.' Really, what I do is watch Jamie leave in the morning for her language school, wander around the flat looking for things to do, read, watch tv, email. But it only lasts for so long. This is one thing that I can't stand, the point when you have nothing to do, therefore, completely pointless. Really though, I'm waiting. Yes, I could be out there looking for work at English pubs, but I'm waiting on what happens tomorrow. My contact from Stillking Films finally comes back into the country tomorrow, so I will see what comes of that. But for now, something else has caught my attention.

Jamie came home talking about something she saw on the Prague Post today, the local newspaper for us English speakers. It's got news around the country, and job postings. But it is mostly for TOEFL certified individuals, which is Jamie soon enough. That English teaching thing just is not for me, but I'm sure it pays more than the Anagram bookshop. Oh, right, what she came home to tell me. She came home to tell me that The Prague Post is hosting a screenwriting contest. Anyone can join, as long as you are a Prague resident. I was about to contact my buddy Nick, long time roommate from long ago, but then, he's not here next to me in Praha. Next time good buddy. Regardless, I definitely want to enter, and since I have until the end of November, and nothing to do the next couple days (I probably start work at Anagram on Tuesday, unless something else comes along), I should definitely get my butt into high gear and start writing. I already have the plot, but I wont spoil it here. I'll wait until later to publish it.

But again, this is another example of Jamie and I vying for the top spot in the writing category. She's been renovating her play she wrote while in Lit class in Budapest. She and I were the only two people in a class of 12 that wrote a play, while the others wrote a short story, poems, or self-proclamation on the anti-Jewish properties of the Magyar people (you would have to be there to understand, trust me). So, while I write now, I remember those times, and I smile because our little writing conflict never seems to end, and we always end up in some competition, vis a vis writing, anyway.

The play. Stay tuned.

Anagram Bookshop

2007-10-16T19:53:00.000+02:00

This afternoon was the start of something good. Maybe great. Depends on the way you look at it. I went to one of only three english language bookstores here in Praha, and was wandering around not really looking for anything in particular. I am always looking for the next book to read, much like some men look for the next woman to marry or women with their next shoes to buy. But that is generalizing, and I hate doing that. So disregard that last statement. I was looking around, and Jamie was there across the aisle, and she looked up at me with a sly little smile and said, "Why don't you get a job here?" Which at that very moment I had just started thinking about that myself. Which is also strange in itself, because sometimes I swear she can read my mind, and vice versa, but then often times, it is the complete opposite. Such is a relationship.

I asked the guy working, an American, and he told me the manager was gone traveling and that he wouldn't be back until the end of the week, but that I might try the owner at his other bookshop, called Big Ben. I was standing in Anagram Bookshop. The guy liked to own English language bookshops it seemed. So I shrugged and wandered away with Jamie into the hoards of tourists passing by.

The next day (I know I started this post as if I was writing about today, but...I guess not). I found Big Ben, asked the man up front, and he directed me to the owner, sitting outside smoking a cigarette and sucking down a beer. What could be better? We got to talking, and he told me he was hiring for Anagram (I was glad, Big Ben was way too small anyway) and that I should come in tomorrow to the bookshop to have a meeting. He later called it a 'chat' which was funny, because I see 'chats' as more of a serious problems in a relationship sort of thing, but not so with this man. But he was cool. I came in the next day (today--when this post originally started) and we talked about my CV and work there and the general sort of interview/chat sorts that you talk about. It went really well. He seemed to like me, and offered me a job, which would be official once the manager of Anagram got off his holiday from hiking all over Spain (Christ, Spain!) on Monday. But he said it seemed like a sure thing.

Now here's where it all seems to go downhill. I've always wanted to work in a little independent bookshop, working, reading, doing whatever. And getting a job in such a short time is pretty impressive, especially in a foreign country. But it pays 75 CZK/hr. Which, for all you math wizzes out there, is 3.50 USD. Pretty impressive. I'm not sure if they have a minimum wage here in the country, but lemme tell you, this place wouldnt make the bar. Or at least, I would hope it wouldnt.

So I'm sort of interested to see what happens. I know that I could find a job at an English pub in the nights, to make sure my income was able to take care of all of my expenses. And then, there is the contact at Stillking Films that still has yet to show itself. So we shall see what becomes of all this. At least I have some time before I am officially a part of the bookshop.

the Written word

2007-10-11T21:41:00.001+02:00

Jamie and I have this thing, that sooner or later one of is going to get published. I just started mulling the idea, seriously that is. I've thought about writing much more than I've written, and then I get sidetracked and never do what I really want to do. That is, write what I want to write when it pops into my head. She, on the other hand, has always believed, and rightly so, that she will publish a book one day. I think some days she wavers on what she really wants to do with that, but I feel that a casual 'race' of a publishing nature might push her into high gear.

We sit right now at different desks. Mine, a cheap plastic imitation of a desk that never ceases to stop its incessant squeaks as I type. And hers, a less than modern solid desk of Czech (maybe) origin, with no inclination to squeak whatsoever. To put it lightly, I hate my fucking desk. But I suppose that it is not the desk that makes the writer. It is the wit, and the ability, that makes the writer do what he (or she) must do. And as I sit here, listening to my desk sway and quake with every little tap of the keyboard, I wonder what exactly makes me write this post, or rather, what makes me write in general.

Whatever the reason (I do not feel like having a written argument with myself), I love the written word. Plus, I want to beat Jamie. And now I have to help her put up a hook for our scarves. Oh, the life in Praha.

Muffled, but it came through

2007-10-11T20:41:00.000+02:00

There are two types of people in this world. The first, a most tiresome bunch, can be easily agitated, and thus, easily manipulated. The second, understanding and open to the challenges of life, are out there, somewhere. As I sat in the most uncomfortable chair in an airport ever, a mother and her child came into my field of vision, as I tried desperately to stay awake during my thousand hour layover. The girl, no more than 5 years old, was obviously bored out of her mind and wanted to be noticed. She stood in the middle of the terminal and started to scream. Not the scream that has become synonymous with horror films, or being thrown off of a 10 story building. It was youthful, fun. She was trying to be noticed, was all. She was, after all, only five.

Two reactions came from the crowd of people standing and sitting (some groggy in their half asleep layover sadness) around her. The first, and that of the most tiresome bunch, looked at her in absolute disdain, and, realizing she would never get the hint, then looked to her mother to quiet the little bitch down. What the hell was she thinking, letting her scream like that?! The men and women who had once been that same age, an age of youthful innocence and wonder at all around them, had forgotten. They had forgotten what it felt to stand in the center of people, not caring what it meant to yell, scream, shout. They had forgotten what it meant to be young. And then, on the other side of the spectrum, were those who understood. I saw some, not many, who smiled. No looks to the girl. No looks to her mother. Just a simple smile, one gesture that can mean so little, and yet so much. An understanding, a rememberance, of what it meant to be young. And that she would grow up, and probably forget what it meant to stand in the center of society and scream just for the hell of it.

Her mother, taking a cue from the first group, slapped her hand down on her daughter's mouth, and made a hushed remark. More likely, a demand. But it did not seem to sway the girl, who kept wailing for all she was worth. The scream was muffled, but it was there. She was not finished yet. She took off down a length of chairs, her mother puffing along behind her, desperately trying to cover her outrageous daughter's cries of pleasure before anyone else gave her the look of death. From where I was sitting, it was the funniest thing I had seen in a long time, especially watching the first group of irksome travelers who had no patience for the audio-oriented pleasures of a little girl gone crazed. Her mother finally caught up with her at the giant plate-glass window, covering her little girl the best she could, but she just kept wooping and screaming. Muffled, maybe, but it was heard.

What does it mean to stand in a crowd and scream, or better yet, to speak your mind? Will the first group, the easily manipulated, make the rules? Will those who understand be forgotten by the wayside, or worse, pushed to the side while others look on in silence? I hope the little girl, the little girl who could scream in a Dublin layover terminal and never be silenced, even with the hand of authority muffling her cries, will never forget what it felt like to do what she did that day. She might, and then she will inevitably make her way into one of the two groups. Or, maybe, she can make her own. Before doing that, she must remember what it felt like to be the five year old, bored and eager to do whatever it took to gain the attention she deserved.