The Illusion Can Only Last So Long

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

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

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

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

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

I hope that goes the same for all of you.

Tales from Wroclaw: The Toilet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not going to be happy.

What? Why? Is there no toilet paper?

Just trust me.

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

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

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

There’s no toilet seat.

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

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

This place is weird, he’s telling me.

No shit? Really?

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

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

Places to Visit: Miskolc-Tapolca Cave Baths

I needed to get out of Budapest.

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

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

Baths + Caves? Oh I am so there.

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

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

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


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

What?

Women only!

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

Uh, I don’t care. I need shorts.

No, women only! You are man.

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

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

Women only!

Uhh…

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

What the hell is wrong with these people?!

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

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

Well, better then my heart boxers.

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

Great. That makes sense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I suggest you come out here and do the same.

Some Sort of Terror Response

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

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

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

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

Well, so much for raising the alarm.

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

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

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

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

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

Are you serious? Why?

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

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

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

Ok, this should answer our question.

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

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

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

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

Tales from Wroclaw: Jaro Leaves

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

Ok, let’s go back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is it?

I have to go now.

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

Nothing, I just have to go.

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

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

I’m sorry. I have to go.

But I just ordered nachos! I start to protest.

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

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

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

Fuck!

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

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

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

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

Silencing the Ringer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was frustrating, and ridiculous.

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

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

But what does that mean?

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

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

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

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

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

Just like that. I was free!

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

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

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