Injured.

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

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

Wait. Let’s go back.

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

Well, damn. There goes those care packages.

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

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

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

It went like this:

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

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

Oh great.

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

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

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

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

Ok, lets see what injured means.

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

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

Wonderful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sack!

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

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

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

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

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

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.