Stupid Nazis

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Tales from Wroclaw: Arrival

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

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

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

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

Agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmm.

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

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

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

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

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

He points to something behind me.

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

Oh thank god for American chains.

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

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

Umm, ok, you do that.

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

Hello, I’m lost. Please help me.

That’s about as clear as it gets.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What? He asks, eyes arching.

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

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

This guy is good.

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

Jaro comes in, goes straight to the bathroom.

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

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

So it’s pretty far from here?

Yes.

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

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

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

We had trouble with the exact night transport route.

Oh. So it’s pretty far huh?

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

Snow Falls

There's just something about snow.

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

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

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

Tales from Wroclaw: The Beginning

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

We had neglected to tell him.

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

Ahhh!

He finally realized where the smell was coming from.

C’mon Dad! Drink up!

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

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

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

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

All the way? I keep asking.

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

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

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

No. Get on the train.

Fuck.

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

I just totally grabbed Ewa’s tit.

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

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

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

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

You fucking idiot.

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

Obstacles Ahead

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

Where are you going?

Home. I can barely keep my eyes open.

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

Drink it. I don’t care.

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

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

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

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

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

And then I remember.

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

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

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

Medically Challenged

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I won’t ever know.

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

I guess the bad sometimes do good.

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

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

What a sweet girl. But I’m right.

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

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

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

There’s no phone.

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

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

What is it?

Shh! She shushes me.

I hate getting shushed.

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

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

What? What did she say?

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

What? Tell me!

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

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

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

Yes. She’s very sure. I can see it.

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

And will I see her again?

Crash

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

Car accident.

Jaro is listening too. Did you hear that?

Yeah.

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

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

People love car accidents. Just a fact of life.

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

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

What the hell was that?

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

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

Only in Hungary, dude! Only in Hungary!

Western Journalism At Its Best

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Wow. You just fucked up that one.

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

Someone should fire their Continuity Specialist.

UPDATE 1:

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