Berlin: this is long and I am sorry.

Coming back to the blogosphere from a three-week hiatus is a bit more difficult than I imagined. I keep constructing posts in my head, thinking and re-thinking what I should write about, not because I'm terribly worried about my audience, if I even have any, but rather because I'm of the belief that not only do thoughts shape writing, but writing also shapes thoughts. Meaning, once I write about something, be it my trip to Berlin, the heartache of separation from my love, the brilliant Budapest spring, or my horrid, life-sucking 12th graders, it's going to make me re-evaluate whatever I was thinking before I wrote about it. And I'm not sure I'm ready to re-evaluate. Maybe just one thing at a time then, and maybe by the end of this week, I'll be all caught up.

And so! Katie and Danny came to visit me in Budapest, and then we went to Berlin via bus. I've said this before, but it really is a wonderful thing to share Budapest with home friends. It almost reassures me of the rightness I feel in being here in this city, and the decisions I've been making or thinking about making. Also, being with old friends is one of the best mood pick-me-ups on this green earth. But, anyways, onwards to Berlin. Berlin -- if I believed in love at first sight, and if it could apply to cities, which I think it can, then I can safely say I had stars in my eyes the entire time I was there. Walking around the streets was simultaneously the most chilling and the most exhilarating thing I've experienced. On one hand, the city breathes life into whoever is in it, you can't even help it. Vibrant doesn't really do it justice. It feels young and it moves and changes in front of your eyes. it's a bit hard to explain, but everything about it, the food, the people, the museums, the buildings make you want to do something daring and spontaneous.

On the other hand, its history, which Berliners display in almost a profusely apologetic way (and I mean, hi, duh!), just gives you the creeps. Walking up to the Wall, crossing and recrossing the perimeter of it several times a day, realizing that your location 100 meters to the left or right could mean living in freedom or a soft dictatorship... This wall, so arbitrarily drawn up and so much lower and thinner than what I'd imagined, just grabbed me inside. I felt dirty, disgusted with humanity. More than anything, it made me realize the magnitude of destruction that was everywhere here only one or two generations ago.

We also went to a house in which a German hid many blind and handicapped Jews. It's hard to explain this feeling I got, looking around me and reading the stories of families ripped apart by hate and fear; being there, looking at a little girl's drawings of her camp, I felt so strange and just... full of nothing. On one hand I think anyone can understand the disgust and horror, just on a basic human level. Yet that afternoon in this tiny, out of the way museum, I don't think I ever felt more "Jewish," whatever that means. But then, I looked around me again, and despite this, I took in the place I was standing. This guy, Otto Weidt, a real cool cat, hid close to 50 people in this brush factory (see picture below) and other places all round the city, thus saving the lives of people he knew nothing about, for no other reason than that they were fellow human beings.



I don't think science of any kind (Social science! What a concept!) will ever be able to qualify why people do what they do, or why this much ugliness and beauty can exist side by side, sometimes even within the same person, but I walked out into the little alleyway of the museum, turned right onto Hackerscher Markt with its colorful stands of clothes, jewelery, food, knickknacks, all the other useless things people fill their suitcases with, breathing in the river water, the lindens, the burnt sugar, and
I felt sad. Not a despairing sad, an empty sad, but that sad you feel when you find a really old drawing you did when you were little, or when you have to leave home for a trip. That sad you feel only when you're replete with the happiness of day to day. As my buddy e. e. would say, "Humanity i love you because you are perpetually putting the secret of life in your pants and forgetting it's there and sitting down."

To summarize: Berlin is ballin'. Go there now, and take me with you.

I went to Hungary and all I got was this lousy old-timey disease!

Yep. I have Scarlet Fever, folks. Good job, Hungary, for being in 1905. Anachronistically enough, they also had some penicillin lying around a dusty corner, so I should (?!) be right as rain in a few days.

Here's some pictures of my scarlatina!



"I told you not to hold that Hummel baby" -Meredith

Breaking news: Happy campers found in Budapest, investigation pending.

It was 80 degrees and sunny out today, so Ashley and Eliza and I went down to City Park to catch some much-needed vitamin D and enjoy the sheer whimsy, nay, near lackadaisical behavior that Hungarians were exhibiting under the cloudless sky. People were laughing out loud, making eye contact with strangers, dancing around spontaneously, whistling without the intention of selling you knives or souvenirs... It didn't feel like Budapest, even. Everyone seemed... what's the word I'm looking for? Ah, yes. Happy.

Last night we also went to a real Hungarian party, with people our age. They were a bit confused as to why we were there, seeing it was a birthday party, and the twenty or so guests were all relatively close friends. Our connection was the birthday boy's girlfriend's sister. It was interesting to observe and listen to real Hungarians talk. By real, I mean speech that isn't commercial or official, nor corrupted by teenage noxiousness or childish mispronunciation. Hungarian, I finally noticed, is beautiful and melodic, despite it being so monotonous.

Unfortunately, I caught a fever and sore throat at the kindergarten, and the rest of my weekend is looking to be indoor-bound. This entry is being written in the small window of lucidity I managed to catch, thanks to Advil, and my temperature is finally down to 99.5, which is far more reasonable than 100.2, what it was three hours ago.

Sorry, this is probably mundane. Bye.

PS. They're setting up a movie set on my street, in front of Parliament! It seems to be some kind of 1970s period piece set in the Ukraine, of all things, judging from the flags they've hung and the old cars they brought in. It's been causing quite a kerfuffle among the taxi community by the metro, not to mention an upheaval to the daily routine of Jingles*, the homeless man who lives under the metro breezeway.



*I call him that because he sings out loud and dances around with his iPod (yes, I said iPod!). He often accosts passers-by and asks them to sing popular music with him.

Big Life Questions: 101 ways to bore your readers!

Spring is here, truly truly here, I think. It was absolutely beautiful the past couple of days (disregarding the requisite daily blizzard, in typical Hungarian fashion).

The city is so different when it's warm and sunny, the transformation is a bit shocking. I went for a run along the river on Sunday morning, and even though it was gray and drizzling, somehow the air seemed to vibrate differently; it had undercurrents of something warm, light, hopeful. In short, spring. I ran all the way to Arpad Bridge, which is about 2 miles, then I ran back, the exact same way. That side of the river is just too nice to give up for the sake of change.

This time last year I was driven to a happy, mad-scientist kind of distraction by my senior thesis, while simultaneously being dragged down to the pits of despair by thinking about my future. Now I'm in a different country, teaching English language, of all things. The weird concept I'm trying to get adjusted to is that this is that implausible, nebulous post-college future. I feel differently about it day to day. Sometimes it feels like I've emerged out of a wide cavern into the light, the sun warm on my face, with the path right there, unassuming and solid. Other times it feels like I got out of bed to go to work, and the heat is off in the house, and I've already missed my bus. Missed opportunities, terror, etc etc.

I've managed to stave off "reality" for another ten-twelve months, though so far it feels bitterly real. If this isn't reality, I'm not sure what would earn that title. When do I cross that line? Did I already cross it when I flipped my tassel to the other side? Did I cross it when I flew over the ocean to Budapest? Will I cross it when I make my "real" life plan? This is my own personal, Central European hajj, so shouldn't I be coming to some cataclysmic discovery? I know, I know. Let go of that crap. I'm trying. But this is what I do/like best: splitting atoms.

On a more serious note, my couch smells like dog. It didn't smell like dog this morning. It's probably fine.

They always come back...

I haven't posted in two weeks, maybe more, so no better time than the present. A brief catch-up is in order:

1) Michael, Annalynne, Ben and Sara came to visit. That. Was. Amazing. It was quite a strange sensation, sharing this city, this country, with them; since I had been going through this experience in relative isolation, trying to describe it via blog or Skype didn't quite capture the reality here. Having people from home actually come and see this place, showing them all the awesomeness, laughing at the absurdities with them made it feel more real for me. The hardest part, of course, was saying goodbye, but them's the breaks. Those things are never long enough.



2) My first real translation work (D. Rubina's "Adam and Miriam") was met with much enthusiasm by the author herself, who sent it to other translators and a literary agent, and this story may be featured in the New Yorker, of all things. She said the translation was "very American," which I hope was a compliment and which I find very ironic, given my status in said country. In any case, I am really excited that something I really enjoy overlaps with something I'm good at doing.

3) Looking forward to visits by Katie and Danny in April, then Anna in May. Anyone want to visit in June, come on down. My bed fits three quite cozily ("A bed for lovers," my program director called it).

4) Writing my favorite professor/thesis advisor a Letter of Recommendation for a Teaching Award. Mayhap this will give me a leg up when I apply to UMass next year. Fingers crossed, all.

5) There's a five-day sunny streak coming up next week. ENOUGH SAID.

I'm sure there's more, but daylight savings is nigh, and just thinking about changing the clock one hour ahead is making me sleepy. Jo eszakat, one and all.

Word Muesli and March 15

My Stack of Ungraded Assignments is metastasizing on my desk like a hairy mole on an old man's scalp. Some of it is a month (a month!) old. It's not my fault, though, truly. Every time I assign something to my classes, about 70%, nay, 90% will forget to bring it in the first week around, making me wait another week to get the majority of their papers, then another week so that I can hand them back all at once.

The root of it all, the crux (what an awesome word), is that they -- how do I say this eloquently? -- don't give a flying frenulum about me or my class. Surely, you might cry, you can make them care by giving them grades? Alas, gentle reader, no. My grade is "combined" with the grade of the OTHER English teacher, the not-conversational one; that is to say, even if they behave like rabid monkeys (and they do, by the Hammer of Thor), they can still get a decent grade through the grammar-focused English classes they have. Luckily, my colleagues seem very reasonable, and have been nothing but helpful.

On a lighter (or graver?) note, this weekend is the National Day for Hungary, celebrating Hungarian... nationalism. It's actually a bit difficult to pinpoint what they're celebrating, since they haven't had much luck revolting against ANY of the foreign powers that have come, conquered, and re-conquered this place. March 15, 1848 was the day Hungary started a revolution against the Hapsburg Hemophiliacs (I kid,I kid, I'm sure there wasn't ANY inbreeding on the AUSTRIAN side...), which failed, though it weakened the Austrian powers until they finally tumbled down at the end of the 19th century, leaving Hungary to enjoy unfettered-ness for, like, five seconds, before being seized by the Nazis then the Soviets.* And they aren't exactly all there now, either. To phrase it in the words of 11th grade Attila: "Hungary is very much in the shits."



ANYHOOS, the high-school kids and the teachers were all dressed in black and white with Hungarian pins on their lapels, and it was all very interesting and somber. What amazed me most of all was the pride, the fierce love Hungarians have for Hungary, in spite of, and maybe even because of the fact that the government, the economy, health care, everything, is in the shitter (I mean truly in the toilet; America, by comparison, is enjoying a Tropical Punch CapriSun at a family picnic five miles away from said shitter).

It's damn near impossible to find a Hungarian who approves of the government, or thinks that things are great the way they are. Some Hungarians have told me despair is quite tangible here, and yet, they're still here somehow, and they still wave their Hungarian flags in earnest rather than as lip service. To me, that is patriotism. Acknowledging the faults of your country and loving it in spite of them. That is a demonstration of hope, and the only way a country can change itself for its people (thank you very much, Rush "Grotesque" Limbaugh).

I never realized until I left that I love America to tears.


*If any history is wrong, feel free to correct me.

iGoogle word of the day

stridulate (verb) To produce a shrill grating, chirping, or hissing sound by rubbing body parts together, as certain insects do.
Synonyms: clitter
Usage: The meadow was filled with the sound of countless unseen grasshoppers stridulating in unison.


Is it just me or is that totally awkward??

The Sunny Side of the Utca

So today Budapest received its weekly ration of sunlight, which lasted for a good 6 hours. In fact, I didn't even need to turn my lights on when I came home from work, and simply let the blue and gold of the sunset seep through the diaphanous curtains. It's amazing what a little vitamin D can do for one's soul.

In fact, I reread a few of my earlier entries and it seemed to me that many of them could be construed as discontented or grumpy. This would be an inaccurate and unfair summary of my life in Hungary so far. Of course, the challenges of my job and knowing I won't see anyone I love back home for many more months-- those get me down. Lately in particular, and I suspect that the absence of sun is a strong factor in this. And yet, unfailingly, every day something amazing or interesting or funny happens to me, and I can't believe I am where I am, living out this part of my life. So, inspired by Lauren's "sunspots," I, too, have decided to put down the many things that make me smile:

My beautiful kids. I've said all the important things about them already, but just the feeling of looking forward to going into work, even though I want to throttle them most of the time (even my favorites -- especially my favorites), is an incredible feeling.

Teaching high school. This has been a curiously rewarding thing. Tonight, for example, I was busy grading my 12th graders' "hobbies and pass-times" quiz, and some of their responses were absolutely amazing. Berci's (one of my faves') definition of "to sew": "It's a woman's hobby!! She can sew a T-shirt." Trying to explain "to catch (fish, butterflies, etc)," he philosophically observes that "this hobby is for boring boys and girls. I don't like fishing, it is too long to catch one if you don't have luck." Too true, my friend. Of the same word, Kata said it means "the butterflies is fly and you catch with your hand." This last one reminded me of your kids, Hanna, and likewise melted the dreariness away. There were a lot of other good ones, but you get it. Too cute.

Hungarian interjections. If you hear me muttering "Oj joj" (pr. Oy-yoy) under my breath in exasperation when I come back to the States, don't be alarmed. Thank me, actually, because it's one hell of a useful expression. It's the rough equivalent to "oh dear," but also so much more. It can mean "Well, aren't you fancy!" and "Chase me around the room!" and "Really!?". There is also "HAH-hoh!", which translates to the American "HELLO!", when one is trying to get one's attention. "Chah" is also a good one, and signifies a casual form of greeting between close/familiar people.

Princess. This is a pastry chain (as ubiquitous as Dunkins back home), and you'll be hard-pressed not to find one at every metro stop. If you must know anything about me, know that I have an unbridled, irrational passion for pastries. If ever found in an extreme enough situation, I would kill for a fresh-baked croissant. Luckily, the Hungarians feel the same way and have been magnificently cooperative.

There are many more things I enjoy, and want to dedicate whole entries to, so you'll have to wait and see. For now though, enjoy the sunshine and warmth, which seem to be bestowing their presence across the globe.

Lingua Franca?! Who needs you.

I'm sitting in Coffee Heaven right now, and on one side, I'm listening to a giant group of young people speaking English, Spanish, German, and Russian to each other, while to the left, I'm eavesdropping on a Hebrew student and her Israeli tutor discussing the weather.

Thank you, Europe. I am so happy to be where I am.

How Julie and I won the Pulitzer

I was going through some of my old writing documents, and I found this little gem. This poem was co-written by Julie and me the night Michael and Spozo were inducted into the Mug Club at the Moan and Dove (which I miss/crave to tears; scratch that -- I just miss good beer, period. The beer here? Nem freakin' jo. Sorry. I just call 'em like I see 'em.). We wrote this for them to read at the "induction ceremony," but neither one wanted to, for some totally inexplicable reason.


Untitled
(subtitle: the long menu of belgian beers is very overwhelming)

The hardest wood, the tallest man
Deep cherry, stained and polished
Soft cotton wipes away the watermark.
Peanut shells, working man's debris
clink
One time we saw a mouse here.


You're welcome, world.

Jenny: 1, Hungary: 0.

I think someone made a bet about me on the metro this morning. I had my headphones in, leaning up against the doors of the train car (what? Jenny is fun-sized and can't reach the little hand-holder things overhead), and I should also mention that I had my Hungarian face on, meaning I was staring at the ground aloofly and a little grumpily. Suddenly I noticed three high-school guys, all huddled up in a corner and talking to each other in Hungarian, then, unmistakably, looking up at me every minute or so and snickering. I was puzzled, of course. I naturally went through the mental checklist I have for looking like a relatively sane person: was my hair sticking out? Did I have toilet paper on my shoe? Was there salami on my face? Good God, the mirror, Humphrey, now!

Now, before I go on, I should mention that every Budapestian who rides the third metro line knows that Dózsa György is the stop where the platforms are reversed and the doors open on the opposite side than you expected. I have been burned by this before (possibly every day for the first two weeks), and have learned not to fall out of the train by either using the hand-supports from the ceiling or just paying attention and moving to the other side of the train when it comes to the said stop. SO, The train pulled up to the Dózsa György platform, and I, still puzzling over my appearance, stepped away from the doors and let people pass me by as I scrunched myself up against the other side of the car. Curious, I looked over at the hoodlums and saw one youth giving the other a 500 ft bill, the former looking at me with disappointment as the latter tucked his prize in his wallet with evident satisfaction.

Now, I was piecing the whole thing in my mind during my first period class (I need as much mental space from those students as possible), and it hit me. They were betting on me to fall out. Well, István/Attila/Bence, put THAT in your pipe and smoke it. I managed NOT to embarrass myself in Hungary for a full day. If that doesn't deserve a pastry from Princess, I don't know what does.

More like Neo-Cit-wrong

When I first got here, people told me, "get ready to be sick a lot, and never really get better." I consider myself to have a fairly strong constitution, so that didn't worry me much. How bad could it really be, right? I mean, we're in a developed country, there's modern medicine and hospitals. Once again, I forgot that I was in Hungary, where things that ought to be easy aren't easy, and things that are difficult are damn near impossible. Well, I just got over a three-week cold, and I use the term "over" loosely. My throat still hurts and I still cough constantly, and the best anyone can offer is this lemon powder crap called "Neo-Citran," which, judging from the ingredients, is no more than vitamin C with sugar. You're supposed to mix it with your tea or some hot water. I thank God for whoever invented Ibuprofen, because it was the only thing holding me together the last week. Naturally, they don't have it here. I honestly don't know what they do on a day-to-day basis. Was that really Annoying-American just now? Probably. I don't care, I call a horse by its true colors (??).

In other news, Budapest has experienced its first real snow of the season. On my morning walk to the Metro, I found the Parliament gloriously sprinkled with snow, and it looked quite nice with the blue skies. To find the sky blue, not gray, was also an unusual and happy turn of events, so I decided to document it.

We're talking real snow here, at least 3 inches, and it actually stays on the ground and doesn't melt! Everyone was so excited about it that we even had extra garden time at the kindergarten all week to play in sub-zero temperature and poke at icy packed snow with little shovels. I sound cynical but it really is fun.

I haven't written about work much yet, mainly because I hoped that 1.5 months in I would sound more cheerful about it, but alas, it's definitely a mixed bag of tricks, many of them not the fun kind. I should start by saying that my kindergartners, though very mischievous, are absolutely amazing kids. I already love them as if they were my babies.


There's about 35 of them, and they range from 2 to 7 years old. Of course I have my favorites, but they are all (okay, with one or two exceptions) funny, clever, amazingly sweet, and they all look like they could be in Welch's juice commercials. If it wasn't for my bitch of a boss, this job would be perfect. I look forward to every day there, because I walk in the door, and they smile at me, and hug and kiss me, and that feeling of gratification is so indescribable and sweet, it's worth going through my mornings at the high school just for that.


As for the high school... it's a toughie. I teach 14 different classes of 9th to 12th graders, each between 12 and 18 students, and I only see each class once a week, at most. It's pretty much impossible to remember their names or build any kind of rapport, especially with the 9th and 10th graders whom I only see twice a month. Many of them can't even say the most basic things in English, nor do they care to learn anything, so it's been an enormous challenge. Discipline has been next to impossible to maintain, since teachers aren't allowed to send kids out to the principal (why? why?! it makes no sense), and I've had to tell numerous students to take out their headphones or stop texting. I spend at least 60% of class time telling them to be quiet. Of course, there's only about 4 or 5 really bad classes. The rest are quite amiable, and fairly well-behaved. I even have a few students who are very gifted and actually think my presence might be useful to them. Those are the kids I come to work for, the engaging, friendly ones. I just try to remind myself that I can learn from every single student I teach, be it in a good way or a bad way, and it really helps.

Anyway, I'm still happy to be here, though I miss home terribly (and reading Little Women hasn't helped one bit! Darn it all, I'm going to Concord, Mass. first thing when I get back). I'm learning oodles of noodles about myself, my priorities, etc, and I know I couldn't do that back home.

Posta Horrors

So on Monday I received a slip in the mail from the Posta (it's "Poshta," you know), and went to retrieve my package only today, Friday, not because I didn't want it -- in fact, I wanted it desperately -- but because every single person I've talked to regarding the post office, American and Hungarian, rolled their eyes in exasperation and pity. So I've sort of been dreading it, and now I know why.

The little slip of paper directed me to a branch in my district on 16 Bajcsy-Zsilinszky St, which I couldn't even find on GoogleMaps. I decided to bite the bullet and just wing it once I get off the metro, since I've been on the street before. I got redirected by nice Hungarians a few times, until I finally found Bajcsy 16, only to end up staring at what was clearly a residential courtyard and no official-looking post office in sight. A kindly, bearded Hungarian let me into the stairwell and pointed towards some snivelly-looking door by the garbage bins, which actually turned out to be the selfsame Posta. Did I think to myself, "Why is there a handwritten sign that says 'Posta' on the door? Why did I need a door code to get into a post office?" Sure, all those questions and a million more ran through my head, but I've been in this country long enough to know that when facing a situation which makes zero sense to an American and every bit of sense to a Hungarian, asking why will get you nowhere. The answer to "why" is usually "it's just Hungarian/Hungary".

So, I went to this post office, wandered around the inexplicable maze of deposit boxes and desks, until a postal worker finally walked by me briskly. I cleared my throat and said "erm, bocsanot?" and the man turned around a bit fazed. I handed him the slip. He asked me something in Hungarian, to which I shrugged and said the one full sentence I know, roughly translated to "no comprendo, pal." He looked around and asked if anyone spoke English (of course no one did), scratched his head, then wrote something down. It was all gibberish to me, natch. I shrugged again. He then pointed at the wall for some reason, quite emphatically, and I became alarmed thinking I was in some weird 'government officials only' part and the man was telling me I knew too much now. How I determined this from his gestures, I don't know. Finally, he wrote down "BAJCSY 14," just like that, in all caps, as if I were a moron, then pointed to the wall again and said, "BAZILIKA!" Understanding dawned on me, and I yelled "Ertem! Ertem!" then proceeded to make my escape to the ACTUAL post office, which was and always has been next door, across from the Basilica on 14 Bajcsy. Obviously.

The real Posta wasn't that much better, actually, and I had to do the same ridiculous non-English pantomime, but I did get my package. And Meredith, in case you're reading this, when I accepted my package and read on the front: "(1) Calendar, (3) chocolate chip cookies," I definitely started crying. I wasn't even feeling particularly homesick today or anything. I don't even know what the people at the post office must have been thinking.

Anyway, Lesson Learned About Hungary #453537846: Avoid the post office if possible.

Don't Know Much About US History

If you were wondering whether US history could be boiled down to a 35 minute history lesson, wonder no more. It's true, folks. When your country has less than 400 years of recorded history, only 12 dates or so seem to matter, particularly to British textbook publishers. Strangely enough, though, my 11b class (not exactly the most well-behaved bunch) seemed to be interested in what I was saying, and engaged in the novel activity of "listening to the teacher while she's talking." Although I can't be sure if it had to do with the facts themselves or my delivery-- if you've ever studied for a history exam with me, you know what I'm talking about. I, er, tend to spice things up with imaginary dialogues, wild gesticulation, and spontaneous visual aids.

Sometimes it's still amazing to me that I am back living in Europe. I went to the Budapest State Opera last weekend to see Eugene Onegin, and though I couldn't see 75% of the stage or understand 75% of the words*, I just sat up there in the balcony, looking around at the gold-leaf details on the chandelier, the mural of angels and humans dancing around the circle ceiling, the heavy brocade drapery around the gallery, and hugged myself. I basked in the history that poured from every crack. Steeped, that word comes to mind as well. As shitty and tired as I feel right now, more than anything I just feel inordinately lucky.

*If you order tickets early enough, you can "see" an opera from mezzanine-type seats for 400 HUF. That's about a buck-eighty. It's pretty much a sin not to go. For decent/good seats, you have to pounce on tickets the day they come out, and even those are about $10 or so.

i think this is the first time i've ever been back so late from going out. thank you, europe, for 3:30 last call. i even managed to avoid the night bus and get the metro, which starts running at 4:30 am. the early early morning crowd is a real treat.

tonight was also the first time when I realized-- i think it hit me in the toilet stall in Szimpla, as i was looking around at all the notes left by visitors to Budapest-- that i'm really here for a while, not just passing through, and i might even feel like i belong to this city, even if only for a little bit. the birds were chirping so loudly by parliament and all over kossuth ter, and i couldn't think of a more hopeful sound.

typical

Michael- "Sara said, 'haha we're so old.. you have a travel agent and I have a timeshare.' If that makes me old, then I don't want to be young."

Budapest night bus = nem jó

Okay, so I debated not writing about this for fear of seeming like a wuss, but whatevs.

I went out to Szimpla (a "beer garden," which is as awesome as it sounds) last night with a bunch of CETPers. It was pretty chill; I got to meet a lot of other people teaching in Budapest and in the rest of the country, attach faces to stories (CETP is like a summer camp or something in that way, freakin' rife with gossip- I love it), and hear about other people's experiences here. Everything was real swell until I agreed, not too reluctantly, actually, to throw palinka into the mix (that's the national Hungarian liqueur; tastes like fruity moonshine with a laundry detergent aftertaste). About two shots and one beer in, I felt like I wanted to crawl under the table into a fetal position and die. I swear to God, that plum-juice-mixed-with-Tide enfusion gave me an ulcer. For sure. Not wanting to reveal myself as the little bitch that I was (I was representing UMass, after all), I powered through till about 1 am, sitting there with my Dreher, sober, nauseated, and exhausted, using Herculean feats of strength not to upchuck all over everyone.

When the others decided to go to another nightclub, I decided it was time to pack it in and take the "night bus." How, where, what, I didn't know. I'll spare you the sorry details, but basically, made a few laps around Deak Ter and Astoria, being directed, re-directed, and misdirected by Hungarians and foreigners alike, none of whom knew what the fuck was up with anything. The bus drivers had no desire to talk to me, and probably thought that my smudged make-up and greenish skin tint was a mark of being trashed, and the unfairness of it all made me want to up chuck more. At one point, some dickwad with a cellphone ran up to me with arms spread wide, shouting what at first I took as "PUSSY!!!!". I then remembered that "puszi" means "kiss," which wasn't a sight better, and I ran away, practically weeping and muttering "er, koszonom, but nem." So finally I caved, and I took a 1000 ft taxi ride home (that's about $5-- freakin' worth every penny.)


Note to self- figure out transport prior to leaving house. Not being prepared= definitely nem jó.

In a Budapest McDonalds, watching DC on live cam.

Surreal. Amazing.

Highlights from Hungary

I'm now sitting in a Burger King by Oktogon where I can get unlimited free internet for the price of a Whopper and a water bottle (which is about $5, in case you were wondering). I'm not buying anything next time.

Orientation came and went, more or less. It was fun and tiring at the same time, and I was really glad to move into my own flat. The strangest part, of course, will be living completely by myself, which I have never done nor had the desire to do, though the apartment is small enough that the lack of another human being is not really palpable yet. We'll see.

Unpacking didn't take very long, as I only brought two medium suitcases. This was awesome when I was still transient, but might be problematic, as I realized I only packed 8 long-sleeve light shirts, and spring starts at the beginning or March here. It's probably fine (the motto of Hungary, from what I'm told). Also, no one seems to know how to use my washer.

Burning questions answered/unanswered about Hungary:

"Is that a slice of mozzarella or lard in my sandwich?" (still not sure)

"Can you get a Liter-sized stein of beer for under $5 in Budapest?" (yep)

"Did they just refer to the coming ice storm by the name of a famous national pastry!?" (yes: 'THE BIG DOBOS TORTA IS COMING!!!')

"Is wi-fi amply available?" (nope)

"Did that elderly gentleman just run down from his booth 10 feet away just to help me put on my coat?" (chivalry is not dead in Hungary)

"'Szex Shop'? 'Szendvics'? Whaaaa?" (yes, I love Hungarian)


Hopefully, my apartment will have internet within the week, but I won't be surprised if I don't get hooked up till February. So, over and out, for a while.

I am in Budapest. Budapest, as in Hungary. You may or may not have noticed I am not using contractions. This is because I am using a Hungarian keyboard, which at first glance is a QWERTY but has certain, er, quirks (qwerks), which I still cannot get used to. For one, the apostrophes. Two, Zs and Ys are switched, thus often producing the mysterious new pronoun zou. Anyway. This is my poor excuse of a segue into the attempt of answering the burning question: Budapest?! Huh??

Basically, it's pretty sweet. First impressions so far are that it's quite beautiful, but there's also a curious element of opposites going on, especially in terms of architecture. Side by side you will see two buildings, one with beautiful stone sculptures, oxidized copper facades, tall columns, and all that European old charm that Americans drool over simply because it looks like it could have been around before the Louisiana Purchase was a twinkle in Jefferson's eye, and then one building that looks like it was airlifted out of Kruschev's Moscow. Also, that European quaintness is doubly contrasted by the graffiti thats absolutely everywhere, even on what I would consider really fancy buildings. The strip malls right outside the city look very much like something out of Ware, Mass., so there are dreary consumerist brushstrokes added to the mix right there.

I found out that I will actually be working mornings at the high school in Pest (the flatter, newer, larger half of the city east of the river) and spend afternoons at the kindergarten in Buda (older, more posh side west of the Duna). So I will be crossing the river every day in the tram. I think that's the part I love most about living in cities, familiarizing myself with the public transport system. I find out where I'm living in a few days, which hopefully will be central enough. It is now almost 10 pm, and bed calls to me. Over and out for now.