Slovakia Road Trip

J: Alex, what do you want to do this weekend?
A: Do you want to take a road trip to Slovenia?
J: That is kind of far for a weekend trip. Do you want to explore the caves in Slovakia instead?
A: That sounds cool. I'll pick you up at 6:30 AM on Saturday.

We headed out early for Liptovsky Mikulas, a town in northern Slovakia. We were close to the Polish border and the low Tatras, a mountain range which prisoners climbed over to ecape from Auschwitz and into Slovakia during WWII. The area is known for its outdoor activities, caves and sheep's milk cheese (which you eat with salt and paprika). We took a three kilometer tour of the Demänovská Cave of Liberty, the largest cave open to the public. Just call me Ms. Frizzle.





J: Why did the GPS lead us 45 kilometers to the dead end of a dirt road?
A: That is so strange. We typed in "Kastiel" under tourist attractions.
J: Maybe "Kastiel" doesn't mean "castle" in Slovak?
A: Oh. Good point.

After unsuccessfully trying to find a few castles in nearby towns (we saw some churches instead), Jackie and I ate dinner at The Grand Castle in Liptovsky Hradok. The castle's brochure touted its "discrete" location "ideal for meetings of diplomats, businessman, and adulterers." (OK, the last one was my interpretation.)

The highlight of the trip was staying at Chalet Slovakia, a hostel run by an English couple, Clare & Danny, and their 1 1/2 year old son, Oscar. Clare & Danny had always wanted to own a B&B, visited Slovakia two years ago for the first time, fell in love with Liptovsky Mikulas, and bought a house the next day before they could chicken out. Not only did Clare leave out chocolate cake for us when we got back on Saturday night and we had an incredibly peaceful night of sleep, she and Danny gave us great advice about what to do and see around the area. And just when I thought Chalet Slovakia could not get more perfect, Clare showed us her English garden complete with a bunny rabbit.




On Sunday morning, we visited Liptovske Muzeum, a preserved historic Slovakian town. It basically was like visiting Williamsburg, except Liptovske dates back to the 1900s - not the 1700s. And you know the Taylor Swift lyrics "She wears high heels, I wear sneakers"? It was hilarious watching the female tourists trying to navigate around the mud and horse crap while wearing stilettos. We then checked out the Ice Cave, Demänovská ľadová Jaskyňa.


J: Alex, I think these are dragon bones!
A: Silly girl - these are actually bear bones but you are not the first person to make this mistake! Scientists errorenously thought bones found in the Ice Cave were those of dragons until the 1890s.


The scenary to and from the Tatras was amazing. The beautiful mountains and greenery were juxtaposed with communist-style buildings which have been repainted neon colors to liven up the landscape.



QED - I love Slovakia.

oneGTS

Scratch all of the happiness BS I wrote about yesterday. My work peeps and I went out yesterday, and it was a totally happy time.



We went out to celebrate Robert's (left) upcoming wedding to Amelia, who seems like a very cool chica (sorry for all of the slang today, I am a bit hungover). Apparently, she told him that he was "the most boring person she had ever met" on their first date. He then pursued her for the next eight years. I looked like a drowned rat because I got caught in a thunderstorm in transit.



Balasz, the funniest person I may have ever met. If he is so funny in English, I can only imagine what he is like in Hungarian. He is in the middle of his signature "move it, move it" dance in this picture.



Geza telling one of his (long) stories. Geza recently described his life post-separation from his girlfriend of ten years as one of a "rolling potato." I believe this roughly translates to "rolling stone." Geza incorporates sex into any conversation you can imagine.

Happiness Is Not a Fish You Can Catch

(Blog title courtesy of my high school obsession with Our Lady Peace.)

I was re-linking a mammoth spreadsheet this afternoon when my co-worker Geza asked me out of the blue if I thought Hungarians were happy. Little did he know he had broached one of my favorite conversation topics. Trying not to offend my Hungarian co-workers, I diplomatically answered that although Hungarians consistently rank at the bottom in terms of “happiness” measures, I found people here to be quite kind and helpful, and I am sure the scowling faces on the street are just facades.

Geza considered this. “If you ask an American how he is doing, he usually will tell you ‘fine’ or ‘OK.’ But if you ask a Hungarian how he is doing, he will tell you ‘shitty’ or that he has a ‘big pain in the head.’”

I agreed with this. I would have to be close to my deathbed to tell someone that, “Eh, no actually I am not doing too well today. My newfound love of Hungarian food is making it difficult to fit into my I-used-to-go-to-the-gym-before-work clothes, my neighbor yelled at me for ten minutes for parking too close to his car, I didn’t understand one word of the conversation at lunch, and the girl to whom I feel closest at work just told me she is leaving the company.” That being said, it does seem that Hungarians listen to and care about your responses to questions. In the United States, I believe that people (including myself) often ask a question out of politeness and are annoyed if they do not receive a one-word, agreeable answer.

“And if you think positively and talk positively, you become positive,” Geza continued. “Hungarians do not do this.”

Last Friday, I met a positivity psychologist (did you know you can get your PhD in that? I didn’t have the nerve to ask him where) who specifically moved to Budapest because he felt the city had a need for his services.

My co-worker Adrienn was listening. She recently went on vacation in Spain, a country renowned for its ebullient and “happy” inhabitants. However, Adrienn was disappointed that the locals were not friendly and made it a point to talk to her in Spanish even after they realized she didn't speak the language (she speaks about five other languages btw).

Her point was that even if a population is considered “happy” by the usual definitions, they may not be kind to others. And isn’t the true test of happiness the ability and desire to care genuinely about others?

Hungarians seem to possess part of the happiness puzzle – they are kind to and have empathy for others. But they are lacking the positivity gene that allows them to be happy themselves. When I asked Adrienn, Geza and others why that might be, they replied that it is just the “Hungarian mentality.” I was sort of joking in an old post that Hungarian depression was caused by years of communist rule. However, perhaps it is true that multiple generations of oppression by third parties - the monarchy, Germans and Russians - created a defeatist, passive “Hungarian mentality” which is outlasting the oppressors.

I always joke that Hungarians are drunk on emoticons. You can find the most masculine, conservative businessman on the street and be sure that he just used “:)” multiple times in an email. But perhaps the excessive use of emoticons is just the Hungarian attempt to “think positively and talk positively” in the digital age. If Geza’s observation that positive actions lead to positive feelings is correct, Hungarians may be combating pessimism one emoticon at a time.

This theory however still does not explain the overuse of “;-P.”

Bikram Yoga

Last night my dinner plans fell through and I was close to a Bikram (hot) yoga studio in Astoria. I have taken yoga before. I am not good, but I enjoy it. OK – to clarify, I enjoy the feeling after I finish a yoga class and am back in my apartment feeling Q to V proud of myself.

Why not try a new kind of yoga in another language? I didn’t see why not.

Well, in retrospect there are actually lots of reasons. Especially if you do not bring twelve towels with you to mop up your sweat.

According to Wikipedia, Bikram yoga ideally is practiced in a room heated to 105°F (40.5°C) with humidity of 40%. OK, maybe that is ideal, but I estimate it was more like 100°C in my studio. I rented a towel and mat (I know, kinda gross) and walked into a room jam-packed with yogis. The women on average were super cute and sporty and the men were sporting nothing but speedos. One had the decency to wear a jammer.

The studio was crowded, but I was able to find a space next to a man who curiously had a five-foot radius of empty floor around him.

Mistake number two. I sat next to dragon man.

Breathing plays a big role in Bikram yoga. I cannot tell you more than that because I didn’t understand one word of the class. Every so often, the instructor would lead the class in a session of short, abrupt breaths. Mine were barely audible. Describing the guy’s breathing next to me as dragon-like is denying the power of his lungs. I have never heard noises like that emanate from a human being before. And I have been in the psych ward of a hospital (passing through, not admitted).

Mistake number three. I didn’t bring my watch.

I did not know how long class was supposed to last – it could have been five hours for all I knew (it felt like it). At one point I was so hot and dizzy that I lost track of time altogether. I eventually awoke in child’s pose crying for mercy in Sanskrit. Okay, I don’t know if that is true, but the class is a little blurry.

In related news, I feel great this morning! Maybe I’ll try Bikram again. Crazier things have happened.

Mama Bochicchio Does Budapest

Operation Make-Mama-Bochicchio-Like-Budapest-So-She-Is-Less-Worried-That-I’m-Living-Here commenced at 23:00 on Wednesday night. The operation did not have a fortuitous beginning although I guess I should feel lucky that the cop didn’t issue me a ticket when he pulled me over on the way to the airport, and there could have been three – not two - airports in Budapest with the same name.

Things improved from there. I had to work the next day, so I gave my mom a strict, non-Internet accessible itinerary to ensure she didn’t stay in the apartment and work all day. I think the highlight of her day was the Danube boat cruise. Apparently, the cruise commentary centered on two characters, a girl “Pest” and a boy “Buda” arguing over which side of the city was better. While originally this may have been a clever conceit, Mama Bochicchio recounted that the dialogue fell flat, wavering between idiotic and comical.

Pest: “Oh, Buda, I am so much better than you because I am home to Parliament.” [Pest gestures dramatically at the Parliament building on the right bank of the river.]

Buda: “Oh, Pest. You are so silly. I am home to the statue of St. Margaret, so I am better than you.” [Buda gestures towards a statue of a nun on the left side of the river.]

Pest: “Oh, Buda. I think you like the statue of St. Margaret just a little too much.” [Pest giggles and winks at the audience.]

It does explain why the cruise served two rounds of drinks during the one-hour excursion.

The beautiful weather continued into Friday. Mama Bochicchio and I saw the mummified hand of St. Stephen and climbed to the top of the dome of the Basilica. We then wandered around the Central Hall Market and bought food for a yummy picnic on Gellert Hill. After lunch, we climbed Gellert Hill and were a little embarrassed about how tired we were until we realized the group of senior citizen tourists swarming the citadel actually took a tour bus up the hill. We had dinner and drinks on a boat on the Danube with gorgeous views of the Buda Castle and Chain Bridge.






Worrying that the Gellert Hill hike was slightly reminiscent of my dad’s “death march” family vacations - when we walked around a new city, usually on the hottest day of the year, with no breaks for water, food, or the bathroom - my mom and I decided to relax on Saturday by visiting the famous thermal baths at Hotel Gellert. The biggest challenge of was actually finding the baths (is the maze designed purposely to mess with tourists?), and we started out in the co-ed thermal bath, aka the “foreplay bath.” Luckily, we soon found the women-only baths, which were largely devoid of couples making out. There was less nudity than I expected but perhaps I am confusing the Hungarian baths with my high school Latin class knowledge of the Roman baths. And unfortunately there were no slaves with palm leaves to fan us. I would have taken pictures to post, but I am pretty sure that would have been illegal, and I am through with police interactions for the weekend.

After a quick dinner from my favorite Hare Krishna restaurant, mom and I walked to the Budapest Opera House to see Mendelssohn’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” The production was spectacular and so long that we accidentally almost left after the second intermission. One of my favorite parts of the performance was when the dancer playing a snail heaved herself across the stage - she moved exactly like a snail! After the ballet, I introduced my mom to my friends, Susan and Jackie, and we had a great time over drinks at Callas, named for the famous opera soprano and Aristotle Onassis’s mistress, Maria Callas. And despite my mom’s heckling, I was not swayed from my order from a fruity, sugary cocktail.



I couldn’t have asked for a better weekend with Mama Bochicchio, and I hope she had as much fun as I did! And Pops, I promise we will have an amazing time too when you visit in the fall.

Random Tuesday Night

I FINALLY have Internet at my apartment - WOOHOO. To celebrate, I will post some random, sorta drunk musings that I am sure will seem incredibly stupid when I reread them tomorrow morning. Whatever - it's my blog, and I can do whatever I want. And tonight that means alienating friends or family as potential readers.

I attended a couch surfing dinner tonight (couch surfing is an online community to meet other people / crash on other people's couches when moving to or visiting a new city). When I asked a Hungarian guy to tell me something about himself, he said he just built a tandem bicycle. Is there a better answer than that? I think not.

My dad emailed me today saying that Tom Brady is looking for houses in Sherborn, my hometown. When I responded that I heard rumors that Tom Brady's model girlfriend Giselle is pregnant, my dad replied that Giselle is not Tom Brady's girlfriend but his wife. Since when does Papa Bochicchio know this stuff?

I finally feel at home in Budapest because I have become someone's unofficial shrink. In NYC, it was the clearning lady at DB (which unfortunately got sorta of creepy at the end when she starting leaving presents for me in my cube). In Boston, it was the barista at Starbucks. In Budapest, it is the receptionist in my apartment building. We have always had long conversations when I enter / leave the building. but today it reached another level. Home, sweet home.

My Skype name is "zandy583" - talk to you soon!

Lake Balaton

To celebrate my first non-rainy weekend in the ‘Pest, my friend Jackie and I visited Lake Balaton, nicknamed the Hungarian Cape Cod by wistful Americans unable to return to the States for the summer. The lake has a circumference of 212 kilometers, and the water is super shallow and sparkly.

We arrived in the resort town of Siofok early Saturday afternoon. Now scratch the Cape Cod imagery. Siofok is more like the Hungarian Cancun. The Hungarian Cancun which is yet to be open for the season. So we did what anyone would do in Cancun with nothing going on – Jackie got another piercing (and I didn’t, Mom!). And then we started drinking.


After a drink at Tequila Tavern, we moved to a lakeside bar. Sitting as far as we could from the dancer in the cage, we concentrated on the lakeside view and ordered more drinks. On vodka in a tall glass with a side of water with gas #3 (my closest European approximation to a vodka soda, my drink of choice for the long-haul), we met our German friends. Apparently they too missed the memo that Siofok wasn’t open for another two weeks.

I don’t speak German. Jackie doesn’t speak German. German #1 didn’t speak English. German #2 sort of did. We proceeded to have an amazingly long conversation considering no one really knew what the other person was saying. I knew it was time to leave when German #2 began talking to me in German thinking he was speaking in English.


Despite a lot of talk, Jackie and I called it an early night. When we awoke around 3 AM to shouting and techno music radiating from Captain Morgan’s Ship (were there enough people in Siofok to make that much noise?), we contemplated rallying.

Just kidding. That is a total lie. We swore about the stupid teenagers making a racket, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

Sunday, however, was awesome. Jackie and I took my trusty Opel Astra on the ferry across Balaton to the tiny hillside town of Tihany. Tihany is one of the least developed towns along Balaton and home to a beautiful 950-year old Benedictine monastery. We browsed the ceramics shops, checked out the marzipan museum, debated buying fanny packs and ate langos, delicious fried dough saucers topped with clotted cream and cheese (my time in Budapest will weed out any friends who liked me only for my figure). We drove back to Budapest via the more scenic north side of the lake.

So, our first trip to Balaton was a learning experience. But really, when can you say you had tequila at 2 PM, spent time with a good friend, and explored a gorgeous, hillside town in the same weekend?

Lunch

Lunch at work is hilarious. It goes something like this.

Co-workers: “Alex, where do you have the pleasure of eating today?”

We have two options. The Tesco food court or the Kika food court. They are exactly the same. Although I would prefer to stay away from Kika in case the aforementioned crazy flower lady recognizes me. But I do not tell them that. I am fearless.

Me: “Wherever you guys want!”

The five us get in my car, the only automatic automobile in the country, and head out.

Co-worker 1: “Mhmmmm…I am in the mood for pancakes.”

Me: “Shut-up, Balazs! I am not going to turn us all into pancakes!”

My co-workers refuse to tell me about Hungry-specific driving rules until I break one of them, and then they laugh.

Co-worker 1: “Don’t worry about it, Hungary has great disability benefits.”

We are finishing lunch in the food court.

Co-worker 3 (getting out of her chair): “I need to have a hyper-quick shopping. Let’s meet at the postal [office] at 1 PM.”

Me (rising also): “Me too. I need to pick up [some totally random item which I thought I bought yesterday and didn’t realize until I got home that it was not all what I wanted].”

Co-worker 2: “Puszi, Alexandra! You need to learn how to speak Hungarian.”

Puszi is a common salutation meaning “kisses.” It is pronounced “pussy.”

Me: “Balazs, I will not say that.”

Co-worker 3 (genuine): “Why not?”

Co-worker 2 (not genuine): “Yeah, why not Alexandra?”

Co-worker 4 (genuine): “Why don’t you like puszi, Alexandra?”

Co-worker 5 says nothing. She doesn’t speak English. Or at least that’s what she wants me to think.

Jesus Christ.

Me: “Puszi, friends! Meet you at 1!”

McSweeney’s Wannabe

Reasons Why I Won’t Be Confused with an Actual Hungarian

I vote.

I put my napkin on my lap.

I treat driving laws as rules rather than suggestions.

I feel uncomfortable buying “negrita” candy bars.

I do not purposely try to poke people on the sidewalk with my umbrella. (This may change if I am having a bad day.)

I am embarrassed to drink a wine spritzer in public.

I want to live here.

___________



My awesome view of St. Peter's Basilica during drinks at Cafe Negro last night.

Weekend Ramblings

Between working for a week in Budapest in March and arriving in the city last week, I have been repeatedly asked, “So what exactly are you doing here?” It is as if (thank you, GMAT) Hungarians cannot fathom why someone voluntarily would leave the US to move to Hungary.

On Friday night I met M, the friend of a friend of my couch-surfing friend (yeah, get your arms around that! I won’t even go into how we saw a clock that went backwards at the previous bar). M grew up in Budapest but moved to Jerusalem four years ago. Because asking questions is one of my favorite pastimes, I asked him why he moved to Jerusalem while I simultaneously tried to remember my religious history. Is Jerusalem Christian? Jewish? I was pretty sure it wasn’t Hindu.

M told me he moved to Jerusalem because Budapest was an unhappy city and Jerusalem wasn’t. M hated the way people scowled when they walked down the streets in Budapest and avoided eye contact with others. I assumed M never had the pleasure of walking around midtown during rush hour in NYC.

M summed up the differences between the cities in an anecdote. Recently, a little girl in Jerusalem needed a bone marrow transplant, and the girl’s family parents went on a local TV station pleading people to get tested as donors. The next day, 60,000 people, out of a city population of ~700,000, volunteered to be tested. In Budapest, M explained, people just would have changed the channel.

I have heard the disillusionment among residents of Budapest as well as the rest of Hungary stems from an ineffectual government and a low living wage relative to the cost of living. But inhabitants in cities with similar characteristics aren’t known for being “unhappy.” There has to be something else going on.

Thinking more about this, I wondered if it might be the fashion. Hungarian women’s fashion can be summed up in one word: tights. If you put on a pair of tights with the last outfit you ever would imagine pairing with tights, you will look like a Hungarian. Even more so if you manage to incorporate an 80’s vibe into the ensemble.

But seriously, what is going on? All of the happiness research I have read points to unhappiness and apathy resulting from the perception of the inability to change things. That is one perception with which I have not had much experience. At Dartmouth, if one wanted to change the salad bar in Collis, all one needed was 200 signatures and a letter explaining why organic lettuce increased cognitive aptitude. At Deutsche Bank, I would bust my ass to add a comma to (and subsequently reprint) ten pitchbooks at the request of some crazed VP two hours before a meeting. It doesn’t seem like Hungarians share this “I can do” attitude.

Maybe that’s what decades of communism does to people.

Maybe Nike had a different advertising slogan in Hungary.



(Finally got my geraniums.)

Oops

Until I learn Hungarian, I am going to have serious communication issues. Meaning I will have issues as long as I am here. (I just signed up for weekly language lessons but am not optimistic. Someone told me Hindi is closer than Hungarian to English. My extensive knowledge of Latin derivations is not going to help me here.)

I felt a bit defeated yesterday. I went shopping after work at Kika, the Hungarian Ikea - complete with a food court with strange meats in heavy sauces. I needed some random apartment stuff but could not friggin' find anything! And apparently I suck at charades because my imitation of drying dishes and placing them on a drying rack resulted in a sales lady showing me the store's selection of pitchers. When I got home, I realized the sheets I bought did not fit my bed and what I thought were pillowcases were actually duvet covers (yeah, how I missed that one, I do not know). I am sure returning the aforementioned items will be a piece of cake.

That isn't the best part. I picked up a few plants for my apartment since it currently looks like a barren hotel suite. I brought the plants through the checkout line but a surprisingly spry older woman yelling in Hungarian came running after me in the parking lot. What (I think) happened is that I had to pay for the plants outside versus inside the store so had stolen three pots of pink geraniums from this extremely pissed off woman. When I tried to pay her for the plants, she refused and took the flowers from me. Needless to say, I do not have geraniums in my apartment at the moment.

I wanted to go food shopping too, but Kika was all I could handle last night. It was probably a good thing I also did not hit up Tesco (the Hungarian Wal-Mart which my coworker Balasz repeatedly describes as “cheap and shitty”). If I had, I probably would have mistaken charcoal for chocolate cereal and fly paper for toilet paper.

I haven't had issues in every retail destination. Some of the friendliest people whom I met here worked at the gyro store next to the Marriott. I went there so many times when I was staying at the hotel, the guys began to talk to me and give me free falafel when they weren't talking on their cell phones. So obviously I was a fan. And they told me if I ever needed to exchange money or have anyone killed, I could go to them. OK, I am kidding about the second part, but I do think I met the Hungarian equivalent of the Mafia.

TGIF.

Hi, My name is Alex

Hi friends,

I really don't need to introduce myself since the only people who potentially will follow this blog are my good friends and family. And that is being Q to V (quite to very) optimistic. So far, I have had four profile views - all as a result of my editing my own profile. After some deliberation, I posted a profile pic from my 26th birthday because it was a wonderful night with friends and fam which I want to remember for a long time.

The purpose of this blog is to keep everyone updated about my adventures, misadventures and stories from Budapest (henceforth, "the 'Pest") as well as to keep a running diary for me. I am sure my memories from my time here will inevitably blend together, and as a type A personality, I want a record of what I did here, damn it. And, as Megh Duwadi said, a blog really is the next best thing to twitter.

I plan to update the blog every other day, and I hope you enjoy the posts. Feel free to make fun of me in the comments section. Also feel free to suggest ridiculous things for me to do - that way I can rationalize doing them as research for my blog (god, what a strange thing to write).

Szia!
Alex