Three Weekend Anecdotes

#1

We celebrated Jackie’s last night in Budapest at Corvinteto, a bar atop Corvin department store in Blaha ter. I sat next to Janos, a Hungarian in his mid 40s who grew up in the former Yugoslavia. After the obligatory “how do you like Budapest” chitchat, he asked me about my impressions of Hungarian men. Besides my coworkers, I don’t know too many Hungarian men so didn’t have much to say besides that they really seem to like Ed Hardy.

Janos took the opportunity to explain his Hungarian man theory. According to Janos, Hungarian women lost respect for Hungarian men when they did not resist sufficiently the Russians during the Revolution of 1956 (despite 2,500 Hungarians being killed in the conflict). As a result, Hungarian men have been determined to win back the adulation of their women since the fall of the wall in 1989.

How does one do this? Body building. Janos explained the proliferation of gyms and supplements in Hungary in the 1990s was due to men toughening up to impress the ladies. And when Hungarian women still preferred foreigners over fellow Hungarians, Hungarian men concluded the next logical step in the quest to win the respect of the women was to “look dangerous” with visible tattoos and piercings.

If this doesn’t turn you on, I don’t know what does.


#2

I started business school applications this weekend and actually wrote the following sentence in an essay:

For these reasons, I am confident that I can provide a unique perspective to class discussions while considering and respecting the views of my classmates and professors.

Wow. These essays are gonna be…winners.

#3

Because I get pulled over more frequently than I care to admit, my friends have tried to give me advice about how to deal with Hungarian police officers. However, I have stopped short of keeping a 20,000 forint bill in my glove department because I am not clear on the penalties in the event I accidentally try to bribe the one honest cop in Budapest. I have heard cops demand between 2,000 to 50,000 forints depending on situation.

Apparently this is not always the case. My friend Anita recounted that her friend – let’s call him Csaba – recently was pulled over for a minor offense. The police officer strolled up to Csaba’s window and asked him if he “liked cakes.” Of course Csaba did – who doesn’t like cakes? Just wierdos and people who are lying to themselves on the Atkins diet. The cops then told Csaba that they liked cakes too. And that there was a cake shop down the street.

Csaba escaped a ticket by buying a cake for each of the cops who pulled him over. Question: were these cops idiots for not trying to get more money out of Csaba or are THEY THE SMARTEST COPS EVER?

Barcelona in Pictures

OK, in retrospect maybe the weekend wasn't as bad as I made it seem in my life-hating, post-wallet loss post.


This above picture pretty much sums up the trip. Did I seriously live here at one point? If so, why was I constantly looking at the map and was the one person who got pickpocketed?


The first stop was obviously La Boqueria on Las Ramblas.


I wish I could have said I tried this.


Jackie has been waiting eight years to have Spanish melon again. One person's chirimoya is another person's honeydew.


Jacky Alexandra Barcelona, WHAT?


Duda was one of the managers of our hostel. Duda has a lotta love to give and "digs my energy." If I was high as a kite all of the time, I would dig my energy too. I wear my "Sant Jordi" hostel pin for Duda.


Aforementioned porn producer. Alleged porn producer.


The second reason I came to Barcelona: churros & chocolate.


Flamenco in Placa Reial.


A really sad attempt to mimic flamenco poses in Placa Reial.


My gazing lovingly at Jackie caught on camera.


Resting after sightseeing in the 90+ degree heat. And by sightseeing I mean walking 500 meters and eating a gelato.


The girl travels right.

Hungarian Oxymorons

1. Wearing a facemask but no helmet while biking.
Source: Most bikers.

2. Drinking a diet coke with typical Hungarian lunch fare.
Source: Me.

3. Complaining about politics and not voting.
Source: 64% of eligible voters.

4. The actual number of cars in Budapest and the number of cars the roads are built to support.
Source: HU government.

5. Promoting Nougat Bits cereal under the Fit & Activ brand.
Source: DE-VAU-GE Cereals Holding GMBH.

6. Stereotypical Hungarian passive mentality and driving style.
Source: All drivers.

7. The size of cars and the size of parking spaces.
Source: HU government.

Greetings From Scranton, PA

Hi Marilyn and Paul:

Well, now it's official. As you can see in the attached photos, the highway department put up the "Bochicchio Blvd" street sign in Daleville, PA, within the past two weeks. Although the photos don't show it, this new road leads to the new North Pocono High School. The car in the photo of Bochicchio Boulevard is exiting from a Rite-Aid Pharmacy parking lot. Rite-Aid and the new high school are the only buildings on this magnificent "boulevard".

Given that anyone with the name "Bochicchio" has a reputation for imbibing large quantities of alcoholic beverages, it probably isn't just coincidence that Bochicchio Boulevard intersects with Drinker Turnpike.

Hope all is well at your house.

Uncle Bob

I Am Done Traveling

I thought the low point of the weekend (Jackie and I traveled to Barcelona for the holiday weekend) was on Friday night. I was sandwiched on the hostel futon between a Brit born in 1991?!!? and a loquacious porn producer (whom looked like he was born in a year more like 1971). Then I met Jack, another Brit and recent Swine Flu survivor. Jack promised he was no longer contagious. I prayed Jack wasn´t the third in our triple dorm room.

I have come to a sad realization: I am too old for the #1 party hostel in Barcelona. And not like a little too old - like get me the hell out of here before I push the girl from Arkansas asking me where to buy hash off of the balcony-old (answer: Placa Reial). Granted it is my fault for not doing much research before booking the hostel.

The city feels pretty much the same as when I studied and lived here six years ago during my sophomore year of college. Oveja Negra is still the tourist bar du jour; Bar Estudantil serves the same cafe con leches; and the fashion is still the same colorful craziness that only the super confident, gorgeous or wackjobs can pull off. The only thing missing is the chirimoyas at the La Boqueria - apparently the amazing fruit is not in season until September. Guess I will have to come back then.

Today is my last day in Barcelona, and I wanted to try to find Pepita & Maria Del Mar, my host family when I lived here. I bet Pepita wouldn´t remember me. She had a lot of exchange students and was not the brightest candle in the menorah (thanks for that one, Jackie). Pepita often forgot my name and things like, serving dinner before midnight, but she was unforgettable. I also wanted to see Alyssa´s host family in the neighboring apartment and find the answers to burning questions such as whether Maria Del Mar found a husband (Pepita´s number one grievance while I was living with her) and what happened to Diego on the telenovela.

However, when I jumped on the Number 9 bus to get to Zona Franca from the University, I realized I somehow lost my wallet (and a shopping bag containing a present for my sister) between getting coffee twenty minutes ago and that moment. Oops. I retraced my steps but no luck. I am now back at the hostel, more grumpy than ever, and canceling my credit cards online. I am an idiot.

At least I only have nine hours until the 11 PM flight back to Budapest.

How to Avoid Being a Stupid American When Working in Europe

Although Budapest is stunning, my office in an industrial park outside of the city reminds me that yes, I do live and work in post-communist Central Europe. Instead of hitting up Starbucks for a grande soy misto each morning, I begin the workday by emphatically smiling and waving at the parking attendant, three receptionists and any coworkers whom I pass in the hall in an attempt to compensate for my limited Hungarian vocabulary. Apparently I equate borderline-manic cheerfulness to not acting like a stupid American. Here are a few other suggestions.

Realize you are in a fortunate position.

Local friends and coworkers always - and incredulously - ask me, “Why did you ever move here?” They cannot fathom why I voluntarily would leave America to live and work in Hungary. And the answer is that I have it better than they do. As an American, I make significantly more than my local counterparts and am able to take advantage of the great things Budapest has to offer without dealing with the crap – the high taxes, currency fluctuations, and corrupt national healthcare system.

On the flip side, most of my (educated, English-speaking) coworkers have never been to America. Until recently the U.S. rejected most of their applications and it was prohibitively expensive. I am kidding myself to think that I have had the same opportunities as my coworkers.

Be aware of America’s influence.

America has influenced the history of every country in Europe. As a result most Europeans are knowledgeable about American politics and culture and feel no qualms passing judgment or sharing opinions on the U.S. The average American does not have the same informed view of Europe. And why should he? Unlike Europeans, Americans do not have the need to look for culture and opportunities outside of their own country.

But I live and work in Budapest now so I better understand how America has impacted Hungary. If I don’t, I either can say nothing or talk out of my ass when my coworker criticizes American foreign policy in front of me. And it is only when Americans argue about something about which they have no clue that Europeans think they are stupid.

Have wine at lunch.

Previously I worked in jobs where I ate lunch (and often dinner) at my desk. Here the office moves at a much slower pace, and I need to acclimate myself to the office culture or I will drive myself, and my coworkers, crazy (I already am accused of being “too serious”).

The best advice a fellow ex-pat gave me prior to moving here was to be patient – patient that I didn’t get a computer until my second week of work and patient that I just received an auto-reply from a coworker saying that he will have “limited availability to email for the next EIGHT weeks.” And taking time out of the workday to relax isn’t such a bad thing – I doubt I would have been able to write this post during the workday while ibanking (although thinking about it, investment bankers now probably have plenty of time to blog…)

Flirt.

I have not heard the phrase “sexual harassment” once since moving abroad. When my male coworker mentioned that a female controller had a “very sexy voice” and he would like to “make lots of babies with her,” I laughed it off as harmless. And much like I have learned to eschew takeaway coffee, I no longer think twice when my female coworker arrives to work sporting a hot pink mesh tank top. Europeans simply do not take sexual banter and expression as seriously as Americans do and there is not a suing culture here.

Remember you are American.

While Europeans (and many Americans) clearly dislike many Americans stereotypes, they are also envious of other American traits such as happiness and confidence. Just because I live in Budapest does not mean I need to embrace the passive and pessimistic “Hungarian mentality.” Yeah, I don’t want to stand out for being ignorant, defensive or loud. But if I stand out for being confident and freakishly cheerful, bring it on.

The (Long) Weekend Approval Matrix

Highbrow / brilliant: Wonderful trip to Venice (although it almost was Prague...).




Highbrow / Despicable: Venetians used to put accusations about neighbors into designated boxes throughout the city.


Lowbrow / brilliant: There are wine bars scattered throughout the city where you fill up your water bottle with vino. One liter of water costs 3 EUR. One wine refill costs 3 EUR.




Lowbrow / brilliant: Sziget festival featuring the Hungarian Blondie, Hungarian hip hop (go to the video link in yesterday's post!) & friggin' amazing gypsy music. In Jackie's words, "Bonnaroo is so 2004."









On an unrelated note, my mom argues that posting a comment here is tantamount to brain surgery, but I was just able to do so very easily on my sister's site.

- Click on the comments link below my entry.
- Write something awesome. Compared to the writing above, it probably will be.
- Select comment as "name/URL" in the drop down box.
- Write your name or someone else's name (no URL needed) & click continue.
- Click post comment.

If it really is this easy, I expect some comments, mofos.

Sziget Gold

More to come on the Sziget Festival later.

Until then, Hungarian hip hop.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ll4yAKShAq4

Sisterly Competition

My sister Kara sent me an email that she was starting her own blog. She is very funny, so I bet her blog will be very funny.


Then I read her first post:

Welcome.

I’m starting this blog for two reasons. One: because my sister has a blog and its only my sisterly nature to be uber jealous (regardless if I actually like it or not). Two: to have an outlet for my thoughts which float around and never really seem to materialize into anything good except the teen angst which I should have grown out of years ago, but that I still seem to harbor and express to the general public at the most inopportunistic (I don’t think that is even a word) times. Three: because I don’t have the journalist prowess (or the social skills) to ever write about the art that I look at. Four: to give some homage to my favorite artists and ridicule ones I am not so keen on. Oh...and to have a place to display and get feedback on my own paintings. Hope you enjoy these writings. Feel free to comment away.

Besides the fact that she listed four reasons, she wrote that she is uber jealous REGARDLESS IF SHE ACTUALLY LIKES MY BLOG OR NOT. Oh wow, those are fighting words.

In other news, I will stop reading blogs and go back to work.

Why Do All of My Friends & I Have the Same Name?

Friday, 11:40 PM - I pick up two of my best friends, Alexis & Sasha, at Ferihegy terminal 1. Already the weekend is a success because I wasn't pulled over in transit, and we listen to Better Than Ezra on the ride home. Lex lives in London and recently started a job at the Skoll Center at Oxford's Biz School. Sasha spent the last month studying Russian in St. Petersburg and starts at the Kennedy School in two weeks. My friends are smart. And pretty.

Friday, 11:30 AM - Lex and Sasha's only requirement for the weekend is to spend as much time as possible in the sun - something which apparently is difficult to do in London and St. Petersburg. I give them the walking tour of Budapest, starting with the Basilica and ending at Kertem, a garden bar at the edge of Hero's Square. During our excursion, Alexis receives an email from (iphone-happy) Mrs. Ett and learns that her great grandfather was a cantor in the synagogue in Budapest. We add the synagogue to the weekend to-do list.


Saturday, 9:30 PM - We meet Jackie and Susan at Holdudvar on Margaret Island to celebrate Susan's birthday. Dinner is yummy - nothing like Paprika chicken and bacon dumplings to shore up your stomach for a big night. Susan looks wonderful and tells us she was hit on by a lesbian at her high school reunion in Georgia last weekend. A lesbian who recently was released from jail after serving time for attempted murder. So we also celebrate that Susan made it back to the Pest alive.




Sunday, 12:30 AM - Marcus joins us and suggests we move the party to Rio. I know it is a good decision when this is the first man I see at the club.




Sunday, 3:30 AM - Lex and Sasha meet two Scandanavian guys. One of them has dark hair and eyes. When Lex asks him if he originally is from Sweden, he looks thoughtful for a moment and asks the girls if they ever have heard of a "small country called Syria."


Sunday, 4:02 AM - We head to Piaf, a bar which I later learn from Geza is a good place to meet rolling potatoes. An expressive, 80-year old lounge singer is performing, so we really can't ask for a better way to end the night.






Sunday, 4:42 AM - It is unclear whether Sasha is dancing or reading the menu.


Sunday, 2:10 PM - Instead of recapping the night over brunch, Lexi, Sasha and I gossip in the women's-only thermal bath at Gellert. When in the 'Pest, do as the Budapestians do.

SportMax

Spurred on by a traumatic dress-trying-on experience last night, I went to the gym this morning for the first time since…I don’t know…June 7th? I go to SportMax near my office because I get a company discount, and it is very nice by Hungarian standards (it is no Equinox).

The gym opens at 7 AM. I get there at 7 AM. The receptionist gets there at 7:15 AM, and it is easier going through customs in Iran with an Israeli passport than gaining entrance to the gym. Finally, the receptionist and I agree that I am going to “fitness” (versus squash or maybe just hanging out in the locker room), she punches 1,200 keys in her computer, and I am in.

The AM gym-goers consist of three men who are lifting big weights and grunting and me. There are also three very bored personal trainers roaming around the room. I run for a bit but due to the 150% humidity decide to lift weights instead. I lifted a few times a week with the swim team in college, so I believe I am fairly competent using free weights. Plus, I have my experience from “Chisl’d” in Boston.

(For those of you unfamiliar with Chisl’d, it is a sick, sick way to start your Sunday. It is a weight-lifting / aerobics class run by Kristi, the cutest / most intense fitness instructor in Boston, and consists of everything you could never make yourself do on you own. And the class is at 10 AM on Sunday so you arrive when you are half asleep and don’t realize how hungover you are until Kristi is screaming at you to get your knees up during mountain climbers. Whenever anyone asked me how I was doing for the rest of the day after taking the class, I replied, “Chiseled.”)

Today I had six personal trainers. Whenever I picked up a dumbbell, one of the gym rats or personal trainers would come over to and correct me (usually non-verbally due to the language barrier). I couldn’t tell if they were staring at me because I actually have no clue how to lift weights, women don’t lift weights here, or they thought I was in a market for a personal trainer. And I don’t buy that the reason was that I was the only woman in the gym. I wasn’t a woman this morning; I was a gross, sweaty mess due to the aforementioned humidity.

The highlight of the morning was attempting to escape the avid weight lifters by trying out the elliptical-looking machine in the corner. The machine basically forced me to do the breaststroke kick while standing upright. Terrified that someone would come over to help me, I called it a morning, grabbed an altoid (Equinox never offered those!), and headed to the locker room. I think I expended more calories being self conscious than working out.

It’s always interesting in the ‘Pest.

Croatia

You know how I love asking “if you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?” Well, I think my answer is Croatia.

The characters...


Jackie "I took defensive driving classes in Long Island" Appel


Alex "I recently got a package with tootsie pops in the mail" Bochicchio


Calin "What have I gotten myself into" Ratis


The original plan was to spend Friday night in Zagreb, the capital of Croatia but we accidentally booked the room for August, not July. Oops. That is why we ended up arriving at the villa in Medulin around 12:30 AM Saturday morning.



We went to the beach in nearby Pula the next morning. I had a hint of how amazing the coastline was driving in the dark the night before but was not prepared for how gorgeous the beach was in daylight.


Most beaches in Croatia are rocky (and I have two new scars to prove it), which makes the already crystal clear water seem even cleaner. No matter how far I swam out from shore, I could always see the bottom. And by swimming, I mean floating.


Most men here wear speedos; some don't even do that.


That afternoon we explored Pula, which is less than 200 km from Venice and home to a bunch of Roman ruins. I was a bit nostalgic for Latin class & crazy Mrs. Ryder. Or maybe I just was nostalgic for doodling with glitter pens and the good old Cornelians - Cornelius, Aurelia, Marcus, Cornelia, and Uncle Titus with the pink slippers. You didn't think I would remember the characters from our middle school Latin book, did you?! I also can say "the cart fell in the ditch" in about 1000 tenses.

The best part of the trip was Saturday night when the owners (an Italian woman & Hungarian man) of the villa cooked us an incredible Croatian dinner complete with wine from the woman's family's vineyard and the strongest grappa I have ever tasted. We communicated using a mixture of Spanish (similiar to Italian), Hungarian (Calin is fluent) and English (the man knew English; the woman didn't). The funny thing was we all understood one another perfectly.


Gotta love the water shoes we purchased to navigate climbing over the rocks.



Less George Washington crossing the Delaware and more Odysseus crossing the Adriatic.