Metro genius

In addition to the colorful interpretation of Raphael above, what I loved about the metro in Rome was the music. Not that I really dug the bad '80s tunes, but that was the first subway I'd taken where music was actually played. In Budapest, the yellow line (there are two others, red and blue) hits two melodic, xylophone-like notes when the doors open, but that doesn't count. The Roman subway also provides TV screens while you wait.

I hear the best metros are in Japan, but Budapest and Rome both have at least one bragging right over New York, and that is the clock at each station announcing ETA, except that it's not estimated, it's quite precise. I've always wanted that, the only downside being that there's no room for hope. In Manhattan, the train could come at any second, whereas here, if the clock says you must wait four minutes, then you must wait four minutes.

Strangely, the red line in Rome has no doors in between the cars. It was actually kind of cool to get on the train and look up and down other cars as they snaked through the tunnels. There's just one other line (blue), which makes the metro system very simple, as it is in Budapest. Except of course that limits the routes and forces you to learn the slightly more complicated bus and tram system, not that I really learned much from sitting alone on a bus for an hour as it passed the same piazzas and rested at a dark and deserted station before reaching something I recognized.

At least, for the most part, the MTA doesn't sleep, unlike Rome and Budapest, so for that you can't beat Manhattan.

__
Watching: Black Hawk Down (assessment: disappointing)

Roma - photo album

[Click on headline for the Facebook album]

Losing my religion (if I had it to lose)

And on the second day, we paid a visit to the house of god. There were several in Rome, of course, more than I could bear, but you don't question the Vatican. And anyway, I was there for the art and architecture. At the risk of offending (well, more than a risk), I have to say it's a shame that so much beauty is produced in the name of religion, as if we could find nothing better to which to devote it. Nevertheless, beautiful it was. To get to the Sistine Chapel, we walked through hall after seemingly endless hall, which is not to say that I didn't enjoy the gleaming statues and columns, and scenic ceilings that stretched to the heavens. But we didn't want to miss Raphael and Michelangelo before closing (which had happened to a friend we met there), and the authorities really make you work to reach the grand finale.

Anticlimactic does not quite describe Michelangelo's ceiling, as it in no way fell short of majestic. I appreciated, too, that the guards incessantly shushed the crowd and ordered us not to photograph or record (not that that stopped many). It might have been that the "Creation of Adam" section equaled the size of every other section of the ceiling, and seeing the image blown up so often before now dwarfed the real thing. Or perhaps it was that we had just witnessed up close the grandeur of Raphael's frescoes that mutated my expectations.

I'm still humbled that the masterpieces were within my fingertips, but I wonder about the cycle that begets masterpieces. There is no question about the skill behind the ceiling and the School of Athens and the Disputa, but what sets them above other works by Michelangelo and Raphael? The inner cynic argues that we extol the paintings in part because they've been extolled. By the same token, we visit famous sites because they're famous, because recognition adds excitement to the experience. If I were a better traveler (and I've learned this for future ventures) I'd have done more homework, better valued what I saw, and valued it for better reason.

In that case I might have been able to stand more cathedrals, but it was enough in all of St. Peter's Basilica to run into the surprise of Michelangelo's Pieta and similarly to find homages to Galileo in the Basilica of St. Mary of the Angels near Piazza della Repubblica (all of which I highly recommend).

__
Listening to: Goo Goo Dolls
Watching: Slumdog Millionaire
Reading: Sandor Balogh and Sandor Jakab, History of Hungary

When in Rome

Our four-day weekend in Rome gave us just enough time to visit (almost) everything we wanted without exhausting ourselves. As required, we began with the Forum and Colosseum, making our way through cobbled and claustrophobic side streets. They can be dank, but venture down as many as you can: though the main streets are beautiful, it is along the alleyways that the hills rise and fall and the quiet buildings like adobe seem to press together. They explain the popularity of motorbikes, one of which nearly took out my roommate because the crosswalks are inconsistent and the bikes speed by much more quickly than four-wheels. I believe the only casualty was a cell phone.

When I saw the Colosseum I thought of the awe that it (and any ruins) inspires, because it appeals to our nostalgia, to our inability to preserve or traverse time. It is history, a link to the world historical figures and gladiators and common (but ancient) folk who walked these halls millennia ago. But it is deflating to think that a used napkin, too, is a link to Jennifer Lopez, and what is the difference in paying for that versus paying to look at a spoon that a Roman ruler once used?

The Colosseum has traveled through time where we can't, and after years of ravaging it is understandably worn out. That it's less perfect, though, doesn't make it any less appealing to tourists; on the contrary, it's why people buy antique chairs with the front rung carved away by resting feet. It's more authentic. Amazing how much of the structure can be saved. And amazing how selective we are in how we save anything. I stood alone for an hour on top of the Pincian Hill (one of the best views of the entire city), looking down onto the Piazza del Popolo, but not without graffiti along a railing to obstruct the view. Beyond the question of whether graffiti is art, should the city wash away the spray paint? It probably hasn't done so yet because of the time and money required, but if we don't rebuild the broken walls of the Colosseum, maybe we shouldn't erase the work of street artists: both record history and act as commentary on the times that produced them.

I don't subscribe to that idea so much as mull over it, but one idea beyond contemplation is the indignity and disgrace of cities and other authorities that construct attractions explicitly for visitors. Near Popolo is Villa Borghese, and leading into the park is a porta flanked by sphinx-like sculptures. It is not just poor taste, it is disingenuous. Like the flashy nativity scenes, one inside left of St. Peter's Basilica, another in the piazza outside.

Time for class, I will get around to more on Rome later and try to preach less.

__
Reading: Camus, The Stranger
Listening to: Killers, "Why Do I Keep Counting"

Conversation with a Hungarian

I couldn't help but notice the "Cocaine" printed boldly on Sylvia's bright blue tee, so she pulled out a can with the same logo from the counter. "It's about 10 times stronger than Red Bull," she said, then noticing my reaction, "Yeah, it's an odd name to give a drink."

In the few minutes before that exchange, she had only spoken scant English to take my order and Hungarian to the other patrons, so I had timidly considered asking whether she knew the significance of what she wore. Sylvia turned out to be one of the first locals I've come across who spoke English proficiently and I told her as much.

"You Americans, all you need to know is English and you're fine," Sylvia said. "But Hungarian doesn't go very far, so I don't understand why more people here don't learn English. Especially downtown where the tourists are."

Neither do I, but it seems times are changing. She had to learn English in primary school, though she's been out of the education system for at least half a decade. But now her brother is finishing up secondary school, where he's required to learn two languages. On Americans knowing English, though, I tend to agree more with Eddie Izzard; about two minutes in, he pokes fun at the British for not taking up any foreign languages.

What's more, Sylvia spoke French and German, more so when she worked on a French cruise liner sailing from here to Amsterdam. She now stewards for a Swiss ship eight months out of the year and told me how the company set up an office in Cyprus to avoid Swiss taxes. The rationale of the taxes, she thinks, is to deter people from applying for permanent residence, for which they are eligible after working at a Swiss company for a number of years. I suppose no one wants residence in Cyprus.

I happened to catch her during the passenger ship's down time, but business also wasn't booming at her winter job, a cafe in the central fifth district. I was the only real guest for the hour that we talked, the others being friends and fellow employees in the neighborhood. This is normal for the season, but the dearth reminded her of Budapest's street riots in 2006, which cut tourism in half. Sylvia was sailing at the time, but the news and friends and family told her about the fires and violence that erupted in response to a failing economy and impotent government. She didn't know the solution, but the protests - which were likened to 1956 and 1989 - weren't it. "It just hurt our economy even more," she said. "The street is not the answer."

__
Listening to: Coldplay, "Viva La Vida"

President Obama

The interminable campaign season, together with the appointments, 3 a.m. phone calls, confirmations, and exit interviews that followed, all played a part in so diluting the Barack Obama elixir that I completely overlooked the significance of yesterday's inauguration. Almost subconsciously I thought of it as just another formality in the long series of Obamania - and in a way it was, the difference being that we have a new president.

"I wish I were in DC," some study abroad friends would lament. Or at least in the United States. Instead we spent the days leading up to Jan. 20 wondering where we would watch the inauguration, fearing that we'd end up at a bar that screened the ceremony with a Hungarian voiceover. But we joined maybe 100 other CEU students in the school's auditorium, so aside from a time lag and tech glitches ("We the people... we the people... we the people..."), it worked out. When you think about it, it wasn't too different than the States in that we'd still be sitting around a CNN broadcast. Or I could be wrong. The excitement certainly came nowhere near what we would have experienced back home: clapping was intermittent, the streets were almost imperceptibly more crowded than usual, and few revelers hit the bars and clubs.

I never know how much of my observations represent things as they are in Hungary, especially in this CEU bubble of international students. But my friends and I sat there as some of the only people in the audience with a new president, and I think we felt what Obama represents. We watched side by side with citizens from a dozen countries, read from pamphlets about Obama's stance on Americans abroad, shared drinks with an Australian... among us, collectively tied to Jews, Indians, Hungarians, Vietnamese, Canadians, and of course, Americans, we felt diversity.

Curbside parking

Notice, especially, the white lines drawn on the sidewalk and street in the picture (bottom left). Not only do drivers park half on the street, half on the sidewalk, authorities make it easier by demarcating just where to do it. My adviser at Central European University explained that more cars inundated Budapest than it could handle, so people park this way, or entirely on the sidewalk. Kind of makes the whole parking-on-the-driveway and driving-on-the-parkway seem sensible.

__
Watching: CNN's Christiane Amanpour, "Scream Bloody Murder" (and soon, the inauguration!)
Listening to: Groove Theory, "Tell Me"

The fairest of them all

When we discovered Saturday that $30 would get us third row seats at the Snow White ballet at the Hungarian State Opera House, my roommates and I booked tickets for the following day. Our friends bought tickets for under $2 (reread that if you must) and from their albeit oblique seats they were at least close enough to make out faces. The price says nothing of the dignity of the Opera House, which, though small by Lincoln Center's standards, boasted more than its share of ceiling frescoes, red velvet walls, and sparkling chandeliers. It had more to do, a roommate pointed out, with the family appeal of the performance, which was fine with me. I loved seeing the children just as dolled up as their parents and I think all of it was fitting, even if I couldn't help recalling however briefly the Hungarians who dressed up for the debut of McDonald's. Admittedly the clapping in unison and children jumping up and down did not add to the elegance, but I'm sure that won't be the case when I see Anna Karenina next month.

As I watched I questioned my own inner child for never questioning my love of the fairy tale. A shrew talking to a mirror? Queen with no king? Dwarf coal miners in the woods? And we shouldn't even go into the outmoded concept that white skin equals beauty (or as Ralph Ellison ingeniously put it, 'white is right'). But on the topic of beauty, for all the esteem that she inspires, the titular character does little more than look pretty as she keeps house for seven incapable bachelors. In the ballet, at least, she dances, but the time immemorial question remains, is that beauty? If one can dance as others can't, is this accomplishment? Is something admirable because it is difficult, worthy because it is beautiful, beautiful because it is achieved...

For better or worse the ballet tweaked the Disney movie to give the witch three minions: red, orange, and purple and resembling the Olympics trolls if Billy Peltzer had fed them after midnight. It also altered Snow White's iconic blue and yellow, which became an unrecognizable peasant dress of pink and light blue (then again Disney didn't invent the tale). Aside from the flamboyance of the queen, purity of the prince and princess, and remarkable dwarfishness of the septet played by ordinary men, the costumes did little to impress. But are the designers at a disadvantage because of the nature of the story? Or does any play/ballet/opera/film/show have the potential to win Best Costume?

What the performance lacked in attire it compensated for in special effects and setting, which were quite ornate for a ballet. In one number, the backup dancers brought in the mirror (a gilded frame in reality) and illustrated its reflective capacity with one ballerina in front cleaning the 'glass,' the other behind, mimicking her actions. For the rest of the show, the mirror's role was to enclose a screen on which was projected previously (though poorly) recorded gestures of the queen as she admired herself. Most impressive was the Jekyll and Hyde scene: after downing a noxious brew, the witch stood before the mirror in such an elaborate cape that we saw nothing of her except what was shown on the screen. She cringed, writhed, and emerged a warted, fibbing-wooden-puppet of a hag, off to deliver her forbidden fruit. The transformation was so complete and seamless that I didn't realize until curtain call that the post-potion hag was played by another dancer, a ballerino in fact.

And because I know you were wondering, the seven are: Happy, Sneezy, Sleepy, Bashful, Grumpy, Dopey, and Doc.

__
Listening to: Rush, "Limelight"

Our humble abode

To get beyond the surrealism of a new city, to feel that you have actually left home and shifted your existential status in relation to the rest of the world, becomes easier with the help of local architecture. Although there is much to learn and describe about the design of Budapest, my first thoughts go to the construction of apartments and similar buildings, like mine pictured. It seems a common Hungarian solution to at least one architectural challenge is to build apartments around a courtyard, allowing more opportunity for windows. The idea may not differ so much from the shafts of Manhattan, but there is something much more thrilling about coming and going through the courtyard with the dwellings of neighbors rising around you.

Inside our apartment, though, I guess I ended up shafted anyway. My room makes dorms look spacious, anomalous to the rest of the apartment with its 14-foot ceilings, which makes me think space is poorly distributed. But I knew what I was getting into when we signed the lease, and it appeals to my minimalist tendencies. The only part I find strange is that I so easily accepted the windowless conditions, having forgotten what a fuss I made about finding a room with a view in Vietnam. No matter. I sit now in our airy living room, which if the sun were out and the blinds drawn would glow with natural light. The blinds themselves are a funny thing, too. They're heavy with wood bars to cover the large windows, so to open or close them is borderline hazardous and requires pulling or loosening a thick cloth strap.

Laundry also entails more effort than usual because most people have washing machines but not dryers, so we hang dry our clothes. I can't complain, though, about the heated racks in the bathrooms, which in many homes include a shower far removed from a toilet. Most toilets have round metal buttons (as opposed to levers) to flush, though I saw one at Central European University with a pad instead. The doors, as with those in the rest of the place, lock only by key. That always adds extra time entering and exiting (so we're screwed in case of fire), and explains why there are so many locksmiths wherever we go. Otherwise things are quite 'normal,' including kitchens, although real estate agents like to say that American-style kitchens are those that meld into a living room or some other part of a house, and everything else, I suppose, is un-American.

Out for a walk

As much as I love travel and the idea of travel, I am often frustrated by the problem of breadth versus depth; how many places will I visit and how well will I get to know each of them? On the continuum that runs from complete ignorance of a place to true expertise, I often wonder what it really means to have been to a city. I have an irrational aversion to tourist attractions - well, irrational in that I should judge something according to its own merit, not by the number of others who like it. But there is an element of rationality, too, because a bubble often forms around these attractions and keeps out the distinction of the locale.

To walk around the neighborhoods, though, is a start, especially today when the sun finally returned. Doing so confirmed a couple things I'd heard. For instance, people seem to love their dogs, leashed or not, but don't love to pick up after them. Droppings are everywhere, but I saw them before it was too late, I think. Also, few cross the street unless given the green light, a strange reversal of Manhattan and Saigon, but it did make me feel like quite the trailblazer to continue on where others had stopped. Even more gratifying were the people who talked to me even if I didn't understand them. I paused in front of one shop to look at the boots placed outside, and a middle-aged woman rambled about something while fingering $6.50 pants. When she walked away, I noticed a hole burned into the left leg, which probably wasn't her doing (though she was smoking). An older gentleman stopped me for directions ("Hol van a...?") but found the place right in front of us before I could say "Nem tudom." Now I know how Rory felt in the second season when someone mistook her for a New Yorker and requested directions.

On second thought, my encounter probably trumped Rory's because there aren't many non-whites in Hungary (but they must be somewhere because Chinese restaurants abound). I'm surprised at how international this city has been (students, and others who end up staying after visiting) in contrast to how few locals speak English. It's hard to know how well I 'fit in' because some speak to me and others stare, although it may be in my head. I'm self-consciously discreet about my camera and map, particularly today because a friend inspired me to explore with no particular destination in mind. Getting lost didn't bother me: I figured I would wander and then look up my location whenever I wanted to go home. But in general I like keeping my bearings because I'm a visual learner who can't know a place until I can picture it.

I was luckily quite near a metro as dusk set in, near the Keleti Pályaudvar train station (pictured) in fact. The problem was, I couldn't find the entrance. Theoretically, maps should be simple, but just because there's a metro icon where Fiumel and Kerepesi intersect on the map, doesn't mean you will see the actual metro once you reach Baross Square. To complicate matters, most busy intersections have entrances that lead underground so that pedestrians can "cross the street" without interrupting traffic - convenient, but confusing because they resemble metro entrances. So after several of those, as well as dead ends and construction detours, I found the red line.

__
Listening to: Yeah Yeah Yeahs, "Y Control"

Születésnapom!

When friends start wishing me a boldog születésnapot in different languages and calculating the best time to do so (according to the time zone), I know I've arrived. The first well-wisher was in Singapore, so he had an advantage. A friend here rationalized a few hours prematurely that because I was born in Vietnam, it was probably time to start celebrating. But at midnight he and my roommates gave me a ceremonial rendition of the birthday song. A friend on the east coast (er, of the United States) followed shortly after with a note to the future me (as I'm six time zones ahead). And then of course the ongoing Facebook attack.

The premature friend said I should buy myself a present in the form of a ticket to Rome (just like I bought myself that Garfield birthday card). So we fly there next weekend. But I shouldn't have let him book the ticket: not only did he screw up my address, but he is now a she from Lithuania.

Actually, I kid about the trip and the card, neither were gifts to myself. The first we'd talked about for a few days, and the second is for a best friend and fellow Capricorn with whom I'd usually celebrate my születésnap. Funny that the card reads "Sorry that I'm running late to your birthday" - it reminds me that we commemorated my last milestone, the big one-eight, about a month late because it was more convenient (academic break + empty house + amateur jello shots). As I'm out of the country this time, it seems I'll be 22 by the time I celebrate my 21st. But festivities with my Budapest barátim are in the making for tonight and tomorrow night, so more posts to come on that (and Rome).

__
Listening to: Rza feat. Xavier Naidoo - Ich kenne nichts (I've never seen)
Reading: Kafka - The Castle

Forces from beyond

This picture was taken around noon on my way to class at Central European University. The men in green must have felt they had tortured us long enough, so here they are, spreading the salty love after snow has fallen. I would have felt pretty silly tiptoeing and sliding, but we were all in it together; a man in a car saw me struggling on my merry way and shouted something in Hungarian. I don't know what it was, but let's assume nice. I also made eye contact with a couple guys having just as much trouble and we shared a laugh.

Oh, the background? Just the Basilica, down the street from my school. I think the Latin reads: "I am the way to truth and life."

CORRECTION: "I am the way, the truth, and life." - courtesy of a friend who knows nine languages. (Updated 1/15/09 8:04 AM)

World's worst airports

A few highlights from this CNN article:

• Some airports include "indoor pools, orchid gardens, and free wireless Internet." The best I've seen is the free massage at the Taiwan Taoyuan International Airport, which comes with plants and jungle sounds.
• At Lukla in Nepal "landing involves a hair-raising plummet onto an uphill airstrip cut into the side of a mountain. On takeoff, the airstrip comes to an abrupt end at the edge of a mountain cliff."
• Mineralnye Vody airport in Russia gets mention for its "feral cats and daggers on sale in the departure lounge"

Televizió

Shows like The Simpsons or Sesame Street seem internationally recognizable and popular enough that they'd be translated into hundreds of languages, but I was surprised by some of the other offerings I came across: Letterman, Malcolm in the Middle, King of Queens, Made, even my sustenance, Gilmore Girls. There were also more music channels than I knew existed, including at least three different MTV channels. I figured a show had to establish itself before it was exported, but maybe this just reflects a (sometimes absurd) desire to Westernize.

While I had VH1 going in the background, I heard a commercial for some kind of green card lottery. It gave the address for a website where people could learn about a program through which the U.S. government purportedly raffles off a few thousand green cards every year, so come live/work/study and live the American dream!

My view of immigration is extreme and it is that we should just throw open the floodgates. We have zero control over where we are born so why should that determine where we live and die? Perhaps there is some credence to the fear of permitting dangerous foreigners, to the goal of preserving culture, to the need for order. But the prerogative of free mobility often outweighs those concerns. Besides, we are all part of the world community, as Vonnegut writes in one of his short stories, I forget which.

This affects me little, except for the ridiculous bureaucracy that travel entails. When I prepared for my trip to Vietnam, I called the INS, which told me I must have a passport, which I don't because I'm still a Vietnamese citizen but left the country too soon to get paperwork for a passport. When I prepared for Budapest, the consulate told me I needed a visa since I'm not a U.S. citizen, but that also was untrue. All I have is a reentry permit to return to the United States, but even that I question because a friend told me today that he doesn't have one, as it's only necessary for travel longer than a year (a waste of a few hundred dollars). Now we wait to see if I can travel around Europe.

Winter bathing

Light snow has fallen once or twice and jagged ice leisures along the Danube, but there is occasion for bikinis and speedos no matter the weather, and that is the hot baths of Budapest. At the Széchenyi Fürdő in City Park, three baths lie side by side for Goldilocks to test, although in winter I suggest beginning with the hottest (and densest) and spending the rest of the time in the just-right pool. Everywhere are patches of activity: older men play chess on water-proof mats at the edges; a mother helps her daughter swim with arm floaties and swim cap; couples … do couple things; three young men drink beer on the steps. But most just stand and soak, proving the place to be little more than a glorified Jacuzzi.

I argue, though, there is more to the fürdő that justifies more than a two-hour visit. Something like cobblestone surrounds the pools, enclosed in a coliseum-like courtyard open to the sky. There is a nude statue here, a fountain there. Above the four-foot-high water, steam rises 100 feet into the air and softens the lighting, which glows through and tints the fog. The steam passes in and out, sometimes walling the person 10 feet away, other times exposing the person halfway across the pool. We couldn’t determine how much of the fürdő relied on the hot springs that make it famous, and how much man had to intervene. But like beaches in summer, the fürdő is a place I’d like to stay all day reading or sleeping; the lights after sundown aren’t ideal for reading, but at all times the warmth can lull you to sleep.

Club Szoda

I’m still a little (read: really) bummed that when I finally turn 21, it’ll be in a country where that doesn’t mean much. I don’t know the legal age to drink or smoke or otherwise cavort around Hungary, but it seems most countries are more lax about that than the United States, and I’m curious just how young you can be to enter a club/bar here. Going to Szoda didn’t really answer that question, but it was nice not to get carded or charged a cover. Then again, the crowd seemed older than those in American 21+ clubs (but I inexplicably suspect the people were younger than they appeared).

The floor where we entered was an overcrowded bar, and downstairs was an even bigger fire hazard / dance floor, giving the place more of a college-party atmosphere than I’d like. The narrow hall and eight-foot ceiling didn’t help; more than once, when a song would instruct us to reach for the ceiling, some would literally do that or grab a fistful of the immobile disco ball.

I had low expectations for the music, which was a hit or miss. We went two nights in a row, the first a mix of Prince/techno/Billie Jean/Missy Elliot/pop and maybe even some Bay Area music, most of which was enjoyable (except that every other song reminded me of the Macarena). The second night we weren’t so lucky – all you need to know is, they played a club remix of The Sound of Silence. No, the lady doth not protest. Actually, the bad music suited the bad dancing, which is half the fun. I especially appreciated that there wasn’t much of the sex-on-the-dance-floor approach that I’m used to seeing, and that men were somewhat more affectionate at Szoda (a lot of holding-a-girl’s-face-in-his-hands).

Hard to tell if this was a microcosm of other clubs here, as Szoda was filled with Hungarians, Americans, Brazilians, other Europeans, and I don’t know what else. But one thing new to me since certain laws were passed in the United States was the sickening amount of smoking that filled the club and sent me home both nights reeking of cigarettes.

Redemption

That is, if I needed to be redeemed, today gave me enough fodder to justify (culturally, educationally, historically) coming to Hungary. I generally grimace at all things touristy but went on a tour this afternoon thinking it can/should be done once. Then, our guide (Jeff, I thought, but he didn’t respond when called it) made a case for his existence, though I’m pretty sure it was unintentional: past halftime, we were asking which nearby cities he recommends visiting, which led to a spiel on remembering to read the guidebooks and go to the tourist hot spots because one can, believe it or not, learn a lot from them. Now that I think of it, he was referring to the Disneyworld in the Czech Republic. Previously I had been attracted to Hungary’s communist past, revolutionary pride, and developing status, but now on to more specific points of interest:

• Jeff put on a German accent and tells us what he says other tour guides would tell other tourists: two lions greet you at the entrance of the famous bridge over the Danube, and when it was first erected, people admired and praised the bridge as the first (after Vienna's) to connect East and West, but one little boy remarked that the lions had no tongues, which put the creator of the bridge to such shame that he jumped off said bridge. Bull shit, as it turned out. Moral of the story: don’t believe everything guides tell you. After all, they’re in the business of “edu-tainment,” in his words. I thought that was a good way for Jeff to begin our tour. (Disclaimer: the above photo was taken by a friend, not me.)
  


• I think the East-West part was true.


• At first I was cynical that he should show us hotels, but those, too, had their redeeming qualities. Namely, they broke ground in ushering in Western capitalism, therefore symbolizing goulash communism, Hungary’s soft approach to that craze of the second half of the 20th century.


• An even better symbol is the nearby McDonald’s, the first to open doors in a communist country. For its debut, journalists hailed the event as groundbreaking and Hungarians turned out in droves, dressed to impress.


• Hungary’s is the second largest synagogue in the world, after the one on Fifth Avenue. A fellow student pointed out: one would think Israel could hold its own in that race.


• It’s built in the Moorish style in homage to the days when Jews and Muslims got along. Later synagogues included organs, flouting the Christian patent, because Hungarian Jews couldn’t get enough of that Beethoven.


• After World War II, the best preserved (not entirely sure what that means) group of Jewish people were those in Hungary.


• The country’s name derives from the initial impression that the first settlers here were related to the Huns, which despite a physical resemblance at the time, has been disproved. In fact, they were genetically much closer to the Mongols. (Two words: lion’s tongues).

Home is where the heart (and blood and sweat and tears) is

Last night was a szendvics (sound it out) that began and ended well, even if it was filled with a series of paying avoidable fines, getting lost after bedtime, and dragging over-sized suitcases up stairs.

After staying in the dorms for a few frustrating days, all the students seemed to find an apartment that worked, in my case a triple with two balconies, furnishings, and wireless for $1400 a month. My friends and I met the landlord at 9:30 p.m., signed the papers, and got the keys. We were so sick of apartment-hunting and so happy to have a place of our own we decided to go grab our yet-to-be-unpacked stuff from the dorm and move in the same night. Probably our first mistake.

It would have taken a lot to ruin the night, but the gods certainly tried. The first omen appeared on the metro, which generally works like car insurance (or for Margaret Levi-loving taxpayers, it's like quasi-voluntary compliance): authorities trust that you'll buy a metro ticket, and they'll only check to confirm you have one when you don't. Ultimately, it was my friend, not me, who was caught without a ticket on our way back to the dorm from the apartment, but the 6000-forint fine put a damper on the night for all of us (it's only $30, but that's twice as much as a monthly pass).

Fast forward about an hour, after we had packed our luggage into two cabs and arrived back at the apartment, or so we thought. Instead of driving to 26 Sziv Utca (Heart Street), we drove to 38 Sziv Utca, which is what the landlord had told us. Our first key (there are three, one to get into the complex, one for the security door, and one for the main door) didn't work. But it was dark, late, and bitingly cold, so the non-English-speaking cabbies wanted to get the hell out. I was offended they'd abandon three young ladies in a foreign country with nowhere else to go at midnight, but they helped us open the door (probably just because we hadn't paid them yet, otherwise...). Miraculously, it opened. Miraculous not because all three of us had already tried on our own, but because that wasn't our apartment (we eventually learned), so the drivers must have gotten it open through sheer will power. Then they left.

True, it was our fault that we didn't double check the address and that we didn't recognize the building and that we moved in while the world was asleep. But we weren't complete idiots. The thing about Hungarian flats is, they don't have numbers, so even if we were in the right building, we could only rely on memory to find the actual apartment. Still, we tried. We hauled our belongings up the stairs of the elevator-less building, which like most others operated with motion-sensitive lights that turned off every few minutes. Yes, I'm afraid of the dark. And it didn't help that the light switches matched the doorbells (we probably didn't make too many friends last night). When our keys didn't work, door after door, we gave in and called the landlord, who had obviously gone to bed, and that's how we found out we were definitely in the wrong building.

The right building was only a block away, not that that made it much easier to run all our bags from point A to point B in one fell swoop. And then another set of stairs and uncooperative lighting and probably pissed off neighbors.

But aside from that, smooth sailing! We got in, we got our flat, and we got a story to write about.

Are we there yet?

In our last discussion about traveling around the continent, a friend here suggested we just go to the airport some weekend and take whatever cheap flight is left. I loved the idea, but it is dawning on me how little this time in Hungary may actually be Hungarian. Maybe I should have begun with why I chose Hungary of all places: sometimes I wish I had a more noble reason, but it is only slightly less random than closing my eyes and pointing to a spot on a map. Travel has always been part of the life plan, so when it came time to choose a study abroad location, I went through Columbia's offerings, decided my Spanish wasn't good enough (I still rue the day), and narrowed it down to three cities with instruction in English: Copenhagen, Prague, and Budapest. The price tag and the level of immersion ultimately determined my decision.

Then again, I don't know if it is so bad to blindly point to a map. I encourage everyone to travel, to study abroad; for someone who is easily bored, it is one of the perks that make life interesting. And there is so much interesting out there (out here!), why do I need a reason to go to Budapest?

Much as I loathed the prospect last term of wasting time taking Hungarian (one of the hardest languages to learn), doing so changed my expectations. Eventually, I was not just going abroad, I was going to Hungary. I set my Google Alerts to it, learned a bit about 1956 and 1989, talked to anyone with any connection to the country.

But then I arrived. To put it one way, my paltry knowledge of Hungarian is one of the more advanced of my study abroad group; it might even beat that of our point person here, who is Romanian. Another point person is American (granted, with very good Hungarian). Maybe it is just us, I thought. But it seems to be true of Central European University in general. In my first class, the professor went around the room asking our names and backgrounds. There was another American, one or two Hungarians, and the rest from nearby countries (Romania, Poland, Russia, etc.).

But I do not complain. If there are two traits I value, they are these: open-mindedness and optimism. It is true, all of this might limit how much I learn about Hungary, especially if I am spending more time traipsing around Europe than appreciating what is right here. But either way, am I not learning about different cultures? Meantime, I focus on Hungary, starting with teaching you the most important word you would need here: koszonom ("thank you"). Learn it, and you will be better prepared to visit Budapest than some of those already here.

Deeper into the rabbit hole

As the blog description suggests, this won't just be about Vietnam anymore. I'll keep the URL, but expand my coverage area to infinity and beyond. I think that gives it a Stars Hollow kind of charm, like using a female doll to play baby Jesus in the Christmas play. To make things less confusing, I think I'll tag every post with the city location. In this latest reincarnation, I'll write about my time studying in Hungary, but that's not all: my new friends and I are already looking at tickets to the rest of Europe (Budapest to Rome for $20?!), and it's only the first night.

Like any good traveler, I'm wide awake at 2 a.m. because I slept most of the day. Not sure why I couldn't sleep on the plane, which is usually so easy. Instead I spent most of the flight (five hours from San Francisco to New York, then 8 hours to Budapest) trying to watch La Science des Reves and read A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (not simultaneously). In general, you probably shouldn't mix Gael Garcia Bernal with James Joyce, especially when crossing time zones - alone, any of the three can mess up your consciousness, but together? Together they're probably something like one of the recipes from the alter ego of Stephane Miroux.

I realize that tells you little about Budapest, but I find air travel fascinating, and relevant. For example, when I got to SFO for my international flight, I looped a few times because (I eventually learned) the layover at JFK meant I had to check in in the domestic terminal. When I reached my final destination, I got a quick stamp and that was it. No search. No machines. No customs. The first girls I met here said it just depends on the host country. One girl told me that during a trip with her Bangladeshi boyfriend, she was searched and her ticket labeled 'security concern' because of her boyfriend's name. We diverged into the story about the nine Muslim passengers that AirTran booted for sounding like terrorists. Including three children, age seven, four, and two. And my biggest concern was getting my over-sized carry-on past the flight attendants.

The girls I mentioned are other students in the study abroad program here at Central European University. They came to my dorm room, where I was dropped off with no instructions and where I slept for the afternoon, to give me my welcome packet. That they came in place of people from the university, combined with the fact that we haven't registered for courses (this was the first day of classes) and are just starting to look for apartments (the dorm is temporary), led us to believe our program is a little disorganized. But who ever studies abroad to study?