Alice in ... Budapest

A day in Budapest

2010-02-22T03:26:00.002+01:00

I might as well post this, which is a revision of my previous post (revision in the loosest sense):

A few key strokes, clicks, and scrolls will tell you that of landlocked Hungary's ten million people, one million, seven hundred thousand squeeze into Budapest. Of the country's thirty-six thousand square miles, two hundred fall on the part of the map labeled 'Budapest.' That is seventeen percent of the people sharing half a percent of the land. You will also no doubt read that the city is two cities, Buda and Pest, bisected by the Danube and connected by five bridges, and it's possible you'll learn that all of it sits on top of the continent's oldest subway. You probably don't even have to search to know that for a while, Hungary reported to the Soviets, who followed the Germans, who followed the Austrians, who followed the Ottomans (you don't ask what came before the Ottomans; it's like asking what came before the printing press). Of course, none of this matters. You do not have to remember.

It might only matter if and when you touch down in Budapest Ferihegy International Airport. As you drive from there into the capital, do not be fooled by the gray outskirts that glide anonymously by, or the trash heap, the fading rust-colored field, the road that descends from a freeway into an exit. The wide open space is an illusion; soon the city will close in. For fifteen minutes you will drive around the same secession building where a middle-aged woman has filled her balcony with plants that have no place here in winter. Then you will park on the sidewalk and step out onto the street. Look! In one square meter, uneven taupe cobblestones run up against maroon rocks that smile in rows of half-circles. But as much as you want to enjoy them, you cannot get around the twenty-six other cars that have also parked on the sidewalk. So that must be how the seventeen percent coexist.

At least you rarely have to worry about cars. For just seven thousand forints (thirty-five dollars) this green-and-orange paper card will get you on the subway for a month. Isn't the yellow line cute? Its three little trains bounce along, chiming each time the doors open and close, like something out of Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. Just don't forget your pass. And don't sneak onto a train just because there's no guard to stop you. Or, if you do, don't miss your stop, so that you end up at the only station where all the guards huddle in their heavy leather jackets and navy blue caps. Even if you try to look away, the one burly woman will grab your shoulder and demand six thousand forints. Please, if nothing else, get a receipt before she pockets the gift!

Let's hope you can still enjoy your time after that. Remember, there was a river, and a few bridges? You must be in Pest. Only Hungarians live in Buda, and visitors only go there for short trips to the castle and the hills and the Szabadság Szobor, which could be translated as the Statue of Liberty, but no need to ruffle any feathers. Liberty Statue is acceptable. About Pest, then: just walk east, you can't miss the Danube. If, on the way, you pass the rally of skinheads who somehow got into parliament, don't be afraid. They don't dislike you as much as they do the gypsies who crouch along the Chain Bridge, reaching out for alms or covering their heads as if salaaming. And they aren't as bad as the paramilitary group who dress in black boots, pants, vest, and cap, white shirt, and red scarf. You might have thought there were no more after 1945, or at least after they were banned last year. But stay out of their way and you'll be fine.

See, on the Danube, the ten-year-olds racing by in yellow and green kayaks? That's better. That's what you came to see. You can join them, but it might be more relaxing to rent a two-person cart on the island, Margit-sziget. Paths on either side let you pedal along the river, watching people on holiday aboard cruise ships that start in the Netherlands, or surveying Budapest's skyline of pale buildings, none more than three hundred feet high, but closer to one hundred. Now, isn't the Danube more than a word on a map? If you've had enough of the water (no need to stay on the bank for all one hundred fifty feet of Margit-sziget), come back inside. People are buying ice cream, dining on terraces, and gawking at zoo animals. Deeper into the island, dark busts of unknown historical figures stare out at no one in particular. They remind you to stop over at the labyrinthine walls of Roman ruins. Could be Greek. Could be a product of the city planners’ imagination. In any case, you must be tired. There's an oversized tree over there; its branches reach down so low, everyone is welcome to sit down for a break.

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Listening to: Regina Spektor
Reading: 100 Years of Solitude
Watching: Malcolm in the Middle

A city, realized

2009-09-26T17:24:00.002+02:00

I wrote this for class recently:

I can scrape from the bottom of a tin can the tidbits of Budapest thrown in unthinkingly, or left behind from more important memories. Socialism, a river surely, Hitler's war, a colorless downtown map excerpted in a book on Hungarian. Alone, the scraps are useless and - at the point when I first touch down in the dry cold of early January - meaningless.

Once on the ground and in a car, at least then I am no longer confronted by a blank wall. It gives way to this new city, whose gray outskirts glide anonymously by. The trash heap, the fading rust-colored field, the road that descends from a freeway into an exit - I see them, it can't be denied. But they mean only slightly more than the scraps I brought with me. I see them with blinders and therefore with unrecognized disappointment. What are they to me? Everything exists in isolation, at risk of drifting into amnesia because pegged to nothing.

Look at the cobblestones! In one square meter, three different arrangements compete for space: uneven, taupe and black stones run up against a border of uniform rocks, separating them from maroon stones that smile in rows of half-circles. Look at the Parliament! Think: what decadence to line a government building with gold and gems. And to forgo Doric pillars for Gothic, burgundy-topped arches and spires. Read advertisements for ABBA's world tour or a mascara that works miracles or the Tavasz Fesztivál in spring. These posters wrap around thick, concrete columns that stretch four meters tall and dot the city. Beware subway guards who in their heavy leather jackets and navy blue caps demand six thousand forints (thirty dollars) as fine for an unpunched ticket. Get a receipt before they pocket the gift. Ignore gypsies who crouch along the Chain Bridge, reaching out for alms or covering their heads as if salaaming.

All of it feels as good as ignored. What good is to notice if I will forget? How to remember if I don't understand? It is the curse of those who think visually to understand nothing until the mind bestows on it an illustration. In the earlier weeks, my blinders left me wandering lost around Budapest, seeing directly in front and unable to complete the image with a turn of the head. I admired the beauty of secession buildings and trees that turned white and pink, but with a vague and perpetual discomfort of a void where context should be.

Only after staring incessantly at the map given all visitors, navigating streets independently, and connecting cartographic renderings to geographic realities, do I shed the blinkers. It seems I must reach a threshold, and from there, a city takes shape. Now the bazilika of Szent István is more beautiful than its prodigious teal dome flanked by towers and buttressed by a pediment of saints. Now it is east of the Danube, south of Margaret Island, southwest of Heroes' Square. There is beauty, too, in the grocery store inside the mall. From there I can turn left to get to the train station that doubles as a flea market, turn right to climb the hills of Buda, or walk home, straight ahead. Everything is anchored to everything else. No longer are they shadows on cavernous walls, but true forms that fall into place when I stroll through the districts, fly overhead, or close my eyes. What I see is an overcrowded city of two cities, bisected by the Danube, connected by five bridges. Here is the synagogue, there is the island, here is the National Gallery, there is the City Park. What I see is that Budapest is real.

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Listening to: Roma Di Luna

Reading: Tony Judt, Postwar

What a finale

2009-06-01T22:01:00.004+02:00

I have been banned from Germany, deported with a police escort, acquired a criminal record, and missed my sister's graduation, all with one stone. On the layover in Munich, going home to California from Hungary, I was stopped by passport control because, like all other officials I've encountered between countries, this one didn't recognize my travel document. Let's be clear: it's a reentry permit, issued by the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services, allowing permanent residents (green card holders) to get back into the United States after travel abroad. And though it quacks like a passport, border officials are always giving me trouble because they don't know what to do with this little turquoise book.

Accordingly, the German punk I had the misfortune of meeting took me aside for a closer look and decided I didn't have the proper visa or residence permit to have spent nearly five months in the European Union. So in order to wait five hours while he drew up the necessary criminal filing and deportation order, I had to miss my flight and take the next one - 20 hours later, getting me home just in time to miss my sister's high school graduation.

I say in earnest I could tolerate without anger the uncomfortable eight hours sleeping on the airport chairs; the criminal record; the mortification of boarding the plane with two border officials; the revoking of the privilege to return to Germany, at least for a few months; even the arrival home 24 hours after I'd planned.

But there is more than one legacy whose bitterness will follow me, though I hope to forget them. First, of course, was that I could not see my sister graduate, despite planning my entire return around that date. What's worse, if I could not spend that time with my family, it would have been some consolation to have spent it with friends in Hungary, but that was impossible.

Second, though the officials were not entirely wrong, neither was I, and I couldn't make them understand me. They thought I needed a visa, and that part was wrong because I'd applied for one at the Hungarian consulate in New York, only to receive a letter assuring me that permanent residents with travel documents could come to Hungary without one. Though still nervous, I accepted as much and went about my travels, making it to Italy, Slovakia, and Austria without much trouble. The only scuffle was the second trip to Italy, to Venice, because our train passed through Croatia, which is not in the European Union or the Schengen Zone, which means dealing with border patrol. I received some puzzled looks and double checks but made it through, much better than my Indian friend, who had a hell of a night stuck in Zagreb. (It cost him a pretty penny, but he eventually made it to Venice, too.)

I began to realize the severity of my predicament in early April, when I tried to drive to Istanbul through Serbia and Bulgaria (neither of which are in Schengen, though Bulgaria is in the European Union).I thought I was thinking ahead by getting a visa to Turkey, but didn't get past Hungary's border with Serbia because the border guards didn't know what to do with my travel document, and so demanded a transit visa. So an entire Friday wasted on driving to the border, arguing with officials, waiting for a bus, and taking a train back to Budapest. That day was the low point since I had come to Europe, but with time I hated the system less, or at least thought about it less.

I understand that the officials and bureaucrats are doing their jobs, even if it does violate common sense (i.e., I am not the kind of person targeted in these travel restrictions). My main grievance against them is their personal incompetence, as a sort of metonym for the incompetence of the entire bureaucracy (Kafka would back me up on this). These people have to put on as if they know what they're doing, but the smallest irregularity (e.g. a travel document in lieu of a passport) becomes a wrench in their whole system. No one knows protocol. So ask 10 different bureaucrats and you will get as many different solutions. Croatia lets me pass through, but Serbia doesn't. Hungary doesn't require an entry visa, but Germany [says it] does, though they are supposedly equal Schengen and EU members. Passport control in Chicago asks for my travel document, yet the one in San Francisco is content with my green card.

If it hasn't already, this will easily become a tirade, so I will just say I have gotten the travel bug out of my system for awhile and am happy to be home. I am not so arrogant to think I have seen it all, and this is not what Björk means anyway, but still I can't get her words out of my head:

The American bureaucracy may not be much better, but at least I do not have to deal with it as much anymore. I am happy about this, and other, less important things since returning. I am happy I won't have to pay a foreign fee for all my purchases anymore, or ruin any more of my shoes on the cobble stones. I won't exactly miss Hungarian food, which I can best describe as heavy and unhealthy (pork, beef, cheese, all fried, and vegetables a rarity). I am happy to be able to access websites again, websites that are not available or convenient outside the United States.

To reflect on the months abroad negatively would be unfair, however, and the amount in this post dedicated to such is inversely proportional to my real sentiments. Without reserve I say I could not have made a better choice for a study abroad setting, the affordable and yet international and breathtaking city that is Budapest. Unlike Vietnam, Hungary is a place I leave along with its language, and I will miss hearing and practicing Magyarul. I will miss greeting and taking leave of people with a puszi on either cheek. I will miss riding across the Danube from Buda to Pest on a bus or tram. I will miss the love and friendship I found in this city. I will miss the lakes where wakeboarders circumscribe the water on cables; the Buda hills from which I have seen all of the city blanketed in snow or twinkling below and brighter than the Big Dipper above; the islands along the Danube, so close to the congested downtown and yet idyllic and isolated - and I knew very well how much I missed them all as they grew smaller and smaller beneath my plane window, before clouds erased them, billow by billow, and swallowed our plane.

Rereading: 1984

Listening to: Blue Oyster Cult

Socialism lives

2009-05-26T12:45:00.011+02:00

It was with mixed feelings and a mixed message that I bought three Communist posters for my siblings after visiting Statue Park on Friday. Each had some combination of Lenin, Stalin, Mao, Marx, and others, caricatured in the form of a movie poster, a band, and South Park. Never mind the capitalist profit made from their commodification. The more significant contrast is that my siblings will hang them up without entirely supporting the men (the way Che supporters wear his face), nor will they entirely laugh at the decoration (the way Michael Moore holds hands with Bush).

Whoever designed the posters probably intended them for the latter, ironic purpose, and so I say it is even more ironic that my family, with its socialist leanings, is more in between the Bush and Che alternatives. Safe to say we don’t support any of the reeducation, political purging, or subjugation that would make Orwell turn in his grave. But we remember too that these resulted from totalitarianism, not the ideology of socialism in its economic, sexual, and humanitarian equality.

Then again, I think we are removed enough from the Cold War to see that communism itself isn’t completely the evil we believed it to be. About all this I am unsure. Who knows, maybe not everyone is laughing. What impels people to, for instance, visit places like Statue Park? In between the ironic (though silent) laughter and the homage to the victims of terror, there is probably also a part of us that pays respect to the likes of Lenin and Mao, if only to recognize their impact as world-historical figures. Something like the legacy of Napoleon still upheld in France.

Not that I had much company on Friday. At times I was alone, at times half a dozen tourists wandered Statue Park, also known as Memento Park. And no wonder: I spent over an hour, two buses, and a tram to get outside Budapest, where the statues have been placed. Most were moved there from their sites in the heart of the city, after being toppled in 1989, though their original locations are still denoted on the not-very-informational plaques. What’s worse, I thought, some are “authentic replicas” of original monuments. I complained of this to a Hungarian friend, of city planners fabricating culture and recreating history just to please tourists. But my friend shut me up: is the city really making money on the half dozen tourists that come out there? The truth is, he said, they want to preserve culture and honor history.

He’s probably right, so I’ll just be happy with the huge replica of Stalin’s boots that stand outside the entrance, which is itself a large red brick wall that doesn’t really keep anything out. The park is an outdoor museum, a string of three round fields with a bright red star made of flowers in the center field, and larger-than-life statues, reliefs, murals and any number of monuments along the circumferences. People and writings are a mix of Hungarian and Russian, ranging from the solidarity of the Soviet Union and its satellite, the rights of women, the education of children, and the loyalty, strength, and peace realized through socialism.

The one called “Liberation Monument” shows a wall of white stone, interrupted where a man’s profile takes shape behind the man himself, who stands before the wall from which he has just broken free. The symbolism is clear, but I can’t look at it without thinking, don’t you know it’s you, Communism, from which we are breaking free?

At some point I realized how comic it all was: here I was, standing in a Cold War era park, holding The Joke by Milan Kundera. Like many of the Czech writer’s works, this sets the trials of life and love against the backdrop of Soviet-occupied Central Europe. Ordinarily I would call it a coincidence, but more likely, I am proving Kundera’s own thesis in The Unbearable Lightness of Being. It is not coincidence that my family comes from a still (nominally) Communist country, that I came to study in Hungary, that I read this book and this author, that I visited Statue Park. Kundera uses the example of Anna Karenina to argue that what we call dramatic, like Anna’s preoccupation with and death under trains, is not coincidence but life. The motif of trains (or just as easily of communism) is not dramatic accident created for novels, but drama that we, consciously or not, tend to create for ourselves.

A walk through Margaret Island

2009-05-25T18:01:00.006+02:00

Most people enter Margaret Island through Margaret Bridge to the south because that is closer to downtown Budapest, but the two-and-half-kilometers-long island runs all the way to Arpad Bridge to the north, where there’s another entrance. A bus runs from one end to the other, and small rental cars run by motor or pedal, but most people walk to take in the foliage that sometimes hides from view the Danube on either side. To walk along the river they have to move to the edges, where runners and bicyclists take up a red road and couples, readers, and picnickers sit on the slanted stone that gives way to the water, on which cruise ships and kayaks glide by.

Back inside the heart of the island, people buy ice cream, dine on a restaurant’s terrace, work out at the athletic center, or visit the zoo, attractions as hidden as they are in Central Park. Around the large fountain, (distance) the first landmark upon entering through the south side, people sunbathe. A bit further on and trees open out onto an open field more reminiscent of Golden Gate Park, for people to play music or Frisbee or huddle in groups. Past this, a track and a football game in progress, and eight English children in two teams, in two lines, in a relay race: the ball (or is it a water balloon?) passes over one child’s head, through the legs of the next, over the head of the next, and so on, until the last runs to the front. Repeat.

Beyond this, dark busts of unknown historical figures stare out at passersby. Some stop to sit on the oversized tree, whose branches descend so low as to form seats. Others navigate the labyrinthine walls of Roman ruins. Could be Greek. Could be a product of the city planners’ imagination. And just before reaching Arpad Bridge: a manmade pond with benches and rocks forming the perimeter, and inside, green from the water lilies, from the reeds, from the mold at the bottom or from the trees reflected in the water.

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Listening to: Shakira

On driving

2009-05-22T13:25:00.001+02:00

For the first time in four months, I drove last weekend, and for the first time in nearly as many years, I drove a manual. This is only significant because in Hungary, automatics are just about unheard of. I noticed the same in Vietnam, France, Switzerland – I would go so far as to guess that outside of North America, manuals rule the road just about everywhere in the world, and I’ve wondered why that is. I have heard manuals are more efficient, so perhaps North Americans are just more wasteful people. Similarly, I do think it has something to do with a driving culture, at least in the United States. There, manuals were the car of choice at one time, but over the years, I suppose automatics were the best way to get a car in every garage, as Roosevelt wished.

But I’m glad things are different here. I don’t really know why, I just like manuals and wish I could drive them better. That they are more prevalent is probably related to the reason people say “liters per kilometer” here whereas I’m used to “miles per gallon.” I discussed this with my friends in France, and they don’t believe me, but I think Europeans say liters per kilometer because (consciously or not) they care more about how much fuel (i.e. liters) has to be expended, whereas Americans care more about how much they can drive (i.e. miles).

There are other differences I like here, too. The traffic lights don’t just change from red to green when it’s time to go, but from red to yellow to green (as well as green to yellow to red, as in the United States) – the extra yellow clearly gives the driver a heads up to get into gear.

What’s more, in Switzerland, when you drive along some highways with traffic lights, they stay red at night but are programmed to turn green just in time for your arrival. The only thing I can compare that to are the traffic lights in Manhattan, which change at regular intervals, as do the ones in Downtown Sacramento, where you can stay in the green if you drive a steady 25 miles per hour.

Although I have seen “Wilkommen…” and “Bienvenue…” on highway signs, more common are the modest signs with town names, the notable part being that when you leave a town, you see the same sign with a red diagonal line drawn across it. Maybe I just haven’t seen this yet in the United States. Maybe I also haven’t noticed a rule my friend says everyone knows: on two-lane highways (four lanes altogether), the right lane is the default and the left lane is only for passing. This I don’t believe. I know there’s a slow lane and a fast lane, but I’ve certainly seen a lot of people pass others from the right (which he says is illegal). But on this continent people seem to follow that rule.

My unquestionable favorite among these vehicular observations first appeared in France. We were driving along the country roads, by rocky cliffs covered with protective nets, when a car flashed its high beams at us as it drove by. So did the next. Not too long after that I saw why: we passed cops parked on the side of the road, checking for drivers who flout the speed limit.

Reading: Milan Kundera, The Joke

Switzerland: seven cities in seven days

2009-05-13T19:57:00.013+02:00

Switzerland didn't exactly make the list of top countries I'd like to visit in Europe, but I spent a week there because, thanks to a friend of a friend, we had access to a car and accommodations. Perks notwithstanding, it's been my most expensive week so far (e.g., $30 for a pizza), so in this way and in many others, the country seems to live up to its name, which can be both good and bad. That may just mean I haven't penetrated very deep into the heart of Switzerland, but in the abundance of luxury cars, mountains, and clear water, I see what I expected.

Together, the mountains and the water make up the best of Switzerland. No matter where you stand, it's nearly impossible to have a view without a mountain not too far away, usually still covered in snow at this time of year. We drove from one end of ski-loving Switzerland to the other, from little Nyon on the northern coast of Lake Geneva in the French-speaking west, to Zurich in the German-speaking northeast, and because of the mountainous landscape, I'd never driven through so many tunnels.

For some of the drive we could enjoy Lake Geneva to the south, reflecting the ten kinds of blue and white in the peaks that rise behind it. It's the largest lake in Europe, so large that as I watched it stretch out before me, I had to keep reminding myself it wasn't the ocean, so large that when the rain didn't hit us, we could still see pockets of rain scattered around different areas of the lake. When I didn't see drops hitting the surface of the water, I still saw thin shadowy curtains hang down from clouds in the distance.

This was in Montreux, on the eastern edge of the lake. We climbed a tower in the nearby Chateau de Chillon with its natural moat, and at the top could look down on the ripples that crisscross in grids, or on the misty white line in the atmosphere separating the lake from the sky or mountain.

The other reason I wanted to go to Montreux was Freddie Mercury. This was his second home, and after he died, the city erected an appropriately ostentatious statue in his honor. In other classic rock news, the nearby casino was the site of a fire that supposedly inspired "Smoke on the Water."

It was the little stuff like that that made the week interesting. Stuff like the flower clock, and the home and statue of Rousseau in Geneva. And the giant chessboards on the pavement in Zurich. And the heartrending Lion Monument in Luzern. While there, we had lunch at a Euro Thai restaurant (I should feel bad not trying the local fare, but Swiss food is not what you'd call world-renowned). The first thing the Thai woman asked was whether I was Vietnamese, and to my surprise she started speaking in what Vietnamese she knew. She wasn't bad. Who knew I'd come to a country with four official languages (the other two are Italian and Romansch) with a Hungarian friend to eat at a Thai place and speak to a woman in Vietnamese.

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Reading: Vaclav Havel, The Memorandum
Listening to: Babyface

The simple life

2009-05-02T23:35:00.005+02:00

Conditions in the French countryside were slightly less primitive than those in the Vietnamese village where I visited family last summer, but I resisted the low-speed Internet and landline and filled my time with Dostoevsky, grassy hills, and freshly picked leeks. (In fact I may be the last person I know to have heard about the swine flu outbreak.) I spent the better part of a week in Rossas, a hamlet of at most a dozen houses nestled between mountains 200 kilometers southwest of Lyon.

When the weather permitted, we trekked through patches of yellow-green grass and newly bloomed trees, sometimes to a stream that my friend’s brothers dammed themselves, or to a field like an oasis naturally cleared amid the trees. When the weather didn’t, we buried our noses in books, listened to Bach, and watched smoke on the mountains (well, if there can be smoke on the water…). For a split-second I considered that this fog might actually be smoke, the way it rose from the mountains. It was worth watching the low-lying clouds, because to see them drift east to west, in and out of the hills, was to see them connect the earth and sky, to see that the white wisps are much closer to us than to the ceiling, and to see beyond the two dimensions of the sky.

Indoors, we also prepared easy meals, sometimes with vegetables straight from the garden outside, which we tilled when the rain let up. Because we were staying with my friend’s parents and because they are vegetarians, I learned to eat more sustainably than I have in my carnivorous past. Except for a month in sixth grade, my weeks in France were the longest I’ve gone with little or no meat, and I left with a renewed desire to give vegetarianism another shot – for moral reasons, but also because the crap we get from the slaughterhouse is injected almost beyond recognition. So it’s less about avoiding meat (because I will still eat meat) and more about eating real food. It reminds me, why do we cook anyway? In our early days it made sense to grill beef and boil bamboo for health reasons, but I wonder at what point we decided we needed to put things like carrots and tomatoes to heat, too.

Each course was very simple – lettuce with tomatoes or rice, vegetable soup, stir-fried potatoes, bowtie pasta, cheese, fruit yogurt, or chocolate. I didn’t think these alone would be enough for me, but when you have course after course (and that seems to be the French way), it’s more than enough. It also helped that I have learned to like things I used to think I hate:

Radishes
Uncooked cauliflower
Cooked carrots
String beans
Lentils
Cheese
Unsweetened yogurt
Celery
Olives
Spinach
Peas
Ravioli
Pesto
Plain pasta

Reading: Henrik Ibsen, The Wild Duck
Listening to: Bjork
Watching: Scarface

I climbed this:

2009-04-30T22:35:00.003+02:00

Hitchhiking, mountain-climbing, ski-less skiing – I did in one day things I could only imagine and some things I had never imagined at all. Of these, hitchhiking was the most necessary because there was no other way to get to little Barnave from Valence (and to get there we took a train from Lyon). All the horror stories and warnings had succeeded in deterring me from hitchhiking before, but now there were three of us, two girls and Iohan, a veteran hitchhiker because, he said, people here are nice. And he was right. So right that between the five cars it took to reach our final destination, we never had to split up, as we’d feared. So right that I might consider hitchhiking again. So right that (and this is more likely) I might consider picking up hitchhikers one day because the drivers we met were conversational and because I understand the pain of rejection (though, actually, we were quite lucky and didn’t have to wait long between being dropped off by one car and picked up by another).

In Barnave, a mountain village of sixty or so in southwestern France, we slept in a temple on those blue mats used in gym class and wrestling matches. Both (the temple and the mats) were indispensable to Iohan’s sister, who is a trapeze artist and who hosted us because she lives in the house adjacent.

For a backyard she has the fields, the forests, and the mountains, and also one of the many vineyards that seem to make up the town. Wind tossed the clouds around unpredictably, and in the distance, it shook the grass of just one field, seeming eerily to touch nothing else. I noticed there, and on the drive there, the variety in the hills and mountains, because each peak that rises behind each other is different from that other. One is fully forested with evergreens. Another sprinkled with rocks. Another with dead grass and bushes. Another still frozen in snow. I counted at least five different greens.

At breakfast one friend scared the other and me, saying we’d better eat enough for the day ahead on the mountain. But in the face of necessity we survived those ten or so hours on apples, sweet biscuits, and water, some of which we bottled ourselves at a spring one-third of the way up the mountain. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Living in the mountains was enough, I thought, but in fact we had to hitchhike three times to reach Valcroissant, the site of the mountain we would climb.

“I didn’t know hiking would be this easy!” I smiled in the first car, into which I had crawled under the back door and half-sat, half-crouched over a box of nails and a hammer. “Oh, so you think we’ll be riding the whole time!” my friend shot back.

There is also a little church with a hostel at Valcroissant, which I am beginning to understand better. Few residents do not amount to few tourists, and it was a pair of tourists, actually, who drove us the final leg.

Vertically, we ended up covering nearly 2,000 meters; horizontally, perhaps ten kilometers there and ten kilometers back. I knew going into it that I would want to quit and it would become unbearable at some points. But more accurate is to say that your body seems to be able to carry on in these situations as long as your mind doesn’t know about it. And in fact I would have second winds, bursts of energy when I just wanted to run (I would pay for that later, in the days it took to recover), but I think that had more to do with impatience than energy.

The terrain here was as varied as the hills I’d seen earlier, if not more so. One hour we would be trampling over damp and dead leaves, the next we would be fording a cool spring. Or running through dirt and stones, or picking our way through grass and twigs. On one grassy knoll we walked within a few meters of a ram, lying so carefree we thought it might be sick (but probably not because it was gone on our way down). Sitting on a cliff almost worthy of Pride Rock, we eventually saw more like him, probably a dozen rams in the distance fading into the boulders behind them, except for a baby ram that somehow ended up nearby.

To top it off, untainted white snow survived into this late spring at the top of the mountain. I unwittingly wore ankle socks and capris, so Iohan dug a hole into the snow with each step, creating a path for us to follow. Uphill, that is. I didn’t consider that we would have to find a way back down, possibly because I was sick of the snow and just wanted to reach the summit.

Making our way downhill in the snow, it turned out, was the best part of the expedition. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t been there, but we slid down the slope in nothing but our shoes and T shirts! Terrifying but thrilling, difficult but efficient. Simply saying it doesn’t seem to convince me that I glided down a mountain, more than 1500 meters above sea level, riding the crest of the snow. In some places the snow was too soft, so we’d sink down past our knees, or I’d ride piggy back or on shoulders. But mostly I wanted to make it down myself and realized that this, in spirit, was exactly what I’d come out here to do.

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Reading: Dostoevsky, The Possessed
Listening to: Heart

Heart of Lyon

2009-04-24T02:46:00.007+02:00

A woman I met briefly in Lyon compared the city to Budapest: in either, one can look down from the hills on the western part of the city (the "Buda" side), to see the river and the rest of the city. The main difference is that Lyon has not one but two main, surprisingly green rivers, the Rhone and the Saone, though they do converge. Indeed, in the hilltop apartment where we stayed two of the three nights, a window faced east (in the end I couldn't get myself up early enough to watch the sunrise), giving us a view of much of the city, the Saone, and the garden immediately below where we sat for breakfast.

It seems there was no shortage of high-altitude vantage points that offered breath-taking views of Lyon, with its red ceramic shingles and darker red chimneys that look like so many top hats tossed onto the roofs. But for this the best part of the city might be the Croix-Rousse (like Red Cross, but "Rousse" isn't quite red, more like fox red). I went there a couple times but even better than the panoramic views was the second evening there, when a light fell over the hill like none I can remember. I was initially unhappy that dusk came on because the eastern sky clouded over so ominously, but after a few meters we noticed a brightness in everything west of the stormy section of the sky, almost like night and day, as if we had stepped from one to the other. To describe it might be impossible, but if I could remember what an eclipse looked like, I'd probably compare it to that. Or like a painter had applied one new glowing color so lightly but evenly across the already colored sidewalks, faces, trees and clouds. It was a pink and orange that changed so quickly that when I looked back at my photo (main, above), I was afraid I might have changed the settings.

Nearby we also saw a cathedral, something meant to look like a mini-Eiffel Tower I think, and Roman ruins, amazingly. The maze of hand-laid stones were not much less impressive than the ruins in Rome, except that we could jump across these freely (I think so... didn't really think about the sacrilege at the time). Imagine our surprise when we walk past these and happen upon the Amphitheater of the Three Gauls. Row upon concentric row formed the half circle before the stage, which I hope is still in use, and then healthy green trees and lawns. The wind would blow leaves and other yellow-green specs from the foliage in misty waves, as well as whole clouds whose shadows we could see racing across the amphitheater.

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Reading: Vaclav Havel, Temptation
Listening to: David Bowie

Another weekend in Paris

2009-04-23T00:15:00.003+02:00

My last couple days in Paris, last weekend that is, felt as close to bohemian as I ever may, for superficial reasons but perhaps understandable ones also. We lived out of a friend's friend's studio, with a curtain to separate the bathroom and making pasta every night (it's become a running joke), unintentionally talking into the sleeping hours rather than going out. The daytime, too, does not go as planned, so plans become pointless.

On one day we walk and walk and through Promenade Plantee and other gardens, and the cemetery where Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, and I'm sure some French people are buried. Wilde's grave was a flowing Egyptian-like sculpture (of a woman I think) on top of a block of stone "defaced" by proclamations of love to the playwright and hearts and kisses. But I really could not tell if it was defaced, or sanctioned by authorities, and in either case, if Wilde wanted this. I don't know how he could. We arrive some time later at Grand Palais hoping to see Dali and Arcimboldo in action. On the way my friend is sure we run into a bit of a celebrity, the ex-minister of culture, who holds open the exit at the subway for us, because he's a leftist and would do that kind of thing (take the metro, I mean). But it's a rainy day so many have the same idea as we do - i.e., the line at Grand Palais is not worth it so we settle for Petit Palais across the street, to see exhibitions on William Blake and the Byzantine Empire / Mount Athos.

On another day we take the rental bikes (a recent innovation in big French cities) to that bohemian stronghold, Montmartre, then walk past the sex shops and Moulin Rouge to the top of the hill, one of the best views to see all of Paris. In another way I've already seen all of Paris, thanks to the host of the other friend I met here. He gave me a quick driving tour of the city, hitting the Place de la Bastille, the Eiffel Tower ("See how the flowers bloom?" he said. "I arranged it just for you."), Arc de Triomphe (he says he's the only person in the city to drive around it twice at times like this), Les Invalides - basically the things I'd only want to see for a few seconds anyway.

That last day, we were lucky because the sun came out, so we could sit on the Seine waiting for our train. Surprisingly I couldn't tell which way the water flowed, but ducklings crept by periodically (five in all I think, or the same one five times), and sadly I think they had lost their mother.

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Reading: Camus, Exile and the Kingdom
Listening to: Janis Joplin

The spirit of protest

2009-04-17T12:33:00.000+02:00

If I'm lucky, I thought, maybe I will get a taste of the demonstrations for which France is known. Columbia - which had its share of civil disobedience in fall 2007 when students went on a hunger strike against the university's lack of diversity - warns study abroad students to avoid similar conflicts in foreign countries. They have reason to fear, as even during the protests at the G20 summit in London, heralded for exemplifying nonviolent resistance in the civilized world, a nearby nonparticipant died of a heart attack after being shoved by police.

Here in the northern port of Boulogne-sur-Mer is the closest I've come, as fishermen have shut down the harbor (among others along the coast) to protest quotas on cod and sole. According to the New York Times, "fishermen have resorted to dumping fish that they had caught overboard before returning to port because of the quotas." It reminded me of summer 2007, the only time I've been fishing. Off the southern coast of Long Island, we had to throw a lot of fish back into the water because they were too small according to fishing regulations, although I did win a prize for catching the biggest fish that day.

News crews stand out in otherwise quiet Boulogne-sur-Mer. Mostly they sat around waiting for something to happen, but it was slightly ridiculous to do man-on-the-street reporting near the beach, filled mostly with English tourists. But at least now that I've seen the crowded harbor and smelled the salty waters hitting the beach, I can understand why anyone would visit this small town.

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Listening to: Bee Gees

The dangers of travel

2009-04-16T19:49:00.004+02:00

My number was up, and today I learned what it is to have a stalker. In his Pumas, jeans, and white collared shirt, he might have even been younger than I am. At a time when I could not have predicted it - as I walked along the tourist-dotted harbor in the direction of the beach and in late afternoon - he began to follow me. I noticed his stares but was initially just annoyed to be near this obstinate-looking punk whose blond shaved hair was beginning to grow out. He was more subtle than to mimic all my movements and would stop from time to time to keep pace, but I hoped he just happened to be walking the same, popular route. Instead, when I got to the beach, he sat down the same two places where I sat down, so I'd had enough. There was no more question.

The options ran through my head. I wanted to strangle him. Or go up to him and say, "Stop following me!" But he probably didn't speak English and I don't speak French, which was likely why he singled me out. What I liked about the more cosmopolitan Paris was that I didn't stand out as much as I did in Budapest, but in little Boulogne-sur-Mer, I was a sore thumb with a bright red jacket.

I left quickly, dreading the sight of him each time I turned around. How could he be so stupid and overt? And even the busy streets were not enough comfort. What if he followed me all the way home? I considered calling the international emergency number, 112. Maybe there were cabs (unlikely). Maybe I could have stopped someone else on the street or in a shop to tell him the problem, although I don't know what that would have done. Ultimately I settled on the bus stop, asking some high school kids if there was a bus going where I was headed.

I met Alexander, the only one of them who spoke English and French (his dad on one side, his mother on the other). Though he didn't know which bus to take, he and his girlfriend Cindy offered to walk me home when I mentioned the stalker, whom I didn't see from that point on.

How much has changed from yesterday's sun to today's rain.

Old friend in an old town

2009-04-16T13:13:00.005+02:00

Boulogne-sur-Mer, along the northern coast of France, has a population of as much as 100,000. A friend I haven't seen in over two years teaches high school philosophy here, and within minutes of meeting at the train station yesterday, we were discussing educational systems and climbing the hilly roads to his flat as if the two years had been two days.

"If you look out this window," he said once we reached his place, "you'll see the town's only two attractions." To the left, a cathedral I hear every hour, to the right, a belfry indicating the castle and walls that surround the old part of town where he lives.

If my writing professor allowed me to use the word, I would call the day perfect. In a rare move, the sun showed its face, so we picnicked around the corner, on a grassy hill inside the walls. I am but shouldn't be surprised at how old the town looks, with typical cobblestones and uneven streets and low houses. I didn't stop for the museum inside the castle, but saw my first moat, which I guess is one of the reasons tourists actually come here, to my surprise. There's even a tourism office, er, booth, but Iohan says even a town of 100 has that. He adds, the tourists are often British because of the historical relationship and because England is supposed to be so close one can see it like Alaskans see Russia. And then there are those who swim the English channel.

We lay on the grass and under the bright sun, which would have been unbearable if not for the wind that passed over at just the right times. We ate and talked physics, politics, and inescapably, philosophy - Kant, Hegel, Pascal, wrapped around our own meandering thoughts. This is the turn our conversations always take, clearly because of his profession, but has it anything to do with the culture, too? It is not as if, in the United States, high school students are required to take philosophy courses.

Then he graded essays while I sat on the ledge of the wall in a familiar scene: reading (in this case, finishing Kafka) as the sun sank over the water.

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Reading: Borges, A Universal History of Infamy
Listening to: Carole King

Art in Paris

2009-04-15T07:53:00.013+02:00

As in Vienna, I felt rushed through the Louvre and the Musée d'Orsay because there's so much to do that even with three weeks in France, time is limited. But also as with the Kunsthistorisches Museum, I found many pleasant surprises throughout the museums, such as the Louvre's Psyche revived by Cupid's kiss above (Antonio Canova), which may have just become one of my favorites, next to Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux's Ugolino and his sons in d'Orsay. I don't know too much of the story, even though Dante's Divine Comedy was assigned reading, except that he was punished for treason and his sons tried to sacrifice themselves for him. This sculpture is probably more fitting to the dark context, but I prefer the white marble version at the Met.

Why do I prefer it? Why do I like so much the paintings and sculptures that I do? I don't understand much of the art I see, and much of my limited knowledge is based an a required art class that I hated. In some cases I see and appreciate the composition (La belle jardinière, Raphael, Louvre) ...

... the lighting and control over the time of day (Sérénité, Henri Martin, d'Orsay) ...

the vanishing point (Rue Montorgueil in Paris. Celebration of June 30, 1878, Monet, d'Orsay) ...

... the movement (Chaumes de Cordeville à Auvers-sur-Oise, Van Gogh, d'Orsay).

But mostly the opinion comes from a basic but deep-seated emotional reaction. The art smiles, it calms, it inspires and stabs, it hurts, it depresses, it lifts. and I'm irritated that I can't explain it and amazed that static images can do so much.

It's a fantasy.

(Le chevalier aux fleurs, The knight of the flowers, Rochegrosse, d'Orsay).

Lunch with a Parisian

2009-04-14T00:43:00.008+02:00

Isn't it amazing that a one or two hour meal can turn into five or six hours? My friend took me to the far south of Paris on Easter Sunday, to the apartment of her Moroccan friend, who made us a traditional, three-course lunch. We began with a carrot-tomato-orange salad while waiting for the fish and vegetables in the rice cooker - brilliant! I had never thought to use one for anything other than rice, and I had forgotten I could finally have good fish here. It's available in Hungary, but we're comparing a landlocked country with a Mediterranean one.

But nothing beats Morocco, my new friend says in between sips of alcoholic cider. The weather there is perfect, at least north near the Mediterranean. Rachid says it's the most well off country in Africa after South Africa (I don't know if that's true, but it's up there) and unlike neighbor Algeria, ethnic tensions are low despite the differences in Arabs and Berbers. He is of the latter, but speaks the languages of both fluently, as well as French, plus some English and Spanish. He also pointed out Morocco was the first country to recognize the independence of the thirteen colonies. I didn't even know Morocco was in a position to do so, given its colonial past, but so it did.

I had, then, to ask about Camus, my Algerian-born existentialist hero, but Rachid is not a fan. Camus purports to represent the universal, when he is more confined to context than he would probably admit. As is any writer. You can't read late Nietzsche without considering the syphilis that distorted his psyche, Rachid says. Context! His example: if you tell me you went to a protest around the Bastille, I will guess it was a socialist protest.

We had planned to go to Musée d'Orsay after lunch, but by the time we got to dessert, others were probably having dinner, and we wanted to make it to the final mass at Notre Dame. I couldn't believe the efficiency, that Rachid could do so much for that meal with so little in his small apartment. He laid out chocolate-covered pears on a bed of pistachios, so I pulled out some almonds to add. "You carry almonds with you?" he smiled. I told him I had a pear, too. "The girl who carries almonds and pears," he answered. "That should be the title of a book."

He walked us to the cathedral, on the way stopping to show us the plaque dedicated to Lenin on his street, Rue Beaunier. "See, Lenin lived here from 1908 to 1909," Rachid said. "So we're neighbors! Just 100 years apart." For now, anyway. He has lived in Paris for 15 years and moved around a lot. How much? "Beaucoup, beaucoup," is his only answer, except to add that this is quite normal. When we passed Beauvoir Hotel, he said the name source used to go there with Sartre for a little menage a trois. He didn't stay for the service, but the day with him was ultimately more of a celebration than anything said inside the Gothic halls.

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Listening to: Xavier Naidoo

Intro to Paris, over books, wine, and food

2009-04-12T02:19:00.005+02:00

The semester at Central European University technically ended more than two weeks ago, and with my arrival in France yesterday morning, the nearly two months of traveling around Europe has officially begun. Most of that travel will be in France - hence the blog title change - where I begin in Paris, hosted by a friend whose host is kind enough to lend me a room. I have yet to get to know the septuagenarian who owns this apartment and who speaks little English, but this room is telling: shelves upon shelves sag under books on Rodin and the history of film, or by Hugo and Verne, or a translation of Gulliver's Travels that reminds me I need to reread this favorite; cupids and curlicues are carved into the ceiling and walls, and against the walls sit/hang black-and-white photos (I can't tell if they're aesthetic or historical), a Klimt-like painting of a violin in a kitchen, a red-and-yellow Soviet tapestry bearing Lenin's face; I write by the light coming through the double glass doors that open out onto a balcony, which overlooks Boulevard Voltaire in the 11th arrondissement, and by the light of two lamps made by their owner out of whiskey and champagne bottles; the best part are things like the lamps all around the apartment, knick-knacks he has made out of metal or wood or simply picked up off the street.

The fatigue and disappointing weather limited what I did yesterday, but in the evening, friends new and old put together a simple dinner and our conversation for those more than four hours hinted at things to come: fashion; school; living with French speakers, while in Hungary we lived with people from our program; organic and genetically-modified food; wine; France's protest culture; the Algerian War; colonialism; movies; differing views on hygiene; religion.

After a few days here, the plan is to move gradually south, hitting Lyon and Marseilles in the coming weeks, before heading to Berlin, Geneva, and then back to Budapest one final time.

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Reading: Kafka, The Castle
Listening to: Lily Allen

Tavasz itt van!

2009-04-07T01:19:00.005+02:00

Some kind of Croatian Easter display...

...with two faces...

...in front of St. Stephen's Basilica. Yes, spring is here!

Hajra, Magyarorszag!

2009-04-04T11:06:00.001+02:00

Wednesday morning I watched President Obama on TV, skirting a request at the G20 Summit in London for projections on the World Cup, and in the evening, I watched Hungary shut out Malta, 3-0, at the Puskas Ferenc Stadium. I have little to compare it to, having been to one professional game each of basketball, baseball, and American football, so the drunken cheers, face paint, and buses of fans were probably on par with any other game.

But I think more likely, the excitement was heightened this time because Hungary had just beaten Albania over the weekend and has a decent chance of making it to the World Cup next year, the first time since 1986. I almost didn't go because the 35,000 seats were sold out, until a ticket became available at the last minute.

The wave went through the crowd at least five times in a row, dotted with cheers of "Magyarok!" (Hungarians) "Gyere! Gyere!" (Come on) "Ya, ya, Hungaria!" (apparently they refer to the country as Hungaria, too, not just Magyarorsyag), and "Hajra, Magyarorszag!" (that I can't translate but how much meaning can a cheer have anyway?). Those, along with the red-white-and-green flags, were new to me because the games I'd been to brought out regional pride rather than an entire country united.

I also was not used to the smoking, but I guess fans needed a substitute because alcohol is banned. Or people just showed up drunk, downing their last few drops at the gate and tossing another can into the trash heap before facing the security guards to be searched (not that they really searched women or children). At a Jets game two seasons ago, I thought it was funny that people received capless beer bottles so they couldn't throw caps at the players, but I guess they should just be happy to have the beer at all.

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Reading: Samantha Power, A Problem from Hell
Listening to: Julieta Venegas
Watching: The Office

Living at the speed of two languages

2009-03-30T13:02:00.005+02:00

I finally got around to Hungarian literature in the form of Ferenc Molnar's The Paul Street Boys (A Pal Utcai Fiuk), a century-old novella about two rival gangs in Budapest. It had its merits, from the comical (I still laugh when I think about little Nemecsek falling into the Danube, and Csonakos asking, "Did you have a drink, laddie?") to the political (Molnar draws overt links between the gangs' pivotal battle and the real turf wars between states).

Not that I expected much from a book for young people, but still, to call this a "true world classic" (preface by Molnar's grandson) is a little silly. Some of it is the author's fault, e.g., martyring a schoolboy (sorry to ruin the ending if you were planning to read it). But to Molnar's credit, much of the problem is the translation. I once thought if you could speak two languages that was enough to translate, so it amazes me still how vital is a translator with a handle on the mechanics as well as literary form. This creates I think a divide that questions where credit is due: is the author great if the translator isn't? Conversely, can a talented translator fill in where an author is lacking?

The topic also resonates as I finish up Crime and Punishment. Not only do Raskolnikov and Razumikhin translate works between Russian and German, there's a circular scene in which Sonia reads in Russian the passage about Lazarus from a bible that has been translated (from I don't know what, German? Latin? English?) but of course I am reading this all in English. The translator, then, must have been very self-aware as he worked on Dostoevsky.

As in many introductions to Russian lit, this one clarifies the peculiarities of Russian names. But it goes a step further, explaining that the translator chose to keep some possible sources of confusion (such as referring to Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov as Rodia) because he is in Russia, the reader must remember.

I thought of it again last week at a Hungarian rendition of Hello, Dolly! Because I wasn't familiar with the plot, my subconscious succumbed to the Hungarian dialogue and repeatedly believed that the characters were traveling from Budapest (rather than Yonkers) to Manhattan. Again I relied on some translation and again felt the guilt of missing out on works as they are in the original (not that the Hungarian Hello, Dolly! is original...). I've read an untranslated work once in my life, Marquez's Cronica de una Muerte Anunciada, and it was immensely more beautiful and there is so much that just can't be translated. Hence my insistence that we preserve as much as possible, sans translation.

The only argument I've heard against bilingualism, and I heard it recently, was that one language would detract from the other so you'd never really have a command of either. But I reject it, else how could Milan Kundera write in French and Czech? So, Hungarians, that is one thing you must work on. Maybe I shouldn't be surprised at the scarcity of English speakers here, as so many politicians around the world don't speak English, but even Hungarians themselves admit that not enough of them, especially compared to neighboring countries, know the language.

Of the merits of bilingualism, though, I again share this argument a la Eddie Izzard:

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Watching: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Listening to: Springsteen, Greatest Hits

Field trip: Debrecen refugee camp

2009-03-19T08:30:00.004+01:00

Technically I'm not a refugee because my family left Vietnam voluntarily and for economic reasons, though I did live in a refugee camp in the Philippines for a few months. But I remember nothing, so the trip with my Refugee Law class to a camp in Debrecen was really my first. It would be foolish (but probably unavoidable) to predict what such a camp would be like. We drove three hours east by bus and entered what looked like an elementary school: dry, green and yellow grass; subdued, white and beige buildings with flat roofs; and in the middle, a wooden jungle gym and a blacktop for football and basketball. One classmate said it looked like a summer camp. Another took offense at the gray walls and barbed wire along the perimeter.

At first we expected to be observers, like apprentices come to examine this specimen called the refugee. I think I expected them to be used to visitors, but they're there for such a short time we might have been the first such group to drop in. So they stared at us as much as we did them. It occurred to me as they tried to answer in Hungarian that they might have thought we were locals and they were the outsiders (while we had thought something similar of them). But Central European University is made up of so many international students (and few Hungarians) that this Refugee Law class is often introspective and just about everyone is an outsider.

We had a panel discussion with the camp director and then the decider, an asylum official, both in a bright yellow room with childrens' drawings and posters from the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees on the walls, origami cranes hanging from the ceiling, and crayon marks on the floor tiles. At any given time there are some 700 asylum seekers hosted at the camp, where they stay for two months on average and receive around $30 petty cash a month. Debrecen generally serves as a stopping point for asylum seekers from Eastern and Southeastern Europe on their way west.

"They don't like us," the director said of Debrecen's locals and authorities. It's probably safe to say that such a negative reception conflicts with the view of most people in that room, and yet I get the impression it's a common sentiment (racism? xenophobia? nationalism?) in any region with a sizable foreign population. I don't think I could ever empathize with such a sentiment, but how, I wondered, could there be such a wall between our openness to foreigners and their rejection of them, both of which seem 'normal'? It's true, we're a self-selected group, students who choose to study refugee law. Still I don't understand it.

Part of it, the director suggested, was the perception of criminal activity among arrivals (though I stress perception because I reject the claim that it is any more prevalent among this group than another). Some shoplift, he said, admitting that just that morning police took a camp resident into custody on human trafficking charges.

I don't know which bothered me more - the crimes, or a potential cause of the crimes, namely the inactivity among the refugees. Most don't stick around long enough to find employment as they wait for their cases to be decided, and of the children, only one-sixth of them can be accommodated at the local schools. As someone asked the director how people spend their time, a handful of children banged on the door, divided between remaining obediently outside and spilling into the room like paparazzi anytime someone went in or out.

"This is what the kids do," the director joked. "I don't want to say what they do when they're more active! Same for adults."

The children turned out to be the unexpected highlight of the trip. It began slowly, with two or three boys peering curiously in through a six-inch gap in the window. As we walked by the jungle gym and the football matches, one or two would greet us with the only Hungarian they knew, "Szia!" But once the camera came out, all hell broke loose. I took a couple shots and showed them to the children, who quickly caught on and clamored around the camera. We had no common language, so they pointed and posed, competing for the attention of the lens. (Note: At the camp's request, I am not posting any photos of them.) It was a shallow friendship but I'm not complaining, because the icebreaker encouraged the children to follow us around for the day, and when we left, they waved goodbye and cartwheeled and ran along the side of the bus.

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Listening to: More Dirty Dancing [soundtrack]

Red, white, and green

2009-03-15T23:09:00.007+01:00

In emails and local publications, I'd been reading warnings about the violence that has become typical on March 15, equivalent to Hungary's Fourth of July. I even read lists of hot spots to avoid, but yesterday was mild compared to the egg-pelting of years past, especially the destruction of 2006, following a leaked tape of Prime Minister Ferenc Gyurcsany admitting he'd lied about the dismal economy. I say mild, partly because I didn't get out much, but mainly because, aside from a few arrests (including one person with a case of eggs), there were few reports of conflicts.

But expectations of unrest were understandable. As seen in 2006, Hungary has been suffering economically since long before the current crisis; little has been said since an International Monetary Fund bailout was announced in October, and the European Union's rejection this month of a proposed $240 billion bailout isn't making things easier for Gyurcsany, whose Magyar Szocialista Part (MSZP) surely won't survive the next election.

I passed by a rally organized by Jobbik Szervezete, an extreme right wing party, but by the looks of the thousands-strong crowd at Deak Ferenc Square, you wouldn't know it's a minor party. I understood little, except for the choruses demanding Gyurcsany's resignation, that much scarier when you saw the hardliners dressed in something resembling black military fatigues. They held (and wore) flags of all kinds: the official flag, the party's flag, the old Arpad flag (associated with the Nazis, among others).

Everywhere, riot police lined the streets, many of which were closed for much of the day, as were the square in front of St. Stephen's Basilica (so I had to walk another way home) and the Chain Bridge. On the other side of the Danube River and away from Jobbik Szervezete, the main opposition party Fidesz held its own rally. I arrived at the tail end, so there was only time to get forralt bor (hot wine) and overcooked chicken, but two days earlier I'd caught a taste of what the conservatives were all about. As it does every year, Fidesz hosted a small memorial to General Jozsef Schweidel on the street that bears his name. He was one of the 13 Martyrs of Arad executed by the Austrians on 6 Oct. 1849 (hence the street named after this date) after Hungary's failed War for Independence from the Habsburgs.

Five paragraphs deep, and I am just now mentioning this event, but that's appropriate because much of the historical significance is lost on March 15 (when the abortive revolution began with a reading of a 12-point list of demands). Instead of commemorating the events of 1848-49, Hungarians are more likely to hold political platforms to criticize the incumbents, which indeed is what Fidesz did at the memorial. In all fairness, they also sang the national anthem and recited "Nemzeti dal," the national song Sandor Petofi penned for the occasion. There's now a bridge and radio station dedicated in his honor, but details of his death are still unclear.

Much less political are the activities on the Chain Bridge, decorated end to end with the country's flag and stages meant to give a snapshot of life in the mid-19th century. Specifically: horse-drawn carriages, a game of jumping over a stick, and some kind of ash-covered metalsmith. I liked the blown up black-and-white photos that stood alone, but stopped taking pictures after no one could tell me who they were. Some wear paper hats that look as though they're off to war, and everyone (and I do mean everyone) wears the red-white-and-green pendant called kokarda. Anyway it probably beats our Independence Day fireworks.

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Reading: Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment
Watching: John Merriman, "The Origins of World War I" (Yale lecture via AcademicEarth.org)
Listening to: Elton John, Greatest Hits

Babel, by any other name

2009-03-13T11:22:00.003+01:00

To all the Krisztian's or Ajtony's in the world, happy name day! I'm late to discover this Hungarian custom, which is like a mini-holiday and which other countries in the region practice, too. Each day of the year is dedicated to a different name (sometimes two) and on your name day, friends wish you a "Boldog nevnapot!" maybe celebrating with flowers or drinks. I found it odd and random at first, until I remembered similar obsessions with Western and Eastern astrology.

Of course the names are generally Hungarian, so the closest I could find for myself was "Lenke" (23 July), not exactly a direct translation. Other names are easier to link - Karolina, Zsuzsanna, Tamas, Pal. For a long time, though, I considered it strange, on the brink of offensive, that people should translate names at all. If your parents gave you the name "Mateo," that is your name, not "Matt." I reasoned that it's one thing to translate a word: clearly when a Briton says "summer" and a Vietnamese says "mua he," they refer to the same season. But it's quite another thing to say that Mateo is the same person as Matt, as there is no universal definition of a person by this name, so what are we referring to?

I've since softened my position on the issue to consider that there are examples like St. Matthew from which we derive names, and that names do have other meanings even if they sound nothing alike (I noticed this with "Smith" and the Hungarian "Kovacs").

But I don't know if I can be as accommodating of country names. Why do we say/spell Germany, Brazil, or Vietnam in place of Deutschland, Brasil or Viet Nam? It only makes sense to me in needing to make a country name pronouncable, e.g., from Chinese or Arabic characters, but in most cases that's not a problem.

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Listening to: Royal Philharmonic plays Queen

Terror Haza

2009-03-11T15:37:00.006+01:00

If the House of Terror did not enclose such a grim legacy - Hungary's more than four decades of terror under Nazi and then Soviet occupations - it would almost succumb to the absurdity in much of tourism. The museum alternates between the poignant (interviews with former prisoners, fascist and Communist propaganda, a preserved basement of torture and incarceration) and the cheesy (a video of actors changing clothes as they found new roles under changing regimes, a pig because collective welfare made it difficult to own your own). I don't know if cheesy is the right word, because I couldn't decide whether to admire the curators for mixing history with symbolism (as that would make them artistic) or dismiss them for trying too hard to please tourists (as that would make them cheesy, like the Buda labyrinth).

But if there's any place a tourist should see in Budapest, this is probably it. The Terror House grabs attention easily, for a few reasons: 1) its name, even if people first think it's a Halloween attraction; 2) its odd location on Andrassy Avenue, known for shopping and its UNESCO World Heritage recognition; and 3) its facade, an overhang with the word "TERROR" carved out like stencils so that the sun writes the letters on the sidewalk below.

Beyond the initial impressions, the museum delivers. This is probably due to its small size, but I've never seen a museum presented as such a complete package that is simultaneously concise and dramatic. The first image that greets visitors is the wall of victims: thousands of low relief, black-and-white head shots, about a square foot each, depicting the deceased and inscribed along a central wall that spans all three floors and the elevator. In the basement is the smaller portion of the wall, that of the victimizers. Their faces are smaller, but they have names and dates, many showing the victimizers to be alive still - hence the debate over what should be done with them and whether they should be allowed into public office.

Like the wall (and like a good meal), the exhibition rooms also rely on the power of presentation for impact. I've realized most of them are works of art in themselves, often for their symbolic significance. One room made manifest the dualism of oppression under fascists and Communists by screening footage on either side of the same wall in the center of the room, Hitler on one side, Stalin on the other. Working with the Hungarian Arrow Cross Party, both at different times controlled Hungary, which seemed to trade one form of totalitarianism for another.

Another room shipped us off to Siberia, as the condemned Hungarians were once expelled. Horizontal wood paneling lined the walls, with windows simulated by TV screens showing the landscape roll by. A carpet map began in Hungary at the entrance and ended in the Soviet far east at the exit. Then there was (what I call) the Warhol room of '60s ads denoting the prosperity and consumption under socialism; the Catholic room, along the length of which ran a huge white cross "exposed" by floorboards pulled aside; and the black-and-white Gabor Peter room, white where the Communist police chief enjoyed a clean office, black where the Jewish Hungarian served a prison sentence under the system he once controlled.

All of this trimming disappears, however, once you walk through the rooms of the basement. For solitary confinement, you have the choice of a closet big enough to hold one person, a larger room just three feet high, or a wet cell. There's a Hungarian flag with the Soviet emblem cut out, a common image during the 1956 Revolution. A gallows is intact. Interviews run on a loop, men and women lamenting the senselessness of their subjugation. A young woman reads the names of the dead. And in the background plays a Hungarian version of Lili Marleen.

Boldog Nonapot!

2009-03-09T18:49:00.006+01:00

Yesterday was International Women's Day, so maybe I should have given voice to the quiet feminist in me, but the commemorations around Budapest were nearly as quiet, so I'd rather use the holiday as an excuse to make some observations about romance. In fact I didn't know about Nonap until reading a sign that mentioned it. But after that I did notice women carrying gifts from men and Eliza Doolittle's approaching people in restaurants and cars at stoplights to peddle their flowers. And one friend always brings flowers to his mother and has lunch with her on Nonap.

I don't think I would be exaggerating in saying Hungarians treat Nonap almost like Valentine's Day (plus I've just watched the V-Day episode of The Office and my sense of time is a little off). Not that they don't celebrate Feb. 14, too, because there were plenty of red candy boxes and other useful heart-shaped things in stock a month ago. But, strangely, I was in Vienna that day and was hardpressed to find any Valentine paraphernalia there (nor in Bratislava).

In just about each European city I've visited so far, though, love is evidently in the air. In Rome, it could have been that the city just inspires romance. My friend and I even received roses during our last dinner there (OK, they were dying, and we never figured out if they came from the waiter or the septuagenarian who winked at us, but still). But I don't think it was Rome. Public displays of affection reign everywhere on the continent, and somehow the couples transcend the realm of distastefulness and are actually sweet to see.

The countryside, caves, and a castle

2009-03-08T16:27:00.009+01:00

Miskolc is a university town two hours northeast of Budapest, but I'm afraid in the two days out there I didn't see much of the university or the town. Instead much of my attention went to the drive (to Miskolc, as well as to Aggtelek) and to the sights: a castle, a cave (pictured), and a bath inside a cave. On the way we stopped for gas, which is paid for after filling up the tank, the reverse of what I'm used to. "But what if people just drive off without paying?" I asked my friend. The answer was cameras, both at the gas station and all over the highway, which also means drivers can receive fines (for speeding, or anything else) a month after the fact.

California has conditioned me to love driving and the whole process of a drive, but even then a cruise through the countryside seems like it'll always be an unexpected pleasure. It was better often to watch rather than talk during the hours driving from Miskolc to Aggtelek and back: brown leaves with hints of burgundy and gold still clung to the trees as if it were autumn, and clouds hung low in the sky, so low some wrapped around villages and mountains like smoke, and others moved so quickly over the land we seemed to be driving alongside them. I forget too that these highways pass through villages simultaneously cut off from the world (a woman pumping water in front of her home) and connected to it (satellites on top of every other house).

In Aggtelek we descended 270 steps to reach the two-million-year-old cave shared with Slovakia. Like clouds, the stalactites (from the ceiling), stalagmites (from the gound), and stalagnates (combining the two) form recognizable images, from Santa Claus to dolphins to Romeo and Juliet, and they continue to form. Others have fallen (some more than once), but the tallest stalagmite is 19 meters, and in Giant's Hall (main photo) the ceiling is 27 meters high. The entire UNESCO site is 25 kilometers, so although our tour was under two hours, I can see how others last for seven.

That was conducted in Hungarian, but earlier, I took a shorter, bilingual tour of Diosgyor Castle in Miskolc. Aside from my friend and I, just four teenage girls went on the tour, so it was as though I had a private guide because I was the only one who needed English. It's dedicated to King Louis the Great, who ruled Hungary and Poland in the 14th century, so the small castle has a wax museum depicting the life of the times, which evidently meant leprosy from an appalling sewage system (dumping trash out windows), belief in a hell modeled after Where the Wild Things Are, and non-lethal combats as sport (the winner gets a flower). The guide said this was the largest collection of wax figures in Central Europe - odd for just half a dozen small rooms, but there was a lot of supporting cast.

As for the castle itself, four stone block towers rise up from the corners, with similarly wrought walls and a bridge connecting to the surrounding land. Most of the space is occupied by a courtyard with a platform at the east end. Not much fills the small rooms, but to reach some you can walk underground, and (better yet) others you can reach by climbing four or five sets of stairs inside the towers, where it is wonderful to look out over Miskolc as the sun sets.

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Reading: Ferenc Molnar, The Paul Street Boys
Listening to: Sheryl Crow, "Sweet Child of Mine"

Civizational clash: nationalism and stereotypes

2009-03-04T11:51:00.009+01:00

The trip to Eger on Sunday was an educational one even before we arrived, in that I learned how the main roads work. Turning into an exit, we encountered highway patrol parked there to check whether drivers had paid the fee to use the highway. Luckily my friends had, because I think it's similar to the hit-or-miss enforcement of the metro. Speaking of which, the subway is slightly less enigmatic now, and I bet Hungarians have figured out how to cheat the system because it's not difficult over time to get a sense of where guards will be checking tickets - the exception being the one time I came across a guard who actually hopped onto a train to see our tickets.

Anyway, the highway procedure should not be so surprising, I'm just used to U.S. tax policy. What my friends did on the other hand was buy a day pass at a gas station. You can buy passes for any range of times, and by SMS as well, which is funny because you could theoretically have to keep your confirmation SMS for a year to show as proof.

The remaining enlightenment that I derived from Eger was similarly not direct nor immediate, creeping up on me days later.

I was glad to have known about Egri Csillagok, the nationally required reading about Eger's uniquely successful defense against the expanding Ottomans in 1552. It means Stars of Eger, but is for some reason translated as Eclipse of the Crescent Moon, and the writer Geza Gardonyi's grave can be found at the castle in Eger. I didn't learn much from the Hungarian tour guide, depending instead on what my friends could translate. While deciding on the obligatory wine (the city is known for it), one friend insisted I buy Egri Bikaver, i.e., Bull's Blood of Eger. The legend goes that in the days preparing for the Ottoman attack, Hungarians drank this red wine, which dripped down their lips and convinced the Ottomans that they had drank bull's blood, and that was why they were strong enough to defeat them.

The story, along with the history as a larger context, joins other sources of national pride (the unsuccessful 1848 rebellion against the Habsburgs, the disastrous 1956 anti-Soviet uprising, the smooth 1989 shedding of communism, etc.). These, in turn, have their part in the even larger context of the overall idea of any country's national legacies, which I have started to wonder about lately. Brainwashing is just the extreme form of a universal practice in national education systems of conditioning citizens to understand and support their countries. At least at a basic level this means emphasizing achievements over mistakes as proof of greatness. Doesn't a country founded on liberty sound better than one founded on tax evasion?

It's true that the events of 1989 and 1956 and 1848 durably shape the Hungary we see today. And if anyone is to inherit these legacies, mustn't it be the Hungarians? But my problem, or at least what I question, is whether and how much anyone has a right to claim these legacies. Yesterday I read this in The Unbearable Lightness of Being: "What we have not chosen we cannot consider either our merit or our failure."

The Spain of today is not the Spain of the conquistadors. That is to say Prime Minister Zapatero's government had no say in the country's colonization decisions in the 16th century. What fidelity, then, do Latin Americans owe Spain? What accountability, then, does Spain owe them? I thought of this in more recent history when hearing that a French court blamed the country for deporting Jews during the Holocaust, and (in an Eastern/Central European class) that Polish people in the town of Jedwabne killed the Jewish half of their neighbors. In class my professor distinguished between guilt (as Sarkozy should not feel guilty for the choices of de Gaulle) and responsibility (as the Polish should admit historical accuracies).

If we take it for granted that, indeed, Belgium is liable for its colonial past or that Italians rightly take pride in the roots of the Renaissance, I think this implies some credence to Samuel Huntington's Clash of Civilizations. It divides the world and much of its history into seven main civilizations, which define conflict along cultural lines. It's not the best way to examine the aforementioned legacies, but in my mind there's a relevantly deterministic outlook. His theory has generally met resistance (including from me), probably because we dislike the idea of simplifying cultures so much that we say Germans behave that way because they're German. In this way it's 'wrong' to stereotype peoples, and yet right to identify them according to histories dating back decades, centuries, or millenniums. I'm still trying to reconcile this.

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Listening to: Dru Hill, "We're Not Making Love No More"
Reading: Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Travel literature

2009-03-01T08:10:00.000+01:00

Next on my reading list is Hungarian literature, which would happen to be perfect for later today when I visit Eger, a historical city within two hours northeast of Budapest. Somewhere I had heard vaguely of Geza Gardonyi's Egri Csillagok (Eclipse of the Crescent Moon, or technically, Stars of Eger), required reading for all Hungarian students. That's precisely what I wanted to read, the country's equivalent of Huckleberry Finn or To Kill a Mockingbird. But I wasn't clearly reminded of it until a few days ago, not enough time to find a copy in English (let alone read it) before the day trip.

The best I could do was stumble upon an online, Hungarian version of the novel and translate it section by section through Google - wait, I've just realized I could have used the URL to translate the entire page instantly. No matter. I couldn't even get past the first of five sections, realizing that it was not enough to read a spotty computer translation, even just to get the gist of the plot. Naturally, plenty of words didn't make it through the translator (average of one per sentence, maybe more), and sometimes those that did were incorrectly translated. But I did learn that what a Hungarian friend told me was true, that English is simpler than Hungarian in that the latter has more precise words for ideas, which is why Hungarian texts are generally longer than their English counterparts.

Guess I'll have to wait to get a hard copy, but Egri Csillagok does seem worth reading. Among other topics, the book, published in 1899, is set in the historical context of the 1552 Siege of Eger, in which the city and its sturdy castle mark the rare achievement of fending off an Ottoman invasion.

On a related note, I just finished The History of Hungary After the Second World War, 1944-1980. That is to say, I reached the last page of the book, skimming or even skipping whole pages at a time. The problem I hadn't realized when checking out the book was that it was published in 1986, and as relatively progressive as Hungary was at the time, this didn't prevent the authors from propagating the party line. I could find no criticism of the Communist party, just applause for its successes, scant retelling of the 1956 Revolution, and even omission of the execution of Imre Nagy, the prime minister arrested during the Soviet crackdown on the revolution and not properly buried until 1989. The Hungarian writers also had some minor translation difficulties and focused far too much on political scheming and statistics, rather than events and implications. The search continues.

Meanwhile, off to Eger!

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Listening to: Supertramp, "Bloody Well Right"
Watching: Muhammad Yunus' speech at Columbia

Conversation with an Italian

2009-02-26T10:31:00.001+01:00

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As mentioned previously, I met Claudio my second afternoon in Venice, where he has worked in the hotel business for 20 years, with spurts of assignments and conferences around the continent. (Not at the hotel where I stayed, though, a bit nicer one along the waterfront near Piazza San Marco.) So the bearded Robin Williams doppelganger is used to the ebbs and flows of tourists, of whom he is very encouraging, even given his distaste for travelers who arrive without doing homework on where to go. It comes from a philosophy that reminds me of the shape of Venice, the shape of two hands grasping each other, because travel, in his mind, is about connecting with new people. He has connected with scores of new people, dined with them and shown them around the city, but I wonder if he gets everything out of this that he would like because (he has come to accept) few remain in contact after they leave.

And travel is about sharing cultures, which I see as a principle benefit of globalization, but Claudio took the opposite view. Rather, globalization forces people to merge into a common identity, in the process sacrificing their uniquely Italian or Malaysian or Uruguayan identity. Understandable, especially when a journalist calls the election of Obama proof of assimilation, not diversity, but I don't buy it. We had just passed the statue of Vittorio Emanuele II, who unified Italy 150 years ago, by the time I asked, "Isn't Italy a form of globalization, writ small?"

"Of course I'm not an anarchist," he said. "Of course Italy should stay unified." But some differences between the cities survived - for instance, time adjusts, because in one city you may arrive five minutes late to an appointment, in another, 25 (I believe the rules grow more lax as latitude decreases). I would say, though, that as a string of more than a hundred islands, Venice embodies globalization, too, writ even smaller.

Ironically, Claudio doesn't even like the noise and density of Venice. He commutes from Mestre to work 20 minutes by bus, and his mother and siblings live even farther, in the countryside where he grew up and which he prefers. "Chirp, chirp, chirp, you hear in the morning," he said. He did this often, saying "Cheap, cheap, cheap," of Americans and "Bluh, bluh, bluh," as filler.

He turned political at times, annoyed with Italian officials he said are so pampered and corrupt that they called it a victory when tax dollars no longer paid for their hair cuts, and so out of touch that their campaigns oversimplify and mean little more than rhetoric. I told him it seems to be true of most countries, but maybe more so now in Italy with PM Silvio Berlusconi's free pass on bribes and tax evasion. But most of the time, Claudio matched the simple life of his pastoral background, his humble ambition being to learn to swim so that he can eventually own a gondola in Venice.

Venice - three photo albums

2009-02-25T10:20:00.005+01:00

Here is the Facebook album of scenic Venice,
Carnevale, and
Random but notable images

The sun, and other pleasures of Venice

2009-02-23T16:05:00.011+01:00

How depressing, to return to a frozen Budapest after three days of not just Venetian sun, but warmth, too. It did not hit me immediately because, after a 13-hour train ride, we had arrived in Venice at 7 a.m. on Friday, dawdled cluelessly for an hour, and then embarked on a cold, hour-and-a-half trek to find our hotel. Yes, I sold out and stayed at a hotel because it was Carnevale and we were desperate, but at least we snuck three into a double. Given the size of Venice, I still can't believe how long it took to get from point A to point B (in fact, I'm relying on my roomie for the estimate). But by the time we stored our things, there were still three hours till check-in and we were all so tired from the hellish train ride (a story for another time) that a few of us just sat on church steps 10 meters from the Canale della Giudecca, listening to an accordionist and guitarist play "Strangers in the Night."

It was then that we began to notice the sun. There had been a reasonable number of bright days in Budapest, but none that came down on us like swords and blinded us happily and lulled us into a drowse. None that masked the chilly air and made jackets for once superfluous. We couldn't have asked for a better complement to the canals: I don't know why we, like raccoons, find shiny things so alluring, but in the water, sunlight danced from one small wave to the next, dulling when clouds passed over. I'd like to think of them as sprites or some other animate creations, but it's not true, even as analogy. There's not a set number of sparks that leap into view, they're not real, they just come and go with every bend of the waves, when the sun, water, and eye form the right angle.

Truth be told, those two - the water and sunlight - were the reasons I went to Venice. Carnevale had something to do with it, only in that I had been meaning to visit the city, and this festival gave my friends more incentive to go, so I joined them. Why not enjoy the masks and costumes? And I did, but they get old, fast. I met Claudio, who lives 20 minutes outside Venice and has worked there for two decades. Without sounding jaded or disenchanted, he said Carnevale used to be about making costumes, participation, but now 90 percent of the people don't dress up and most who do, buy their outfits. It's more of a fashion show now - both literally, as grand and colorful dresses stroll across platforms in Piazza San Marco, and practically, as strangers ask strangers to stop for a photo.

"But you don't dress up," I pointed out.

"Yes, but I'm not participating. I don't come here for Carnevale," Claudio said. "Other people say, 'I'm going to Carnevale.' You ask, 'What will you wear?' And they say, 'Nothing.'"

What surprised me more was that Elizabethan dress was only the beginning; people came out as Mario and Luigi, bears, clowns, and my personal favorite, mummies with "third legs." I was afraid the weekend would be too New Orleans, or Times Square during New Year's, but it was also another Halloween.

I said Claudio was not jaded or disenchanted, though, because he reasoned that this might not be his ideal Carnevale, but it was in the spirit of Carnevale nonetheless: it was a time for people to do as they would and not to follow rules, so however the holiday changed was natural because it reflects always the desire of the people.

Vienna - photo albums

2009-02-19T15:34:00.002+01:00

[Click on the headline for the Facebook album]

And here are more photos from Vienna's torture museum and amusement park.

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Listening to: Green Day, "Emenius Sleepus"

Art in Vienna

2009-02-19T00:40:00.009+01:00

[Click on the headline for the Facebook album]

Three hours away by train, Vienna makes for a popular weekend trip, so I took one with my study abroad program. Going into these things, I'm never armed with enough background knowledge, but with a general understanding of the Habsburgs, the World Wars, and Kurt Waldheim, I could appreciate the time there - at least more so than the people who inspire the "There are no kangaroos in Austria" postcards. Seriously. I don't forgive the ignoramus I encountered at Columbia who believed Schwarzenegger is from Australia.

I will grant, though, that there is some benefit to not doing your homework, namely, the pleasant surprise in discovering just how much art the Habsburgs amassed. Bruegel! Rembrandt! Even Raphael! It almost made up for all the art I missed in Rome (I forgot most museums close Mondays). There is something magical about standing a foot away from Madonna of the Meadow or Napoleon of the Saint-Bernard Pass, remembering not just the hands that painted them, but the shared experience with admirers from a century ago or half a millenium ago as they interpreted the work in their respective contexts.

"I can't believe I'm looking at THE Napoleon," said at least one member of the study abroad group. But I find this initial awe meaningless if you don't get to stop and experience the process that the artist went through, imagine Jacques-Louis David (who also did my favorite, The Death of Socrates) moving from one color to the next, question why he placed the break in the clouds where he did, wonder whether it was he who created the change in texture from cloth to leather or us who imagined so. That's hard to do when a guide is rushing you from one room to another.

But even that is not enough. I sometimes like a painting or sculpture for its aesthetic appeal, but I can only look at so many Madonnas (there was just one in the Kunsthistorisches Museum, but I mean in general) and have realized I favor paintings that depict the ancient or historical over the religious or vain (read: portraits). That may be my atheist bias, but also I'm not enough of a connoisseur to value a piece just for the style, form, and decisions of the creator. It's the same with literature, except that the latter doesn't have as much leeway to offer a legacy based chiefly on the author's technical abilities. We are more likely I think to venerate the books whose meanings transcend plot and prose; hence my preference for literature over art. So it is with ancient/historical paintings.

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Listening to: Feist, "My Moon, My Man"

Day trip: Bratislava

2009-02-16T23:39:00.007+01:00

[Click on headline for the Facebook album]

With Anna Karenina's suicide fresh in my mind, I got on a train to Bratislava, though I was only spending Friday there en route to Vienna for the weekend. It seems few visit the Slovakian capital except while passing through, and the winter cold made it even less appealing to visitors than other seasons, so I almost felt that we had the quiet city to ourselves.

As if as testament, my friends and I had trouble thinking of famous Slovaks, unless you count those who made Czechoslovakian history, and most of those associated themselves with the Czech Republic after the split. Jeff, our tour guide in Vienna and Budapest, said it was a shame but due in large part to the ambiguity of the Slovakian identity, a tool mainly of the rural nationalists who struggled for an independent state. It's true that Slovakia probably had/has relatively less bearing on international history, but I think it also seems less significiant because of a superficial, self-perpetuating cycle in which we're taught little about the country, so we teach little about the country.

Understand our irritation, then, that such an unvisited city should newly be on the Euro and relatively expensive, while the more popular Budapest is still on the Forint and more affordable. We should probably shed Hungarian attachments when crossing the border, but the difficulty is apparent when we keep trying to speak Hungarian (what little we know) to Slovaks. Then again, that probably has more to do with foreign languages in general, as people often confuse them when learning more than one, no matter how different.

An effect of my limited knowledge of Bratislava was to wander the day away, surprised by the Gingerbread-house-like designs of some buildings and amused by statues that didn't take themselves too seriously. At some point I always end up roaming the streets alone, or actually, allowing myself to get lost, like taking apart a car to see if you can put it back together. I took that time to see the requisite castle, New Bridge (main photo), and Danube River, where I would have snuck on to a deserted boat if a gate hadn't cut if off. But most of the time I didn't know where I was, walking east when I thought I was walking north.

As much as I love navigating and as much as my navigational skills improve with each trip, maps can be less simple than you expect. There can be a Vorosmarty Ter as well as a Vorosmarty Utca, or an Antelope Road as well as a North Antelope Road. My most recent epiphany is that I expect to look at a map and follow simple directions, only to immediately lose the correspondence between the paper and the street, i.e., reading the one and walking down the other. I expect something more like a GPS, as if I had a broader perspective and were to go outside myself to watch and guide from above.

I rely instead on instinct (successful much of the time) and strangers, and never worry because things always work out. While lost in Bratislava, I was lucky enough, as the dark descended and compounded the cold, that the next bus I saw would take me to the train station. I was one of the first to arrive, but the last to board because, succumbing to the negative temperatures, I bought a glass of wine just so I could sit next to a radiator at a restaurant and lose track of time in Sartre.

A possible high point of the day, I'm almost sorry to report, might have had little to do with Bratislava itself: from inside the evening bus, I watched a light snow fall unlike any I'd seen. Not sleet, not flakes, not powder; I can only liken it to sand that reflected the city lights the way clouds do, sand that the wind effortlessly twirled into a Flamenco dancer or dragged along the road as if by magnets.

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Reading: Sartre, "Nausea"
Listening to: John Legend, "PDA"

Anna Karenina, the ballet

2009-02-12T23:54:00.006+01:00

Full disclosure: for lack of time, not interest, I only got halfway through Anna Karenina three years ago, so my generally flawed memory of literature is, in this case, an understatement. Please don't tell my Mr. Case. For his book report assignment, I stayed up all night making a 3-D puzzle of a house with pictures from the Greta Garbo film. It was supposed to symbolize the unstable home, in honor of the opening lines: "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."

Ethics notwithstanding, I've been looking forward to seeing the Anna Karenina ballet at the Hungarian Opera House, partly because I've respected Tolstoy since reading How Much Land Does a Man Need?, partly because Russian authors baffle me. (And Tolstoy baffles others; at intermission a guy read the program and mused to his friend, "This Tolstoy's kind of famous.")

Right away I spotted Anna, stunning in black, and I don't know if that's an image left over from the book or Greta. Aside from her elegance, the rest of the wardrobe made little sense together, ranging from airy dresses to Mariachi-like uniforms to suits (some with real shoes). I've wondered if designers mean to exaggerate a look or if they actually try to match the era they aim to portray. But to throw one of these ballerinas into czarist Russia would for so many reasons make for a funny anachronism.

The other remarkable costume, another anachronism, came out during the strangest quasi-interlude I've ever seen: an anonymous dancer in silver from head to toe, body paint beginning where spandex ends. The strange part was his dance, a mix of modern, sexual, interpretive, and urban influences. If I hadn't been so sleepy I could have understood its symbolic significance as a prelude to Anna's final act. Instead I was in and out, my attention awakened by a near-nude scene (not as bad as Spring Awakening or Equus, as it turned out) and by a disturbing dream scene that was too meta for me.

This page won't turn into my soapbox or Sunday review (or is it too late?), but foremost in my expectations was curiosity over how one could turn such a stark, realist sequence of events into a ballet. Still I don't know. Snow White seemed more fitting for a ballet. Probably much of Tolstoy's storyline goes over one's head, even reading half the book didn't give me much advantage. All roads led to Anna's death beneath the tracks, of course, which I also wondered about. It would be too tacky to bring a train of any sort onstage, so I couldn't imagine at all how they would do it, but the answer was brilliant: a pair of gradually intensifying lights at the back of the stage suggested an oncoming train, while Anna left her shroud on the path before it and disappeared into the light. Mist filled the stage, and soon after, other characters surrounded the shroud in mourning, the curtains closing on the snowy still life.

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Listening to: Julieta Venegas, "Limon Y Sal"

Hungary - photo album

2009-02-11T10:57:00.007+01:00

[Click on headline for the Facebook album]

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Reading: The Budapest Sun
Watching: Simpsons, "Lisa the Drama Queen"
Listening to: Foo Fighters, "Best of You"

Fries with that goulash?

2009-02-08T15:49:00.007+01:00

Probably, the surfeit of McDonald's (McDonald's's?) and UPS's in Budapest shouldn't surprise me because, I've come to realize, I don't think twice about the Ikea's and Toyotas and other foreign brands in the United States. I might get used to it, but the cognitive dissonance (if that's what it is) comes from a number of reasons. In the first place, I thought only those in the United States were foolish enough to buy U.S. cars. A similar line of thinking follows for Pizza Hut's and Burger King's.

But there's a difference between foreign companies operating in the United States and U.S. companies operating abroad. If the United States is a melting pot, then it makes sense that outside companies would want to tap into that market and that the different cultures bring their different cuisines, clothes, and customs. On the other hand, when I see Sean John in Budapest or KFC in Vietnam, it seems to have less to do with diversity and more to do with: 1) a desire to Westernize, and 2) the intrusion of U.S. businesses.

What I like in all this, though, is the forward motion of globalization; I admit, I fancy the idea of a world government. There will be some casualties, as the famous Mediterranean diet proves. But there's some credence to the notion that as the United States (or any country) exports its culture via films, food, fashion, or what have you, other countries will better understand it. And vice versa. It doesn't seem that much different than the democratic peace theory (liberalist belief that we should spread democracy because democracies don't go to war with each other). But I don't know what potential this has. As a friend told me, and as I saw in Vietnam, globalization or Westernization may not mean democracy or civil rights; they may not get further than Britney Spears and Indiana Jones.

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Reading: Chistopher Duggan, "A Concise History of Italy" (slow but worthwhile read)
Watching: The Royal Tenenbaums (why didn't anyone make me watch this sooner?)
Listening to: Kelly Clarkson, "How I Feel"

Alice in ... Central Europe?

2009-02-05T00:16:00.005+01:00

That I should end up studying at Central European University and that it should turn out so well resembles my fate at Columbia: each is a result of negligible research and lots of luck (not that I believe in luck, whatever that is). Basic facts about CEU I should have known, I didn't.

For instance: George Soros funded the university, which is part of the reason Russia in all seriousness believes it to be a haven for conspirators who want to overthrow the Kremlin. My Russian foreign policy professor mentioned so in class today, and considering Soros' contributions to the 1989 revolutions, it's not so crazy (he deems himself "responsible for the 'Americanization' of eastern Europe" according to the New Statesman). The professor went on to tell us about a former student who applied for a job at the Russian foreign ministry, which turned her away after seeing CEU on her CV. The general recommendation if you want to work for the Russian government: downplay your Western education. How ironic, after Russia invited so many Westerners (including Jeff Sachs, Columbia celebrity economist extraodinaire) to help with rebuilding directly after the Cold War.

Other, more relevant facts I should have known: CEU is a graduate school on a strange quarter system, so I'll be done here in March. Also, the only really Hungarian thing about the school is its location, as students, teachers, curriculum, etc. are generally international. So although I'm "immersed" by taking courses like any grad student here, it was not what I had expected immersion to mean. A bubble indeed.

The role of Lady Luck, then, is to prove that none of that really matters. Although my conditions have been a sign of poor planning, they also signify to me what Camus has said, that you can find pleasure in nearly anything. I don't think it is a contradiction to reject the nonsense of fate or luck but believe that everything ultimately works out. I get to finish the term with months to travel. I study refugee law with people from the countries we discuss or Russian foreign policy with people who remember Yeltsin's election. I constantly run into other students I recognize, the school is so small (population: 1,500).

And I find other ways to meet Hungarians. One such recent friend asked me last night, "How do you like Budapest?"

"Well, if I didn't like it, I wouldn't be very happy here," I said.

When he asked what makes me unhappy, I said nothing, that happiness is a choice and I'm always happy. I didn't notice the potential incongruity, but he tried to work it out: "So if you didn't like Budapest you would be unhappy, but you are always happy... So you are happy everywhere?"

That seems about right.

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Reading: Melanie A. Sully, "A Contemporary History of Austria"
Listening to: Josh Groban, "Vincent (Starry, Starry Night)"

For the love of Buda

2009-02-02T19:59:00.008+01:00

Two days passed before I realized how laughable my Friday afternoon was: I walked to Buda castle after exploring the gray and quiet streets of that western half of the city, and stopped at a ledge overlooking the Danube to read Kafka's The Castle. Granted, the book's castle is more metaphorical than physical, but it exists nevertheless. My intention was only to navigate through Buda because people (myself included) tend to spend more time on the Pest side of the river, but the day was such a welcome break from the rain and snow, I wanted to take a Czechoslovakian break.

The next day I returned with friends to meander through the castle's underground labyrinth, which is not as cool as it sounds, my friends decided. And they were just obtuse, I decided. It was, after all, a simple chain of subterranean, naturally sculpted tunnels, which can make for an excursion with the right expectations. I read the description at the entrance, so I was excited by the prehistoric age of the labyrinth and its history of sheltering the war-trodden. It also prepared me for the "cave drawings" and stone carvings that were not prehistoric so much as entertainment. Probably my dismay over the manufactured attractions in Rome also softened the blow, so the "artifacts" were not as odious as the clammy musk of the low-hanging passageways.

But what I couldn't have expected amid the dripping ceilings and ominous music was the exhibit of the "Other World." First we came upon a cordoned fossil of a footprint, and I waited as my friend read the description. "They're just laughing at us," he concluded, walking away in disgust. The footprint turned out to be a shoeprint from the specimen "homo consumerus," and other relics followed, stone impressions of a laptop, cell phone, and Coke bottle (see photo), among others. I found it hilarious that those who ran the labyrinth would ever have thought to produce something like that. At the same time, as with the music, the drawings, and the dining area, the "remnants" really said something about the desperation to please tourists and the dearth of better alternatives.

But as I said, I enjoyed my first maze, as you can find enjoyment in nearly anything, and after crossing out my friend's overblown sarcasm, I wrote something to that effect in the guestbook: "Thank you for the labyrinth. I appreciated it for its history. People who come here expecting fireworks and can-can dancers prove the joke of homo consumerus."

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Listening to: Janet Jackson, "Together Again"

Metro genius

2009-01-30T16:51:00.006+01:00

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.

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Watching: Black Hawk Down (assessment: disappointing)

Roma - photo album

2009-01-29T11:10:00.003+01:00

[Click on headline for the Facebook album]

Losing my religion (if I had it to lose)

2009-01-28T18:51:00.006+01:00

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).

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

When in Rome

2009-01-27T10:28:00.008+01:00

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.

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

Conversation with a Hungarian

2009-01-22T10:24:00.007+01:00

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."

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Listening to: Coldplay, "Viva La Vida"

President Obama

2009-01-21T15:25:00.006+01:00

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

2009-01-20T08:58:00.008+01:00

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.

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

The fairest of them all

2009-01-19T08:58:00.007+01:00

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.

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Listening to: Rush, "Limelight"

Our humble abode

2009-01-18T12:06:00.014+01:00

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

2009-01-16T18:52:00.022+01:00

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.

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Listening to: Yeah Yeah Yeahs, "Y Control"

Születésnapom!

2009-01-15T09:27:00.007+01:00

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).

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

Forces from beyond

2009-01-14T15:57:00.006+01:00

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

2009-01-14T07:51:00.002+01:00

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

2009-01-13T15:27:00.007+01:00

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

2009-01-12T16:03:00.001+01:00

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

2009-01-12T11:31:00.005+01:00

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

2009-01-10T19:18:00.009+01:00

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

2009-01-09T14:52:00.008+01:00

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?

2009-01-07T06:49:00.008+01:00

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

2009-01-06T02:12:00.000+01:00

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?

Out of wonderland

2008-08-19T04:16:00.002+02:00

If I were to make a diagram of my experiences in Vietnam, there would be one branch for things that turned out as expected – generally, goods are cheaper than in America, journalism is more submissive, and fashion is equally mixed. There would be a branch for things that surprised me, either because they differ so much from America (take off your shoes when entering a shop), or because we’re not so different after all (is there anywhere the income gap isn’t a problem?).

Of things that aren’t so different, I don’t know if my biggest discovery would disappoint or delight, but it is this: many of the pleasures of visiting another culture (language, food, customs) were, in this case, already available to me in America. I spoke Vietnamese at home, of course, but also in the Vietnamese stronghold of South Sacramento, people generally don’t need English to conduct business, read the paper, or just carry on with daily life. In South Sacramento and at home, I have also eaten most of the same cuisine I’ve had in Vietnam – mi xao, banh xeo, bun bo hue, etc. I noticed this because people here constantly asked me during meals whether the food was OK, and I’d constantly explain that yes, we have all of this in America. That might be the reason I haven’t gotten food poisoning. Unfortunately, that also means it was hard to try new foods (plus I’m not brave enough to try snake).

Many of the local customs, like eating on the floor or lighting incense for the deceased, were already a part of my life, thanks to my parents. They also decorated our house with cultural ornaments, from paintings to statues to fans, which made it very difficult to buy souvenirs here, as most of the useless knick-knacks I came across are available in South Sacramento.

So I would call this discovery disappointing because it sort of defeats the purpose of coming here – emphasis on “sort of” because the country still holds enough of a unique lifestyle, history, and development for a good old-fashioned culture shock. But for tourists who can’t afford to come here, this could be a delight because all they have to do is spend some time in the Vietnamese community in their own towns. For America the implications are both good (as Viet Kieu add diversity to the country) and bad (as they insulate themselves from mainstream America).

(Aside: as I’m writing this, two chickens have just wandered into my room.)

Between the expected and the unexpected, there’s a third branch in my diagram. I noticed it in my first week in Saigon, when it came time to do laundry. The vast majority of people hand wash and hang dry their clothes, which makes perfect sense. It’s not as if I expected people to have washing machines, but I also hadn’t thought about the fact that my clothes, too, must be hand washed. So there are things that aren’t surprising, but that you don’t think about until their time comes.

And the time has come to say goodbye. Although I knew I would have to leave Vietnam, it hadn’t occurred to me that I would be leaving its people and traditions and way of life. Of course there’s plenty I won’t miss. I can’t wait to get away from Mr. Mosquito, away from the smog and the two types of weather, heat or rain. I won’t have to barter with merchants anymore, and they won’t follow me around every inch of their stores, trying to convince me to buy things I don’t want. I won’t be solicited on the street by errant peddlers who can’t possibly make a living with what they’re selling, or by poor children selling lottery tickets when they should be in school.

Usually I don’t miss anything or anyone because I know I’ll see them again. So the exceptions are things and people gone forever, separated either by time (hence my debilitating nostalgia) or, as I see now, distance. I still have a few hours until my flight back to America, but already I am missing this bustling city. I’ll miss the wind rushing past as I sit on the back of a motorbike. I’ll miss seeing a movie for $2 or staying in a beachfront hotel for $12. I’ll miss always having someone to tell me how to say or spell a word in Vietnamese. I’ll miss being called “Lien oi” and “Lien Lien” and “em.” And I’ll miss the people calling me by those names, people with whom I’ve spent almost every day for the past two months, people who hadn’t factored into the equation when I first planned my trip but who now sum up the entire summer. But I’m wrong about one thing: they’re not all gone forever because there’s no question that I’ll be back.

Relative worth

2008-08-15T11:12:00.002+02:00

The temptation for visitors to spend money here is akin to the psychological effect of a sale: customers are partly motivated by the appeal of getting something for a fraction of the usual price (because most tourists have the benefit of a favorable exchange rate), and they are compelled to take advantage of this limited-time offer, while it lasts (because they’ll soon return to their home countries). So, Vietnam is one big clearance sale.

At least that’s the influence it’s had on me. So when I see that something I might want (four dresses, three pairs of shoes, a white gold necklace…) is cheaper than it would be in America, I’m more likely to splurge. In that respect, Vietnam seems to have brought out the spendthrift in me because I can indulge in something as trivial as ice cream every day, or as extravagant as a weekend in Nha Trang (considered the most beautiful city in the country).

But I’m a thrifty shopper at heart, and somewhat ironically, living here has augmented that prudent side. It’s all a matter of relativity. Suddenly a pair of $8 shoes is too expensive because there’s that other pair for $5, or on another day a $5 meal feels wasteful because locals often eat out for $1.

Actually, not all of it is relativity. The exchange rate and the necessity to use an unfamiliar currency also distort my perception. If I were dealing in dollars I’m sure my spending would be more in line with habit. Instead my psychological or emotional response to the dong is unpredictable. I might see my 50,000-dong note and think, “My, that’s a large number,” so I’d hate to spend it all on a taxi ride, even though it’s only $3. Or I might shell out the same note for a beaded necklace that I’ve just negotiated down from 120,000 dong, even though I am not that interested in jewelry and don’t even buy $3 necklaces in America. Troi oi! I don’t know if I’m growing or the house is shrinking.

This little blogger went to market

2008-08-13T11:45:00.003+02:00

When I think about it, I guess the outdoor markets here aren't so strange; I've been to plenty of farmer's markets and flea markets in America, and (as here) they sell everything from sandals and spaghetti straps, to strawberries and salmon. But, as with most things I've noticed, the difference is in the details.

I use the term "outdoor markets" somewhat loosely. Here, there are markets with tin roofs. There are markets with tent roofs. There are markets with no roofs at all. In those cases, people just set up their wares along an alley. In all cases, space is tight, with vendors often sitting on the makeshift counters or desks that display their merchandise. Some markets have everything. Some just have food. Some just have clothes and trinkets. Of the latter you would probably see plenty as a tourist, especially Ben Thanh Market.

And you'd probably only want to see the food markets as a tourist, as they'd never pass an FDA inspection. I wouldn't call them filthy – after all, that's where I buy my groceries – but you might lose your appetite. All over, hose water flows into basins of live fish that still swim around unawares, or flop around if they don't have much water. In one market, a fish flopped out into the street in front of me before the owner casually picked it up and tossed it back into its container. In another, I bought a fish that wouldn't stop squirming as the vendor tried to weigh it, so she clubbed the scaly little rebel. I remembered the incident recently, when I walked by a couple of live, skinned frogs still wriggling in their bins.

If you think that’s fun, you’d love buying raw meat. Just as vegetables are occasionally laid out on the bare ground, meat is usually placed right on the counters and nothing else. Buyers and sellers alike finger the meat liberally. That can’t be avoided, but at least I’ve learned to bring exact change: I don’t want a woman to hand me change after she’s been handling raw meat all day.

Uncle Ho

2008-08-12T04:26:00.004+02:00

I love all the Big Brother posters paraded around the city, partly because I actually respect Ho Chi Minh, and partly because they so comically contradict Vietnam's desire to become a modern country (but don't let them catch you calling this "propaganda"). My friend translated the above poster as saying, "Ho Chi Minh's thoughts are a valuable spiritual asset of our Party and people." Other posters have PSA's ("Wear your helmet"), but aside from those, I wonder whether Uncle Ho would have approved of all the face time he's getting.

Vietnam + China

2008-08-11T05:08:00.003+02:00

Despite the history of imperialism or colonialism or whatever they chose to call it, I assumed the relationship between Vietnam and China was pretty solid. I must have gotten that idea from China’s influence on the Vietnamese language and culture – the two peoples share many customs and I’ve heard that half of Vietnamese words (which were once characters rather than Romanized letters) are taken from Chinese. Plus the whole communism thing really should have helped them bond.

Aside from a spat over some islands, I don’t know much about the political mood between China and Vietnam, but socially, it seems Vietnamese aren’t so chummy toward their neighbor to the north. Perhaps they still hold a grudge over that centuries-old imperialism, but the resentment is subtle and certainly not a part of daily life. You just notice it when locals refer to the South China Sea as simply the “South Sea” or when they joke that if goods are low-quality, they must have come from China.

I don’t know, though, if I would call this racism because Vietnamese are generally friendly toward Chinese-Vietnamese or other Chinese who’ve settled in Vietnam (apparently, some anticommunist Chinese who didn’t flee to Taiwan came here instead). They even have their own Chinatown called Cho Lon (large market), though I couldn’t really see how it was different from other parts of Saigon. But locals see the difference. Apparently, even the dragons aren’t the same: pointing to the large white dragon statue in the middle of one street, a friend who took me to Cho Lon explained that, among other qualities, Chinese dragons are much more fierce-looking than their Vietnamese counterparts.

Vietnamese lesson, part 2

2008-08-06T04:45:00.003+02:00

Words like “Internet” and “photocopy” have no Vietnamese equivalents, so they’re plastered ubiquitously across the city in their original forms. But much more interesting are the non-Vietnamese words that people have adapted into Vietnamese. And all this time I thought my parents were making these words up:

bia --- beer
cà phê --- coffee
xe buýt --- bus
cà rốt --- carrot
xúp --- soup
sô cô la --- chocolate
phim --- film
căn tin --- canteen
tivi --- TV

Load o’ crocs

2008-08-05T09:38:00.001+02:00

The Suoi Tien amusement park in Saigon claims to have 15,000 crocodiles (ca sau, which sounds suspiciously like xau, the word for "ugly"), most of which I saw while crossing Crocodile Bridge. The funniest thing I noticed was that crocodiles often sleep with their mouths open. I thought they must have been fake, but my cousin assured me they weren't, reasoning that if humans can sleep that way, why can't crocodiles? Well, gravity, for one thing. But what do I know? The animals were definitely real.

At least that was the funniest thing until I saw people fishing over the side of the bridge. And by fishing, I mean you can pay 2,000 dong for a rod attached to a piece of string attached to a piece of raw meat to dangle over the crocodiles. I wondered why it was so cheap, and the only thing I can think of is that the employees have to feed the crocodiles anyway, so might as well make a profit by letting customers do it.

I'm sure this kind of gimmick wouldn't go over well in lawsuit-prone America; it doesn't exactly seem smart to provoke the toothy reptiles. Still, seeing that everyone else was safe, I tried it anyway. It's something of a sport, swinging the meat as close to the crocodiles as you dare, while trying to keep it just out of their reach. But the deceptively placid creatures are too quick, snapping up the meat when you least expect it.

Here comes the rain again

2008-08-04T03:13:00.002+02:00

I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the solar eclipse on Friday, but it was clouded by a thunderstorm that came and went throughout the weekend. By no means was the storm record-breaking, but it was the first time I saw the streets really flooded on the way home. That makes travel especially difficult for people on motorbikes, not just because they have to drive through oversized puddles, but because they have to set foot in them whenever stopped at an intersection.

Small shops are flooded relatively easily, which I think has something to do with the way they're constructed: most don't have traditional doors, but an opening where the front wall would be (think shoebox) and a gate - some like garages, others like the springy argyle pattern of doors on old elevators. So on the way home I saw people scooping up buckets of water from their stores and dumping them out on the street. Yesterday, people were doing something similar at the flea market. The one I visited was lucky to have one big roof, but rainwater was funneled through pipes that stretched from the roof to spots throughout the market, so women were using big bowls to catch the runoff from the spouts.

This morning I remembered to grab my poncho, just in case. The skies aren't looking good.

On eating out

2008-08-01T02:44:00.003+02:00

I finally got around to trying KFC here, and that’s about the extent of what there is to report. The food doesn’t cost much less and tastes only slightly worse than KFC in America. The only interesting part is the service: instead of punk teenagers, we were welcomed by stewardess-like women who also held the door open when we left.

Still, the restaurant wasn’t as interesting as local eateries. My first night here, I had fish for dinner with my cousins at a small restaurant which, like most others, had three walls, food and cookware at the entrance instead of a kitchen, and rooms upstairs where the owners lived. Not knowing what to do with the fish bones as I ate, I looked up to see my cousin dropping them on the floor. “Go ahead,” he said, seeing my puzzled face. “You're supposed to.”

Only in the smaller restaurants – smaller than Starbucks small – is it permissible to leave trash on the floor, or in a small wastebasket if there's one near the table. But most restaurants are small.

The U.S. State Department started a website to consult before going abroad, and among its many pieces of wisdom is the suggestion to scrutinize a restaurant before patronizing it. If you notice the dining area is not very clean, the website warns, the kitchen is probably worse. Good advice. But it would have ruled out the majority of places where I've eaten so far.

I don’t mean it as a judgment or a complaint, it just is. I left California loaded with enough advice to know to be wary of the local fare. I remember the scene from Babel when Kate Blanchett orders bottled water in Morocco and then tosses the ice from her husband Brad Pitt's Coke. I've been warned that no matter how cautious I am, I will get food poisoning of some form or another.

The part I didn't anticipate is that it is not only visitors to Vietnam who are careful about their food. Wherever I've eaten (except at the larger restaurants) there have usually been tissues or napkins at the table so that patrons can wipe their chopsticks and bowls before eating.

And so far, no food poisoning!

Vietnamese lesson

2008-07-31T05:18:00.002+02:00

Despite what you might have learned from the Vietnam War, this country can be divided into three regions, especially linguistically: northern, central, and southern (hence the three stripes on the old South flag). Although, if we really wanted to complicate things, there are many other dialects that I'm unfamiliar with, plus indigenous and foreign languages. But it's understandable that the northern (Bac) and southern (Nam) dialects dominate. The dialect of northerners is the usual form of communication among bureaucrats and politicians, based out of the capital Hanoi. I think Tieng Bac is also seen as the most formal/educated, as it's taught in Vietnamese-language courses.

In addition to being spoken in the south, Tieng Nam is the most popular tongue of Viet Kieu, which makes sense since most of them fled because of the fall of South Vietnam. I don't know too much about how the dialects work, but for some reason Tieng Nam is closer to what I speak, the central version. That's why I chose to intern in Saigon (though, ironically, most of the people I work with are from the north). People from the north and south understand each other just fine, but they don't really understand those from the central region. On the one hand I find that frustrating because if I improve my Vietnamese it will be somewhat useless, since I'll only be able to speak with people from Hue. On the other, I'll have an advantage if I improve enough to understand all three dialects, while most understand two. I think it's easier for me to learn their dialects than vice versa.

I don't know if the Vietnamese I already know is an advantage or a handicap. I once wrote an article about the hair salon Great Clips (yes, seriously) and a stylist told me that it was harder to train older employees because they'd picked up bad habits that didn't conform to the official Great Clips technique. I might have that problem. When I find new words, my experience makes me somewhat resistant to learning how northerners or southerners pronounce them; I'd rather first learn how my mom would pronounce them. But the experience also means I instinctively know a lot of the connotations of words and phrases, the kind of thing I can't really learn from a class.

Who you gonna call? Mr. Knife.

2008-07-29T07:41:00.003+02:00

Vietnamese are superstitious people, especially about the hereafter, and although I think superstition (like religion) derives from lack of awareness, I’ll admit I once believed in some of it. My mom used to tell me that if I left my hair down outside at night, ghosts would hide in it and follow me into my house. I don’t know if she was just trying scare me – like the story about scraping and eating food from sidewalk cracks in the afterlife if I threw any away now – but until middle school it pushed me so far as to hold up my hair by hand when I didn’t have a hair-tie.

I hadn’t thought about those stories much until recently, when I visited my grandmothers in Hue. One afternoon, while some men were preparing a cung, one of my grandmothers yelled across the yard that they better not stand too close to the trees. I’d forgotten that ghosts are plentiful in trees – the greener the tree, the more abundant the ghosts. To humor her, one of the men assured my grandmother that they were safe in the daytime.

Though amusing, the warning didn’t really surprise me. What did surprise me the next day was when my other grandmother invited me to spend the night with her. I wasn’t planning to take her up on the offer, but was even more deterred when I noticed the knife on her bed. She apparently slept with it as protection from ghosts.

The real puppets in Vietnam

2008-07-28T03:26:00.010+02:00

Water puppets (mua roi nuoc) are to

Vietnam

as street performers are to New York: watching them is a very Vietnamese thing to do, just not for local Vietnamese. Most of the audience Saturday night were visitors, and the creators intended the dozen or so skits to teach viewers about Vietnamese life and culture. Some scenes, such as men fishing or animals hatching, could be universally understood. But, ironically, I suspect some of the most interesting ‘lessons’ were beyond foreigners without the context to understand them. Only people familiar with cung would recognize that the puppets carrying plates of fruit in a procession were honoring their ancestors. And though I only vaguely remember reading the legend of the turtle that helped Vietnamese defeat their enemies, I doubt many outsiders recalled the fable when they saw the puppet of the golden turtle. But the figure is as much a part of the country’s folklore as Paul Bunyan is of

America

’s.

The stage consisted of a long, shallow pool of murky water (the better to hide puppet masters, I’m guessing) in front of an iconic building of red shingles and curved roofs. On either side sat three performers who handled all the sound: wearing traditional ao dai, they voiced the characters of the puppets (human and otherwise), sang when appropriate, and accompanied the entire act with musical instruments.

In some skits, the brightly colored wooden and metal puppets obeyed the constraints of the water – humans rowed, ducks swam, dragons danced and squirted water. In others, the characters miraculously walked on water, acting out the skits as if on land. But the whole time I wondered how the puppeteers maneuvered their dolls. Could they hold their breath underwater just long enough for a skit? Were they lying to the side of the pool, reaching in unseen? Was it all done by machines? The last question was answered when seven or eight puppet masters appeared onstage at the end of the show. Seeing the people drenched from the neck down probably answered the first question, but I’m not much closer to figuring out their secret.

Roughin’ it

2008-07-25T03:33:00.003+02:00

The discomforts of day-to-day life are not exactly unique to the countryside, just more numerous than in the city. Most of the inconveniences I encountered in Hue last week are also present in Saigon, though fewer and further between in the latter. The night I arrived in Hue, there was a blackout in the municipal districts that I passed through as well as in the rural area where my uncle lives. My cousin, who had come to pick me up from the airport, joked during the drive home, “It’s because they knew you were coming.” But as it turned out blackouts make daily, planned visits as part of the city’s efforts to conserve electricity. Since Hue is not as busy as the bigger cities, the authorities here can afford to intentionally cut off the energy supply for a few hours a day.

Luckily I had Eugene O’Neill to keep me occupied. My only real problem with the blackouts was that they deprived me of a fan during the hottest hours of the day; I was starting to understand why people here take so many naps in the daytime. I know I shouldn’t have been so weak, but it might have been more bearable if not for the added physical aggravation from, as my cousin liked to call it, Mr. Mosquito. He left at least a dozen “gifts” on my left arm alone, and countless more all along my head, shoulders, knees, and, yes, toes.

I did use some bug repellant but not much because it’s a bitch to wash off, especially when there’s no real shower. The wash room consisted of a pail and a spout not unlike the one in my backyard in Sacramento. I was also scared to enter the room at night because its roofless structure practically invited in Mr. Mosquito.

The outhouse had a roof, though no seat. The toilet looked almost normal, except its white bowl was set in the ground so that you must crouch over it rather than sit down (I’ve learned this is called a squat toilet). To flush required pouring water from a bucket down the drain until the toilet was clean again.

When we were thirsty, we boiled water, and to boil water, we needed firewood. I didn’t drink much unless there was ice, and for that we’d send one of the boys to the small store down the road. It was understandable that there was no ice in the house, since refrigerators are something of a luxury. In fact the house didn’t have much furniture at all, mainly bureaus and beds with planks but no mattresses. I was only surprised when I found that my relatives had a TV. Besides being cheaper than refrigerators, TVs are apparently considered more important (as a link to the rest of the world?), which is why you’re more likely to find a TV in a Vietnamese home than a refrigerator. Maybe things aren’t so rough.

Homecoming

2008-07-24T03:54:00.005+02:00

Like most people, my nostalgia constantly pushes me to return to old haunts, I guess out of hope that part of the past can be frozen in amber, that if the places still exist, then the memories live. Though I left Hue too young to remember anything about it, returning there last week still felt like stepping into the past. For three days, I lived with my mother's brother and his family in the village where I was born, where my mother was born, and where her mother was born. The village, nestled in the countryside in central Vietnam, is a five-minute walk away from the beach, where the kids used to sleep under the stars when the nights were too hot at home.

The relatives I met knew almost as little about me as I knew of them, but they remembered me as the baby carried out of there two decades ago. “She was just months old!” they would explain to each other, calculating when I must have been born and when my family must have left. They understood that I wouldn’t remember names or faces, and excused my poor Vietnamese.

Seeing their faces, though, was enough. In them I saw time preserved, I saw lives that carried on as if nothing had changed since that fateful day. I saw what my life would have been if in fact things hadn’t changed. My brother would occasionally tell me, “You know, you were almost left behind. You’re lucky our uncle was there to carry you to the boat.” I don’t actually think my mother would have left me in Vietnam, but it’s true that others weren’t so lucky. Her sister came the same way we did a couple years later, trying several times to get to America through Hong Kong and Papua New Guinea, only to be sent back. They closed the door; that was how she described it to me when I met her.

The uncle I stayed with has a son who also nearly emigrated from Vietnam. He would have left with my family, but his mother was afraid he’d fight too much with my brother. He and I sat by a window as he reminisced about the days of wrestling with my brother right in that sandy yard in front of us, of walking together to the now closed-down school a few blocks away, of arguing over the goodies they would occasionally sneak from my mother.

Even from his limited anecdotes I could start to imagine that forgotten life. And from the stories of my grandmothers, I could start to appreciate how complicated my family tree really is (for one thing, The Story of Pao comes to mind). The context made it easy to ask for and tell such histories, of course, but the sad truth is that I could have learned all of it and more at home in California. From the scores of young Viet Kieu I’ve known or interviewed, I know I’m not atypical for having seldom thought to ask my parents about this world and for having parents who seldom thought it comfortable or necessary to tell me on their own. But if this summer will change anything, it’s that.

Pain at the [Vietnamese] pump

2008-07-23T09:16:00.003+02:00

With the government subsidies and average income level, I figured gas prices had to be cheaper here than in America, but at 15,000 dong per liter ($3.50 a gallon), it was about the same. People just get more out of their money because they drive the relatively efficient motorbikes and manuals.

But over the past few days, while on my meta vacation to central Vietnam (more on that in the coming posts), I started hearing about gas prices going up. "Interesting," I thought last night as I sat in the plane from Danang to Saigon, listening to my cousin read the day's top story and recalling the surfeit of similar media coverage in America. Here the prices just jumped 30 percent to almost 20,000 dong per liter.

It got even more interesting after we touched down and tried to find a taxi home. The first driver was ready to take us, until a woman with a clipboard ushered a larger party into the cab. The next driver wouldn't take us because our house was too close. Every driver after that wanted to charge 150 percent more than we'd paid last week to get to the airport. I didn't get it. Why didn't they just take us home and let the meter run as usual?

I discovered the drivers were negotiating a fee beforehand because their companies hadn't raised fares to match the rise in gas prices yet. For once I felt as sympathetic with them as I do with xe om drivers; still, there's a big difference between 30 percent and 150 percent, so I opted for a xe om, the driver somehow speeding through the streets with my suitcase held awkwardly in front of him.

It’s all about the Ho Chi Minhs, baby

2008-07-16T06:57:00.008+02:00

Yesterday I walked home from work because there weren’t many xe om drivers near the office, and the ones that were there tried to charge 10,000 to 15,000 dong for a ride that’s usually 6,000. The truth is I wouldn’t mind spending the 10,000 (60 cents) but if I’m going back and forth everyday I don’t want to pay more than locals. And it’s also the principle; if the drivers aren’t willing to compromise with me, I don’t want to bother.

The short, pleasant walk brought my total spending for the day to less than $2. I had paid 6,000 dong for the morning commute, 12,000 for lunch at the office, and 10,000 for dinner ingredients. Assuming an exchange rate of 16,000 dong per dollar, that works out to about $1.75 (with the unpredictable inflation of the dong, it’s hard to know what the rate is each hour). See, Professor Sachs? Living on $2 a day isn’t so bad.

It’s true that I spend more than that on touristy luxuries like clothes, snacks, and entertainment, but either way, commerce is an interesting thing. Everything is bought with cash, and though most people have bank accounts, few have heard of credit cards. My brother had warned me that if I change dollars for dong, merchants won’t take dirtied money (e.g. if Benjamin’s faced is scratched or the bills are creased), but I didn’t think they’d behave the same way towards local currency. When I bought a dress this weekend, the seller wouldn’t take my smudged 100,000-dong note, so I had to give her a clean one. Oh, well – money’s all about perceived value, anyway, right?

Just along for the ride

2008-07-15T04:12:00.002+02:00

Just as Michael Scott ‘loved’ the New York subway, I like the motorbikes (xe may) in Saigon because they take to people of all walks of life – or rather, all types of people take to them. On the street, I pass by motorists in pajamas, jeans, slacks, dresses, business suits, and ao dai. I admit the image is comical; I’m reminded of the days of old when scooters were popular in America, as was footage of businessmen scooting to work. But I doubt anyone cares about that here since few can afford the four-wheel alternative.

Another image that comes to mind: China in 2003. But instead of protection from SARS, Vietnamese drivers wear face masks as shields against the dust and smog. I’ve been fine without the coverings, and actually I wonder why more motorists don’t wear eye protection, which in my experience would have been more useful against the pollution. It’s also common for women drivers to wear arm-length gloves as protection from the sun. I’d like to think they want to guard against cancer or the heat, but no, women just hate getting dark.

Still, everyone’s a slave to the elements. When it rains, out come the ponchos. There are even ponchos made for two, I guess to make it easier to transport another person on the xe may. But even after the rain subsides, beware: a motorist sped through a puddle next to me two nights ago, leaving most of the puddle on my right half.

Whatever the weather, heat is a concern. As if the humidity and triple digit temperatures weren’t enough, the main source of heat is your xe may and those around you. Vehicles anywhere can get oppressively hot, of course, but it’s much more noticeable when you’re waiting at a light, wedged in the middle of a pack of xe may without car doors to keep out the heat of other engines. Then again, whether in motion or stopped at a light, you’re conveniently close enough to hold a conversation with your friend on the xe may next to you.

I have to say the worst thing about xe may, or any vehicle in the city, is the never-ending beeping. I thought Times Square was bad, but drivers here seem obsessed with honking at other people. They beep when the light changes. They beep at pedestrians. They beep whenever they exhale. It makes me wonder, what would they do if someone just did away with all the horns?

Everyone under the sun

2008-07-11T07:07:00.002+02:00

"La Fenêtre Soleil" (French for sun window. Or window sun? Sunny window?) is the name of the cafe/bar, but on Thursday nights it turns into a club for the Salsa, Bachata, Merengue, and the like. Maybe the owners didn't know what kind of dances would become popular when they first named the place. That, and Vietnamese generally know more French than Spanish.

At first I thought it would be strange to hear Spanish music in Saigon, but it wasn't. The city is the most cosmopolitan you'd find in Vietnam, and I suppose the bourgeois need someplace to hang out. I was told to wear a dress, but the attire at La Fenêtre Soleil ran the gamut from gym clothes to business suits, miniskirts to Salsa dresses. Though nothing compared to the pieces of cloth girls wear to American night clubs, the dress here was racier than that of your average local; I think I saw my first thong in the city, bras optional.

The clothes fit the dance, which was innately sensual. It began with a practice session for newcomers, but experts took over for the rest of the night. I was more than a little impressed with how well the dancers handled themselves – confidently relaxed, cheerfully proficient. I could hardly keep track of the dozen or more couples who graced the tiny floor at any given moment, as they switched partners with each new song. Everyone danced with everyone else. I wondered if it was because people didn't need to know each other to dance together (one stranger did ask me to dance). But it turned out that the same crowd goes to that club every week, so they all knew each other. Free love, baby.

Even more impressive was the diversity of the crowd. We were in District 1, so I wasn't surprised to see foreigners, but these weren't just any foreigners. In addition to the Vietnamese and a few tourists, there was a healthy handful of foreigners who'd made their home in Vietnam, and no one seemed to notice skin color. I especially liked the Mick Jagger look-alike, the half-Vietnamese who appeared more Anglo, and the Russian who spoke better Vietnamese than me. But in a way I was lucky that just about everyone – Vietnamese, Indian, French – defaulted to English.

Stairway to heaven

2008-07-08T03:30:00.005+02:00

When I was nine, maybe younger, my nanny asked me if I might like to give God a try. She was Christian and didn’t try to persuade me, just told me about him and about praying and crossing myself. Who knows what made me give in – maybe the shiny cross she gave me. I wore it for a few days until my Buddhist cousin saw it and cried, “Do you know what that is?” while removing the chain. That’s pretty much the extent of my contact with God, and anyone who knows me would be shocked to hear that I even got that close.

But a couple days ago I got much closer, right up to the foot of the man himself. On a mountain in Vung Tau, a resort city two hours away from Saigon, stands a 100-foot statue of Jesus, holding out his arms as he surveys the laity 600 feet below. “You know,” my coworker Nguyen said after I saw the icon for the first time, “there were some Boat People who escaped Vietnam a few decades ago, and when they returned, they built that statue as a gift.”

There must have been something in my face because she asked what was wrong. “Nothing. I just think it’s silly of them to take up public space like that. It doesn’t just belong to Christians.”

The next day we made our pilgrimage to the man upstairs – up a very, very long set of stairs. I went for the same reason I would stop to look at a car accident, but in fact if there were nothing up there but an abandoned car I’d still have gone for the sake of climbing the small mountain. The trek was tiring, with plenty of landings where we could rest and gaze down at the town, at the sea that turned into sky, and at the progress we’d made. Like holy harbingers, clusters of statues would occasionally greet us, as if to say: almost there.

The actual statue at the pinnacle of the hike was flesh-colored, domineering, and anticlimactic. I might have been more impressed with a golden calf, but it wasn’t really Jesus’ fault; he had to compete with a breathtaking view. On one end I admired the coast packed with ant-sized beachgoers and grasshopper-sized palm trees curving around the peninsula. I knew I was looking at something so many others must have seen in brochures. On the other end was infinite water and sky. The sight alone made me feel weightless, or as if I were filled with nothing but that floating blue.

Jesus compensated as best he could. Tourists were allowed to climb inside the statue like they would Lady Liberty, either to the balcony built into his robe, or farther up to his outstretched arms. Earlier, when my boss had told me people could do this, I’d asked, “Isn’t that a little sacrilegious?” Little did I know there was a sacred screening process. You cannot enter the body of Christ wearing shorts, skirts, or tank tops, and you must leave your shoes and water bottles at the opening. I wasn’t disappointed, but I felt bad for anyone who’d gone through all that trouble just to be turned away at the gates.

So we'd faced our maker and by providence no one was smote (smitten?) by lightning. Then again, we did get caught in the rain on the way down, Mr. Pina Colada would be happy to know. If it had come just five minutes later we would have been dry in a taxi, but I’m glad it happened. We were only a few flights from the bottom when I stopped to enjoy the wind that was picking up. On the horizon, the same wind was bringing in clouds and, to our amazement, we could see them raining into the sea before the storm reached us seconds later, the sky still light. We ran to a tunnel for shelter and did what was only logical while waiting out the storm. We ate ice cream.

I ain't afraid of no ghosts. Ma'am.

2008-07-04T14:06:00.006+02:00

MacBeth and The Phantom of the Opera are about as "scary" as it gets when it comes to any stage productions I'd heard of, let alone seen, until last night. Nguoi Vo Ma (Ghost Wife) is a popular play here in the city, and although I can't get through a scary movie without covering my eyes, I figured this had to be interesting.

Less than $5 got me admission to a theater smaller than most American cinemas. I joined a boisterous audience that required more than a few warnings to hush down throughout the play, which just made it more entertaining. I think that's part of the nature of the performance – as professional as the actors were, this was no ballet or symphony (I'm saving that for next week). People come in their everyday clothes and prove it's not just the players who can break the fourth wall: when we first saw the sinister-but-still-living Wife, one audience member shouted, "You're too beautiful to be a ghost!"

The actors took it in good humor. During another scene, an overwhelmed audience member screamed in the middle of a dialogue, so the actor slipped it into the play: "What! Who just screamed?" he timidly asked his partner, earning a few laughs.

That about exemplifies the show. On the one hand, the performers were hilarious, playing on the cowardice triggered by belief in a ghost and making jokes that even someone with my level of Vietnamese could understand.

On the other hand, the play scared the hell out of me. I could see no difference between this title character and the long-haired star of The Ring, which also happens to be the scariest movie I've ever seen, if only because of the girl. But this ghost was worse because she was 50 feet away from me. Alternating between covering my eyes and clinging to my cousin, I could feel the same tension among the audience members because we could usually anticipate a scene with the ghost, thanks to the ominous music and erratic lighting. I'd never sat in a pitch black theater for so long before.

Luckily, I haven't had any nightmares yet, although when the play ended at 11 p.m., I walked four blocks home, the longest four blocks I've ever had to walk.

To grandma's house

2008-07-02T04:47:00.004+02:00

To make my mom happy, I had simply planned to visit my grandma in nearby Dong Nai Province as another checklist item, so I didn’t know what to think when my aunt (who lives with my grandma) told us to arrive by 8 a.m., in time to go to the cemetery. Long past the stage of surprises, I wasn’t jarred by the request, just curious. Things are seldom what I’d expect.

After an hour-long ride, my two cousins and I reached Dong Nai early and walked through a narrow alley of puddles and cracked pavement to get to the house. As we approached, the street widened and the buildings shortened, letting in the brilliant, peach-colored daylight. Before I knew it, my cousin was walking through an open door as if he’d done it every day of his life. I didn’t follow him far because my grandma was sitting on the ceramic-tiled floor next to the entrance. I joined her, as instructed.

Although it took some time to explain which one of us – me or my cousin – was her granddaughter, this actually wasn’t my first time seeing her. I’d almost forgotten that my grandma had visited us in America several years ago. Then again, maybe I had forgotten because all I ever remembered was how lonely she’d been and how much she looked forward to returning to Vietnam. Seeing her face now seemed right, not in the way that you recognize a face from your past, but in the way that a piece fits a jigsaw puzzle you didn’t realize existed.

She’s ninety-two, I learned at some point. Then, as if she were discussing a noodle recipe, my grandma started telling me about her funeral arrangements.

It wasn’t until 9 a.m. that fourteen of us – cousins, aunts, and uncles I’d never heard of, plus my two cousins and I – piled into a rented van with fruit, rice, chicken, and flowers. The ride to the cemetery lasted almost as long as the one to Dong Nai, but with a better view. Along the countryside, leafy plants formed their own roof-like layer a foot above the ground, and beyond them lay forests, some natural, some, upon closer inspection, comprised of neatly planted rows of shadowy deciduous. Something like a mix between a bus stop and a gazebo, structures of wooden posts and thatched roofs dotted the highway and enclosed several hammocks. I couldn’t imagine how people could live there, but then why else would there be hammocks? My camera batteries had died of course.

Concealed behind a small rambutan grove, the cemetery could only be reached by a muddy path barely wide enough for our van. Among the things you don’t think about until they happen: I’d never really visited a cemetery before. But based on those I passed by or saw in films, it wasn’t hard to notice the differences. Here the graves were packed tightly together in geometric rows, with just enough room for pedestrians. While most graves I’d seen in America were hidden below ground except for their headstones (therefore creating the illusion of space), these tombs included visible, coffin-like boxes I would expect to find in a sepulcher. Standing next to one of them, I thought with dread, could there be nothing but the edge of the small concrete block separating me from a corpse? The anxiety later dissipated when I looked through an opening on top of one of the “boxes” only to find it empty but for dirt. The bodies, then, must have been six feet under.

Except for that lapse, the trip was so absurdly detached as to be worthy of Meursault. My aunts prepared for the ceremony, arranging the food and incense on top of my grandpa’s “box,” while the men pulled weeds from another tomb that had no covering. Weeds and dead grass were commonplace. The grave turned out to be that of an uncle who died fighting for the South. I hadn’t known about him, not because I believed I had no uncles, but because my parents told me little about my relatives. Out of sight, out of mind.

The ceremony, I realized, was just like any cung I’ve had at home. Walk into almost any Vietnamese house in America, and you’ll find a ban tho, a sort of bureau on which families place photos, flowers, and incense to remember the dead. During a cung, families make food and sometimes burn paper clothes and (valueless) money. Just as at home, where the cung is performed out of respect, not mourning, our trip to the cemetery wasn’t meant to be morbid. So while the adults went through the motions, I joined the kids, who had run off to pick rambutan.

Comfort zone

2008-06-28T05:22:00.004+02:00

I didn’t realize I had a fixed idea of Saigon’s landscape until I discovered that it was wrong. Upon stepping into Phu Nhuan District, I thought, where are all the skyscrapers? The Gucci ads? The three-piece suits? I felt simultaneously disappointed that the city was not more modern and foolish that I’d made the assumption to begin with. Where did I get that untrue notion? I must not have made much effort to look at recent photos of the city. From all the stories of Vietnam’s stunning economic growth and desire to Westernize, I turned Saigon into Tokyo and Beijing, which I thought were valid comparisons.

What a relief it was, then, to spend some time in District 1 last night. I had to stop by the bank in that district, which I discovered is the most Westernized (read: touristy) of the city's 19 districts. So that’s where all the skyscrapers were – mostly in the form of hotels, of course. L'Occitane, Rolex, and Louis Vuitton abound, as do KFC, hamburgers, and pizza. I’m not sure what kind of person would travel all the way to Vietnam and dine on the Colonel’s cuisine, but the chain seems to be popular with locals.

Although I’m tempted to find out how KFC in Vietnam stacks up against the original, my cousin and I opted for a seafood restaurant after the bank. To my dismay, lobster turned out to be just as unaffordable here as it is in America – nearly $100. Maybe next time. Instead we shared a humble but tasty substitute, prawns, and a seafood hot pot. I knew the food was supposed to be fresh – we saw guests making their selections from tanks at the entrance – but when the server placed the ingredients in the pot, I noticed the shrimp still squirming on their skewers. The server hastily covered the pot.

Once outside, we walked to the famous Ben Thanh Market, only to come up against a gate that was closing and lights that were shutting down. No matter. A block away, hundreds had gathered for an outdoor skit and concert, perhaps lured, as we were, by the fluorescent lights and booming stereo. Predictably a comedy, the skit reminded me of an improv performance, though I knew it was scripted. Using banners and backdrops made of paper vulnerable to the light wind, the actors played with a not-so-subtle message to wear helmets and avoid littering. Then came the musical acts, mainly young singers like the self-proclaimed “boy band, Melody” and a foursome that has probably watched its fair share of the Pussycat Dolls. These girls, at least, were more democratic in dividing up the singing, and invited a handful of elementary-school-age boys onstage with the condition that they must dance. Why didn’t they invite any girls from the audience? I asked my cousin. Little girls are probably too shy, she said.

Reaching the other side of the world, and the other side of the road

2008-06-26T03:09:00.001+02:00

Getting sick, lost, pickpocketed – I came here worried about all the risks I assume are present in most developing countries. But getting run over by a motorbike seems uniquely more probable in Vietnam and, if I can mean this without over-dramatizing a legitimate concern, it was one of my more persistent fears.

Fittingly, among the first sights I encountered was the ordered chaos of the streets. Without lines to distinguish between lanes, motorists seem to feel their way through the streets, the deft weaving deliberately between other vehicles, the rest bottle-necking at popular intersections. Now the question is, how did the chicken cross the road?

I received mixed advice about this beforehand, but the best has been: just go. On the wider, busier streets, pedestrians can certainly wait at traffic lights, which motorists heed almost without fail. But that’s not an option on the smaller roads, and locals don’t make much use of crosswalks, anyway. Luckily, pedestrians have a couple of advantages: first, the motorbikes rarely exceed 20 miles an hour, so you can get pretty close before they’ll actually hit you; second, the motorbikes approach in jagged clusters, and because they’re small, you can pass one or two at a time until you get to the other side.

In general, the vehicles will slow down for you, but I don’t depend on that because accidents are a real danger. As if to confirm that, two motorbikes collided next to my hotel within a few days of my arrival. I turned around just in time to see people collecting around the scene and to notice the chair flung from the sidewalk into the street. Everyone was fine, but when we got home, a news report on TV announced how many people had been killed in car accidents that day, and my cousin said yes, that’s normal.

All of this probably isn’t doing much to dampen the stereotype of Asian drivers. But the truth is, it wasn’t long before I came to value the ability required to operate a vehicle in this environment. I thought I could never drive in a place like Los Angeles or New York (still true), but Vietnam is a whole other ballgame. The locals didn’t invent the system, they just adapt to it. There are few places to make U-turns, so you do it where you can, and other cars fall in line. Street signs are scarce and obscure, so people rely on the lettering above shops, almost all of which include full addresses. The roads are overcrowded, paved unpredictably, and fraught with endless construction, and to maneuver them so naturally takes, I think, appreciable skill.

A room with a view

2008-06-23T05:00:00.004+02:00

It’s hard to know where to begin, so, at the risk of neglecting a countrywide perspective, I’ll start at home. I’ve moved twice in less than two weeks, which is what happens when you go to a foreign country without making living arrangements. The thought scared me, of course, but enough people had assured me it’d be easier to rent a place once I reached Saigon that I believed it. I spent the first few days at a small hotel (khach san) while my cousin searched for a room. For just 200,000 dong a night (the exchange rate is 16,600 dong per dollar), I could have certainly made the hotel my home for the summer, but the idea has always seemed odd to me. If I want to see Vietnam as it is, why let a hotel obstruct my view? A cheaper room also had the masochistic appeal of testing my capacity for discomfort.

The hotel could not have had more than a dozen rooms, and mine came with a TV, air conditioner, mini-bar, and queen-sized bed. I had been warned not to be surprised if, as in many East Asian countries, the bathroom had no separate shower, just a nozzle that splashes the entire bathroom when turned on. But I had only one complaint about the room, something that at first I couldn’t put my finger on. It was an unsettling feeling that I gave no thought to, that I subconsciously attributed to exhaustion or something like it. Not until the second day did I realize the room lacked a window.

How silly to lose sleep over a window. But after my pathetic excuse for an internal clock had already been scrambled by the 16-hour flight, a window seemed to be the only reminder of which way was up. The combination of jet lag and an unstructured schedule had me sleeping haphazardly, always between sprints and marathons, never knowing day from night. If nothing else, I told my cousin, please find a room with a window.

Technically, she did. The room had two windows, in fact, plus the glass on the door and the large, vent-like openings near the ceiling. But it may as well have had no windows because they admitted no natural light, instead opening out onto a hallway in the building. When I walked through the hallway during the day I would glance wistfully at our neighbor’s room, which faced the street and overflowed with sunlight.

Then again, that room was also closer to the railroad running next to our building. Just 20 feet away from the train, I always heard its terrifyingly loud and irritatingly frequent whistle, so I imagine it could only have been worse for our neighbor. I can’t explain why I dreaded the oncoming train so much because it couldn’t have been the noise alone – it never disturbed me in my sleep, and I always hoped it was thunder, which inexplicably would have been more bearable. I started reading Atlas Shrugged the night we moved in.

Some other things to look for when renting a room in Vietnam: curfews, furnishings, toilets (as opposed to a hole in the ground), sinks (as opposed to a spout), air conditioning, and permission to cook.

What we didn’t think to ask our landlord was whether we could have company over, and when he refused, my cousin decided he was too difficult to live with. Our smaller, yet costlier room sits among a chain of other rooms behind the shops on the main street, rather than inside a building. In other words, we have a window. It’s hardly large enough for an average sized person to crawl through, but still, all I wanted was to see the sky. There was only one drawback I hadn’t planned for. Like our old room, this has openings near the ceiling which admit insects along with the sunlight. Now that there are newspapers covering those holes, I’m getting bitten less often, but if you’ll excuse me, I have some gnats to kill.

To the rabbit hole

2008-06-20T03:37:00.002+02:00

Welcome.

Or maybe I should say greetings.

Greetings from Vietnam, where I will be living, working, and blogging for the next two months. This will not be the first time I explain what possessed me to spend the summer here, and it won’t be the last, but here’s the old refrain: I was born in central Vietnam but don’t remember a thing because my family immediately moved to the United States. For that reason alone I’ve wondered about Vietnam since I was old enough to grasp it, and it seems to me there are two kinds of Viet Kieu: those who want to visit Vietnam and those who don’t. It’s not that I have a family connection to the war, it’s not that I’m eager to visit relatives, and it’s not that I have any reason to suspect that of all countries, this is the one that holds something magnificent for me. It’s just that I’ve wondered, and I want to go.

I’ve been on the journalism track for half a decade, so I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me until last fall that if I’m going to intern somewhere, it may as well be in Vietnam. So that’s the plan. Learn about journalism. Learn about Vietnam. And if I could improve my Vietnamese, that’d be nice, too.

But mostly, learn about Vietnam. Really, now that the unpleasant task of introducing the blog is out of the way, that’s the point of this page. With exactly two weeks in Saigon under my belt, I already want to rattle off all the differences between Vietnam and the United States, and all the preconceptions that proved to be false (or true). Just this once, though, I think I’ll resist drawing conclusions about the motorbikes and humidity and pho. I’ve made enough drawings to fill a book, but I’ll sleep on those sweeping statements and if they still make sense tomorrow, well, let the commentary begin.