Living at the speed of two languages

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

The sun, and other pleasures of Venice

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.

Anna Karenina, the ballet

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"

Fries with that goulash?

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"

For the love of Buda

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"

The fairest of them all

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

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

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

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

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

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Listening to: Rush, "Limelight"

Televizió

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

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

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

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

Winter bathing

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

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

Club Szoda

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

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

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

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

Load o’ crocs

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.

The real puppets in Vietnam

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.

Everyone under the sun

"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.

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

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.