What a finale

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.

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Rereading: 1984

Listening to: Blue Oyster Cult

Switzerland: seven cities in seven days

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

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

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

Terror Haza

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!

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 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.

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"

Metro genius

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

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

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

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

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Watching: Black Hawk Down (assessment: disappointing)

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"

Születésnapom!

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

Comfort zone

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.