Poetry Out Loud Trifecta

Location: Budapest
November and December
Adventure #44

In December, I performed poetry at multiple events including a special reading at Hungary's National Library of Foreign Literature with my bard-friend Daniel. This event was particularly fun because we read our original work as well as some of our favorite poems by famous writers like Marge Piercy, Charles Bukowski and ee cummings. Here is one of my favorite verses by ee that I performed:

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers.  Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other; then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

Also, I got to read at Budapest's Godot Literary Festival as a featured reader for the Budapest Bardroom. This disorganized event happened at a bohemian arts venue on a Friday afternoon. I was completely shocked that anyone even came, but I managed to attract a few loyal friends.

Lastly, my poetry performances of 2010 wrapped up with a slam performance at Merlin, a club and theater in downtown Budapest. A few performers and I read our work to the music of a DJ. He was quite talented, but we never practiced, so it was difficult to pace my writing to his music. It was a nice change in my routine though. In 2011 I have multiple events coming up including a "Write Like Bukowski Contest" and a love-themed poetry event I'm hosting on Valentine's Day. Bring on the creativity.

Happy Hanukkah

Location: Budapest
December 2, 2010
Adventure #43

I am a religious tourist - I enthusiastically seize any opportunity to experience a new holy ritual, whether it was attempting meditation at my college's Zen Buddhism meetings or having the honor of sitting through a Native American sweat lodge ceremony - I find it enriching to experience and study unfamiliar cultures and spiritual traditions first hand.
So naturally, I took advantage of my neighborhood and attended a Hanukkah candle lighting ceremony at a cafe. The event was part of a collaborative celebration in the Jewish district called Quarter6/Quarter7 that honors the heritage of Budapest and focuses on breathing new life into the area. At the event I attended, hosts led a crowd of about 40 people through a traditional menorah lighting ritual. Those who knew Hebrew joined in prayers as the host lit two candles (it was the second day of Hanukkah) on a humble, gold menorah. Although brief, the event was a touching celebration of God and community.

Pollock's First Snow

Location: Budapest
November 26, 2010
Adventure #42

Pollock does not like to get wet, so I did not know how he would react to snow. As it turns out, he loves playing in piles of it, as long as it's not sleeting on him. Here is a picture of him on the first night it snowed.

We were at a sports bar until about midnight watching college football with some of Mike's friends from Texas, and when we left the city was blanketed with the white stuff. It was about a 20 minute walk home, and I have never seen Pollock run inside our apartment faster than when we was getting out of the hard-falling flakes.

Now that the snow has settled, I can't keep him away from the drifts. Pollock loves to eat chunks of snow and chasing snowballs. Here he is, stalking his frozen prey:

Holiday Shopping Story

This month, I wrote my magazine's holiday shopping guide, framed around Budapest's best tourist sites. You can read the article by clicking here.

Giving Thanks

Location: Beautiful Budapest Flat
November 25, 2010
Adventure #41

Despite living abroad for four out of the last five Thanksgivings, I have never gone without some succulent turkey on America's delightful holiday of gluttony and gratitude. This year, Mike and I joined our Coloradan friends, Dana and Stephen, at an American woman's home who works for the US Embassy. She prepared a huge feast including a juicy bird that Mike and Stephen were volunteered to carve. The guests - mostly Europeans - made amazingly genuine American offerings including Mike's favorite, Sweet Potato Pie.

I whipped up some deviled eggs and cookies for the occasion, which distracted me from work most of the holiday. It was a great blessing to be among wonderful friends and to enjoy a delicious meal together. Here's hoping that next year, Mike and I will enjoy our first turkey day together on American soil. If we don't, it's sure nice to know that the spirit of Thanksgiving transcends US borders.

Billie's Bloom

Here houses stay red for generations and 20 types of pie are served on blue polka dotted plates with yellow napkins, clashing with Indian paintbrush walls, but matching my mood

As sun rays cuts through November sea air and slide through windows in movie projector rays,we shakily make Gretel trails of espresso down teacup sides, licking them home to sweet raspberry crisp.

Our elbows and words bump to lulling sounds of Billie on the 1930s Hungarian radio, as violet flowers bloom from her gritty mouth.

Sick Puppy

Location: Gozsdu Udvar
November 20, 2010
Adventure #40
Last week, there was a Jewish culinary festival, JudaFest, in my apartment complex. Although I enjoyed inhaling the aromas of pastries, roasting meat and sholet each time I walked outside, there were some drawbacks (including hearing faint Klezmer music in my flat for about a week straight), like making Pollock sick.

While I am not certain the foreign food was the culprit, Pollock became very ill this weekend and was not holding down his food. This isn't all too surprising because nearly every time we went outside, Pollock quickly devoured any stray kosher crumb sloppy eaters/festival goers left in our courtyards including garlic bread, some bananas and all sorts of tasty morsels. To combat his ill-fated culinary variety, we switched him to a white-rice diet yesterday, and now he seems ok. These new Asian eats have inspired Mike to sing Pollock impromptu ballads like "[You] are Siamese if you please" and "I think [you're] turning Japanese" - musical therapy at it's finest.

While Mike and I were doting, fast-acting canine custodians when responding to our sick puppy, like taking him outside at 5:30am when his stomach was gurgling loud enough to wake us up, luckily nothing was as icky as Hungary's second red sludge disaster that happened in my bedroom at 3am a few weeks back. Mike was out of town and Pollock projectile vomited the remnants of a crimson bone I had given him earlier in the day - it's a good thing he's so damn cute.

Sweden Smörgåsbord

Location: Stockholm, Sweden
November 4, 2010
Adventure #39

As my number of Swedish friends has continued to grow over the past few years in Budapest, I developed a theory that Scandinavians were slowly and politely beginning to take over Hungary's capital, in what I have dubbed the "Swedish Invasion." However, after a recent trip to their headquarters in Stockholm, I am convinced of two things - 1) If the Swedes did take over Budapest, the city would become impeccably dressed and infinitely cleaner - all positive things. 2) The coup will probably never actually happen, because it would be hard to convince most Swedes to ever leave their beautiful home.


Even after only three days in Stockholm, I was not eager to get back to Budapest. It was so easy to get used to sidewalks so clean that people didn't even put construction materials or lawn trimming directly on the sidewalk - they used special biodegradable bags, and I loved seeing lakes or the sea where ever I went.

I went to Stockholm to visit Zsofi, who was visiting her parents who live there. She went to high school in Sweden, so I had always heard wonderful stories about the city from her, so of course she made a perfect tour guide. We walked all over the city, which is comprised of 14 connected islands. I especially enjoyed seeing the old town, the royal palace and The City Hall of Stockholm - where the Nobel Prize banquet is held each year. Plus, I totally lucked out in the weather department - it was sunny every day, so I will always think of Stockholm as a chilly, glowing city, rather than a gray urbane destination as it is during much of the winter.

We also went to the modern art museum and the Vasa Museum, which is a hotly contested tourist spot in Zsofi's household. Her mother thinks visiting it is "a waste of money" and "it's a museum for boys." Her father thinks it is a must-see stop for anyone in the city. While Zsofi tends to side with her mom, I convinced her to give it another go with me. The Vasa Museum encompasses a huge ship by the same name, which is an enormous 17th-century vessel that sunk minutes into its maiden voyage in 1628.

It was pulled out of Stockholm's sea 333 years later and remains the only fully intact ship from the era. After growing up with a pirate-crazed sister, I have seen my fair share of Captain Hook-style battles, so I loved seeing a ship in person and imaging all the swashbuckling that could occur on its deck. What was most impressive, and what probably led to its design flaws, is all its ornate embellishments. There is hardly a surface that doesn't have a carving or adornment, including an impressive lion at its bow. My only complaint is that you can't go inside of the ship, although they did recreate the deck in a neighboring exhibit, so you could pretend you were inside. Thus, I am definitely with Zsofi's dad in this debate.

Over the weekend, Zsofi's dad drove us on their family tour of homes, so I could see all the cute houses Zsofi used to live in, and we made a stop at a charming seaside town called Waxholm, which is were we walked down to the water in the picture above. The whole trip was very relaxing and pleasant - but nothing so warmed my heart (besides my time with Zsofi, of course) as seeing Christmas trolls everywhere I went. These are simply amazing:

Boo-dapest

Location: Haunted Locales
October 31, 2010
Adventure #38

To celebrate America’s greatest holiday export – Halloween – my friends and I headed to Fright Night – a party sponsored by my rival English-language publication, but who cares about competition when you're in costume? So, a peacock (me), a bandit, a '70s funkster, a zombie chef and a '50s pin-up girl all went to the elegant Budapest Jazz Club, drank a whiskey out of a cauldron and danced under cobweb-covered filigreed ceilings. While the party was nothing compared with last year’s fete, the highlight was Michael winning the most creative costume contest and scoring free airline tickets. He went as Scrodinger’s Cat – which, as far as I can surmise, is a quantum physics theory that basically explains the paradoxes that innately come along with studying quantum mechanics. Anyway, the hypothetical experiment involves putting a cat in a box with poisonous and radioactive substances and wondering whether the cat is dead or alive. To capture this lofty costume, Mike turned himself into a cat by drawing whiskers on his face, and he wore a cardboard box with nuclear symbols on it. I was quite impressed with his ingenuity, but even more impressed that over the holiday weekend, six people actually knew who he was dressed up as - which fortunately included the judges.

Heading for the Hills

Location: Buda Hills
October 23, 2010
Adventure #37

Surrounded by flaxen trees and the quiet pitter patter of Pollock's feet scuttling through crisp fallen leaves, I was happier and more relaxed than I had been in a long while. My little family joined a group of friends at my buddy David's house, which is in the Buda hills. From there, with just a couple minutes of walking, we had access to lovely, secluded trails.

With David's large, fluffy dog, Chica, leading the way, Pollock happily pranced through the forest without a leash - rarely leaving my heels. You can barely see him in the picture below, because his fur color (called "wild boar") camouflages him with the earth - making him the ideal hunting dog he was bred to be. However, since Mike and I aren't much for hunting, he'll have to stick with chasing down pigeons in my neighborhood. Before the snow starts falling this winter, we'll have to get back up in the hills. It was a nice reminder that in addition to Budapest's bustling urban life and culture, it manages to boast some refreshing nature.

Becoming Canine Custodians

Location: Budapest
October 20, 2010
Adventure #36

Hello world, meet Pollock. His likes include curling up in laps, chewing stuffed animals shaped as dogs (he's a bit cannibalistic), bringing stray socks into his kennel and sprinting in circles around Budapest courtyards. Dislikes include being alone - even for a second, peeing in front of strangers and loud cars. I think we were meant to be.

An eccentric link that Michael and I have always shared is our utter infatuation with dachshunds. Both of our parents have had or have miniature, long-haired varieties of wiener dog, and we always vowed to have our own one day. Since living in Europe, our sights have been set on wire-haired ones, or as Michael calls them “old-man dachshunds” due to their beards.

Well, after months of searching, we acquired our very own little, old-man dachshund. He was born on May 31, so he's currently four and a half months old. We bought him from wonderful breeders in Eastern Hungary who used to call him Chester. While a cute name, we wanted something a bit more original, so we chose Ottokar Pollock von Beahm Klein – yes, we know we are ridiculous.

First, Ottokar is a traditional Hungarian name, and is also the name of a former king of Bohemia, which is perfect because he needed something that embraced his Hungarian roots. Also, Otto was a name suggestion from our wedding “Madlibs” where we asked our wedding guests to help name our future dachshund. Now, Pollock is what we actually call him, and he is named after Michael’s favorite artist, Jackson Pollock. This name is particularly fitting, because Pollock has a long, wiry tail that resembles a paint brush, so he deserved an artistic name.

Highlights of his first week home include:

- Befriending all of our apartment complex’s burly security guards. One guard pets him every chance he gets, and also shows me pictures of his dog he has on his phone.

- Falling asleep on the dirty clothes shelf of my gigantic wooden wardrobe.

- Chasing multiple neighbor dogs around my apartment courtyard.

- Being overall awesome about using the outdoor little dog's room.

- Making my life at least twice as happy.

Surviving a 10k

Location: Budapest
October 17, 2010
Adventure #35

Today, I ran in Budapest's Women's Race, a 10k that lured thousands of fit femmes and some funny men in drag to a tree-covered starting line in City Park. Although I trained for the race, the current sore state of my legs proves that I did not put in enough mileage, so those last couple kilometers were pretty tough. Also, Mike and I got a puppy this week (more to come on that), so we had a series of restless nights and early mornings, which didn't help my energy factor either. I am just quite proud of myself for finding the motivation to do my second 10k and finishing it - which was just as much of a psychological feat as a physical one.

Here is a selection of what went on in my head today:

First kilometer: Let's do this! I'm feeling good thanks to the pre-race group aerobics and am jazzed to be part of this huge group of ladies.
Second km: Today Marisa hates two-months ago Marisa for registering for the 10k instead of the 3k. I could almost be done by now.
Third km: I'm not even half way there? Time to bust out the Ipod. Must pause Ipod to hear cute little boy who is playing the bagpipes for us.
Fourth km: Running through the shining statues of Heroes' Square is not bad at all.
Fifth km: I am closer to my apartment than I am the finishing line. Maybe I'll run home and call it a day.
Sixth km: Water station - I will use this opportunity to walk for a relieving 10 seconds.
Seventh km: The overweight man dressed as a peasant lady with a backpack WILL NOT BEAT ME. Pick up the pace.
Eighth km: I could make a fortune selling inexpensive sports bras to Hungarian women.
Ninth km: So tired. Just keep going. The faster you run this last stretch, the faster you'll be home to your new puppy.
Tenth km: Done! My friends who ran in Denver's half marathon today are way tougher than me. Note to self: never run a marathon.

Cooking Hungarian

Location: Budapest
October 3, 2010
Adventure #34

Fine, I'll admit that I did cheat a bit in the culinary department last weekend. When making a time-tested Hungarian meal of homemade dumplings and paprikás csirkét (paprika chicken), I left out a Magyar staple ingredient: lard.


My Gundel recipe book, developed and named after one of Hungary's most famous chefs, assured me that for deeply flavorful dishes, one must use lard in local concoctions. But, boy did I prove him wrong. Just like many kitchens across the country that night, I sliced up chicken, diced spicy green peppers and onions, and added them to a sizzling butter base - all resulting in an amazingly tasty dish (after I added the paprika and sour cream of course) - no lard needed. I also made homemade dumpling dough sans lard, sliced it into peanut-sized balls (it feels like Play-Doh) and dropped it into boiling water to make the satiating hard dumplings of which I am so fond. It could be dangerous knowledge that I know how to make them now, because it will be yet another way to feed my carb-obsessed body.


Michael said it was the best Hungarian food he had eaten in Hungary. Granted, he's not Mr. Objectivity when it comes to my creations, but it was a high compliment. Better yet, the meal did not hurt my stomach, which typically heavy Hungarian food does. In fact, it is such a common occurrence that I get a stomach ache after ingesting any native restaurant food or worse yet, festival food, that instead of saying I feel sick, I just say my stomach is "Hungarian." Yet, after this achievement in the kitchen, I will just have to say my ailing tummy is "lardy."

Honoring News Junkies

Location: Washington, D.C.
August 2010
Adventure #33
Of all the world-renowned museums in Washington, D.C. I planned to see during my visit last month, my first stop required no debate. I wasn't in any hurry to see timeless documents like the original constitution, get up close to Rothkos and Pollocks, or learn the history of Native Americans - although I did later pursue these interests. On my first day in our nation's capital, I immediately headed to the Newseum, an interactive institution dedicated to the news industry.

The building itself is extremely impressive, starting with the entrance that prominently features the First Amendment, which of course is America's finest amendment. Since I didn't know where to start in the 250,000-square-foot museum, I headed downstairs to see an exhibit dedicated to the news industry's coverage of major FBI cases called "G-Men and Journalists," which is where I saw the infamous cabin of Ted Kaczynski.

Besides this eerie relic (pictured), the exhibit had a model of the D.C. Sniper's' car, Patti Hearst's gun, and bios of the most famous gangsters in the 1930s.


The Newseum also featured an enormous library of remarkable newspapers, dating back to the advent of journalism. I got to see the very first women's magazine, copies of early American newspapers that inspired the Revolutionary War, and legendary inaccurate papers like the one that ran a "Dewey Defeats Truman" headline.

What made the museum so interesting was its inclusion of real mementos from intense news subjects, like this counter where a famous sit-in was staged during the Civil Rights Movement, sections of the Berlin Wall or outfits worn by Elvis Presley, who never left the newspapers' limelight.




One section of the museum that I found particularly moving was a section dedicated to journalists who lost their lives while covering the news and featured some of their personal belongings like Veronica Guerin's pen and Daniel Pearl's typewriter. Hitting extremely close to home, was this sign from Bosnia, destroyed during their war with Serbia not very long ago.

When I am reminded of the amazing contributions reporters make internationally and on a local level in shaping history, inspiring social change and serving as governmental watchdogs, it makes me never want to leave the news industry.

Internships Galore

Location: Budapest
September 2010
Adventure #32

It's a conundrum familiar to most 20-somethings: reconciling current jobs with future goals, which is how I ended up at this odd stage in my career: simultaneously being an intern and managing an intern.

This summer I began a marketing internship at a small, private Budapest space called the Ari Kupsus Gallery, which showcases antique furniture and contemporary art. My main motivation behind joining the gallery was to flesh out my graduate school application, because I am applying to a masters degree program in Arts Management, and I wanted more behind-the-scenes experience in the arts. Mainly, I am focusing on marketing, reaching out to the press and writing press releases - something I did this week. Now, my hardcore journalism peers would say I have crossed to the dark side, as we don't typically have too much respect for PR folks. For journalists, someone in PR is like a professional football player who got cut from the team, so instead of being in the huddle, he is now an announcer, passively commenting on the action and trying to score an interview with the players. I am not saying I agree with this summary, but I will try and maintain my true journalism force, even though I did enjoy writing pieces like this "About Us" section on the website.

While I am hoping that my unpaid intern days are coming to a close, they are just beginning for my new magazine intern. I was recently promoted to managing editor of my publication, which means I get to manage someone, who happens to be a nice college boy from a Hungarian school. I am certainly happy to have a native speaker who can do my arduous Magyar cold-calling, but I better not let him know that I am a mere intern myself in my other professional life. I don't want to lose my authority (if I even have it), or worse yet, show him early in his career that for those involved in media, unpaid opportunities never cease.

Onwards

I help wash away your presence,
a wet towel on cobwebbed baseboards,
tracking down dandelion Q-tips in drawers' corners
and trashing them with lotions your tanned arms used once and abandoned.

While you scrub away rings of Indian spices in your refrigerator,
the ones you promised me you'd show me how to use but never did,
we reminisce of how many times we have done this,
and how we promise
next time, we'll start sooner.

But we never do. As we clean, empty and box, we discuss packing strategies, that time
I accidentally scarred your antique table playing quarters and how we're amazed when my overflowing Corolla manages to embrace one more Budweiser beer box.

Bearing Bad Theatrics

Location: Budapest
September 17, 2010
Adventure #31

On Friday night I went to a play. It wasn't just any play though - it was a really, really, really bad play. Probably the worst performance I've seen in person. This British musical production visited Budapest just for the weekend - too quickly a time for its reviews to catch up with its ticket sales. Instead of its regular lead actors, it featured a couple of Hungarian replacements whose voices couldn't choose a key and who barely had their lines memorized. Not to mention that we were supposed to be watching a movie set in London, and the thick, Eastern European English accents weren't helping one bit to set the scene.

Speaking of the scene and setting, that was a blunder too. The play was supposed to center on a staged assassination of Britain's king in 1605. But, the writers tried to make it funny by adding anachronistic references, such as cell phone use, Twitter feeds and TV newscasts, yet the modern technology was so ubiquitous that the play might as well have been set in present day. Also, promotions of the show promised me Rocky Horror Picture Show type humor and bawdiness, but instead, it was just raunchy London humor with too much groping on stage.

If the play "Better than Sex" ever comes your way, I wholly recommend skipping it. Unless of course, you are getting paid to pen a scathing review, and in that case, I say "Enjoy!"

Dismissing a Loyal Travelmate

Location: Everywhere I've Been
August 22, 2010
Adventure #30

It's been almost a month since we said goodbye, and I still miss my trusty tweed travel companion. Nearly every trip I've taken over the past decade, this compact carry on reliably schlepped my goods in myriad conditions. Whether it was dragged over Dublin's cobblestone streets, stuffed in the back of my parent's blue minivan during family sojourns to Nebraska, hoisted on Venice's water taxis, or lugged repeatedly up and down my Budapest block last year when I switched apartments - the suitcase miraculously never exploded - it was lost a few times, but always returned home in its own time.

The suitcase was gifted to me by my parents when I was about 12 and I wanted what I called a "stewardess bag." It was my first suitcase that was all mine, and I adored it - which looking back, was obvious foreshadowing to my ongoing wanderlust. Since I didn't travel too much back then, I remember wheeling it around the garage to test its maneuverability or packing it for an overnight sleepover at a friend's house. While I can't recollect with complete clarity, I'm sure it accompanied me on my first trip abroad to Prague, and it came everywhere with me when I studied abroad. And while it never quite fit properly into carry on luggage bins, it did introduce me to a fleet of chivalrous men who would help me squeeze it into airplanes' overly tall storage spaces.

However, when its seams began to rip and its wheels started to rotate a little less smoothly than in its early days, I knew it was time to retire the beloved pack mule. So, my suitcase's last stand was carrying my goods from Denver to Dallas, where I hope it rests in peace while remembering its glory days as a wayfarer.

The Grand Pyramid of Wyoming

Location: Wyoming
August 5, 2010
Adventure #28

As soon as we turned off the highway I spotted it, rising out of the sparse prairie grass like a hapless gold digger's gilded mirage. But, as illogical as it seemed, we knew it really did exist: a pyramid in Wyoming.


A few weeks before I embarked on a road trip from Colorado to Idaho with Mike and my best friends from college, I had coffee with an old high school friend, David. He had spent his college years in Laramie, Wyoming so when he heard I would soon be driving through his old stomping grounds, he let me in on a little secret that would break up the monotony of the windswept drive: go see the pyramid.

Today, the pyramid is not visible from the highway, but it used to be beside a major railroad stop until the tracks were rerouted in the 1920s. The pyramid, which is officially called the Ames Brothers Pyramid, was built about 1880. The Ames brothers were not upstanding men, according to Roadside America; both made millions by selling shovels during California's gold rush, and with their wealth, they took control of the Union Pacific Railroad. One brother became president of the railroad, and the other became a Massachusetts congressman notorious for bribing people in favor of railroad interests. Late in their lives it was revealed they swindled tax payers out of nearly $50 million. Union Pacific's reaction to this was to build the 60-foot pyramid with the Ames brothers' faces carved on the side (both look like Lincoln's penny portrait) in hopes that it would repair their tarnished reputations.


Now, I am no expert at scandal cover ups, but I would think that building this monument in a desolate part of Wyoming would bring more attention to the two's misdeeds rather than letting the swindlers fade into oblivion. I can only hope that if I ever become tangled in a sinister web, that my colleagues will erect an equally bizarre, misplaced installation in my honor. I'm thinking a mini Taj Mahal in Nebraska or a Stonehenge replica on Colorado's western slope.

Celebrating Sixty

Location: Dallas, Texas
August 14, 2010
Adventure #27

Besides this new blog, I have my old staple blog: “I Love My Country, but I Think We Should See Other People.” And while that is its proper title, Mike and I refer to it as something different: The Pops Blob.

Pops is Mike’s vivacious grandfather, with whom he shares many wonderful personality traits, like the ability to maintain a jolly disposition always. Another thing everyone should know about Pops is he, aside from my own parents, is assuredly the biggest fan of my blogs or my “blobs" as he sometimes refers to them. If I am slacking on making entries, I always know Pop will have something to say about it, which keeps me quite motivated. Thus, Mike started fittingly calling my blog the “Pops blob” in his honor. It is only fitting that I should devote an entry to him.

During our stop in Dallas we had a wonderful opportunity to observe an impressive milestone in Pops and his wife Mimi's life that deserves a mention. On August 11, Pops and Mimi’s enjoyed their 60^th wedding anniversary - wow! To celebrate, our family hosted an intimate, lovely party in their honor. What made the occasion extra special was that the next day was Mike and my anniversary, so it was moving to think about our infant marriage compared with this happy, mature 60-year strong one and all the things Mike and I have to look forward to. As Mimi told me on the day of her party, Pops has always been sweet to her throughout their entire marriage, and Michael has the same kindness. I’d say that’s a pretty auspicious thing for me to remember for the next 59 years.

At Least It's Not Arizona

Location: Immigration
Too many days
Adventure #27

In every country there exists a bleak place that inspires such simultaneous stress and boredom that the mere mention of its name induces a wince from any foreigner abroad. Ubiquitously housed in dun, windowless structures and staffed by short-tempered employees, this necessary purgatory is: The Immigration Office.

Over the last four months, I have done my fair share of repenting for any foreign sins inside the space and through the course of my bureaucratic battles, I have picked up a few morsels of collective wisdom I would like to share with any would-be expat.

Everything is a test.

It would seem logical to build an immigration office in a central location where foreigners could easily stumble upon it. Apparently, my visa comment card was not read, because it took a walk, a 25-minute tram ride and a 15-minute bus ride into the sticks to finally arrive at my undesired destination. Upon reflection, it was probably a test: if you aren’t savvy enough to navigate public transit to the offices, you aren’t deserving of a visa.

Always use a blue pen.

If you and your endless required witnesses do not sign all original documents in blue pen, you will be sent home and forced to start the process over. This is a unfortunate lesson to learn, but it also inspired me to learn new local cuss words. If you are even thinking of immigrating to Europe, do yourself a favor and wean yourself off of black ink now.

Stay calm.

As an alternative to repetitively playing grating, demonic music to torture prisoners, I propose using waiting room “ding” sounds. Every time a person in the waiting rooms number is called, a loud, resonating chime sounds, not unlike a school bell. To combat this frustrating monotony bring an Ipod, a loud Ipod - but don’t dare miss your trilling beckoning.

When in doubt, bring the extra paperwork.

Think you won’t need the entire history of your apartment building and the genealogy of all of its former residents? Think again. Bring anything that could possible justify your existence and proves that you do, in fact exist legally. In immigration proceedings, less is never more.

Find your advocate.

After being in the immigration office for multiple days, I began to recognize the regulars, the people who make their living shuffling groups of their African and Chinese comrades through the immigration process. As the only American there, I realized that English speakers need their own immigration godfather. Maybe I should do the job, if it weren’t for the endless dinging. And the public transportation. And my predilection for black ink.

Losing a Piano Duel

Location: Fort Collins, CO
July 31, 2010
Adventure #26

At 11pm, I tiptoed up the steps, avoiding their creaky joints so I could silently reach the kitchen. In the dark, I riffled through my mom's embroidered purse to find her car keys and her wallet - from which I swiped $10. Next, I skulked down the stairs, escaped through my front door and was off in my parents' red Corolla to meet my friends at a bar.

Sneaking through the house this week and trying not to wake my parents was a major flashback to my teenage years, and while I never stole my parents' money or keys, I mastered the art of dodging any tattletale noises when I occasionally returned at an hour at which Cinderella would have been a pumpkin. (Disclaimer to my parents: there is no actual proof I ever broke curfew, and the statute of limitations for punishment has long since passed.)

This particular night, I was escaping to meet two girls at Fort Collins' new venue - the Times Square Dueling Piano Bar. It recently opened at a spot where many fine restaurants have come to die - even Hooters' business grew saggy there. Since it's not downtown and is between strip malls and a hardware store, it has to be a determined destination and not somewhere bar hoppers can stumble upon. On Saturday, it was evident the crowd had been fixated there for awhile and had refiled their glasses multiple times, because when we sober gals walked in at 11, it was as if we entered a friend's party that had been raging for hours and everyone was just merely minutes from crashing. Anyhow, we tried to join in the fun and snagged a table in the back.

On stage, there are two pianos facing each other, with a drum set in between. The instruments are manned by two pianists who take requests from the audience and play songs from their enormous memorized repertoire of pop songs. Boulder has a similar bar which I loved during college, so it was nice to find one so close to my parents' home. After playing a rousing set of every song that appeared in Glee this season, as well as Beatles, Queen and too much Journey, the pianists took a break. To fill the silence, an awkward set of hip hop music was blasted, and the audience was expected to start a dance party, and we just weren't feeling it. Instead, we enjoyed being wallflowers who watched the early birds sweat out their vices. By 1am, we, along with half of the other stumbling bar patrons, made our exit. It's certainly a place I'll return to, but not without a head start on the crowd and an exuberant posse.

Brunch Time

Location: Denver, Colorado
July 25, 2010
Adventure #25

Each time I return back to the United States, I am asked by many people what I miss most about home. My top two answers are always my family (friends included) and grocery stores. For my third answer, I may have to say American brunch.

Although Hungary and Croatia have many gastronomic delights, such as flavorful mangalica and fresh calamari, they can't quite compare to an lightly toasted English muffin that hugs ham and eggs and is drizzled with rich hollandaise sauce, washed down with a spicy Bloody Mary or endlessly refilled cups of American-style coffee.

Last weekend a trio of my closest college friends and I ventured to Snooze in downtown Denver. To snag a table at this retro diner, the wait is usually longer than an hour, but with free coffee and sidewalk chalk, the wait flies by. And, all idle time is worth it the first second you get a bite of their creatively flavored pancakes (the best in the world) that come in styles like sweet potatoes or strawberry rhubarb, your taste buds are in heaven. I am not sure why it is, but for some reason, gluttony early in the day seems perfectly acceptable, and who am I to argue with the culinary deities? Thus, my friends and I enjoyed one AM drink too many, lined our stomachs with pancake beds and pools made of hollandaise and butter, caught up and laughed for an hour straight. This is what home feels like.

Joining the Quarter-Century Club

Location: Wine and Medieval Cellars
July 11 and 14, 2010
Adventure #24

As soon as the lights were dimmed and Stevie Wonder's “Happy Birthday” began blaring over the speakers, I knew my birthday cake was coming. I turned around to see a flock of waitresses, all wearing belly-bearing white shirts escorting my cake to the table. Unlike the typical birthday candles, my Hungarian apple pastry had a giant sparkler plunged into its powdered sugar crown. As the sparkler’s silver bursts slowly fizzled out, I made my 25^th birthday wish.
Early July is a very celebratory time, because within 12 days the following members of my family celebrate their birthdays: my cousin Brad, my brother-in-law James, my uncle Terry, Mike, me, and my dad.

Mike’s birthday falls on the lucky 7/11, and for his birthday we kept it low key. He had just returned from a exhausting business trip to Macedonia on Saturday night, so I knew he wouldn’t want to do anything crazy. So, I surprised him by bringing together a little group of friends at our neighborhood wine bar, Doblo. For the occasion, I made my first-ever solo cheesecake, which turned out pretty delicious if you ask me. Later, we ended up at a going away party for his French interns, so he was serenaded by a multi-lingual “Happy Birthday.” On his actual birthday, which was Sunday, we ate burritos, traipsed around the city and watched the World Cup final.

For my big day, we did anything but keep it low key. All I wanted to do was to go out for dinner, so Mike chose an over-the-top medieval themed restaurant called Lancelot. Suits of armor guarded the entrance of the restaurant, and we were ushered into a cellar filled with big wooden picnic tables occupied by tourists, stained glass windows and murals.

All beverages were served out of brown steins, so my knight went the hearty route and drank a liter of beer out of the enormous mug.

For dinner, we ordered the six-person platter that could satiate any carnivorous instinct and was presented on a huge wooden plank. We feasted on an insane amount of fish, venison, pork, turkey, ham and beef, all which was piled on a bed of “treasures of the garden,” meaning veggies.

Beyond the gluttonous food, the best part of the evening was the live entertainment. My friend Stephen was chosen to interact with two dueling knights (named Sir Prise and Sir Vive), and was asked to serenade his wife as she stood on our dinner table (fortunately, he is the only professional singer of our group), in order to become knighted Sir Stephen the Brave.

Veering from its Middle Ages theme, the night’s entertainment also included a belly dancer and a fire breather who pranced around with two fiery sticks and consumed the flames in front of every table. However, at our table he hovered suggestively over my friend Dana, ran his hands through his curly chest hair and removed his shirt. I just hope that was part of his normal routine.

Lancelot was definitely the Casa Bonita of Budapest, and an appropriately offbeat place to ring in another year.

She Works Hard for the Money

Location: My piggy bank
July 6, 2010
Adventure #23

In our backwards world where a rich poet is an oxymoron, I am always quite pleased with myself for making a few bucks off the odd ode. This year, I received my first-ever royalty check off of my debut poetry chapbook "Opened Aperture," and just today, I was paid for my poetry show last week. I thought I performed for the sheer joy of being onstage, so this financial boon was icing on my composition cake. While I can't subsist on my bard lifestyle alone, I can buy a round of beers or weekly provisions now and then, and I believe that getting paid for what I pour my heart into is worth its weight in groceries.

Slam and All That Jazz

Location: Gödör Klub, Budapest
June 30, 2010
Adventure #22

Last week I participated in a very ambitious creative collaboration. The event melded the words of slam poets from Budapest and Brooklyn (the New Yorkers were piped in via webcam), a modern improvisational dance troupe, and the jazz stars of the evening: Trio Midnight.

A few weeks ago, I was contacted by an enthusiastic, fast-rhyming Budapest poet who I had met at an event last year. I told him I was interested in slam poetry, so he emailed me and invited me to join this event.

For a quick background, slam poetry was created as a Chicago man's answer to a dull poetry reading. Tired of too much finger snapping and monotonous paeans, he proposed turning literary recitations into a performance-based competitions, and thus slam poetry was born. The rules of slam poetry events are fairly simple: poets must perform original work, their performance matters as much as the poem itself, no props are allowed and the recitation can not exceed three minutes or the offending poet's score will be penalized. Meanwhile, the audience is encouraged to vocalize their praises or censures, and after each poet performs, five audience judges score the performance on a scale of 1-10. After multiple rounds of poetry, which often take on social activism themes, the poet with the best score wins. As this movement blossomed throughout the 1990s and still goes strong today, it birthed a new genre of writer: the spoken word poet. I would describe this style as writers whose deliveries are nearly like hip-hop music without the instrumentation and who aim to entertain.

The event I performed in this week was not actually a poetry slam because there was no competition, but the performers all recited slam pieces, so it was a spoken-word show. On the week leading up to the event, I rehearsed with the other bards, dancers and Trio Midnight's bassist. Although I loved the actual event, the practicing and rehearsals were equally rewarding. I haven't been in a collaborative poetic environment where I exchanged feedback with other performers since I was co-chair of the University of Colorado's poetry club and a member of our slam team, the Melo poets. In the future, I hope to perform more with this slam group, although it's a challenge since most of their shows are for a strictly Hungarian-speaking audience.

On the night of the show, I was thrown by how big the audience was - probably at least a hundred people directly in front of the stage and more than a few hundred more outside. The venue, Gödör, is right in the heart of downtown Budapest where the three metro lines connect, so it's a favorite place to hang out, especially because it hosts concerts nearly every night, as well as art installations and exhibits, design fairs, plays, etc.

The show was held to honor the 20th anniversary of Trio Midnight, so they played a solo set and then we joined them on stage fittingly at midnight. Our act started with some improvisational jazz, and then the modern dance troupe grooved for a few minutes, and I was on stage next.



In poetry slams, the first poet who reads is called the sacrificial lamb, because it is always roughest spot - the judges haven't quite got their bearings and the crowd is not warmed up. Luckily, this event wasn't too bad, since there was no competition involved. And, although I couldn't see them because of the blinding pink stage lights in my eyes, I knew I had my little fan club in the back row, so that was all the support I needed (it is a sure sign that you have an amazing husband and friends if they are willing to stay up until 3am on a work night for you). I began one of my pieces called "Rise," and as soon as I said the first two lines, the jazz band started up behind me, mellifluously supplementing my poem with the subtle taps of brushes and slow melodies on the bass and piano. My words and their music flowed together so well, that it cinched my belief that jazz and poetry were meant to be married. After the first performance, I wasn't nervous any longer - I was just having fun. Here are my fellow poets and me awaiting our next turn at the mic:

After my whole group did one set, we paused and let the poets from Brooklyn perform, which was streamed through the Internet. Their stage lighting was so dim, and their performances were not very engaging because they read off the page, so I was a little disappointed. As Mike aptly described, the scene looked like a low-production hostage video, and the poets were reading their ransom notes.

The next set went really smoothly, and then all the poets did one last collaborative piece that was written by Muller Peter, a Hungarian alternative musician who was one of the founding fathers of Budapest's largest music festival, Sziget. He wrote a funny poem called "Czardas," which is a traditional Hungarian dance. We read lines in unison chanted the final lines about the dance - "two to the left and two to the right"- over and over until the dancers came back out and flitted for a few minutes. After the show, the owner of the club brought us champagne, and we all celebrated and sung happy birthday to Trio Midnight.

My Old Man and the Hungarian Sea

Location: Balaton Lake
June 20, 2010
Adventure #21

It wasn't a typical summer visit to Balaton Lake. We didn't eat any langos (Hungary's special festival food that's like a savory funnel cake), we didn't attempt to get in the chilly water, and we didn't get a sun tan. However, what we did get was one heck of a beautiful sunset, which made the quick trip worth it.

Fondly referred to as the Hungarian Sea, Lake Balaton is Central Europe's largest lake and the country's most popular summer holiday spot. Mike and I decided to stop there last weekend, because it was on our train route home from Zagreb, and I desperately wanted some beach time. Unfortunately, Mother Nature was not on our side, so it never got warm enough to actually swim in the lake, but we spent a lovely Saturday afternoon and evening sitting by the water and enjoying the view. We also ventured into the Lilliputian city center of Balatonlelle and ate pizza at a Mediterranean grill which could have been taken straight out of a Croatian seaside town. On Sunday morning, we awoke to pouring rain and an overcast sky, so we caught the first train back to Budapest. I plan to go back on a nicer weekend, although my unplanned weekends are becoming very numbered before I head back to the USA!

A Bout with an Acoustic Ninja

Location: Budapest
June 11, 2010
Adventure #20

It is such a joy to meet extremely talented artists who are down to earth and truly gracious towards their fan base. Colorado acoustic guitarist Trace Bundy is one of these people.

Reverentially known as "The Acoustic Ninja" by his fans, Bundy performs alone on stage with just his acoustic guitar and a fleet of colored capos in lieu of a pick. Describing his performance style is extremely difficult, so I encourage people to check out a video here. In the meantime, I'll be a lazy reporter and swipe his succinct Wikipedia description: "His playing style features him playing with both hands on the fretboard and intricate finger-picking arpeggios." To fully embrace his impassioned performances, I think people should see him live.

When I used to live in Boulder, I saw him perform with Jonah Werner and Newcomer's Home - all folk artists I adore. His performance was so impressive and genuine that I even chose to use his version of "Pachebel's Canon" as my wedding processional. So, when my friend Jennifer, a devout Bundy fan, told me he was coming to Budapest - to a venue a five-minute walk from my flat no less - I was thrilled.

When Mike and I arrived at the show last Friday, he was sitting at the ticket desk with his lovely wife, and we instantly struck up a conversation about our Colorado connections. It turns out his brother is another Budapest expat who was marrying a Hungarian that week, so Bundy and his family were in town for the wedding. We got to meet the whole friendly bunch from Buena Vista, Colorado. It was so nice to get a taste - and an earful - of Colorado and get to chat with Bundy, who was so kind that he even let me take that low-lit goulish picture with him.

Worldy World Cup Viewing

Location: Budapest/South Africa
June 12, 2010
Adventure #19

On the evening of the great athletic showdown where America took on the Redcoats, not only did tensions run high about which team is more deserving of a World Cup win, but equally controversial was the debate about whether we were watching a soccer game or a football match - thus deciding who speaks the more superior version of English. Clearly, the answer is America, so this blog will, in fact, be about soccer.

For the duration of the World Cup, the city of Budapest has set up a giant outdoor projection screen at Freedom Square (Szabadság tér), so anyone can watch the game for free. Thousands of people reclined on blankets and perched on picnic tables to watch last night's event. Initially, I thought there would be more British fans in attendance and my table of vocal USA supporters may have to face off against some football hooligans, but the crowd cheered even louder for the States' goal than for the Brit's early shot. Coming into the game, I knew little about the American team, but now I am a bona fide jersey chaser for Howard the keeper. It amazed me how he took a slide tackle to the chest and still managed to maintain his moxie and expertly protect our goal. Although the event ended it a draw, it was still a strong statement that, although we might be the worst regular international spectators of the sport, American can hold its own at footie.

As the sun set during the game, it struck me as how amazing my attendance at the event was. To rally the whole world around its most popular sport and unite so many disparate people is something magical, especially at our particular setting. Szabadság tér is flanked on one side by the colossal American embassy (which I've written about here) and hosts one of the only remaining Soviet monuments, erected in honor of the Communists after they freed the Magyars from Nazi clutches. The viewing screen was set up just in front of the statue, so the only portion we could see was the gilded Soviet star peeking out behind the screen like a Christmas tree topper. This screen cast a glow over the packed crowd on the ground that resembled a Muslim prayer site. But, at this event, the Dogma was purely athletic.

Next week we'll watch the next game, USA vs. Slovenia, in Croatia. Since Croatians have a virulent rivalry with Slovenia, I am certain all the local crowds will be on our side.

Getting Down on It

Location: Budapest
June 4-5, 2010
Adventure #18

It only takes one.

As Mike so aptly described after our sojourn into the '70s music scene this weekend, a band can still call itself by its original name so long as it retains at least one original member.

Thanks to a thoughtful perk from my editor, I received press accreditation for Budapest’s Stargarden Festival, a three-stage outdoor classic rock showcase that hosted headliners Deep Purple and Kool & the Gang, along with a plethora of other aging groovers. Expectedly, Mike and I were towards the younger end of the crowd's age spectrum, but what threw us was how spiffy the setting was. Rather than what I would expect for a rock crowd (meaning lots of Budweiser tents), this festival was an upscale fete where there were more wineries and palinka vendors than breweries, and fancy meat and cheese stands were opened next to the fried food ones. We stuck to the beer, but we did enjoy some mangalica cuts along with our greasy pizza for dinner. Another surprise was how few people rushed the stage – at any set we could saunter up to the front and even shake the lead singers’ hands if we so desired. Better yet, we could even sit down on the fringes of the lawn and have unobstructed views of the stage.

On Friday, I caught a set by myself - Eric Burdon and the Animals. As with the rest of the weekend’s line up, I knew the bands’ major hits, even if I couldn’t recognize the group by its name alone. Mr. Burdon’s voice is still powerful, and I rather enjoyed hearing him belt “Oh Lord, Please Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood” and “We've Gotta Get Out of This Place.”

The next day, Mike and I set out to see Blood, Sweat and Tears. Originally, I thought we were seeing Earth, Wind & Fire, but I just latched on to serial band names from the same era. (Sorry to any fervent fans of either group who I may have just insulted by my mix up.) Since BS&T’s major hit “Spinning Wheel” was released in 1970, obviously the band is a bit past a rock god’s ideal age bracket. Thus, the original lead singer took a backup role, spending as little time as possible on stage and was replaced by a Nashville native who I’m convinced spent some time as an Elvis impersonator. After we heard their major hit ¾ of the way through the show, our rapt attention diminished, so we devoted our time to other location-sensitive endeavors, like counting the number of rat tails, full denim ensembles, and men in cutoff shirts whose back hair poked out.

It wasn't long before we saw an overworked fog machine begin to perspire on the stage, so we knew we were in for a treat with the final act: Kool & the Gang - who resurrected all the '70s "cherished" kitsch just as we hoped. Like its opener, only three of the large ensemble's members were original, but thankfully Kool was still rocking towards the back of the stage - donning the preferred costume of leather, snakeskin pants and sequined collared shirts. The lead singers now look like Boys II Men dropouts, but they could dance with the swaying, finger snapping finesse of the Jackson 5 and get all the women (or men who didn't speak English) to squeal each time they gyrated and simply whispered "ladies." After playing some younger hits from their 30+ album repertoire, the group time traveled back to the disco age and gave us all what we were waiting for: some “Jungle Boogie,” “Celebration” and “Get Down on It.” We certainly weren’t in Hollywood, but that didn’t deter anyone from Swinging into a full Saturday Night fever.

Local Steps

Location: Budapest
May 25, 2010
Adventure #17

Since coming to Hungary, I have narrowed down my favorite features of traditional folk dancing to two tenets: high kicks and jumps, paired with the ensuing clamorous stomps and the female dancer's spins, which make their white petticoats and floral patterned skirts billow out, forming their body into perfect bell shapes.

Fortunately, the Bihari Janos Folk Dance Ensemble who I had the pleasure of watching last week clomped and twirled enough to fulfill all my fancies. I went to the show "Dance Puts Roses Onto Your Cheeks" to see a new friend named Saci dance. She has been folk dancing for most of her life and her mother is one of Hungary's top folk choreographers, so I got to see both of their talents brought to stage in a springtime performance that featured Pentecost festival numbers along with many courting and wedding scenes.

Normally when I've seen the folk dance, I mainly admire the costuming, especially the colorful aprons, gilded button vests and beautiful ribbons tied into the women's French braids, but thanks to Saci's quick background on the art form, I got to dig in a bit deeper. I started to differentiate between some of Hungary's choreography and costumes and performances from other ethnically Hungarian regions like Transylvania. For instance, Hungarian dances favor graceful movements that emphasize the fullness of their beautiful skirts, whereas Transylvanian dancers don straighter skirts and black boots for both sexes so they can engage in quicker, fancier footwork. Now that I have an inside expert, I hope to continue expanding my knowledge about local flitting.

Going Behind the Curtain

Location: Modern art museums the whole world over

All the time

Adventure #16

With trepidation married with mild curiosity, I part the curtain and skulk inside. The lights are dimmed in the stark white room, and one wall doubles as viewing screen that hosts a looped film with a haunting heart pulsating soundtrack that transport visitors to a tense Hitchcock scene or morose calming melodies that invoke a feeling of floating in a placid pond. If there are voices, they are distorted or eerily whispered. Together, the universal site makes up what I consider the most bizarre fixture of the modern art scene: video installations.

A stable medium of the contemporary avante-garde, video projects are used to recapture important world events or creatively convey a variety of lofty emotions. Recently, I have seem multiple video critiques of capitalism including one about famous Hungarian billionaire George Soros, or another that featured a group of female secretaries singing Abba’s “Money, Money, Money” in a frighteningly catchy round. Other pieces depicted the first Russian rocket launch or environmental degradation of a national European park.

Judging by their intrinsic subjects, these videos could be informative and creative; however, I just find the gallery viewing experience so creepy. From the mysterious soundtracks to the dim, uninviting rooms in which they are broadcast, I hate going to see them. Just once, I’d like to see a positive-themed colorful video work with a soundtrack including anything uplifting, from Stevie Wonder to the Beastie Boys - any siren song that draws me to the exhibit rather than makes me leery enough to keep my distance. If the current generation of artists can inject canvases and photographs with poignant and often humorous subjects, why can’t this talent be transferred to the silver screen? Perhaps I haven’t seen enough of the medium...

However, having to review videos for work has given me inspiration in a peculiar way. I am plotting a murder mystery novel set in an art museum. The crime would have to be committed in a screening room, where the throbbing soundtrack of a film would mask any sounds of a crime or struggle, and should there be any witnesses, it would appear as if it’s part of the show … If this idea transpires into an actual endeavor, never fear, I won’t try and make an artistic video about it.

Bliss

I want to know your language.

So the next time scorn rolls from her crackled acorn eyes

to bread-knife tongue,

marred by lipstick devoured by pursed lips,

I will hear her choice words

and chose my words carefully.

For now, my verbal artillery

contains popgun phrasing of

I don’t

know, understand or speak,

complimented by off-putting pleasantries like

thank you beautifully or lovely weather today.

Then again, I don't want to understand,

why stranger smiles rouse only suspicions

and muttering sighs habitually echoed.

It's better to quiet my voices and beam.

My default of ignorance

is to feign bliss.

On the Waterfront feature

Here is a link to my recently published cover story for Where Budapest:

On the Waterfront

High Culture from the Cheap Seats

Location: Hungarian State Opera House
May 2, 2010
Adventure #15

It is challenging to say, “I think I'll go see an opera,” without adopting a really bad snooty accent. Operas maintain a high-brow connotation, and it is rare that one of my peers attends a show. However, in Europe – land of over-the-top opera houses – everyone deserves to witness their splendor. Luckily, Hungary seems to agree, as they always offer dirt-cheap seats in the upper balcony for mild opera-enthusiasts on a budget, like myself. In fact, it costs far less to buy inexpensive seats for a performance than to take the official tour of the fin de siècle site.

Although I always have obstructed views and have to come in an unadorned side entrance, I love being in the nosebleed section, because I am closer to the opera’s opulent chandeliers and frescoes that bring Greek gods and goddesses to life. This art is as big of a draw as the shows themselves. Also, it’s fun to spy on the people in the private boxes and mezzanine levels to which the balconies directly look. Lastly, it’s good to be in the peon section if I go to a show that I find particularly dull, namely La Traviata last year, because I can leave at intermission and no one is the wiser.

This last month, I bought $2 seats and took my parents to see Sylvia, a ballet. With beautiful sets of a mystical forest and colorful costuming - complete with perky tutus - it actually was a little disappointing not to have a better view. Perhaps I'll splurge for some high-end seats for the next show, but I can't get snooty now.