Releasing My Inner Exhibitionist

Location: Hungarian locker rooms
April 2010
Adventure #13

Using American sensibilities, I've never considered myself prudish. I graduated from CU-Boulder (where we interpret being a "buff" in many contexts), the home of the naked pumpkin run, the threadbare bicycle ride and where I cherished a group of friends who streaked with the same regularity with which they bought blue books. However, in Hungary, even my widely drawn comfort lines are being crossed nearly every day in my gym's locker room.

For a little context, when I played sports in high school all the ladies were all extremely modest (read: insecure teenagers) and jumped through many hoops to retain this coyness. We mastered the maneuver most athletic women are familiar with, where you put your sports bra on top of your regular bra, then remove the bottom layer and never expose your lady lumps. In college, these boundaries became a little bit more relaxed, but still only the older women who were beyond inconvenient shyness walked around au naturel.

Then I moved to Hungary. Here, leafless women roam the locker rooms more often than clothed ones. I've grown slightly accustomed to seeing naked ladies everywhere I look, but lately a line has been crossed. I've been able to stomach nude women liberally apply lotion, sitting in the saunas or walking to and from the showers. However, the extreme action that has sent me over the edge is topless hairdrying. Every time I've gone to the gym this week, there has been at least one woman at the mirror fixing her hair, wearing only a thong or a towel tied around her waist or worst yet, in her birthday suit. The worst perpetrator to date is highly endowed and has hair down to her hips. Not only was she braless, her spectacle worsened as she used two blow-dryers simultaneously. Thus, both her arms were lifted and the hair wasn't the only part of her flapping around.

Unfortunately, there is no way to remedy this situation except to either grow even more liberal or to skip out of the locker room as quickly as possible after showering. But then, I'll be the odd wet hair lady (Hungarians seem to believe people who leave the house with wet hair automatically contract a terminal illness) who I am sure will be fodder for a Magyar blog.

Pushing Cultural Boundaries to the Fringe

Location: Pécs
April 9, 2010
Adventure #12

Never do I feel more in my element than when I am wedged into a vermilion velvet theater seat waiting for the curtain to rise, teetering on a cafe stool while balancing a coffee in one hand and snapping with the other to honor a poet's recitation, or perching on my tiptoes in a smoky Budapest cellar trying to catch a glimpse of a rock band. Without a doubt, I am an arts and culture junkie. To satiate my cravings, I recently traveled to a town in Southern Hungary called Pécs to see the Fringe Festival, as I explained in my travel blog. This festival, which started in Edinburgh and now has iterations occur all over the world, provides performance space for amateur artists in all genres through a weekend-long event, thus bolstering the "fringe" of the artistic society.

At Hungary's Fringe Festival, my vanguard sidekick Zsofi and I performance hopped with some amazing and peculiar outcomes. The first show we saw - or tried to see - was of the latter variety. A modern dance troupe was putting on a show, but instead of a standard stage, their makeshift performance space abutted a large gallery window. They hung a black sheet over this window and cut multiple peepholes in the cloth. If you wanted to catch a glimpse of their frantic movements, you couldn't go inside and watch the performance unfold, but rather, you had to negotiate with the crowd for a chance to be a peeping Tom. Sick of waiting our turn, we switched to a more professional dance troupe's performance and caught the last half of their show. This riveting performance included a long choreographed fight scene between four couples, which involved lots of jumping, catching, and bodily movements I wouldn't dare attempt. I wish I could have seen it twice.

Next, Zsofi and I switched venues to catch some musical acts. Although Hungary is not known for cultivating talented gospel or soul singers, I still wanted to see a performance in the genre. It turned out to be as lackluster as I should have expected. The large group of 20 singers resembled a shy teenage church choir where no one will stand close to the microphone and no strong melodies are ever heard. After a soloist managed to downgrade Grace from Amazing to humdrum, we hopped across the hall to a decidedly different performance - a trio of pubescent punk rockers who pounded out incomprehensible songs and suffered from the if you can't sing, sing loudly disease.

Fortunately, we fled and ended up in a gem of a bar. In its entryway, a local pop artist recreated his modern-day version of the Sistine Chapel in a cartoon fresco (pictured). Instead of the iconic touching fingertips, it features clinking beer glasses, and in the place of the regular Michelangelo characters are Frank Zappa, DJs, break dancers and even the lead singer from Motorhead. We grabbed a table near the art and the stage and were treated to a beautiful folk singer who mesmerized us with soulful Roma songs from the region and traditional folk songs.

Next up, was my favorite show of the entire weekend: an energetic blues group. First, I must make a confession: there are three instruments that I believe to be the bees knees, and should one individual master all these instruments, I will be their bona fide groupie. They are: the bass (this love was fostered early on, as all my pre-college crushes played the bass), the saxophone (I still resent my band teacher for convincing me to play the flute in lieu of the tenor sax), and the harmonica. This blues band had a dashing blond front man who rocked classics like "The Thrill is Gone" with rare moxie for being a non-native English speaker, but, most importantly, he was a mad harp player. I sat in an enamored, toe-tapping state for their entire set, just waiting for the next harmonica solo. I haven't felt that present for an event in a long time - maybe I'll have to join that band's already large groupie pool. This performance also sparked what may be my next goal once I finish this blog: learning to play the harmonica.

As our last cultural stand of the weekend, Zsofi expanded my visual-art knowledge and introduced me to a fascinating modern Hungarian artist, Tivadar Csontvary. The painter, who suffered from schizophrenia, didn't start painting until he was 41, but in his short career, he created a surrealistic oeuvre of vivid landscape watercolors and portraits that are detailed to the point of eerie. He now tops my list of favorite Magyar artists.

BINGO!

Location: Budapest
April 15, 2010
Adventure #11

Whether we were to conduct a bingo game for a group of Hungarian hipsters or the local elderly patrons who are our actual target audience, the most popular prizes would be the same: coffee and cigarettes.

Nearly every month since I moved to Budapest, I’ve helped the North American Women’s Association host a bingo game at a local nursing home. As a non-Hungarian speaker, my role is pretty simple. I help set up and distribute snacks and juice, then watch over a table or two to ensure the players don’t miss any numbers and confirm that winners’ Bingos are legit. Players get really into it, and I love hearing a seemingly reserved person yelp "Bingo," causing their competitors to let out equally loud groans.

Not only do I enjoy spending the time with the elderly and my American and Canadian cadre, the game has helped me learn my Hungarian numbers from 1-75 and how to correctly pronounce the names Bela, Illona, Nula, Gabor, and Olga, since our bilingual caller uses these names as a culturally relevant B-I-N-G-O substitutes.

Of course, the downfall of a volunteer project like this is that I can’t hold conversations with the volunterees because of the language barrier. However, this situation proves how far one can go with non-verbal communication, which was underscored when I recently tried to assist one of my favorite regulars in claiming his prize.

In addition to the always popular cigarettes and coffee (so coveted that we limit winners to one carton of cigarettes), the prizes include candy, some food items and lots of toiletries. Now this dour man who I was assisting is one of the most entertaining gamblers because he is an inveterate word worm who brings a newspaper to every game and reads as much as he can between each play so as not to reduce himself to talking to his peers. When someone else wins he scowls and opens his paper wider – pretending to be too good to play Bingo anyhow. On this particular day, he ended up winning a round, so I asked him what prize he would like. Apparently he told me “deodorant,” but since that word is at the bottom of my need-to-know Hungarian vocabulary hierarchy, I had no idea what he wanted. In response to my confused stare, this elderly gent raised his arm and mimicked rolling on some freshness over his flannel shirt. Naturally, this made me giggle, and I even provoked a rare smile from him.

Even though I can’t speak in complete sentences, at least I inspire a smile now and then, especially when I resort to cheating. There is nothing more disheartening than watching over a table for more than an hour where no one is winning and the people are getting frustrated. Thus, when it comes close to the end of our session and there are still some players who haven’t won, we signal to the caller to announce auspicious numbers that lead to a gleeful utterance of “Bingo!” Yes, even fabricated Bingos sound as pleasing as orthodox ones.

New Published Poem

A University of Colorado literary journal, called sub-scribe, just accepted one of my poems for their newest edition - yea. The theme was Bad Timing, so I contributed a poem that is a throwback to high school angst. Consider it my paean to Salinger.

You can read it by clicking here.

I've been published in the journal before, and you can read and hear my earlier work here, here and here.

Making up for Lost Meat

Location: Budapest
Easter 2010
Adventure #10

At the stroke of midnight on Easter Eve, I reverted back to my true dietary nature with one large bite of sausage. My prince charming beside me also lost his Lenten glow as the smoke of a grill obscured his animal-friendly patina. That night, a British friend of mine who happens to be a butcher in Budapest hosted a true "Sausage Party" at a local bar. He was grilling up his delectable conconctions all evening, and he set two sausages aside so we could enjoy them when it officially became Easter. And enjoy them we did ...

On actual Easter day, we ventured to the Marriott for their buffet, where Mike feasted on a menagerie of prepared meat, including "squid, veal, shrimp, beef steak, chicken, salmon ham and pork," as he proclaimed on Facebook. Here is a picture of us post-gluttony:




The first few weeks of Lent were a breeze; I didn't miss meat at all. However, after drooling over my family's seafood in Croatia, I definitely began to crave some pure protein. After awhile, I was so sick of pasta and egg-based dishes that I couldn't wait for lent to finish and I found myself with lower energy levels than before despite my best efforts to get enough protein. In Budapest, it's difficult to find fresh, crisp lettuce, and we certainly don't have any Whole Foods or stores that cater to a vegetarian diet, so I struggled to find soy products or salad-making material. Perhaps I'll give up meat again, but I will probably I'll wait until I'm in the Western world once again.

Easter

Subway peasants perch in the buskers' echoes,
thrusting dried bouquets of bruised purples at my hands
like a nervous beau on the stoop.

Above ground, Easter hams carve the air,
beckoning locals inside
leaving springs streets open so
my unobstructed shadow can point the way
to the secular table of friends.

As our cardinal wine circles the table,
its perspiration dyes our eggshell table jubilant.

Surviving Hungarian Wine Tastings

Location: Budapest
March 2010
Adventure #9

Perhaps I have watched one too many "Cheers" reruns, but I have always wanted to be a regular at a bar, a place where I could stroll up to the bartender, have my drink already poured and no immediate discussion of a bill - it's on my tab or better yet, on the house. At long last I have achieved this vice-induced dream, but it certainly has become the blight of many a morning.



About six months ago, an elegant wine shop and bar that exclusively sells Hungarian vintages, opened about 200 yards from my apartment. Its interior has the striking blend where contemporary touches like flaxen chandeliers meet antique elegance with old exposed brick that the owner laid by hand. All the brick imbues the feeling of being in a cozy underground cellar with the comfort of being on the street level. And, in the Eastern European tradition of bars so smokey that it takes two washing cycles to return one's post-bar hopping wardrobe to a neutral scent, this one has a delightful no-smoking policy.

Early on, my friends and I ventured inside a number of times, and it wasn't long before the owner began to recognize us. Unlike a snooty sommelier one might expect as a proprietor, our host is a hearty, outgoing Hungarian who has lived all over the world, including New York, and he looks like he could start a pub brawl with the same ease with which he uncorks bottles. Fortunately for my uncultured palate, he doesn't expect me to be a sophisticated customer; instead, he pours what he thinks we will like, and usually, he's right.

However, this generosity in sharing his wino wisdom can prove troublesome. I have done at least three wine tastings with the owner, and while he provides humorous, educational information on the wines, by about the fifth bountiful sample, the knowledge disappears and the cultural event transforms into a brouhaha. One thing any potential customer should know is that the shop does not house any spit buckets, so what you're poured, you must finish if you want the next sample. The other option is to add some soda water to the mix and make froccs - Hungary's answer to the wine spritzer. But, I certainly wouldn't want to feel any wrath upon pouring out a glass of Hungary's finest.

When my cousins and in-laws recently visited, I took them to a prolonged, enjoyable tasting, and the next morning, I definitely established myself as the weakest familial link when it came to processing wine. When I was finally feeling up to befriending wine again, I visited the wine shop and complained to the owner about my sad state of affairs. His response was, "There is no such thing as too much wine." Dare I reach his tolerance level?