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.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
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!"
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!"
Monday, September 13, 2010
Dismissing a Loyal Travelmate
Location: Everywhere I've BeenAugust 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.
Friday, September 3, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Celebrating Sixty
Location: Dallas, Texas
August 14, 2010
Adventure #27
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 60th 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.
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.
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