Rapt in the Return

Location: Budapest
Date: May 27, 2011
Adventure #51

Inspired by motherly encouragement/prodding, I am back to post again on my blog. Just two days ago, I hosted a reading at my favorite wine bar in Budapest with five other very talented poets. A large group of my friends attended, for which I was extremely grateful. Since I am betting that was my final poetry reading in Budapest before my imminent departure, I composed a poem inspired by some of my Hungarian experiences and my current attitude toward moving. Without further preamble, here it is:

Rapt in the Return

We sat side by side on a slated bench like one-third of the last supper,

drinking light lagers out of plastic grails

staring a sinister church protected by chicken wire,

caging in gargoyles with the lunette apostles,

a purgatory menagerie.

As its bells pealed at midnight,

we toasted each other in four languages,

the homeless man donning an Armani hat laughed as I dipped my finger in my drink and gave my dog a lick,

then his eyes moved back to a horizontal glare as we occupied his bed for just a little longer.

These are the moments I inhale,

hand just slapped the chess timer

must move to the next travail.

My mind is most rapt with a return ticket,

time-stamped eyes bring clarity, rarity of vision

where measured moments

bloom like highlighter rows of rapeseed.

I can’t forget what I didn’t do,

fill the cup of bent-over beggars,

whose outstretched hands quiver like a cellist sustaining a chord,

I never danced ‘til dawn in velvet cellars,

but there is still time,

and I didn’t finish the vinegar wine

served by flirtatious proprietors in musky cellars.

I handed it off like a baton to friends who dumped it out behind the cask,

volunteers passing water buckets to douse flames of fire water.

These are the moments I let pass,

hand just slapped the chess timer

time for new memories to amass.

My mind is most rapt with a return ticket,

time-stamped eyes bring clarity, rarity of vision

where measured moments

bloom like highlighter rows of rapeseed.

I have lacked bold strokes to learn the language.

As long as my shy smile suckled its mother tongue,

my stranger smile roused suspicion.

Always wanted to understand when scorn rolled from strangers’ crackled acorn eyes to bread-knife tongues,

so I could hear choice words

and chose my rebuttal carefully.

Instead, I continue with popgun phrasing of pleasantries like thank you beautifully or lovely weather today.

my default of ignorance has been to feign bliss.

These are words I must leave behind,

hand just slapped the chess timer

remaining time too strictly defined.

My mind stays rapt with the return ticket,

time-stamped eyes bring clarity, rarity of vision

I am enamored in the now.

Onwards and Upwards

Location: Budapest
Date: April 17, 2011
Adventure #50

This has been a long time coming, but I've been waiting to save post no. 50 to make this very special announcement. This August, I am moving to Washington, D.C. to attend graduate school at American University. I'll be getting my masters in Arts Management, and I want to focus on marketing and public relations for large cultural institutions. Since I am moving to the USA's museum mecca, I think I will have many fantastic internship/job possibilities. Fortunately, I received a grad assistantship, so I will be working with an initiative that documents the work of aging artists, thus combining two of my big passions: serving the elderly and promoting the arts. I couldn't have tailored a better program for me, and I am anxiously waiting to learn more details.

After telling a few friends about my plans, the follow up question is always, "Is your husband coming too?" The answer is yes, of course - because of his job, he can't pick up and leave quite as easy as I can, but for his quickly advancing career in international development there are few cities that are more in tune to his field than D.C., and it is a good move for him too. For a little while, it may be just me and the pup in Washington, but I have full confidence Mike will not be able to be separated from his newly naturalized dachshund for long.

Although I've been preparing to move from Budapest for almost a year, it is still a bit surreal to know that I will be leaving my home for the last 3.5 years, and Mike and I will live together in the States for the first time. The logistics of the move (packing years of accumulated things back into a few suitcases, collecting our possessions in Colorado and Texas and moving to a city in which I've only spent a total of six days) are overwhelming, but I am trying to take it one small move at a time.

Just like I never would have dreamed of living in Hungary, I never thought I would peregrinate to the East Coast. However, I am finding that a life of unplanned blessings and adventurous opportunities happily exceeds what my imagination fathoms.

Spring has Sprung

Location: Budapest
Date: March 2011
Adventure #49

In addition to hearing the occasional bird chirping, being able to open my windows in the day, and seeing flower beds full of vibrant blossoms, signs of vernal happiness take another form in Budapest: the arrival of Budapest Spring Festival. As in years past, I wrote a feature for my magazine about the large-scale cultural event, which you can read by clicking here.

I was invited to attend the opening ceremony for the festival, which was held at the Museum of Ethnography - a stunningly ornate building built in the early 20th century for Hungary's Ministry of Justice. Anytime I get an invitation to go to that museum, I take it. Although it was hard to capture using just my Ipod, I took this picture of the lobby while a Gypsy musical group performed.

And yet another perk of reporting on the festival was that I was able to attend a flamenco dance version of Carmen - masterminded by Antonio Gades - a late, world-famous Spanish choreographer. Although I think it would have been much better with a live orchestra, the Spanish guitarists and flamenco dancers were exceptional. It solidified what I always suspected would be true: there is nothing more sultry than a vixen (clad in a red dress, naturally) seducing her man with flamenco flitting to Bizet's "L'amour est un oiseau rebelle" (Love is a rebellious bird) aria.

Shakin' It All Night Long

Location: Buda
Date: February 2011
Adventure #48

If 1980s theme parties have helped me realize one personal truth, it would be that my hair was meant to be teased! Thanks to my friends Mats and Zsofi, I had the opportunity to let my voluptuous hair down and trip the light fantastic to fantastic '80s tunes at their hilarious party last month. I know most people in the '80s did not look/dress like this all the time, but what good is a theme party if you don't take it to the extreme?

We revived fabulous looks from the decade, including party girl and Boy George - thanks Zsofi and Mats:

The Olivia Newton-John aerobic girl:

Who you gonna call ... for some man mid-drift:

And my friend Kinga even busted out a Walkman for the occasion:

As we laughed, applied too much make up, teased our hair and danced, danced, danced, heaven truly was a place on earth. Thanks 1980s for being a decade that is just so fun to make fun of.

Now I am waiting for a '90s party, where I plan on wearing a highlighter-hued windsuit that will incessently make a "whoosing" sound while I dance to Ace of Base, Spice Girls and Salt'N'Peppa.

Stunt dog

Within the first couple weeks of having Pollock, he started a hilarious habit of sprinting in circles around my apartment's courtyard. He does this almost every time we let him off leash without any provocation. Since I wanted to capture it on film, here is Mike egging him on:

Literary hangovers, brought to you by Bukowski

Location: Budapest, VII District
Date: February 25, 2011
Adventure #47

It is another gray, snowy day in Budapest, yet I am quite content indoors. I just discovered Massolit, a lovely book store and cafe in Budapest that serves as a glorious Art Deco time warp with Wifi. With a black and white marble checked floor supporting sturdy wooden furniture, over-sized chairs that could hold two of me, and Ella Fitzgerald's finest tunes playing - I feel I have found another home away from home. So now, I am enjoying a delicious brownie and cappuccino and pausing from work.
This is a popular venue for my literati friends, with whom I have done many performances recently, including a "Write Like Bukowski" contest at a local dive bar. For those who don't know him, Charles Bukowski was a poet and author who lived in California and developed kind of a cult-following thanks to his rough, truthful prose and his reputation as the "laureate of American low-life." Given that he was a misogynistic alcoholic with a gambling addiction, writing in his style was a leap outside my creative comfort zone, which is why I welcomed the challenge to release my gritty side.

For the competition, winners could win a bottle of whiskey or a ham on rye sandwich (which happens to be the name of one of Bukowski's novels) for doing the best impression of the curmudgeon or writing most like him. My fellow Bukos were impressive, ranging from the gruff, drunk, explicit and love struck - and even included a participant who had met Bukowski multiple times in California. Although I didn't win any prizes against my unruly competition, I earned a lot of laughs from pieces like this where I tapped into Bukowski's pessimistic spirit with this true story:

Halloween

I stepped in dog crap while swaggering home from the bars on Halloween -

a typical Budapest plague -

so I left my boot outside my front door to clean in the morning.

The next day my German, middle-aged neighbor asked if I got any treats in my shoe,

thinking American Halloween is like St. Nicolas Day,

and I left my boot outside in hopes it would be filled with chocolate

for being such a good girl.

All I could say was

sometimes you get a treat,

but most the time you get tricks.

The next morning after my show, I smelled like I had just stepped out of an airport smoking lounge - even my poetry paper reeked of cigarettes - and my head hurt from drinking too much cheap beer. I think my poetic hangover was exactly what Bukowski would have wanted as a tribute.

Enjoying Communist Cuisine

Location: Budapest, VII District
Date: February 19, 2011
Adventure #46

For a Saturday lunchtime outing, my friends and I opted to head back in time via Kádár Étkezde - a Jewish/Hungarian restaurant in the heart of Budapest's VII District. This eatery has been more or less unchanged since Communist times and still draws a loyal lunch crowd. The cozy restaurant is composed of tightly packed tables with red and white checked table cloths protected by plastic covers.

Its wainscot walls are decorated with mismatched framed pictures of local celebrities, old maps and and hilariously timeworn signs, like this one that barely divides smokers from the non-smokers. (A wise Hungarian friend once told me that non-smoking sections in Budapest restaurants are like having designated non-peeing lanes in a swimming pool.)

Fortunately, I came to lunch with veterans of the establishment, because there are a few rules every patron should know Kadar's dining rituals:
- Each table has a bottle of seltzer water. Pour yourself glasses of water, but be sure to count them, because you are charged Ft 50 per glass (25 cents).
- You must also count how many pieces of bread you consume, because, like the water, you are charged per slice Ft 30 (10 cents).
- At the end of your meal, you must go to the front of the restaurant to pay the owner who is dressed in a white shirt and pants like a sanatorium worker. Precisely recite everything you ate down to the last piece of bread and glass of water, while he adds up the total on a slip of paper. If you seem to be underestimating your consumption, he will interrogate you.

I came to the restaurant specifically to try a traditional Hungarian meal of a goose leg and sólet, a Jewish bean stew. It was every bit as tasty as its reputation promised, and it made me pleased that I finally got to enjoy a Magyar institution. Plus, the fact that the owner didn't question my eating habits was a major boon.

Making a Blog Comeback

Location: International
Date: February 18, 2011
Adventure #45

Yesterday, I watched my ultimate saccharine guilty pleasure - the TV musical show Glee - and the episode was about its downtrodden characters making comebacks. Not that I usually take inspiration from prime time, but it did remind me that I have been neglecting some of my outlets and things that make me me - namely creative writing - and I could use my own mini-comeback. Furthermore, I promised that I would do 50 adventure postings in a year, and I am about a month behind, but gosh darn it, I am still going to finish it and keep going.

While there were many factors at play to my absence, like the holidays and my trip to the states, there was one big one. In January, my family suffered a big loss when Mike's grandfather, whom everyone called Pops, passed away. He was an avid reader of my blog - dare I say its biggest fan - and was endlessly supportive of my writings and was genuinely interested in the day-to-day happenings of my life, which I wrote about it in this posting. For awhile it made me too sad to write this blog knowing that Pops wouldn't be there to comment. But he was always a friendly motivator who sent me messages and phone calls when a new posting was long past due, so I know he'd want me to keep going with my blob. When we were in Dallas for the memorial services, I got the great honor to write Pops' obituary with the help of the family, so here is another of many tributes that Pops is due:

Leslie "Pops" S. Klein, Jr., loving husband, father and grandfather, passed away peacefully on January 10, 2011. Born June 7, 1926 in Chicago, he was the son of Dorothy and Leslie S. Klein. Les moved to Dallas in 1938, graduated from Woodrow Wilson High School in January 1944 and attended Baylor University in Waco until he joined the U.S. Army at age 18. He served in the 44th Division, 324th Infantry, C Company and was transferred to the HQ Company, 3rd Battalion, 324th Regiment as a Jeep driver for the message center in France, Germany and Austria. Later, he was trained at Camp Chaffee in Arkansas and was sent to Japan for its occupation. He was discharged from the Army as a corporal and received the Bronze Star, two European Battle Stars and a Combat Infantry Medal. After the war, he attended S.M.U., where he met his wife Mary Grace Carter of Tulsa, Okla. He was a member of the Kappa Sigma fraternity. Enjoying a career as an accomplished furniture salesman, Les once worked for the Curtis Mathes Company. He bought its mattress factory, founded the Southland Bedding Co. in 1963 and acquired the Spring Air bedding franchise in the mid-1970s. In 2005, he received the Tupelo Furniture Market Manufacturer's Representative Award. Demonstrating his faith through his kind and generous personality, Les was a sincere Christian and a long-time member of the University Park United Methodist Church. He was extremely proud of his grandchildren whom he cheered on at Highland Park sports events. He is survived by his devoted wife of 60 years, Mary Grace; two sons and their spouses: Ann and Les Klein and Nancy and Mark Klein of Highland Park; six grandchildren and their spouses: Sarah and Matt Klein, Emily and John Klein, Katherine and Chris Herron, Marisa and Michael Klein, James Klein and Ginna Klein; and three great-grandchildren.