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?

The New Baby Ambassador

Location: Budapest, Hungary
March 11, 2010
Adventure #8

Recently, I ventured to the US embassy in Hungary to pick up a new passport, which is no small process. I managed to secure an appointment, passed the passport screening at the embassy gates, walked past the thug-like clumps of police officers and security guards, entered the gray, bullet-proof door into the security screening room, passed through the metal detector, surrendered my electronic devices to the guard, entered another bullet-proof door into a waiting room, took a number, then waited to be called to a window.

While I waited for my number to be called, a frazzled, Hungarian woman walked by with her little boy in his car seat. She looked pleadingly at me and I smiled back. I guess I passed her good-people radar (or it was the fact that I passed all the security screens already), because then she asked me for a rather odd favor.

Frazzled mom: "Sorry to bother you, but could you watch my baby for just a minute."
Me: "Um, sure."
Frazzled mom: "It's just that I forgot my wallet in the car, and I have to pay, but I don't want to bring my son outside."
Me: "Sure. But, if my number is called, I'll just ..."
Frazzled mom: "Oh, please don't leave him alone in the waiting room."
Me: "Oh, no, of course not. I just wanted to say that I'll be at the window."
Frazzled mom: "Yes, ok. I'll be just a minute."

Then she ran out the door. Besides her accusation that I would abandon the baby as soon as my number was called, I was quite sympathetic to her plight. The weather was terrible - thick steady snowflakes and slushy streets - and she didn't want to bundle up the little boy just for a few minutes. Plus, I could barely make it through the security screening unscathed, so I can't imagine bringing an infant through the mess. So there I was, in the middle of the American Embassy, holding a baby that wasn't mine, and my number was called. I took the nameless child to the window where I had to ask for my passport.

Embassy employee: "How can I help you?"
Me: "I just need to pick up a new passport."
Embassy employee: "What's your baby's name? I'll go find it."
Me: "Oh, it's for me, not my baby. And it's not my baby."
Embassy employee, looking confused: "Are you babysitting?"
Me: "Well, not really, the lady who was just here left him with me."
Embassy employee gave me blank, weird stare.
Me: "She's coming right back. She just had to run to her car."
Embassy employee: "Ok."

Luckily, at that awkward pause, the mama returned, and the cashier recognized that she was the same woman that had been at the window desk before me. The lady thanked me profusely and then took her baby to the cashier's desk. My babysitting duties were finished.

Riding funiculars

Location: Budapest and Zagreb
March 2010
Adventure #7

In the time it takes to both wait for and ride Zagreb’s funicular, one could walk up and down the steps that flank the miniature train five times. But, in the lackadaisical logic of European vacations, this matters not. Over the last week, I had the gleeful opportunity to ride not one, but two funiculars in my dual home towns thanks to my guests who convinced me that, if given the option, always ride a funicular.

If you are an unfortunate soul who hasn't ridden a funicular or heard whispers of their tales, funiculars are inclined cable railways with tram-like cars that are usually used to tote tourists up to castles. This was the case for the funiculars I have ridden in Heidelberg, Ljubljana, and now Budapest and Zagreb. Apparently there is one in San Francisco, but all of my fun-incular adventures have been across the pond.

In Budapest, my cousins Laura and Brad and I decided to go crazy and spend the $4 needed to ride the funicular, which shuffles visitors from the castle district to the foot of the regal Chain Bridge that marries Buda and Pest. We sat in the first car and looked straight down at the 312-foot-drop – which almost gives you the "I’m about to plummet down the first steep drop of a roller coaster" feeling. Instead, the angle is just an affectation: it was slow and steady glide down the hill, leaving us at the bank of the Duna. Our peregrination was well worth it - another tourist activity to check off my list.

The Zagreb funicular was more comical. Its track is a mere 217 feet long and only operates every 10 minutes. The cute little line - which was built in 1893 - leaves something to be said for length of journey, but the ride only cost 80 cents. Upon exiting, you realize that it wasn’t just a smooth, lazy coast down a hillside: the car gambols, and certainly adds a little spring to its passengers' steps.

Being a Woman on International Women's Day

Location: Hungary
March 8,2010
Adventure #6

Each March 8th, women in Hungary and in many parts of the world receive the lovely greeting of "Happy International Women's Day." I knew of the holiday when I lived in the United States, mainly because of my work at my university's Women's Resource Center, but here it's a well-recognized day in which men customarily give women flowers. In a country that never had a large-scale feminist movement and has a lot of work to do in terms of gender equality, it's nice to see these hard-working Hungarian women getting some recognition - even if it comes in stereotypical packages like flowers or discounted manicures and pedicures, as offered by my gym.

After doing some research, I learned this is actually the 99th International Women's Day. Its mission is to celebrate the economic, political and social achievements of women in the past, present and future, according to www.internationalwomensday.com. I was surprised to learn that the first National Women's Day was observed in the USA in 1909, was declared by the Socialist Party of America and continued being celebrated until 1913. The idea spread internationally in 1911, after a woman named Clara Zetkin proposed the idea at an International Conference on Working Women because she wanted a day women could press for their demands. Since then, the day has gone global, with myriad international events that highlight the triumphs and struggles of women.

Days like this make me question and deliberate on what connects all women and whether or not there are inherent qualities that bind half of the world's population. If so, I hope what women collectively embody are the same qualities behind this holiday: a drive to make the world more just and a desire to celebrate those who have.

Sinking

Sinking cities don’t need our weight,

but we come.

Invading waves 94 million high,

to lean exfoliating backs against crumbling walls,

stealing pieces beneath souvenir fingers.

Abandoning maps in coral-reef streets,

more forest than city.

more ambrosial than sea.

But Venice,

even your groans are sirens.

Smacking water against rubber boots -

a broom against an intruder.

Feigned blithe of a gondolier’s song -

striped prisoners frozen in film.

Cathedral clamor of flood alarms -

your sonorous rejections.

Venice, we have come to court,

as you descend from Hera to Amphitrite.