Well, I've realised that the detriment to keeping a daily paper-and-ink diary as well as a weblog is that one is always about 4 steps ahead of the other. Consequently, the current theme or undercurrent of my notebook is a bit more upbeat than that of the blog. My sincerest apologies. I forget sometimes that, often as you might get online, you are not truly able to keep up with the turn of events as quickly as they pass through my mind.
Unfortunately, I still do not want to interrupt the chronological flow of thoughts as I have them written down, so for now I'm going to simply diverge from the main body of content and offer a bit of light-hearted relief from the other half of myself that's forever trying to prove itself profound...
In a desperate attempt to encourage slumber last night, I tried, for the second time in my life, counting sheep. They were hopping over a bi-railed log fence (Who in the world thought of this?) and I'd seen the first sixteen gently lope across when number seventeen didn't get high enough off of the ground and stumbled through the upper spar, leaving it on the ground, and allowing the next dozen and a half to come through in pairs. But thirty.six and thirty-seven collided in mid-air, crashed down onto and shattered the bottom spar, and took off in opposite directions at a dead run. I managed to count up to forty-five before the flood of fluffz white tufts became indiscernible, and doyens poured through before the last trotted gaily through over the splintered rails and trodden turf.
At this point, the analytical, get-on-with-the-obvious farmer part of me took over, and I began repairing the fence. I was apparently still in Austria, judging by the deportment and outfit of the local who came ambling along just as I finished. I ws relaxing against one of the uprights, having just scooped up and downed a few handfuls of the dependably cold and pure Alpine spring water near-to-hand, and he came and rested himself against the section of fence immediately next to that which I'd just repaired.
'Say,' he began, in surprisingly good English. Unless, that is, I'd learned German since lying down, which is, of course, far more likely in Morpheus' realm. 'Have you met the Mustang girl yet?'
I knew I hadn't, as horses aren't all that common her, save for the two small ponies I saw one middle-aged farmer leading along in a village a few doyen metres up the mountain, so I replied in the negative.
'Ahh,' he replied heavily, 'You should seek her out. As an American, you'd certainly appreciate her. All seven of her dental fillings are made of some part of a melted down Ford Mustang. Her first was from a 1965 standard coupe, and she followed with one casdt from the window crank of a '66 convertible, then various parts from a '67 Fastback, a '68 GT350, a '69 GT500, a '70 Boss 302, and a '71 Mach I.'
At this point, I came fully to with a jolt, and thought, once again, 'Who the CRAP came UP with this?'
I hope your dreams are as entertaining, though perhaps easier to understand...
As I've been writing this, the landlady's 8 year old daughter and I have been teaching one another our native tongues with the aid of the website www.leo.org. I've just been told that she and her cousin operate a small library in the attic, and she's gone to fetch me a book. I am the only guest currently occupying this cozy little bed and breakfast, and have decided to stay two more nights, as tomorrow is the annual harvest festival. It seems that I may be the only non-native to the hamlet at the affair, but the family who operates the B&B, die familie Hörtnagl, have said that I can attend Mass with them in the morning, and presumably, I'll just follow them to the celebration, which is to include the fruits of the harvest, brot und käse (Bread and cheese). I wonder if they need an English teacher here...
Rob and Nick, wherever you are, safe I hope, you really ought to have stuck around longer. I wish you the best for the upcoming school year, and I pray you're made as warm and welcome wherever you find yourselves as we were here in Navis.
OH!! And to show that I do read and appreciate your comments:
Thanks Tim for encouraging me to bring the iPod (I actually bought a new one, a 'shuffle.' For what it's worth, an Altoids tin makes an ideal travel case for an iShuffle, earbuds, and lanyard to wear said iShuffle, as well as an extra camera chip or two...or it does until you forget that said tin is propping open a window and you cram the window shut, forever crimping aforementioned tin beyond usefulness...) I've found that my selection of 131 songs has definitely been more encouraging than detrimental to my situation.
Allen...never did care for the Cure, though I seem to recall that you did. Don't remember you in black eyeliner... Do have plenty of U2, though. I might write up my music list at a later date.
Brad: have taken plenty of pictures, have lost camera-to-computer cable. Drat.
Larry and Raysha: glad to see someone gave y'all the address. Did you make the reunion last weekend?
Next stops: Verona and possibly Milan, Italy. Hoorah.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Friday, September 29, 2006
Gratitude...
Thanks, by the way, to all who posted or emailed after my fit of self-pity...
Things are looking up from that last post a few days ago, and I look forward to filling y'all in on all the little details you've missed...
Things are looking up from that last post a few days ago, and I look forward to filling y'all in on all the little details you've missed...
Update
OK...trying to cover a lot of ground in a short time:
Adam, Brad, and Vince, y'all would be proud...I've done some crazy hiking through and over portions of the Alpine foothills over the past few days. Things I would not have done under normal circumstances I've managed to negotiate while strapped to a 45 pound (19kg) pack. It was more like bouldering than hiking...
Any rate, am currently holed up in a regular Tirolean paradise; little town of Navis. Have been writing in ye olde travel logge for hours, but don't have time to transcribe everything onto here. In lieu of brilliant thoughts from me, here are a few of the quotes that have been on my mind for the past few daysÖ
First, for Cody Canup:
Architecture and war are not incompatible. Architecture is war. War is architecture. I am at war with mz time, with history, with all authority that resides in fixed and frightened forms. I am one of millions who do not fit in, who have no home, no family, no doctrine, no firm place to call mz own, no known beginning or end, no 'sacred and primordial sight.' I declare war on all icons and finalities, on all histories that would chain me with mz own falseness, mz own pitiful fears. I know only moments, and lifetimes that are as moments, and forms that appear with infinite strength, then 'melt into air.' I am an architect, a constructor of worlds, a sensualist who worships the flesh, the melody, a silhouette against a darkening sky. I cannot know your name, nor can you know mine. Tomorrow we begin together the construction of a city.
- Manifesto of Lebbeus Woods, Austrian educated at Purdue Universitz School of Engineering. I do not totally agree with all he says, but some of it is most certainly eloquent and right on with my own sentiments. On to the lighter blips...
One of my favourite bands is a group called Satellite Soul. They have a song called 'Love is all we own.' The second verse ends as follows: The sunsets by the barnyard, and the dark means day is done, but the night can't last much longer than it took to hide the sun. If I could just go back there, in time much more than space; to hear my mother's laughter and to touch my father's face...' Europe's fine, but it's hard to find home in a sea of constantly passing friends and strangers, in a world altogether different from what has been familiar.
Coming down off the mountain yesterday, and knowing I was desperately satisfied to be doing so, I kept singing to myself the beginning lyrics to The Band's 'Cripple Creek:' 'When I get off of this mountain, you know where I want to go: straight down the Mississippi River to the Gulf of Mexico...' I didn't want a change of scenery that drastic, but I was well prepared to get off of the rocks and out of the wind.
Then, while writing today, The Travelling Wilbury's 'End of the Line# came through my ear buds, and a few of the refrains seemed particularly pertinent: 'Even if thez say you're wrong, sometimes you got to be strong, long as you got somewhere to lay (It's allright...)... Riding around on the breeze, (It's all right) If you live the life that you please...'
And so I am. I hope you find peace, love and fulfillment where you are and when you lay your head down tonight.
Adam, Brad, and Vince, y'all would be proud...I've done some crazy hiking through and over portions of the Alpine foothills over the past few days. Things I would not have done under normal circumstances I've managed to negotiate while strapped to a 45 pound (19kg) pack. It was more like bouldering than hiking...
Any rate, am currently holed up in a regular Tirolean paradise; little town of Navis. Have been writing in ye olde travel logge for hours, but don't have time to transcribe everything onto here. In lieu of brilliant thoughts from me, here are a few of the quotes that have been on my mind for the past few daysÖ
First, for Cody Canup:
Architecture and war are not incompatible. Architecture is war. War is architecture. I am at war with mz time, with history, with all authority that resides in fixed and frightened forms. I am one of millions who do not fit in, who have no home, no family, no doctrine, no firm place to call mz own, no known beginning or end, no 'sacred and primordial sight.' I declare war on all icons and finalities, on all histories that would chain me with mz own falseness, mz own pitiful fears. I know only moments, and lifetimes that are as moments, and forms that appear with infinite strength, then 'melt into air.' I am an architect, a constructor of worlds, a sensualist who worships the flesh, the melody, a silhouette against a darkening sky. I cannot know your name, nor can you know mine. Tomorrow we begin together the construction of a city.
- Manifesto of Lebbeus Woods, Austrian educated at Purdue Universitz School of Engineering. I do not totally agree with all he says, but some of it is most certainly eloquent and right on with my own sentiments. On to the lighter blips...
One of my favourite bands is a group called Satellite Soul. They have a song called 'Love is all we own.' The second verse ends as follows: The sunsets by the barnyard, and the dark means day is done, but the night can't last much longer than it took to hide the sun. If I could just go back there, in time much more than space; to hear my mother's laughter and to touch my father's face...' Europe's fine, but it's hard to find home in a sea of constantly passing friends and strangers, in a world altogether different from what has been familiar.
Coming down off the mountain yesterday, and knowing I was desperately satisfied to be doing so, I kept singing to myself the beginning lyrics to The Band's 'Cripple Creek:' 'When I get off of this mountain, you know where I want to go: straight down the Mississippi River to the Gulf of Mexico...' I didn't want a change of scenery that drastic, but I was well prepared to get off of the rocks and out of the wind.
Then, while writing today, The Travelling Wilbury's 'End of the Line# came through my ear buds, and a few of the refrains seemed particularly pertinent: 'Even if thez say you're wrong, sometimes you got to be strong, long as you got somewhere to lay (It's allright...)... Riding around on the breeze, (It's all right) If you live the life that you please...'
And so I am. I hope you find peace, love and fulfillment where you are and when you lay your head down tonight.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
OK for Pete's Freakin' Sakes
I was going to put up a little quiz with hints as to where I am now, but as I cannot get online all that often, it would take too long.
Hello from Innsbruck, Austria, the most innaccessible and expensive city I have ever seen. I cannot afford to do anything, including leave.
So seriously, since I'm stuck, I got online to see if anyone had responded to my posts or sent me an email. I had ONE email, and no posts on the blog. Now really, y'all, is it THAT big a deal? Freaking respond! My goodness! I am wandering around Europe alone, hoping to make friends to travel with, but having no luck, discovering that everything I want to do is impossible (or so the bitter, unhelpful woman at the tourist information center would have me believe) and when I get online (at roughly 3 US dollars an hour) it would be NICE to see that someone is taking some interest in what I've got to say. If I'm just blathering information that no one other than the 3 people who will actually post (Thank you, Tara, Allen and Brad) is interested in, I'll stop, and save the money.
Show some stinking love here.
Hello from Innsbruck, Austria, the most innaccessible and expensive city I have ever seen. I cannot afford to do anything, including leave.
So seriously, since I'm stuck, I got online to see if anyone had responded to my posts or sent me an email. I had ONE email, and no posts on the blog. Now really, y'all, is it THAT big a deal? Freaking respond! My goodness! I am wandering around Europe alone, hoping to make friends to travel with, but having no luck, discovering that everything I want to do is impossible (or so the bitter, unhelpful woman at the tourist information center would have me believe) and when I get online (at roughly 3 US dollars an hour) it would be NICE to see that someone is taking some interest in what I've got to say. If I'm just blathering information that no one other than the 3 people who will actually post (Thank you, Tara, Allen and Brad) is interested in, I'll stop, and save the money.
Show some stinking love here.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Sunday Evening, and I was too late for Church
I really did want to go in and hear the church service in the local tongue this evening, but they'd already started when I got by. I got rather tired of churches while touring last year, but haven't reached that stage yet. After awhile, they all seem quite a bit the same. I did go in one today that was exquisite as all get out, and I went to my first synagogue last week, but I'm pacing myself. It's easy to get churched out and, as I said, eventually, like cities, they're all the same.
Any rate, I'll not tell you where I am just yet, as that will upset the chronological flow I hope to preserve. Be satisfied that I'm OK and having a blast.
I don't have time for a large section of ye olde travel log today, so I'll just pepper the usual format with a bit of light humour. I figure that way my short spurts of profundity will be all the more rattling upon arrival.
Got in from the pub where I'd been playing duets for 2 hours with a Jewish Aussie (Adi, who's an amazing jazz pianist) at about midnight last night and realised that I'd left my soap in the previous town. So, according to one of my travel mantras, I collected an empty Coke bottle (I've been carrying 3, full of water, daily) and went to the bathroom to fill it up. Unfortunately, there was no liquid soap dispenser. So, I reached a dramatic crossroads. I'd played frisbee all afternoon with a Spaniard named Alex and a Polish dude named Jacob (Yakub in his tongue), so I was in dire need of a shower. Either I could rub down with toothpaste (I mean, it's got baking soda and flouride, right?) and then rinse off, or rinse off only and then simply rub deodorant in all the places that usually need the most cleaning after a day of strenuous activity. I won't disgust you further with any details as to the final decision, but as today was Sunday, there were no shops open, and I was unable to purchase any soap or shampoo or anything of that nature, so my problem has only waxed despairingly. Knowing that my hostel would still have none to offer, I was a bit concerned.
Trekkers are easy folks to spot. We're the ones with the massive packs on both front and back, arms outstretched with a map, turning it in multiple directions, looking at street signs, and alternately consulting brightly coloured hostel leaflets that, without fail, have poor directions. On the way back to the hostel this evening, I happened across an obvious pair, and asked if they spoke English. They did, and were from California. I asked the name of the hostel and discovered that they were looking for a place a street over from me. There are about 6 where I'm at, so the odds were good. I said I was heading that direction and would see them there. That duly accomplished, I went inside with them, as I was helping with a bag or two, and nonchalantly slid into the bathroom to discover that there was no soap there either, so I poked around till I found the kitchen and nicked some dish soap from a hostel I'm not even staying at.
You know you're an accomplished backpacker when your options are a toothpasting, extra located deodorant, or antibacterial thievery.
Any rate, I am now headed to take a nice hot, pine-scented shower. Fortunately, that axe body spray is some strong stuff.
Y'all be good.
Any rate, I'll not tell you where I am just yet, as that will upset the chronological flow I hope to preserve. Be satisfied that I'm OK and having a blast.
I don't have time for a large section of ye olde travel log today, so I'll just pepper the usual format with a bit of light humour. I figure that way my short spurts of profundity will be all the more rattling upon arrival.
Got in from the pub where I'd been playing duets for 2 hours with a Jewish Aussie (Adi, who's an amazing jazz pianist) at about midnight last night and realised that I'd left my soap in the previous town. So, according to one of my travel mantras, I collected an empty Coke bottle (I've been carrying 3, full of water, daily) and went to the bathroom to fill it up. Unfortunately, there was no liquid soap dispenser. So, I reached a dramatic crossroads. I'd played frisbee all afternoon with a Spaniard named Alex and a Polish dude named Jacob (Yakub in his tongue), so I was in dire need of a shower. Either I could rub down with toothpaste (I mean, it's got baking soda and flouride, right?) and then rinse off, or rinse off only and then simply rub deodorant in all the places that usually need the most cleaning after a day of strenuous activity. I won't disgust you further with any details as to the final decision, but as today was Sunday, there were no shops open, and I was unable to purchase any soap or shampoo or anything of that nature, so my problem has only waxed despairingly. Knowing that my hostel would still have none to offer, I was a bit concerned.
Trekkers are easy folks to spot. We're the ones with the massive packs on both front and back, arms outstretched with a map, turning it in multiple directions, looking at street signs, and alternately consulting brightly coloured hostel leaflets that, without fail, have poor directions. On the way back to the hostel this evening, I happened across an obvious pair, and asked if they spoke English. They did, and were from California. I asked the name of the hostel and discovered that they were looking for a place a street over from me. There are about 6 where I'm at, so the odds were good. I said I was heading that direction and would see them there. That duly accomplished, I went inside with them, as I was helping with a bag or two, and nonchalantly slid into the bathroom to discover that there was no soap there either, so I poked around till I found the kitchen and nicked some dish soap from a hostel I'm not even staying at.
You know you're an accomplished backpacker when your options are a toothpasting, extra located deodorant, or antibacterial thievery.
Any rate, I am now headed to take a nice hot, pine-scented shower. Fortunately, that axe body spray is some strong stuff.
Y'all be good.
Friday, September 22, 2006
More on Budapest...
1- Continuation of an already long rant on impressions gleaned from time spent in Budapest...
2- What we DID see...
3- International public bathing...
4- Beyond the city's walls...
5- I'm WHERE???
6- Money well spent...
7- Diamond in the rough...
8- Out of the line of fire...
It takes all kinds.. I finally came to realise the expanse of truth beneath those words while travelling with a random lot of Australians last winter. And on that note, if you're reading this, Beau, you worthless son of a Mandurahn soul-chomping 2-bit career facility, I miss you, brother. Europe's just not as lively with you on the exact opposite face of the globe. And I find more and more, that when you see the world, no matter where or how much of it, as a tourist, Paul Kelly's right: Every stinking city is just the same. Budapest certainly has its elements that are indigenous, but it also has McDonald's, they play Shania Twain in the local restaurants, and a second class train ticket buys the same seat no matter the destination. So, as Beau, Sean, Sharon, and I discovered, eat at the restaurants without English names or menu (preferably, you'd ought to learn a few elemental dietary terms in the local dialect first. I did figure out that 'szalt' is Hungarian for cheese, and 'szendvich' is pretty obvious); spend some time in a park, watching the locals, ride the metro/tube/subway to the end of the line. Celine and I spent nearly all of our time trying to find teh recommendations in her 2005/6 Routard Guide (Chakun sa Router-- "Find your own way"). Unfortunately, it's already outdated. Prices have changed (For the betterment of the host nation only apparently), construction has moved, obliterated, or otherwise masked necessary landmarks, and the Art Deco exhibit at the Decorative Arts Museum that we were really excited to see has been replaced by the temporary Hungarian "Collectors and Treasures" exhibit. The TUrkish baths were twice the price we were prepared for, and thus out of our price range, and we spent teh better part of 2 days hoofing it nowhere.
The Dohany Synagogue was quite nice. Pronounced 'Do-hein' (and named for the street it's situated upon, itself named in turn for a type of Turkish tobacco), it's the largest in the world by constituents, second largest in size (after Messiah in New York). An otherwise sunny Wednesday turned sour with a sudden, unforeseen rainstorm that left us soaked and dampened, but it soon cleared again and the resultant muggy, humid steam left us vaguely dry from the heat fighting to escape our drenched persons. We ended the day having seen an Orthodox church housed within a cave on the older city's side of the Danube, the synagogue in Pest, and countless thousand of footsteps placed variously through the Hungarian urbanity.
We re-crossed the Danube on a bridge whose middle-most support was laid upon Margit Island, the local mecca for joggers. Dusk as it was, there were quite a few out, as it seems that Hungary is full of people concerned about their health and appearance. This was obvious at the Turkish bath we did finally partake in on Thursday, though most of the other patrons were octogenarians. Though the Ottoman Turks ruled what the Romans in their turn had called Pannonia, Hungary has ben under Christian, or at least non-Islamic, rule for a good three-hundred years, whereas the Baths within the city park are no more than one-hundred and forty years old at best. But the Ottoman empire and its ruling sultans still hold a reputation for opulence and luxury. We took my own advice our last day in Budapest, and rode one of the metro lines to its terminus at Mexikoi Ter (Mexico Station, I suppose), in the city park. This public green space contains the aviation museum, the agricultural museum, a lake, a carnival with rides, a zoo, and the aforementioned baths. We were so far from the typical backpacker's and tourister's centre that we heard no English for hours, but the hot mineral waters within the Moorish and neo-Classical structure wer certainly a relief from the harsh embrace of a backpack. It was only after a wrong-turn down a random corridor as we were trying to leave that we spotted the outdoor baths-- two of more acres of thermally enhanced aqual delight in open exposure to the still-warm September sun... And we were already running late... Ah, well. C'est la vie, ganas no ganas.
It was in the city park that I truly began to value Budapest in and of itself. And as the train carried us out of the city, making its way upriver to Bratislava, the tracks followed the course of the Danube through a chain of low-lying, green clad mountains, and my appreciation for Hungary increased all the more. The countryside was magnificient, and further enforced the tickling notion in back of my mind that if I really want an appreciative assessment of Europe, I'm going to have to escape the urban scene and find a locale more akin to what I've been accustomed.
Well, it's about 12.30 Saturday morning as I'm typing this, and perhaps you've picked up on some important words over the past few paragraphs, to wit: 'last day in Budapest,' 'Thursday,' 'train,' 'Bratislava;' all words that hold a great deal of weight. Those familiar with my original plans might recall that I was to've flown from Budapest to Greece on Thursday evening. That fell through, and by the time I got to looking for a flight back to England, the price was well past outrageous. I couldn't fly out any earlier than Friday, and flights got no cheaper before next Friday, which meant that I could fly immediately, or stay in the same hostel for a week and then fly cheaper, and the price would be pretty well equal. Well, Budapest was nice, but I saw no sense in staying, and am too cheap to go wasting money on a flight when I have no deadline, so I just opted to follow Celine back to Slovakia, where she's doing some cultural research for Rotary Club of France. We boarded the [wrong] train at 4.15 pm in Budapest on Thursday, still dripping from our recent time in a sauna, were kindly, and quickly, assisted by some charitable locals to the correct coach, and found ourselves in Bratislava at around 8 pm.
Celine, having already been in Slovakia for 2 weeks, had a contact to stay with. Her contact picked her up at the station, and I was left to my own devices. I went and got a few thousand crown from the cashpoint (by the way, Eastern Europe is highly affordable, no matter what currency your exchanging. You can get 30 crown for a dollar. 30 crown (koruni), in Bratislava, will buy you a ticket to the clock museum, a pint of beer, 2 McDonald's cheeseburgers, or 3 scoops of gelati. 90 crown will get you into a ballet...
Any rate, local money well pocketed, I stepped out of the station to see if I could make use of some suggestory directions from Celine for a cheap bed, but had no luck, so stepped back to the safe light of the station, and was met by a local chap who runs a guest house. I was afraid he was a bit shady, but bottom line was that I was tired, in need of food and company, and a cheap bunk, and he offered all for the best price I saw advertised. Yuray turned out to be a genuine good local soul, and his guest house, a converted block of flats, already contained, when I arrived, 3 North Ireland blokes, a couple from Spain, a Japanese girl, and half a dozen Germans. Laundry and internet are free, and overall, it's been a good experience.
Oh, and yes, for all who were worried, you did hear correct, there were some fairly intense riots in Budapest while I was there. I had no idea of their occurrence until they were well over and dealt with, and I felt no repercussions nor even negative vibes resultant during my entire stay. Thanks for your prayers, sorry you were worried, but you actually knew what was going on before I did.
Any rate, hope I've said something enjoyable. Currently, the Weblog is about 48 hours behind the spiral notebook, but I'll do my best to keep y'all informed. I hope you're well.
Love someone today.
2- What we DID see...
3- International public bathing...
4- Beyond the city's walls...
5- I'm WHERE???
6- Money well spent...
7- Diamond in the rough...
8- Out of the line of fire...
It takes all kinds.. I finally came to realise the expanse of truth beneath those words while travelling with a random lot of Australians last winter. And on that note, if you're reading this, Beau, you worthless son of a Mandurahn soul-chomping 2-bit career facility, I miss you, brother. Europe's just not as lively with you on the exact opposite face of the globe. And I find more and more, that when you see the world, no matter where or how much of it, as a tourist, Paul Kelly's right: Every stinking city is just the same. Budapest certainly has its elements that are indigenous, but it also has McDonald's, they play Shania Twain in the local restaurants, and a second class train ticket buys the same seat no matter the destination. So, as Beau, Sean, Sharon, and I discovered, eat at the restaurants without English names or menu (preferably, you'd ought to learn a few elemental dietary terms in the local dialect first. I did figure out that 'szalt' is Hungarian for cheese, and 'szendvich' is pretty obvious); spend some time in a park, watching the locals, ride the metro/tube/subway to the end of the line. Celine and I spent nearly all of our time trying to find teh recommendations in her 2005/6 Routard Guide (Chakun sa Router-- "Find your own way"). Unfortunately, it's already outdated. Prices have changed (For the betterment of the host nation only apparently), construction has moved, obliterated, or otherwise masked necessary landmarks, and the Art Deco exhibit at the Decorative Arts Museum that we were really excited to see has been replaced by the temporary Hungarian "Collectors and Treasures" exhibit. The TUrkish baths were twice the price we were prepared for, and thus out of our price range, and we spent teh better part of 2 days hoofing it nowhere.
The Dohany Synagogue was quite nice. Pronounced 'Do-hein' (and named for the street it's situated upon, itself named in turn for a type of Turkish tobacco), it's the largest in the world by constituents, second largest in size (after Messiah in New York). An otherwise sunny Wednesday turned sour with a sudden, unforeseen rainstorm that left us soaked and dampened, but it soon cleared again and the resultant muggy, humid steam left us vaguely dry from the heat fighting to escape our drenched persons. We ended the day having seen an Orthodox church housed within a cave on the older city's side of the Danube, the synagogue in Pest, and countless thousand of footsteps placed variously through the Hungarian urbanity.
We re-crossed the Danube on a bridge whose middle-most support was laid upon Margit Island, the local mecca for joggers. Dusk as it was, there were quite a few out, as it seems that Hungary is full of people concerned about their health and appearance. This was obvious at the Turkish bath we did finally partake in on Thursday, though most of the other patrons were octogenarians. Though the Ottoman Turks ruled what the Romans in their turn had called Pannonia, Hungary has ben under Christian, or at least non-Islamic, rule for a good three-hundred years, whereas the Baths within the city park are no more than one-hundred and forty years old at best. But the Ottoman empire and its ruling sultans still hold a reputation for opulence and luxury. We took my own advice our last day in Budapest, and rode one of the metro lines to its terminus at Mexikoi Ter (Mexico Station, I suppose), in the city park. This public green space contains the aviation museum, the agricultural museum, a lake, a carnival with rides, a zoo, and the aforementioned baths. We were so far from the typical backpacker's and tourister's centre that we heard no English for hours, but the hot mineral waters within the Moorish and neo-Classical structure wer certainly a relief from the harsh embrace of a backpack. It was only after a wrong-turn down a random corridor as we were trying to leave that we spotted the outdoor baths-- two of more acres of thermally enhanced aqual delight in open exposure to the still-warm September sun... And we were already running late... Ah, well. C'est la vie, ganas no ganas.
It was in the city park that I truly began to value Budapest in and of itself. And as the train carried us out of the city, making its way upriver to Bratislava, the tracks followed the course of the Danube through a chain of low-lying, green clad mountains, and my appreciation for Hungary increased all the more. The countryside was magnificient, and further enforced the tickling notion in back of my mind that if I really want an appreciative assessment of Europe, I'm going to have to escape the urban scene and find a locale more akin to what I've been accustomed.
Well, it's about 12.30 Saturday morning as I'm typing this, and perhaps you've picked up on some important words over the past few paragraphs, to wit: 'last day in Budapest,' 'Thursday,' 'train,' 'Bratislava;' all words that hold a great deal of weight. Those familiar with my original plans might recall that I was to've flown from Budapest to Greece on Thursday evening. That fell through, and by the time I got to looking for a flight back to England, the price was well past outrageous. I couldn't fly out any earlier than Friday, and flights got no cheaper before next Friday, which meant that I could fly immediately, or stay in the same hostel for a week and then fly cheaper, and the price would be pretty well equal. Well, Budapest was nice, but I saw no sense in staying, and am too cheap to go wasting money on a flight when I have no deadline, so I just opted to follow Celine back to Slovakia, where she's doing some cultural research for Rotary Club of France. We boarded the [wrong] train at 4.15 pm in Budapest on Thursday, still dripping from our recent time in a sauna, were kindly, and quickly, assisted by some charitable locals to the correct coach, and found ourselves in Bratislava at around 8 pm.
Celine, having already been in Slovakia for 2 weeks, had a contact to stay with. Her contact picked her up at the station, and I was left to my own devices. I went and got a few thousand crown from the cashpoint (by the way, Eastern Europe is highly affordable, no matter what currency your exchanging. You can get 30 crown for a dollar. 30 crown (koruni), in Bratislava, will buy you a ticket to the clock museum, a pint of beer, 2 McDonald's cheeseburgers, or 3 scoops of gelati. 90 crown will get you into a ballet...
Any rate, local money well pocketed, I stepped out of the station to see if I could make use of some suggestory directions from Celine for a cheap bed, but had no luck, so stepped back to the safe light of the station, and was met by a local chap who runs a guest house. I was afraid he was a bit shady, but bottom line was that I was tired, in need of food and company, and a cheap bunk, and he offered all for the best price I saw advertised. Yuray turned out to be a genuine good local soul, and his guest house, a converted block of flats, already contained, when I arrived, 3 North Ireland blokes, a couple from Spain, a Japanese girl, and half a dozen Germans. Laundry and internet are free, and overall, it's been a good experience.
Oh, and yes, for all who were worried, you did hear correct, there were some fairly intense riots in Budapest while I was there. I had no idea of their occurrence until they were well over and dealt with, and I felt no repercussions nor even negative vibes resultant during my entire stay. Thanks for your prayers, sorry you were worried, but you actually knew what was going on before I did.
Any rate, hope I've said something enjoyable. Currently, the Weblog is about 48 hours behind the spiral notebook, but I'll do my best to keep y'all informed. I hope you're well.
Love someone today.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Part 2 of the Budapest miniseries
Per suggestion of an Australian mate (whom I hope has received his parcel of fishing equipment, refridgerator magnets, and raisinets), I'm going to employ a new device in today's blog: My random stream of consciousness style will be consciously divided into vaguely cohesive sections, and each section will have a heading, to be listed at the beginning of the email. Per positive feedback, said devices will become permanent.
1- 20th Century Hungarian Political History
2- Museum Pieces
3- English as a second language
4- Closing Statements
Hungary is, for all its modernity, still a bit hard to access from Western Europe. Flights are expensive, rail travel extensive, and seemingly rivalled for touristic incovenience in these areas only by Slovakia, immediately next-door. Hungary was at one piont part of the USSR, but was one of the westernmost bloc nations, both in geography and political theory. There'd been a Bolshevik revolution in the 1920s, but it went horribly wrong (for its sponsoring party) and the resultant fear of Communism drove Hungary's government, much as the various Allied powers, to choose the lesser of two evils when choosing their camp in World War II. It seems, or so the Hungarian National Museum puts forth, that the Hungarians were no more favourable to Germany and Hitler than they were Stalin's Russia, but geography (close proximity to Hitler, existant ties to Austria, standard eastern-European suspicion of Russia) helped to determine the solution. It was geography that further allowed Russia to reach Hungary before the other Allied forces, and hold political sway over the Hugns and Magyars for the better part of the 20th Century. However, the Hungarians' inherent notion of independence, and their distance from the Kremlin, allowed them a great deal more political freedom than other bloc nations. Hungary contains a significantly lesser amount of the concrete, cubicle infrastructure normally associated with Communism (say, as in the Czech Republic, for instance) and a great deal of their pre-WW II, and even pre-WW I, architecture is still predominately visible.
I am travelling, after all, with someone doing tourism research (Celine, from France), so I've had to be more necessarily touristic than I normally prefer, but I have gotten to see some wonderful sights. Tuesday we went to the Hungarian National Museum, where we ended up being more like one of the displays than overservers of. There was a batch of second or third graders there, and one, Alex, heard me speaking about something or other in the Imperial Roman room, and duly spent the rest of his duration there introducing himself and his peers. "Hi! My name is Alex!" I heard countless times. Eventually, his limited English grew tired of merely saying names, so, ornery little cuss, took to introducing his friends by their traits. "Hi, my name is Barbie" he said of a skinny, long, blonde-headed girl; "Hi, my name is Papo," he laughed, pointing to a portly fellow who was obviously his best chum. I took it, correctly it seems, that 'papo' is 'fat.'
Alex did show me a first glimpse of what I'm finding to be true-- most Hungarians are vaguely familiar with English. It's written on signs in public places, it's taught in schools, most folks under 30 seem to have a rudimentary command of the tongue, and even the elderly folks appear to understand a few words. The bottom line, impressibly enough, is that no one seems put out if you only speak English yourself. The girl at the metro-line ticket booth, the older gent at the rail depot, the guy my age in the rail car, all of them and countless others seemed genuinely happy to exercise their English skills. Nearly all of the Hungarians I attempted to speak to--in the pastry shop, at the gelati counter (she'd spent 3 years in Arizona, I believe it was, and spoke as if she'd been raised there), the random, entirely non-English speaking rail employees who managed to convey that we were on the wrong train and saved us a small fortuen in corrective travel-- were as helpful and genuinely amicable as you could never hope to find. The hostel employees, the waitress at the Hungarian restaurant we patroened twice, and the international rail ticket merchant were far more typical. Save for their dialogue, they could've been American or British-- they were only helping us in so much as that, in its driest, most basic extenses, paid their bills. But, that's how it goes all over the globe-- be it in China's Forbidden City, Cosmopolitan London, or the back roads of Springdale, Arkansas; it takes all kinds to make a world.
Well, that's about 40% of what I'd planned to write tonight, but I'm tired, as I'm sure you are as well, at this point, so I'm going to wrap it up there. Sorry to end on a bit of a down-note (Minimum wage employees in the US and UK are all surly), but that's just where we've ended up, isn't it. Reparations will be made when we pick up tomorrow morning (New hostel- free internet!) with "It takes all kinds..."
Good On Ye...
1- 20th Century Hungarian Political History
2- Museum Pieces
3- English as a second language
4- Closing Statements
Hungary is, for all its modernity, still a bit hard to access from Western Europe. Flights are expensive, rail travel extensive, and seemingly rivalled for touristic incovenience in these areas only by Slovakia, immediately next-door. Hungary was at one piont part of the USSR, but was one of the westernmost bloc nations, both in geography and political theory. There'd been a Bolshevik revolution in the 1920s, but it went horribly wrong (for its sponsoring party) and the resultant fear of Communism drove Hungary's government, much as the various Allied powers, to choose the lesser of two evils when choosing their camp in World War II. It seems, or so the Hungarian National Museum puts forth, that the Hungarians were no more favourable to Germany and Hitler than they were Stalin's Russia, but geography (close proximity to Hitler, existant ties to Austria, standard eastern-European suspicion of Russia) helped to determine the solution. It was geography that further allowed Russia to reach Hungary before the other Allied forces, and hold political sway over the Hugns and Magyars for the better part of the 20th Century. However, the Hungarians' inherent notion of independence, and their distance from the Kremlin, allowed them a great deal more political freedom than other bloc nations. Hungary contains a significantly lesser amount of the concrete, cubicle infrastructure normally associated with Communism (say, as in the Czech Republic, for instance) and a great deal of their pre-WW II, and even pre-WW I, architecture is still predominately visible.
I am travelling, after all, with someone doing tourism research (Celine, from France), so I've had to be more necessarily touristic than I normally prefer, but I have gotten to see some wonderful sights. Tuesday we went to the Hungarian National Museum, where we ended up being more like one of the displays than overservers of. There was a batch of second or third graders there, and one, Alex, heard me speaking about something or other in the Imperial Roman room, and duly spent the rest of his duration there introducing himself and his peers. "Hi! My name is Alex!" I heard countless times. Eventually, his limited English grew tired of merely saying names, so, ornery little cuss, took to introducing his friends by their traits. "Hi, my name is Barbie" he said of a skinny, long, blonde-headed girl; "Hi, my name is Papo," he laughed, pointing to a portly fellow who was obviously his best chum. I took it, correctly it seems, that 'papo' is 'fat.'
Alex did show me a first glimpse of what I'm finding to be true-- most Hungarians are vaguely familiar with English. It's written on signs in public places, it's taught in schools, most folks under 30 seem to have a rudimentary command of the tongue, and even the elderly folks appear to understand a few words. The bottom line, impressibly enough, is that no one seems put out if you only speak English yourself. The girl at the metro-line ticket booth, the older gent at the rail depot, the guy my age in the rail car, all of them and countless others seemed genuinely happy to exercise their English skills. Nearly all of the Hungarians I attempted to speak to--in the pastry shop, at the gelati counter (she'd spent 3 years in Arizona, I believe it was, and spoke as if she'd been raised there), the random, entirely non-English speaking rail employees who managed to convey that we were on the wrong train and saved us a small fortuen in corrective travel-- were as helpful and genuinely amicable as you could never hope to find. The hostel employees, the waitress at the Hungarian restaurant we patroened twice, and the international rail ticket merchant were far more typical. Save for their dialogue, they could've been American or British-- they were only helping us in so much as that, in its driest, most basic extenses, paid their bills. But, that's how it goes all over the globe-- be it in China's Forbidden City, Cosmopolitan London, or the back roads of Springdale, Arkansas; it takes all kinds to make a world.
Well, that's about 40% of what I'd planned to write tonight, but I'm tired, as I'm sure you are as well, at this point, so I'm going to wrap it up there. Sorry to end on a bit of a down-note (Minimum wage employees in the US and UK are all surly), but that's just where we've ended up, isn't it. Reparations will be made when we pick up tomorrow morning (New hostel- free internet!) with "It takes all kinds..."
Good On Ye...
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Being Budapest-ered
Ya, ya sorry... I hate bad puns too. Any rate, lot of ground to cover, here we go:
Egad! I knew deep down that travelling, as I've said, requires an entirely different frame of mind from stable, steady, everyday life, but I hadn't realised how much I'd forgotten. I've rather reimmersed myself with a bit of a fire baptism by jumping straight into Eastern Europe without much of a warm-up to that other philosophy that I'm having to live by as a Euro-trekker, but I'm getting by. I have recalled some other handy travel tips for you, though:
1) Most European hostels seem to have liquid-soap dispensers near the bathroom sinks. So, for all you cheapskates, keep an empty coke bottle handy, and hack the top off with that Swisss-Army knife you bought in Interlaken, Lucerne, or Bern, and squeeze a few shots of this freely provided hand cleaner. Renders carrying bars of soap to the bathroom unnecessary. Further point: DO NOT attempt to carry said bottle from one hostel to the next-- I imagine you'd have a heck of a mess in ye olde backpack. Coke bottles and hand soap can be found in multiple places.
2) Learn some of the local dialogue BEFORE you get to your destination. Your handiest phrases will be "Do you speak English?" (Though, this can be said IN English, the local you're addressing will appreciate being spoken to with some effort at their own language) Also, especially regarding previous question, know the word for 'No.' Similarly handy expressions are "Rail Station" "Metro" (Universal for 'subway' or 'tube.') "Airport" "How do I find 'x' Street?" Don't ask for an automatic bank machine, in the event you're questioning a local of ill repute.
3) A hostel may or may not have a kitchen that allows you to store, cook, and eat food you've purchased yourself, and they may or may not offer a breakfast. Look for one that has an open kitchen, and if they've got a free breakfast to boot, book them. If they offer breakfast for a small price, don't bank on it being just real flash. Yes, it's relatively cheap, and easily had, but not necessarily impressive. Celine's croissant came out of a bag and a microwave, with Hershey's chocolate inside (a dire insult to anyone French), and the milk on my cornflakes was room temperature 'shelf' milk, that due to its chemical content, doesn't require refrigeration.
4) If you DO order the breakfast at a hostel in Eastern Europe, and they have 2 options, one which includes sausage, eggs, ham, a roll, and mustard or ketchup, or an option which is only eggs, ham, a roll, and jam, DO NOT presume to ask for the first with jam instead of the listed condiments. Substitutions, subervions, or any other derailments from the written law is still, wall and bloc or no wall and bloc, unthinkable. You get strange looks if you try to press the matter, and if you're not careful, ejected and expelled from said establishment.
So, any rate, I am in Budapest. The local language is Hungarian, which I believe to be a combination of the tongues of a few German tribes, especially the Huns, and the Magyars. I have yet to see a word that I could recognise any sort of letter pattern within. In western Europe, where most languages owe a great deal to Latin, or German in the North, I can at least see familiar combinations of an alphabet similar to my own. No such luck here. We spent most of today in the Hungarian National Museum, where I was quite surprised that I was able to decipher all of the Imperial Roman-era tombstones on display. Turns out I've got some handy basic Latin back there on reserve. Tomorrow we hope to hit the Turkish baths.
Oh, yes... "WE..." I'm here with my French friend Celine, whom I met in Granada, Spain last year while travelling with Lisa, from Australia, whom I met while travelling with Topdeck Tours. And, speaking of Celine, those of you who've spoken with my mother in the last 48 hours, Celine apologises for causing any frightening disturbances for those of you who heard that I was apparently not at the airport. As it turns out, Budapest has 2 airports: same name, different terminals, miles apart. Be ready for that sort of thing when you go continent hopping.
The food here has been quite good...though we've only had one actual Hungarian meal. Today's tea-time saw us at a Subway restaurant (I hated the notion, but we just needed a quick, healthy bite.) and then we've had some Gelati (WOOOHOOO!!! Yes, by gosh, Budapest knows how to cater to tourists, particularly Anglo-descended ice cream lovers.)
We shared a room in the hostel last night with 4 Swedish blokes, who were quite nice. The 2 who did most of the talking were just slightly taller than me, with dark blonde hair down to their shoulders, one baby-faced, one bearded... And I so wish I were that good-looking. Their appearance bespoke what had to be royal bloodlines. They were quite nice, and talkative, and killers at Texas Hold 'Em (fortunately I have a standing rule against gambling). You almost wonder how the Vikings of a thousand years ago could sire, though over a few centuries, the Scandivanians of the modern world. All that I have met, and have heard from other travellers, have been the most congenial, helpful, genuinely friendly folks I've met. They certainly don't give the impression that anywhere in their genes is one for rapine and pillaging...
Any rate, they recommended an Italian place round the corner, in the quite obviously touristy district along the Danube, but we (wrongly) cut down a side street and found a nice little local place (with English menus-- once again, they know their market here), and sat down to a lovely, quiet, dry dinner. (Dry: by the way, it's been raining off and on since we got here.) The restaurant looked more like a pub than an eating establishment, with warm woodwork round the walls and candle-lit tables, but the chalkboard listing specials attested to the presence of food...all of which sounded quite nice. Uncertain of the currency exchange, I opted for the least expensive yet still appetizing offer: lentil vegetable stew with roast pork knuckle. Now, I dang ol' LIKE pork knuckles-- I had an entire one to myself in Munich last year...mmmmmmmmm pooooork knuuuuucklllllles.... However, when the ragout came out, there were only 2 slices of the pig laid across the top of the broth, but they were generous portions. I still couldn't give you a determined answer as to what lentils are, but the soup had a texture and taste similar to beans that was quite good. Celine ordered chicken and chips (french fries, not potato crisps). I tried a bit, and it was good, but chicken is pretty well chicken unless you do some severe doctoring (I recommend British yellow mustard and honey as a baste), and as the traditional Hungarian sauce seemed to be little more than red peppers and a few other herbs in olive oil, or something akin, I wasn't overly impressed. Something about raising and seeing slaughtered roughly 1 million chickens of your own really diminishes your desire and enjoyment as far as eating it. But as that's an entirely different thread most of you are familiar with, I won't press the point.
In the 'concerns' department: Celine JUST heard (38 seconds ago) that a relative of her mothers who was diagnosed with cancer a month ago died yesterday.
We went walking this afternoon along the Danube, and it appears that the castle fortifications of Obuda (The original city. Pest was its own locale before the technology to bridge the local waterway allowed for mass transit between the two, or created the need for a single governing body.) are carved from the very cliffs along the river. I took a picture or two around dusk, there was no visible sun to set, and would love to share them with you, but have left my camera's USB cable back at the hostel.
Any rate, best of luck to y'all responsible folks: I'll continue with my gypsy ways yet, and let you know how it works out...
Do me a favor, and listen to Cake's "Love You Madly," if you're able... it's the one song, as yet, that I forgot to load on ye olde Ipodde.
Cheers! and Stay real.
jeffro
Egad! I knew deep down that travelling, as I've said, requires an entirely different frame of mind from stable, steady, everyday life, but I hadn't realised how much I'd forgotten. I've rather reimmersed myself with a bit of a fire baptism by jumping straight into Eastern Europe without much of a warm-up to that other philosophy that I'm having to live by as a Euro-trekker, but I'm getting by. I have recalled some other handy travel tips for you, though:
1) Most European hostels seem to have liquid-soap dispensers near the bathroom sinks. So, for all you cheapskates, keep an empty coke bottle handy, and hack the top off with that Swisss-Army knife you bought in Interlaken, Lucerne, or Bern, and squeeze a few shots of this freely provided hand cleaner. Renders carrying bars of soap to the bathroom unnecessary. Further point: DO NOT attempt to carry said bottle from one hostel to the next-- I imagine you'd have a heck of a mess in ye olde backpack. Coke bottles and hand soap can be found in multiple places.
2) Learn some of the local dialogue BEFORE you get to your destination. Your handiest phrases will be "Do you speak English?" (Though, this can be said IN English, the local you're addressing will appreciate being spoken to with some effort at their own language) Also, especially regarding previous question, know the word for 'No.' Similarly handy expressions are "Rail Station" "Metro" (Universal for 'subway' or 'tube.') "Airport" "How do I find 'x' Street?" Don't ask for an automatic bank machine, in the event you're questioning a local of ill repute.
3) A hostel may or may not have a kitchen that allows you to store, cook, and eat food you've purchased yourself, and they may or may not offer a breakfast. Look for one that has an open kitchen, and if they've got a free breakfast to boot, book them. If they offer breakfast for a small price, don't bank on it being just real flash. Yes, it's relatively cheap, and easily had, but not necessarily impressive. Celine's croissant came out of a bag and a microwave, with Hershey's chocolate inside (a dire insult to anyone French), and the milk on my cornflakes was room temperature 'shelf' milk, that due to its chemical content, doesn't require refrigeration.
4) If you DO order the breakfast at a hostel in Eastern Europe, and they have 2 options, one which includes sausage, eggs, ham, a roll, and mustard or ketchup, or an option which is only eggs, ham, a roll, and jam, DO NOT presume to ask for the first with jam instead of the listed condiments. Substitutions, subervions, or any other derailments from the written law is still, wall and bloc or no wall and bloc, unthinkable. You get strange looks if you try to press the matter, and if you're not careful, ejected and expelled from said establishment.
So, any rate, I am in Budapest. The local language is Hungarian, which I believe to be a combination of the tongues of a few German tribes, especially the Huns, and the Magyars. I have yet to see a word that I could recognise any sort of letter pattern within. In western Europe, where most languages owe a great deal to Latin, or German in the North, I can at least see familiar combinations of an alphabet similar to my own. No such luck here. We spent most of today in the Hungarian National Museum, where I was quite surprised that I was able to decipher all of the Imperial Roman-era tombstones on display. Turns out I've got some handy basic Latin back there on reserve. Tomorrow we hope to hit the Turkish baths.
Oh, yes... "WE..." I'm here with my French friend Celine, whom I met in Granada, Spain last year while travelling with Lisa, from Australia, whom I met while travelling with Topdeck Tours. And, speaking of Celine, those of you who've spoken with my mother in the last 48 hours, Celine apologises for causing any frightening disturbances for those of you who heard that I was apparently not at the airport. As it turns out, Budapest has 2 airports: same name, different terminals, miles apart. Be ready for that sort of thing when you go continent hopping.
The food here has been quite good...though we've only had one actual Hungarian meal. Today's tea-time saw us at a Subway restaurant (I hated the notion, but we just needed a quick, healthy bite.) and then we've had some Gelati (WOOOHOOO!!! Yes, by gosh, Budapest knows how to cater to tourists, particularly Anglo-descended ice cream lovers.)
We shared a room in the hostel last night with 4 Swedish blokes, who were quite nice. The 2 who did most of the talking were just slightly taller than me, with dark blonde hair down to their shoulders, one baby-faced, one bearded... And I so wish I were that good-looking. Their appearance bespoke what had to be royal bloodlines. They were quite nice, and talkative, and killers at Texas Hold 'Em (fortunately I have a standing rule against gambling). You almost wonder how the Vikings of a thousand years ago could sire, though over a few centuries, the Scandivanians of the modern world. All that I have met, and have heard from other travellers, have been the most congenial, helpful, genuinely friendly folks I've met. They certainly don't give the impression that anywhere in their genes is one for rapine and pillaging...
Any rate, they recommended an Italian place round the corner, in the quite obviously touristy district along the Danube, but we (wrongly) cut down a side street and found a nice little local place (with English menus-- once again, they know their market here), and sat down to a lovely, quiet, dry dinner. (Dry: by the way, it's been raining off and on since we got here.) The restaurant looked more like a pub than an eating establishment, with warm woodwork round the walls and candle-lit tables, but the chalkboard listing specials attested to the presence of food...all of which sounded quite nice. Uncertain of the currency exchange, I opted for the least expensive yet still appetizing offer: lentil vegetable stew with roast pork knuckle. Now, I dang ol' LIKE pork knuckles-- I had an entire one to myself in Munich last year...mmmmmmmmm pooooork knuuuuucklllllles.... However, when the ragout came out, there were only 2 slices of the pig laid across the top of the broth, but they were generous portions. I still couldn't give you a determined answer as to what lentils are, but the soup had a texture and taste similar to beans that was quite good. Celine ordered chicken and chips (french fries, not potato crisps). I tried a bit, and it was good, but chicken is pretty well chicken unless you do some severe doctoring (I recommend British yellow mustard and honey as a baste), and as the traditional Hungarian sauce seemed to be little more than red peppers and a few other herbs in olive oil, or something akin, I wasn't overly impressed. Something about raising and seeing slaughtered roughly 1 million chickens of your own really diminishes your desire and enjoyment as far as eating it. But as that's an entirely different thread most of you are familiar with, I won't press the point.
In the 'concerns' department: Celine JUST heard (38 seconds ago) that a relative of her mothers who was diagnosed with cancer a month ago died yesterday.
We went walking this afternoon along the Danube, and it appears that the castle fortifications of Obuda (The original city. Pest was its own locale before the technology to bridge the local waterway allowed for mass transit between the two, or created the need for a single governing body.) are carved from the very cliffs along the river. I took a picture or two around dusk, there was no visible sun to set, and would love to share them with you, but have left my camera's USB cable back at the hostel.
Any rate, best of luck to y'all responsible folks: I'll continue with my gypsy ways yet, and let you know how it works out...
Do me a favor, and listen to Cake's "Love You Madly," if you're able... it's the one song, as yet, that I forgot to load on ye olde Ipodde.
Cheers! and Stay real.
jeffro
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Lonfreakingdon
Howdy Howdy Howdy.
Yup, I've reached Lonsdale, the city of Lud, capital of England, Londontown. And by gosh am I happy about it. I rolled across the tarmac at Gatwick air at 7.05am GMT, 1.05am CST US, and 2.05pm West. Aus. My Nottingham Ultimate T'shirt attracted the attention of a travelling brother/sister pair, who'd grown up in that delightful town. They were heading back to University in London after having spent the past 3 months with their mother's family in Bogota, Colombia. Just to prove how much this terrasphere we call home shrinks daily: Alan and Elena (the brother and sister) were raised in one of my second homes, are studying in the same city as my friend Yeny, herself from Colombia. 7 degrees of separation my foot. The world gets this much smaller every day...
Any rate, Handy International Travel Tip # 1: Your best bet for top rate currency exchange is using a debit card in an ATM, and simply drawing cash. Your bank might charge you a dollar or two, but it beats the middle man fee of Western Union and other similar organisations. So there you are, don't worry about exchanging money before leaving home, just take care of it yourself with your pocket plastic at the first cash point you see.
Handy International Travel Tip # 2: BEFORE leaving home, be COMPLETELY CERTAIN that your bank has your debit/ATM/credit cards authorized to work PROPERLY! I was not in the mood after 18 hours of travel, with only $3.28 cents to my name for this sort of rot. Fortunately, the train company would take my credit card, even if the automated machines wouldn't. Bothered? A BIT.
And, in an effort to seek to be slightly less self-absorbed, here's some of the more important affairs of folks I know elsewhere on the globe:
Sarah Felts is to become Mrs. Bill (...?....) on Saturday. Best wishes there...sorry I don't know you're fiance's last name, love...
Jay Phipps will be home from school down in Conway this weekend. If you see him, tell him hi for me. Tell him to play you some Skynyrd.
Joy Ward has been in India for about a month, working with the Billy Graham Association, taking the gospel of Jesus Christ to the Hindus.
Juan y Giuliana Hernandez have successfully moved house in Nottingham, and I look forward to seeing them tomorrow.
Allen and Tim Newberry will be having their birthdays in about 2 weeks, on the 26th, and 27th, respectively.
Any rate, as you hadn't asked for the piddling bits of random strangers lives, I won't take any more of your time to gossip, but in the event you feel left out, email me any news you'd like included...
Cheers for now...
--
Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Luggage looking less lugubrious...
Greetings, all. It is currently 12:35 AM in Springdale, Arkansas. We're Central Standard US Time, or GMT-6. GMT means Greenwich Mean Time, and consequently, you can now deduce that it is 6:35 AM in London, Great Britain; 1:35 in Perth, Western Australia; and 8:35 in Athens, Greece. Perhaps I should install some sort of International Atomic Clock on this critter...
In 12 hours, I'll be a few miles above Memphis, Tennessee, which is also one of the main time trial check points for most of my East-bound US road trips. I'm packed. Overpacked, as per usual. I'm lugging gifts that will be distributed in the next few weeks to the various folks I'll be staying with, so my load will lessen with time, but I'm a might nervous about ye olde baggage check when I get to XNA (Northwest Arkansas Regional Airport) in the morning. My last Arkansan destination will be my Grandmother Sharp's house, up on top of the hill, where I'll have a breakfast sendoff. My best friend Brandon and I started this tradition years ago, where we always have our last meal together before either of us embarks on a trip of any size. Our black reasoning is that travel is, after all, hazardous, and Who knows if we'll ever eat another meal together on this planet. On the lighter side of the rationale, my grandmother's one dang good cook, and it gives Brandon an excuse to not work tomorrow morning.
Today's been the typical, pre-trip, harried fiasco... Actually, no, everything's gone quite smooth (which means I've forgotten something HUGE), and I'm pretty well ready to go. I took my friend Tim's advice and packed my Ipod, so I've been updating it. I paid all of my insurance for the next 6 months, paid off my credit card debt, watched Monday Night Football with my Grandparents Brown, finalised some rendezvous points upon arrival in Europe, and stocked up on some medication. I've been vaguely sick for about 2 weeks-- everything from sinuses and allergies to fevers, coughs, and a bubbly, rumbly, causing trouble down inside me tummy. I've 'bout got her whooped, though, and might ride out allright if she don't jump...
Anyrate, anyone with access to Australian movies, I highly recommend "The Castle" and "Crackerjack;" newly arrived, and watched, today from my great friend Beau of Western Australia. The musical recommendation at my time of departure is the London Philharmonic Orchestra doing Led Zeppelin, the book is, as always "The Wind in the Willows," and as long as I'm telling you my opinions for great products I'll be doing without for 3 months, Welch's White Grape Juice, or Sam's Choice Cranberry Apple are where it's at.
Props to those of you who came out of the woodwork rattling your pitchforks and torches in defense of my elongated emails. I'll probably stick to posting the novellas here on ye olde weblogge, but I will be keeping up with email if you want to get more personal.
Anyrate, those of you of the praying sort, keep me and my gypsy ways in mind...
Cheers for now, and remember: Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me!
JEFFRO
In 12 hours, I'll be a few miles above Memphis, Tennessee, which is also one of the main time trial check points for most of my East-bound US road trips. I'm packed. Overpacked, as per usual. I'm lugging gifts that will be distributed in the next few weeks to the various folks I'll be staying with, so my load will lessen with time, but I'm a might nervous about ye olde baggage check when I get to XNA (Northwest Arkansas Regional Airport) in the morning. My last Arkansan destination will be my Grandmother Sharp's house, up on top of the hill, where I'll have a breakfast sendoff. My best friend Brandon and I started this tradition years ago, where we always have our last meal together before either of us embarks on a trip of any size. Our black reasoning is that travel is, after all, hazardous, and Who knows if we'll ever eat another meal together on this planet. On the lighter side of the rationale, my grandmother's one dang good cook, and it gives Brandon an excuse to not work tomorrow morning.
Today's been the typical, pre-trip, harried fiasco... Actually, no, everything's gone quite smooth (which means I've forgotten something HUGE), and I'm pretty well ready to go. I took my friend Tim's advice and packed my Ipod, so I've been updating it. I paid all of my insurance for the next 6 months, paid off my credit card debt, watched Monday Night Football with my Grandparents Brown, finalised some rendezvous points upon arrival in Europe, and stocked up on some medication. I've been vaguely sick for about 2 weeks-- everything from sinuses and allergies to fevers, coughs, and a bubbly, rumbly, causing trouble down inside me tummy. I've 'bout got her whooped, though, and might ride out allright if she don't jump...
Anyrate, anyone with access to Australian movies, I highly recommend "The Castle" and "Crackerjack;" newly arrived, and watched, today from my great friend Beau of Western Australia. The musical recommendation at my time of departure is the London Philharmonic Orchestra doing Led Zeppelin, the book is, as always "The Wind in the Willows," and as long as I'm telling you my opinions for great products I'll be doing without for 3 months, Welch's White Grape Juice, or Sam's Choice Cranberry Apple are where it's at.
Props to those of you who came out of the woodwork rattling your pitchforks and torches in defense of my elongated emails. I'll probably stick to posting the novellas here on ye olde weblogge, but I will be keeping up with email if you want to get more personal.
Anyrate, those of you of the praying sort, keep me and my gypsy ways in mind...
Cheers for now, and remember: Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me!
JEFFRO
Saturday, September 09, 2006
3 Posts in <24 Hours!!
So I've been told that pictures are good...
And, I figure that blogging is just a sort of outlet for personal vanities...
So here's a picture of my quirky self in Switzerland last year, shortly before I took a jog in my jocks at 40 below. Hopefully the quality is good enough that you can read another of my mantras. If not, it's a quote from Salvador Dali: "Life is too short to remain unnoticed."
If I'd managed to figure out how the devil to include hyperlinks there'd be one *Here* for Salvador Dali. I haven't. He was an artist. Google him. Show some initiative.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Experimentations
So I've wasted...ermm.. spent the morning trying to learn how to blog. I might have a picture in my profile, and I might have figured out how to post via email. If you're reading this now, then I have...
Useful, reader worthy text will be forthcoming..
--
Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.
--
Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.
So I gave in....I blog now..
Welcome aboard...
I'll just jump in medias res, in the middle of things.
I leave for England SOON. Departure at T- 108 hours. Even at that, it's nearly too late. I think I've emotionally been in Europe for at least 2 weeks. I'm all but worthless here any more; can't concentrate on a thing... such as firing up this new site I've been threatening to for a month or more.
It's good to be leaving, now. September just never goes well for me. My allergies flare up, the weather starts cooling down, and the Sun's angle as it heads southward again leaves the world lit like an undying afternoon for all the daylight hours, just reminding me that short nights and freezing temperatures are on the way.
August, on the other hand, now August is different. Bloody well hot, but so much goes on in August. It seems that every activities coordinator in Northwest Arkansas realises that time is running short, so that there is forever something to do. I started out this past August with a visit to the Tontitown Grape Festival, in its 106th reincarnation. Then there was the Demolition Derby, a must for late summer NWA. I realise that some of my International acquaintances may not be familiar with this brilliant past time, but illuminating the confusion is quite easy. A bunch of guys with stronger nerves than myself purchase antiquated automobiles destined for the scrap yard, get them running again, remove all glass, seats, and anything else unnecessary for individual operations. They meet at a predetermined, publicly available location, and brutally batter one another's vehicles. As a VW-driving, vaguely environmentally conscious citizen, I should not condone such unecological behavior, as the whole event is nothing but an oil-burning, shrapnel inducing affair, but dangit it's fun to watch. Then there was the Washington County fair, and some other outdoor event. I'm not sure what it was, but I know that I ate 4 funnel cakes in the last 6 weeks, so there must've been something else... A funnel cake is a heart attack, served on a paper plate. A pastry dough is squeezed through a funnel (AHA!) into a vat of cooking oil, quickly deep fried, then plopped onto a paper plate and coated in powdered sugar. And somehow, after 4 in one month, I am capable of ventricular activity.
The culmination of every August is, of course, the annual Eureka Springs, Arkansas Volkswagen Show. I went this year in a mini-caravan of 3 antique VW's to the little 'Swiss Village of the Ozark Mountains,' about a 45 minute drive from my hometown of Springdale. I own a 1978 Rabbit, turd brown in color, all original, and near showroom quality. It's a wonderful little car, if you're not in a hurry. Driving this car after having been a pickup truck man all my driving life required a severe shift in philosophy, and I think I've come through all right. I get a lot less hurried, riled, and worked up these days. I'll get there when I get there, and I'll worry about the problem at hand when I see it... The other vehicles in the parade over were my friend Adam's '77 Tie-dyed Westphalia, Lucy, and Tim's '67 yellow Kombi, unnamed as of yet. The ride home included John and Amber in their '79 Westphalia, and I'm sorry, I forget her name.
Any rate, seems I had more to mention, but I forget what. My next trick will be attaching a photo or 2... wish me luck...
I'll just jump in medias res, in the middle of things.
I leave for England SOON. Departure at T- 108 hours. Even at that, it's nearly too late. I think I've emotionally been in Europe for at least 2 weeks. I'm all but worthless here any more; can't concentrate on a thing... such as firing up this new site I've been threatening to for a month or more.
It's good to be leaving, now. September just never goes well for me. My allergies flare up, the weather starts cooling down, and the Sun's angle as it heads southward again leaves the world lit like an undying afternoon for all the daylight hours, just reminding me that short nights and freezing temperatures are on the way.
August, on the other hand, now August is different. Bloody well hot, but so much goes on in August. It seems that every activities coordinator in Northwest Arkansas realises that time is running short, so that there is forever something to do. I started out this past August with a visit to the Tontitown Grape Festival, in its 106th reincarnation. Then there was the Demolition Derby, a must for late summer NWA. I realise that some of my International acquaintances may not be familiar with this brilliant past time, but illuminating the confusion is quite easy. A bunch of guys with stronger nerves than myself purchase antiquated automobiles destined for the scrap yard, get them running again, remove all glass, seats, and anything else unnecessary for individual operations. They meet at a predetermined, publicly available location, and brutally batter one another's vehicles. As a VW-driving, vaguely environmentally conscious citizen, I should not condone such unecological behavior, as the whole event is nothing but an oil-burning, shrapnel inducing affair, but dangit it's fun to watch. Then there was the Washington County fair, and some other outdoor event. I'm not sure what it was, but I know that I ate 4 funnel cakes in the last 6 weeks, so there must've been something else... A funnel cake is a heart attack, served on a paper plate. A pastry dough is squeezed through a funnel (AHA!) into a vat of cooking oil, quickly deep fried, then plopped onto a paper plate and coated in powdered sugar. And somehow, after 4 in one month, I am capable of ventricular activity.
The culmination of every August is, of course, the annual Eureka Springs, Arkansas Volkswagen Show. I went this year in a mini-caravan of 3 antique VW's to the little 'Swiss Village of the Ozark Mountains,' about a 45 minute drive from my hometown of Springdale. I own a 1978 Rabbit, turd brown in color, all original, and near showroom quality. It's a wonderful little car, if you're not in a hurry. Driving this car after having been a pickup truck man all my driving life required a severe shift in philosophy, and I think I've come through all right. I get a lot less hurried, riled, and worked up these days. I'll get there when I get there, and I'll worry about the problem at hand when I see it... The other vehicles in the parade over were my friend Adam's '77 Tie-dyed Westphalia, Lucy, and Tim's '67 yellow Kombi, unnamed as of yet. The ride home included John and Amber in their '79 Westphalia, and I'm sorry, I forget her name.
Any rate, seems I had more to mention, but I forget what. My next trick will be attaching a photo or 2... wish me luck...
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