If your best friend’s mom once alluded to the fact that it is one of her life dreams to walk between Budapest and Vienna, by all means ruin it for her and beat her to the punch, but do not do it with a 25kg backpack in mid December. Actually, mid-December is beautiful along the Danube. Instead, just don’t carry a 10kg frozen goose with you, because that will slow you down and you will ultimately end up walking only between Szob and Sturovo, cursing the Schengen area for ever letting Hungary and Slovakia in and therefore eliminating the need for a rail stop at the border, adding a further 14km to your journey in pitch dark. Unless you’re into that kind of thing. I have no idea, but for me, hopping from one rail tie to another in the dark, tripping over aggressive bushes, and at one point meandering off the tracks to a road that turned out to be potholed and entirely covered in puddles that I needed to ford by moonlight, it really tested how far I wanted to take this rivalry. Well, I took it as far as Sturovo, and then trained all the way to Bratislava, caught my flight to Barcelona, and spent a sunny Christmas with Sally on the western Mediterranean. The rest can be obtained from this Boxing Day greeting:
Sally and I are staying in my friend´s apartment in the Gothic Quarter of Barcelona, just off La(s) Rambla(s), while he travels around Brasil. A normal person may react with, "Oh great, that must be so nice to have a flat in downtown Barcelona!" but that would expose that person as never actually having been to Barcelona, nor understanding that no one in this city ever sleeps and crowds of screaming tourists flood the narrow alleyways below the windows at all hours. For those of you who not yet convinced that every conversation in Spanish is so excited and heated and invariably results in one throwing a VCR at the other, last night there was a bar fight right below the apartment at 5:20am which involved half the neighbourhood, a lot of screaming, and naturally, household items being hurled.
My first day back in Barcelona, when I arrived at the apartment, I was gingerly tiptoeing over the mound of garbage piled up directly in front of the door to the building, and walked up the first floor doorway to discover my key no longer worked. I caught a passing neighbour who also could not help. I gave the door a gentle kick or three and all it managed to do was attracted the attention of the crazy, tiny, shrivelled upstairs neighbour who started screaming at me in Spanish and then threatened to call the police. Hoping that the sight of a fresh-faced blond kid looking dejected would ease this situation as well as it does (and should) in every other situation I have ever been in, I asked in French if she knew a trick to getting in because the lock was jammed. Her French was limited, but she managed to get across a pretty clear message: "Get the %@&$ out of here or I am calling the police." She did call the police, but by this time I was out of there. There was a tiny central courtyard/patio in this building, with access only via the ground floor apartment. Running up the sides were all the plastic piping and metal grates running up to the bathroom window of the apartment I sought access. I asked if I could go through their patio and climb up this complex series of pipes. They were hesitant because I was not only foreign, but also had the potential to break the poorly constructed pipes carrying human waste out of the building (and on to the street), which would turn an individual problem into a societal one. Being blond and forlorn finally prevailed, and I was climbing up a series of poorly attached, thin and rickety pipes, and was able to hoist myself up to the bathroom window ledge. With help from a broom, I pushed the window open, hoisted myself up, shouted "Success!" and life returned to normal. *Update on this: The old lady has knocked on the door several times in the past week to tell me that some "chico" was here speaking French and trying to break in. Naturally, I pretended to only speak Russian, which confused her and also convinced her that she chased away some dirty Frenchman and saved my life. She blew me a kiss and things have never been better between us. Then the police arrived. One week later. I hid and waited for my problems to solve themselves, which, I presume, they have.
In lieu of paying rent, I have agreed to paint the apartment. Now, this is an easy task in Canada (where everything works, and with a smile), but in Spain the paint mixers do not work and I´ve had to mix the colours manually. Furthermore, the colour chosen is not the colour that has now dried. I no longer care, because trying to catch the open hours of the paint store is difficult in a country that is on permanent siesta. If my friend has a problem with it, he should not have used crappy foreign labour at below-market wages (and please, I have an Arts degree. I refuse to productively contribute to society). In order to recoup some of the losses of renting an apartment while being away and getting nothing from me except back-breaking labour trying to seal up crumbling 18th century walls, my friend has sublet it for two months to a recent arrival from Israel. Some of you may think sharing a flat with a 34-year-old gay Israeli would be a dream come true, and you are 100% correct. This is possibly the most fun and exciting December Sally and I have ever spent together (surprisingly beating out 2003). The day typically begins with him criticising our breakfast choices, the coffee I make for Sally, and having a sassy retort for everything I say. He refers to everything and everyone as ¨bitch¨ (I actually don´t know if he has learned English personal pronouns yet, so this may in fact simply be a linguistic thing).
Apart from that, Barcelona is a pretty okay city. By all means, this is definitely the third world (and it seems any Christmas I have ever spent away from Grand Forks has been in a Spanish-dominated environment: Barcelona, Costa Rica, and San Diego, a fate most probably influenced by a certain elementary school teacher’s insistence we perform the Macarena to whichever Christmas song every year for 4 consecutive years in elementary school). It´s certainly not the city I remember from 1995 though, which had considerably fewer kebab shops. Today was a balmy 15 or so with clear blue skies, but the weather has mainly been a light, warm drizzle, making the rain in Barcelona a lot like urinal splatter (though considerably less sanitary). The drug dealers are nice here too. I can´t go anywhere without being asked if I want to buy cocaine or hashish. It´s nice to be noticed, and when they automatically address you in your native tongue, it gives a soothing feeling of home, especially when it´s 11pm and you cannot wait to eat the frozen Dr. Oetker´s pizza you just bought and watch an episode of 30 Rock with Sally. As you can see, we are really soaking up the Barcelona experience.
Hope all is well on your end. Sally and I are going to try to hit up the sweet Boxing Day sales at the Map Store in the Reval. They have old campaign maps of the Iberian Peninsula, c1815. Jealous?
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
Batty over Banat
Budapest is not so much a city that sucks you in, but rather one that you instead willingly, eagerly submit to, even if it’s not interested in you. Sensing this, I decided it was time to give us a break and visit the oft-forgotten Republic of Banat. This is a territory in Europe that existed for about two weeks in what is today Northern Serbia, Western Romania, and Southern Hungary. If there is one thing I can say about Banat, it’s that it is flat. So flat, in fact, that Hungarians no longer need to explain why they are so upset about Trianon. Hungarians love a flat surface, and Banat provided just that. My proposed itinerary was a tour de force which included Arad, famous for the execution of 16 Hungarian generals by the Austrians after the failed 1848 revolution; Timisoara, the capital and well-known centre of discontent during the Ceausescu years, culminating in riots and Nicolae and Elena’s passing on Christmas Day in 1989; and…that is about it. This republic lasted two weeks, so my expectations were considerably lower than for, say, France.
Boarding a train at 4am from Nyugati—and yes, for all you Budapest club enthusiasts, Retro Police, located in the one of the Eiffel-designed towers of Nyugati and advertised by a strobe light in one of the windows, was still pumpin’—bound for Szeged, my plan was to walk across the border and re-train to Arad. I was expecting a day full of adventure and intrigue, of fending off brigands and using my wit and agility to get myself out of scrapes with the local highwaymen. Instead, I was extorted, legitimately, by MAV at 4:30am for having purchased a student ticket when I wasn’t a student of Hungary. ‘Hungry for Hungarians’ prevails once more.
The intrigue was not lost that day, however. If I had to explain to you the number of times I have sat outside a söröző in the cold in Lökősháza, you’d think it was a worthwhile destination. And do not get me wrong, it’s lovely, but if you’re only in British Columbia for the weekend, I wouldn’t focus my energies on Beaverdell. What makes Lökősháza such a hot destination? Well, it gained notoriety as being the last port of call before exiting Hungary starting in 1920. Why, a rational, Western observer might ask, is there not a direct rail line between Szeged and Arad, two large cities on the same latitude when they used to be part of the same country? This question has haunted my time in Eastern Europe and has led me to warn everyone else who wants to attempt the same journey*. Instead, it was required that I take a train north to Békéscsaba, connect with a train going to Bucharest from Budapest, and then cross the border to Arad. The exact same thing happened in 2007, and for some reason I have refused to learn from it. Feeling plucky, I opted to walk across the border with Romania from Nagylák to Nădlac (same pronunciation, same ethnic inhabitants…Slovaks. Wilson’s dream of self-determination sadly left these Catholic Slavs wedged in an uncomfortable Latin-Magyar szendvics), and had to contend with money-changers and taxi drivers (a common theme in my past year), hitchhike, share in a group taxi with a terrifying and large woman named Carmen, and then wander around a suburb of Arad looking desperately for the hostel.
I may or may not have dropped in casual conversation in the past that I think HI hostels in eastern Europe are fronts for laundering money. Of course it’s possible there is no proof to this, but when I decided to leave my sketchy hostel for the 2-star hotel offering a buffet breakfast for only $5 more, I m, gingerly tiptoed into the manager’s office, who was sitting in a leather jacket wearing sunglasses and yelling into his cell phone. He agreed to a partial refund, rooted around his desk and handed me a 50-lei bill and wished me luck. I, on the other hand, secretly wished luck to whomever he was yelling at on the phone. Furthermore, the hostel was too far out of town to be a legitimate base of operations, and there was roadwork which had all the trams not working. So, the next morning, showered, buffeted and after scenic walk along the river, I can say my memories of Arad were positive: three teenagers invited me for mulled wine at 9am one morning and explained to me the popular Romanian anecdote, “Romania is beautiful, but Romanians are not” to which they laughed heartily; I ate a lot of bread with lard and raw onions, which landed me in the fetal position in bed in near-tears; and an aged lady of the evening approached me on my way to the train station on a Sunday morning. Thinking quickly, I decided I only spoke French. She, on the other hand, was entirely fluent. In every conceivable language, so if you’re a linguistics major, prostitution in Europe is a very viable option. Seeing I was late, I ran as fast as I could with all my luggage only to arrive and discover I was late for a Romanian train, which really means the train was late for me. I had time to rest, cool down, have a coffee, search for wifi, check my e-mail, and then wait impatiently for the train.
So, after seeing Arad, Timisoara, and a couple of unnecessary, forced walks through the countryside, I can successfully say I “did” Banat. Actually, truth be told I spent about an hour in Timisoara, discovered that the museum was closed, had some mulled wine, ate some gogosi—mini donuts with confectioner’s sugar, which are so tasty I demand you find your nearest old Romanian woman and ask her to make you some—and then ran to the station to catch the train back to Budapest. Something none of you are aware of but I which I need to point out, is that Romanian State Railways (CFR) loves to overheat their carriages. They live for it. So after getting onto the train from subzero temperature, I immediately had strip down to just a t-shirt, and furthermore go down to the doors, open them and let the cold air stop my cells from undergoing irreversible chemical change. Aside from all the fun and intrigue, I was reminded of why I liked Budapest so much: cheaper food. As beautiful as Szeged was, and as much as Romania seems to be having some sort of closing out sale (cabbage rolls for less than $2! Mulled wine for $0.50!), Budapest had the variety, and the availability of Chinese food that I don’t like to be more than 10km from at any time. In all, a success.
*Pending on meeting someone who would ever want to take that same trip. I have yet to meet anyone who is aware either city even exists.
Boarding a train at 4am from Nyugati—and yes, for all you Budapest club enthusiasts, Retro Police, located in the one of the Eiffel-designed towers of Nyugati and advertised by a strobe light in one of the windows, was still pumpin’—bound for Szeged, my plan was to walk across the border and re-train to Arad. I was expecting a day full of adventure and intrigue, of fending off brigands and using my wit and agility to get myself out of scrapes with the local highwaymen. Instead, I was extorted, legitimately, by MAV at 4:30am for having purchased a student ticket when I wasn’t a student of Hungary. ‘Hungry for Hungarians’ prevails once more.
The intrigue was not lost that day, however. If I had to explain to you the number of times I have sat outside a söröző in the cold in Lökősháza, you’d think it was a worthwhile destination. And do not get me wrong, it’s lovely, but if you’re only in British Columbia for the weekend, I wouldn’t focus my energies on Beaverdell. What makes Lökősháza such a hot destination? Well, it gained notoriety as being the last port of call before exiting Hungary starting in 1920. Why, a rational, Western observer might ask, is there not a direct rail line between Szeged and Arad, two large cities on the same latitude when they used to be part of the same country? This question has haunted my time in Eastern Europe and has led me to warn everyone else who wants to attempt the same journey*. Instead, it was required that I take a train north to Békéscsaba, connect with a train going to Bucharest from Budapest, and then cross the border to Arad. The exact same thing happened in 2007, and for some reason I have refused to learn from it. Feeling plucky, I opted to walk across the border with Romania from Nagylák to Nădlac (same pronunciation, same ethnic inhabitants…Slovaks. Wilson’s dream of self-determination sadly left these Catholic Slavs wedged in an uncomfortable Latin-Magyar szendvics), and had to contend with money-changers and taxi drivers (a common theme in my past year), hitchhike, share in a group taxi with a terrifying and large woman named Carmen, and then wander around a suburb of Arad looking desperately for the hostel.
I may or may not have dropped in casual conversation in the past that I think HI hostels in eastern Europe are fronts for laundering money. Of course it’s possible there is no proof to this, but when I decided to leave my sketchy hostel for the 2-star hotel offering a buffet breakfast for only $5 more, I m, gingerly tiptoed into the manager’s office, who was sitting in a leather jacket wearing sunglasses and yelling into his cell phone. He agreed to a partial refund, rooted around his desk and handed me a 50-lei bill and wished me luck. I, on the other hand, secretly wished luck to whomever he was yelling at on the phone. Furthermore, the hostel was too far out of town to be a legitimate base of operations, and there was roadwork which had all the trams not working. So, the next morning, showered, buffeted and after scenic walk along the river, I can say my memories of Arad were positive: three teenagers invited me for mulled wine at 9am one morning and explained to me the popular Romanian anecdote, “Romania is beautiful, but Romanians are not” to which they laughed heartily; I ate a lot of bread with lard and raw onions, which landed me in the fetal position in bed in near-tears; and an aged lady of the evening approached me on my way to the train station on a Sunday morning. Thinking quickly, I decided I only spoke French. She, on the other hand, was entirely fluent. In every conceivable language, so if you’re a linguistics major, prostitution in Europe is a very viable option. Seeing I was late, I ran as fast as I could with all my luggage only to arrive and discover I was late for a Romanian train, which really means the train was late for me. I had time to rest, cool down, have a coffee, search for wifi, check my e-mail, and then wait impatiently for the train.
So, after seeing Arad, Timisoara, and a couple of unnecessary, forced walks through the countryside, I can successfully say I “did” Banat. Actually, truth be told I spent about an hour in Timisoara, discovered that the museum was closed, had some mulled wine, ate some gogosi—mini donuts with confectioner’s sugar, which are so tasty I demand you find your nearest old Romanian woman and ask her to make you some—and then ran to the station to catch the train back to Budapest. Something none of you are aware of but I which I need to point out, is that Romanian State Railways (CFR) loves to overheat their carriages. They live for it. So after getting onto the train from subzero temperature, I immediately had strip down to just a t-shirt, and furthermore go down to the doors, open them and let the cold air stop my cells from undergoing irreversible chemical change. Aside from all the fun and intrigue, I was reminded of why I liked Budapest so much: cheaper food. As beautiful as Szeged was, and as much as Romania seems to be having some sort of closing out sale (cabbage rolls for less than $2! Mulled wine for $0.50!), Budapest had the variety, and the availability of Chinese food that I don’t like to be more than 10km from at any time. In all, a success.
*Pending on meeting someone who would ever want to take that same trip. I have yet to meet anyone who is aware either city even exists.
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