First Hungarian Lesson

I started learning Hungarian this week after six months of living with the hope that I’d magically be able to converse with locals, despite an absolute lack of effort.  This is not completely impossible, to an extent.  It is actually quite common to pick up large amounts of language passively.  For example, I know that “tolni” means push.  In my first week here, I had a man yell it at me as I found myself unable to open a door.  At first I freaked out, wondering what type of insult “tolni” could mean; I’d at least worked out that he was yelling at me because of my clear stupidity of not being able to open a door, but after a second or a minute— time ceases to move in these freak-out moments— I noticed that there was a small sign above the handle, saying the same word.  Naturally, I continued pulling on the door.  The man said it again and I figured I should take a new strategy, pushing the door.  That worked; the door opened.  I turned back to the guy, slapped my forehead gently with my palm and exclaimed with a laugh, “Tolni!”, as if I was merely unobservant or stupid, not foreign.

Honestly though, besides knowing the words for nearly every vegetable one can find in this country (the markets have clearly marked signs above each bin), my Hungarian is about nil.  This is not purely from laziness.  When I first arrived, I had every intention of studying Hungarian for an hour every day.  I believe that when one plans to live in a country for four years, they should at least learn how to say to a cashier, “Hey, what do you think of this particular cheese?”  As it stands, I can look at the cashier and say, “Cheese?”  After just a day or two here, realizing I needed flashcards just to say thank you (köszönöm) and that the language has anywhere between 12 and 33 vowels (I swear they add more every few days, just to confuse me), I gave up on any serious study of the language.  Especially considering that even when I know the word, even seemingly simple words like sör (beer), I am incomprehensible to Hungarians.  This is a common source of frustration to many of foreigners that live here.

There is a fantastic bakery near my flat.  Often in the morning, I’ll wonder down with my artist/”I-just-woke-up- and-want-some-bread” hair, point to a bread roll and exclaim, “Egy Zsemle!”  They give me a strange look as if I’m speaking some strange language and offer me something completely different.  I’ve observed the signs.  There is only one thing in the entire store that has a name even resembling Zsemle and that’s Zsemle.  So, even if I had managed to say something like music or bill or SIM-card, one would think in this context, that I was probably talking about the object to which I was pointing.  It’s like working at a store that cuts keys and having somebody come in and ask for kois.  I’d like to think that I wouldn’t spend two minutes glaring at the person, wondering why they think they can buy a fish at my key store.  Thankfully, the baker woman speaks English and we quickly drop any pretence that we’ll be able to communicate in Hungarian, and she just asks me what I want.  These are not confidence building events.

So when Babilon offered me Hungarian lessons on a teacher’s discount, I figured I should participate.  The first lesson was dedicated to introductions, numbers, and most importantly, pronouncing the different letters.  In just a few minutes, I discovered a reason why the baker couldn’t understand me: I couldn’t even say the word for one correctly.  I’d been saying “Egy” like egg-ee, when the “gy” is just one letter pronounced like the last sound of the English word “edge”.  Turns out I kept walking into the bakery saying something like “sky-music”.  If somebody asked me for sky-music in my key store, I’d probably call the police.

However, just taking Hungarian classes doesn’t make it an easy language.  I find that learning to count to ten in most languages is a simple process, taking little more than few minutes, but in Hungarian, it took me a good part of an afternoon.  They follow a logic I don’t understand.  In most languages, when you learn 1-10, the rest is quite easy.  Not in Hungarian.  After ten (tiz), it seems simple enough, eleven is tizenegy, twelve is tizenkettő, or simply ten-en-one, ten-en-two, etc.  Twenty though, is húsz, which isn’t derived from their word for two at all!  But at least it can follow the same formula, twenty-en-one, right?  Unfortunately no, it is huszonegy.  Thirty is harminc, but after forty, the rest gets much easier, if you can remember which ones end with ven or van.

Another oddity is that the third person seems to have optional verbs or optional subjects, depending on the sentence.  So, once I know a few more words, I still won’t know who anyone is taking about or what they are doing.

I was able to use my Hungarian immediately.  Last night, Michelle and I went to see Django Unchained.  The cinema had assigned seats, and when we reached ours, a woman had turned mine into her personal wardrobe, stashing her coat, candy, sodas, boyfriend’s gloves, scarf, and given this is Hungary, probably her small dog as well.  I didn’t know how to say, “Um, would you mind placing your things someplace else?  It is a Saturday night and the show is sold out, so unfortunately, there are no spares seats in this theatre for you to store your personal belongings.”  But, I did know the verb for “am” and the word for nine, my seat number.  So I meekly remarked, “kilenc vagyok!” or simple “nine am I”.   There is the slight possibility that I proposed the philosophical statement, “nine exists”, but either way, the woman seemed to understand and spent the next ten minutes transferring her massive pile of things out of my seat. 

Hungarian Food: Langos

One Hungarian dish that everybody should try when they visit Central or Eastern Europe is langos (pronounced lahn-gosh, with a long o sound).  It is nothing fancy, merely flatbread that is either deep fried or baked in a brick oven (typically, the former)  For those in the United States, it is quite similar to Indian Fry-bread, having the same simple, slightly sour flavour.  Most of the time it is served, covered in garlic butter, sour cream, and cheese to make a Hungarian version of the flatbread pizza.  Apparently, many eat it with ham, corn, potatoes or a variety of other toppings, but I most often see people chowing on the cheese/sour cream version.  There are langos stands everywhere; it appears to rank third in fast food hierarchy, after pizza and gyros.  A langos vender across the street, whose restaurant is simply a 3ft wide window before a kitchen, just big enough for the cook, has a constant flow of customers.  His sign is so faded, if one didn't see him sling such an incomprehensible number of flatbreads, nobody would know what he sells.  I didn't have a clue for weeks, until I approached his tiny shop and saw the handwritten menu posted to his window.  Just last week, I tried his langos, which was fluffy and delicious, dripping with garlicky butter, layered in two centimetres of cheese (I've found myself to be a bit lactose intolerant as of late, so I omitted the sour cream, but accepted the hit from the cheese).  It was a cheap treat (costing about a buck-fitty) and I could understand its popularity.  Though, it struck with a vengeance a few hours later.  I don't really eat fried food any more so I found myself with a terrible case of heart burn and the cheese gave me a stomach ache, but it's a small price to pay for a little decadence.

Memes are Lazy Art - An Opinion from 2012

The famous, inquisitive African child and his delightful commentary on the absurdity of the "developed" world. This is one that I actually quite like.

I don't really get memes.  Many people are particularly fond of this form of expression.  Some of my best friends, even my beloved Michelle are hooked on these things.  For those of you who don't know what a meme is, it is a replicating piece of culture that mutates (evolves/devolves).  Now, this is an extremely narrow definition of the idea, but for the purpose of this essay, one just needs to know that the term meme has basically been mutated, to mean that people take a photo and type some text over that top and...that's it (an "image macro" so to speak).  Don't get me wrong, there are some clever memes out there.  Occasionally, Michelle will show me a good one or I'll see one on facebook, but most are decidedly, not funny.

I don't know exactly when the first Internet meme was invented, but the first I remember was the classic, So-and-So Ate My Balls pages from the mid-90's.  It all started with Mr. T Ate my Balls.  Basically, it was websites filled with photos of celebrities and characters talking about eating balls.  It may not sound funny, but at 14, these were genius.  Here's an example, using a modern image-macro template:

This is muti-layered meta-joke, based upon an earlier joke you've probably never heard of.

They were crude in not just their subject matter, but also their execution.  The formula was simple: upload a photo into paint, add a text bubble, type something about eating balls, then post it on your website full of other balls-eating related content.  In 1996, when it was much more difficult to virally spread an online joke, the popularity of such a concept was quite impressive.  The memes were not themselves funny, but the absurdity of seeing Gary Coleman in the midst of a ravenous addiction to the oral consumption of testicles, was a breathe of fresh air from the situational based humor of the time (Whoopie Goldberg is a CEO,  Whoopie Goldberg is a Basketball coach,  Whoopie Goldberg befriends a dinosaur...ok, maybe absurdity was starting to return.).  This was in the days before the neo-dadaist movement of the 2000's with Family Guy, Aqua Teen Hunger Force, or other "random humor" shows were big.  The fact that they were not funny, made them funny; and that was the joke: a viral cultural phenomenon that itself was a meta-joke, a commentary upon a joke that wasn't even funny the first time it was told.  A modern take on the chicken crossing the road.

Around the same time as this was another of these early Internet memes, the hamsterdance.  It portrayed four animated .gif images of dancing rodents, set to a song from Disney's Robin Hood.  I'd first come across it in an online chat room around 1999 or 2000 (for you youngins, before there was facebook, people would join groups for similar interests and send texts to each other for hours), finding it amusing, I started setting it as our school computers' web browser homepage.  Much like "ate my balls" memes, these morphed into other groups of animated .gifs dancing to music.  (Catdance, jesusdance, dancing babies, you name it, they were all dancing in 2000.)  Note that this is pre-flash, everything was purely html and thus rudimentarily done.  It was the simplicity of the technology that allowed these variations to spread so quickly.  I think hamsterdance was a turning point for Internet culture, showing that the Internet was a medium for mass production and distribution of ideas, that was ever changing and evolving.  Also, there was money in it.

Hamsterdance merchandise, including shirts and coffee mugs and calendars and all that started selling like mad.  An extended remix of the 10 second hamsterdance jingle was even reached number five on the Australian singles chart (number 2 in Britain).  People latched onto this idea that a trifle could make money and even more importantly, variations on trifles can mean something.

The technology improved and the flash player made online animation a product that could be easily and quickly viewed, but with the growing ability of C++ to make really anything, animators and creative types with a knowledge of programming began creating sites like Homestar Runner and rathergood.com to show off their talents.  It was a golden age for animation; one didn't need a distributor to show off their art and using the growth of internet advertising and merchandising, one could do it for a living.  All one needed was ability and some luck.  Memes began dying out as the tastes for internet culture became more sophisticated. Simply, the average person was not adept at making cartoons.  For five years, the average internet user was mostly a consumer, not a creator.  (a more accurate portrait is that most focused their creative attentions on the simpler, web-design and blog-creation.)

A velociraptor, who philosophically ponders whatever a person writes on top of the image.

The tide seemed to change after the rise of the LOLcat.  Sometime around 2006, image macros of cats, superimposed with grammatically incorrect leet sayings (cats can't speak well you see), broke out of the message boards and into the general public, and the internet meme was reborn.  The beauty of this was its utter-simplicity.  All one needed was a photo of a cute cat and paint, then boom, instant contribution to internet culture:

From conception to posting, this took me exactly three minutes and 17 seconds.  Though this one admittedly, isn't very good.

I never found the LOLcat thing to be amusing, but more annoying.  I did enjoy the cute photos of pets now and then, but the sayings didn't strike me as clever.  Being an English major, I felt that people should at least be able to spell simple words like "is" correctly.  It had been ten years since I'd had my balls eaten, so the return of this mass-produced commentary on the simplicity of creating mass-media was already a tired concept; and worse, the irony was lost.  It may be elitist of me to say it, but by the time the mass populace caught up with this kind of absurdity, I had moved on.

This one only took 46 seconds to make.

LOLcats were followed by Fail-memes (or maybe preceded by, it is hard to trace the origins of these things).  Fail-memes were just a bunch of photos of failures, with simply "fail" written on them.  It was an even more simplified way to create a picture joke.  It required no thought in both creation or viewing.  The hardware needed to see and make them were the same.  Mix this with facebook and its ability to share and spread culture quickly and you have an instantly gratifying exchange from producer to consumer.  There isn't really a middleman and grows through word of mouth.  This is one of the most democratic art-forms in the world.

People spend endless hours making and viewing these rudimentary forms of expression.  Valuable work time around the world is lost to blindly scrolling down pages of these variations upon themes, in some sort of Skinnerian reinforcement of finding the 1 out of every 250 that actually generates a laugh.  The internet is now polluted with literally millions of these images and finding one that may have had an original idea is nearly impossible.  When anybody with a computer can not only make something, but expose it to the masses in less than a minute, does it have value?

The evolution of current photo macros are fascinating.  It is a short history (but a dense one given the sheer overload of information created using this format).  The cause, effect, and especially order are hard to trace.  The Simpsons and Family Guy's popularization of dropping obscure pop-culture references in an endless game of nostalgia battles spawned memes thats' origins were simply, images from films, with the corresponding quote written on it.

A favorite scene of mine from the 1989 film Uncle Buck.  All I needed to do with today's simple access to images, was type in Uncle Buck on an image search engine.  Then put some text on top of it.  Time from conception to completion 2 minutes.

The most famous of these is an image of Boromir from The Fellowship of the Ring, exclaiming with great indignation, hand formed into a ring, "One does not simply walk into Mordor."  With only the tiniest bit of an inspirational spark, one can simply, change the words slightly to make a joke.

17 seconds.

Another variation is to change the image slightly or make another nostalgic reference to a different film.  And on and on into infinite variations.

This one took ten minutes because I had to find a picture where Yoda was looking in the same direction as Boromir, then haphazardly cut it out and paste it onto a new image.

The Boromir gags can be traced as far back as 2004, but this summer was its height of popularity.  They ebb, flow, and mutate into new forms.  They'll become popular, people will churn out thousands of variations on the theme, then disappear until one day, as people tire of the joke, or find a new one.  Then somebody comes up with a novel amalgamation old and new ideas, and the meme is reborn and the imitators will follow.  What gets lost, though is the original joke and the idea of original expression.  It is not hard to just find a photo and make a macro.  Just follow the formula:

A photo from some old film + Words (extra points if it makes reference to another popular meme) = My own contribution to culture.  So, let's see....old film....old films.....AH!  I love Touch of Evil starring Orson Wells and Charlton Heston.  So, I can just type in Touch of Evil into google images, scroll through until I see an amusing image, put it in paint, type something on top, upload it onto this blog and.....there, you can all witness my clever wit.

If this doesn't go viral, I can make more and more and more until I find one that people like.  These remind me of a giant photo caption contest, except instead of us being exposed to the best few, we are exposed to every single entry.  Theoretically, society will filter out the ones that aren't funny and the rest will fade into obscurity, but it doesn't work like that though.  For them to be passed on, somebody has to see them and share them.  Even the ones that are popular and funny are still trivial and ultimately forgettable, because the second somebody has a good idea, it becomes absorbed, changed, regurgitated and thus watered down, again and again and again until all you have is just a photo of Boromir with clasped fingers.  What is wrong with this?  Nothing really, I just hope that people who make and view these photos are cognisant of their frivolousness.  We are leaving nothing behind with these.  Nobody is going to look back at this:

1 minute, 23 seconds

...and regard it as equal to a Rembrandt painting, or even a Mondrian.  (I could have found an actually good photo macro to make a better point, but there is something fun about making these things.)  Societies have been doing this with material culture for the history of mankind, and some asshole has written and will write an essay just like this, proclaiming that the current society's folk-art (and really that's what this is) is just a useless waste of time that contributes nothing to world.  Even serious art is filled with in-jokes that will mean nearly nothing when removed from its context, but even a "scherzo" movement took time, skill, study, and practice to create (and it also required education and free-time, a luxury afforded almost solely by a privileged class...I'm going to avoid most discussions of class structures in my commentary) and can still be regarded as something valuable.  This, however, does not:

Will this mean anything to anybody in a year?  Does it mean anything now?

Meme is a wonderful pop-term for these images; I see them as a futile attempt to scream "me! me!"  Paradoxically, now that such a large number of people have the ability to have their voice heard by the world, it just becomes noise because everyone is talking.

This is not all bad.  For sociologists looking to study the effects of mass-media and its effects on the evolution of ideas, this is amazing stuff!  Studying the internet is like the studying life-cycles of fruit-flies, because there are so many participants, mutations happen quickly.  The language of expression is changing and being absorbed by society so quickly, images are taking on more complex meanings in very short amount of time.  Again, this has been happening forever; it is how language was born, but are the implications of photo macros and internet memes on the future of communication?

This is now linked with pondering deep (or not so deep) questions of the universe.

CELTA Livin'

When I decided to piggyback on Michelle's adventure to Hungary, I knew that a life on the couch would not be a viable option. This is especially taking into account my financial situation, which is fine since, fiscally, I've proven to be of mixed Scottish and Jewish descent. But sadly, a year's savings lasts significantly less than five years of life (or even one year of life), so I was forced to explore methods of earning money. This can be difficult in a nation where they speak a strange language, unrelated to anything else (except Finnish, where the only similarity I've noticed, is stressing the first syllable of every word).

I have 13 years of food service experience and I'm sure I could become the equivalent of an Ecuadorian in America, plugging away, being exploited on a kitchen line in some restaurant, but this really isn't how I want to live my life. I have no problems being an semi-skilled foreign immigrant, but only as a last resort. So, I looked inside of myself, embraced my inner-backpacker and decided to pursue teaching English as a second language. I cringed as my life continued to be a stereotype.

Although I do have an English degree, one cannot simply become an English teacher. So I did my research and found a highly respected certification course, the CELTA, being offered by the International House Language School in Budapest. I signed up, wrote an essay, had a nerve racking interview, and after sending them a month's savings, I was enrolled.

The course started on the first of October, giving me just a week to adjust to the time-zone and the lifestyle before diving in completely. I didn't really know what to expect. I'd heard many horror stories about the full-time CELTA course; tales of no sleep, tears, and impossible loads of knowledge in such a short amount of time. It had been a long time since I was last a student; I was quite worried that I'd forgotten how.

The first day of class was quite fun. My classmates seemed cool and Gary, our deceptively tall and funny Scottish instructor was a brilliant teacher (as you would expect from a man hired to teach the art of teaching). In the first week, we were already slotted to teach real students, even though few of us had any experience or skills.

My first teaching experience left me addled, but it went quite well. It was not nearly as hard as I'd thought; though even though it was day 3 of the course, we'd already learned a ridiculous amount. From that point on, I would have to teach for 45 minutes, every other day. Even though much of the course was spent learning methodology, teaching and watching our peers teach was the real course.

Most mornings, I'd wake around six, have a quick breakfast, check over my lesson plan, then head over to school. Even though the school is on the other end of the city, well into the Buda side, my apartment and the school were both close to subway stops, so it only took 15 minutes. I would always pay my respects to the epic façade of the Keleti train station and thank my life for allowing me to live a block from such a beautiful building, before catching my train.

I typically arrived around 8 and would spend the next hour printing, copying, and cutting. It is crazy to think that even after all the planning and designing is finished, there is still another hour of work before teaching. Our teaching went from 9-11:30, comprising of three 45 minute lessons and a 15 minute break. After this, we tore each other's lessons apart then prepared for the next day. After a lunch break (which I typically spent working), we spent a few more hours being taught different teaching techniques by our three main instructors. All were entertaining, inspiring teachers and I learned much, not just from their lessons, but taking note of their own styles and how it helped me learn.

Our school day ended at 5PM. Those with no lessons the next morning would hit the bar for a quick beer, the rest headed home to plan. I gained a new respect for my past teachers once I saw how much work goes into planning. I, like most students, just assumed that most work was done in front of the class, with a bit of test correction now and then. Lesson planning is long, hard work. Even though I only taught for 45 minutes in the morning, I would spend an average of five or more hours preparing, often working until midnight. In fact, the teaching was the easiest part: with proper planning, the lessons didn't involve much thought, even if I didn't even stick to the plan. I knew though that if I find a teaching job, I'd need to drop the 6:1 ratio of planning to class time.

I was so busy constantly that the four weeks just flew by. Week 3, traditionally the hardest week of the course, ended with a four day weekend, which helped us all recharge for the last couple days of our lessons. It was a stressful month, but the course wasn't nearly as tough as I was led to believe. I did get at least seven hours of sleep most nights and I remembered most of what was taught in class, mainly since our instructors were fantastic. My hard work and dedication paid off as I was given a A-level for the course. It is good to know that I'm still “that guy”, when it comes to school.

Now I'm a certified English teacher and with an A-level, finding work should not be too tough. In fact, I was offered a class before I'd even finished the course, but things are never straightforward in Hungary...

Music Monday: Congratulations by MGMT

When I first heard this band in Australia three years ago, I had no clue they'd ever make an album such as this. My friend Chris said it, "quietly blew him away." Their big international hit, "Electric Feel" was like a Prince song, as played by two New England white boys. Their three dance rock hits helped their debut, Oracular Spectacular, go platinum worldwide and gave the masses high expectations for their follow-up. Based on these three songs, many were very disappointed to find that Congratulations was a collection of throwback, late-60's psychedelic pop. This shouldn't be to surprising to any who actually listened to the entirity of Oracular Spectacular, including the second half featuring less-catchy, more artistic psychedelic workouts.

I was not disappointed by their "change" in sound, considering I was not a huge fan of the band. MGMT and their producer went to great lengths to capture the sounds of  1960's pop they've unleased.  This is by no means a straightforward throwback that has become so popular with hipster bands lately, but the late- 60's as seen through the eyes of electro-funk obessed New England white boys (though this album doesn't actually contain any electro-funk. It is a confidently delivered album, from the surfy, harpsichord laden opener, "It's Working" until the closing title track.  It is a meticulously structured album, but sounds almost like a cocky afterthought.  "Siberian Breaks", the centerpiece and highlight of the whole album, is a 12-minutes suite, beginning with a modern interpretation 1967-era Byrds and ending with a sweep of swirling electronic beauty that is almost Wagnerian in texture.  Oracular Spectacular sounded like a promising debut by a band destined to fade away as one album wonders.  Congratulations shows that they are much more than that; they'll still go down as one album wonders, (it is the kind of album that'll anger the masses) but the cool kids will follow every move they make.

Arrival

I've crossed oceans enough times, found myself stuck on buses for 12 hours, trains for 36. Flying to Budapest seemed like nothing. I just sat back and watched a few movies; I've spent whole days doing the same thing. I landed in the early afternoon, planning to manage the public transportation to find my home, but after spending nearly two days awake, I opted for a taxi.

The outskirts of Budapest seemed like any other developed country. I saw houses, factories, drab apartments, but mostly express-way. Things were a bit different when the taxi entered the actual city. It looked like Europe; not necessarily the Europe I knew from my travels in Germany, but the Europe of movies: concrete, endless apartment buildings, bakeries at every corner, carved doorways.

It was all quite charming. When the taxi stopped in front of my building, I wasn't so charmed. My block was run down, drunks on the street. If it was cloudy, I'd feel like I was in a Kieslowski film, but Michelle was waiting outside, arms spread and I knew that Eastern Europe couldn't be all bad.

When changing time-zones, I vow to not sleep during the day, fearing this will set back my adjustment, but I was too tired to resist when Michelle headed to class, leaving me alone in the apartment. The moment I had my clothes put away in the drawer, I found myself under the covers, asleep for a nap.

She woke me two hours later and after a long cuddle, we were getting ready to visit our friend Yeganah before heading to a birthday dinner at the New York Cafe, one of the premier restaurants in Budapest.

Our meal was an amazing white-tablecloth affair, with our own waiter armed with a crumb scraper and cloth gloves. My food was divine, especially in its presentation. I ordered rabbit with Hungarian veggies (the were puréed, so I never really found out which veggies they were). It tasted great and the wine washed over my fatigue. My companions kept asking me if I'd like to head home, but I felt fine. I didn't know how bad I looked until I woke the next morning, remembering little and quite shocked by my dishevelled look in the photos. I remembered the free, orgasm-inducing chocolates at the end and that's all that matters.

Abroad Again: Moving to Budapest

                Four years ago, I made a decision that has altered the course of my life considerably.  At that point, I had been out of college for two years, was a rising manager in an exciting restaurant with a staff of 30 people.  I didn’t know where I was headed, but all I could see was up.  I was blinded by this early success, the ambition in the corporate structure, my growing IRA.  I didn’t see the lack of fulfillment. 

Even though I saw it as my own restaurant, I was still being controlled by those above me.  I’d pour my heart and work into projects for the betterment of the business, only to see them brushed aside.  Sure, I’d get a pat on the back for my hard work; I was being noticed by the head office in Chicago, but I really couldn’t do anything.  It did not matter though, because contentment had found me.  All I had to do was keep working hard, keep impressing my superiors and eventually, I’d reach some undetermined higher level of status.  

Contentment is a slow acting poison.  It seemed like happiness.  If you’d asked me how I was, I’d tell you I was happy.  But, work was always a phone call away.  My weekends were spent at home, ready to remedy a disaster at work.  My dreams were a series of problems at the workplace I could not control.  I had money to spend, but no time to spend it.  My one shot of 18 year old single malt scotch had become three and I didn’t even feel the difference.  In the corporate world, happiness is a pillar with only an illusory ladder.  The only escape I had were my emails to Australia.

My unexpected relationship with Jess was cut short not long after it had begun.  Just when we’d come to terms with our feelings for each other, shed the guilt from our situation and realized we wanted to explore the future together, she had to go home.  I don’t know if it was love for her or a hidden desire inside to escape the trap of the American Dream (surely it was both), but my choice to drop everything and cross the ocean involved little thought.

I’d always wanted to live in other places.  This belief was fostered in me through years of hosting exchange students.  It was given that I’d spend a year abroad and see the other side of this lifestyle that had become so normal.  My dreams were clouded by ambition, my need to live life by logic.  I didn’t know what I wanted to be, but spending a year as an exchange student would set it back.  Graduating in 2002, instead of 2001 was unacceptable, because I’d then graduate from college a year later as well.  This would make me underprivileged compared to my classmates, who would have a whole year head start on me.  I was losing the race before I’d even started it.  In the end I settled for a month backpacking in Germany when I was 17.

Eight years later, I found myself getting on a plane to cross the pacific, ready to start living with a family in Australia, taking back the dream I once saw as a threat to my happiness.  At age 25, I finally became an exchange student.

I’ve been traveling ever since.  Things with Jess did not work out, but it freed me to see the country.  After another year at home, I headed to Asia for another year-long adventure, where I met Michelle.

Now, I find myself following another woman across a different ocean, this time to Budapest, which is one of the last places I expected to find myself.  In a logic driven life, I’d not be here.  From years living abroad though, I’ve learned to embrace a life of curiosity and feeling, to ignore the ladders and the pillars (finding happiness is not a climb, it’s more about rolling down the right hills), and not to worry if my choices are setbacks.   Somehow, I’m engaged to marry a beautiful Norwegian and will spend four years in Hungary while she finishes he veterinary program.  I’m facing a forced career change, for with no Hungarian, few contacts, and absolutely no business, it would be impossible to fall back upon my prior dependencies.

I don’t know what I’ll do , but writing and English teaching are about all a native speaker can do in Budapest.   I’m signed up for a CELTA course, which will qualify me to teach.  After that month, who knows what  will happen next.  At least it will be impossible to accept contentment.

Music Monday: LCD Soundsystem

I must have been a bit late on this phenomenon; LCD Soundsystem is a name that I've heard popping up for years now, but never really hunted down. I knew it was some sort of dance music, which scared me away at first. This was until my friend Chris gave me a burned CD of their newest album, This is Happening. What I heard was dance music, but more of a rehashing of late 70's David Bowie and Talking Heads. This was my type of dance music.

I been a fan since then and all of their three albums are great, but none matches their first. The first track, "Daft Punk is Playing at my House" lays the whole idea of the group on the table in a quick, fun, funky, danceable rock song. It simultaneous pokes fun at the nerdiness of the hip, yet embraces it at the same time. The rest of the album switches between electronic workouts and jumpy rock songs. I would not call anything here truly original. "On Repeat" sounds like a modern retake of post-punk, just more electronic. "Never as Tired as When I'm Waking up" sounds like a cover from The Beatles White Album, even in its quality, but despite the rehashing of ideas, producer James Murphy always keeps a strong humor, the songs paying homage to his influences, not copying them.

The second disc is made up early singles. The first, "Losing My Edge" is a hilarious nerd battle between the old school record collectors and children of the internet age. The rest are not nearly as great, but the two extended versions of "Yeah" are both fun dance songs.

Overall, this is one of the most fun albums of the last ten years. It is simply likeable as both a listening experience and a background party album. This is great dance music for people who don't like dance music.

One night in London

I wanted to make sure I'd make all of my connections into Norway, so I booked my tickets to leave an overnight in London, hopefully giving me a chance to see a few things. My trip was not without its complications. I fell asleep before my plane even took off from China and I awoke hours later in the middle of the meal service. Everyone seemed to be finishing up, so I went right back to sleep, waking just before landing in Moscow. I sleepily went through customs and hunted down a cup of coffee and walked around admiring the beauty of Russian women. My gate was on the opposite end of the airport, but I didn't know that until shortly before my flight boarded. Right as I was entering the gate area, I had one of my strange anxiety moments where something didn't seem right. I mostly fight these checking obsessions, but this time, I really thought my backpack felt too light. So I stripped it off and realized that my laptop was not there. I could have only left at the x-ray machine. Therefore, I had to run all the way back across the airport (couldn't you just get a shuttle service Moscow airport) and found my customs entry point. Thankfully, the woman had set it aside for me. I was so happy, I forgot to say “thank you” for one-second, which the customs lady pointed out. “Thank you!” I yelled and ran all the way back, just making the boarding.

The second flight was nearly as long as the first, but I stayed awake for the duration; I had to conform to Europe time. I landed at noon and easily found the subway system, purchasing an “Oyster Card” a frequent rider program which paid for itself on my ride to the hostel. It was located in the Northeast part of the city. I noticed right away that every building looked the same, just an endless row of town houses as far as I could see. It was oddly charming though.

My hostel didn't take cards, so I hunted down a money exchange for my Norwegian kroner. What I got was just enough to pay for my room that night, hardly enough for food or anything else. And no place cheap enough for my budget took cards. So I stayed on a constant hunt for card only establishments. I was knackered when I arrived, but I ignored this, dropped my bag and caught a subway to the main part of town. I didn't even take a shower; there was no time. I had to see everything that day.

I don't know why I always adopt these mindsets, this never works out for me, but somehow in London it worked. Everything was so expensive, I could only see the sights from the outside. Very few thing are worth thirty dollar admission. My first stop was Buckingham Palace, where I jumped a fence, slipped and fell over. I could hear Elisabeth laughing. There was a lovely park on the way to Westminster Abbey. The cathedral itself was quite incredible; I would have loved to see the inside. The parliament house was also pompous and beautiful, but Big Ben was a letdown; it was so much smaller than I expected. The London Eye just across the river was not a draw since I couldn't afford to ride it, but the view from that side of the river was great. The bridge was packed shoulder to shoulder with sausage and caramel corn vendors; the parliament member must love these snacks. Sadly, they only accepted cash.

I continued walking along the river, admiring all the sight.s. London is a very characterful city. I loved how such old buildings sat with all the new. Like a western version of Kolkata. I walked all the way to the tower bridge, passing Christopher Wren's great St. Paul's cathedral and other popular sights. I got some decent photos and saw most of the things on the postcards that afternoon, so that was nice. It was obvious that I was not just burned out on Asia, but tourism in general.

I headed home around the same time as the city was leaving work. The subway was packed with quiet, tired people, strung out from work. The women wore a mask of makeup and didn't know where to stop with the eyeliner. Most of the people were fat and lifeless; they seemed so dead compared to the Chinese, who can be quite cold and lifeless themselves sometimes.

I had a traditional London dinner of Polish food, the only restaurant in the area that took cards. It was lovely but pricey. This is only a lead-up to the outrageously expensive Norway. There were no more dollar dinners in my future.

Cities in China

I doubt that many people who have never been to China can comprehend the sheer population of the country (outside those in maybe India.) In China has a population of 1.3 billion, four times that of the United States, in roughly the same land area. Just keeping people busy or housed in itself is a major job for the country. Despite their attempts to curb growth with the one-child policy, the population still grows too fast. Plus, given the citizens' preference of men, many females have been aborted since this policy came into effect. The government will lift the one-child policy soon, but this will not undo the damage emotionally and mentally by such practices. The population may actually go down, since millions of men all of China cannot find wives, due to the over population of men.

A city of a million plus doesn't even blip on the radar of people. Most provincial capitols are at least 5 million or so, not to mention the large number of multimillion population cities all over the country. I was very surprised by the number of huge cities I'd never even heard of before. Take Shenzhen for example, the second largest city in China. I and many travelers had never heard of it before, even though it has a population of 15 million, nearly a million more than Los Angeles. Here's a little exercise, I'll list China's ten largest cities, with its population and a city in the world that is about the same size. I'd be surprised if an American could recognize more than four of these.

1. Shanghai 18.6 million, about the same size as Mexico City
2. Shenzhen 15.3 million, just a bit bigger than LA.
3. Beijing 14.3 million, just smaller than L.A.
4. Dongguan 12.2 million, just bigger than Rio De Janiero
5. Guangzhou 11.9 million, the same size as Rio
6. Hong Kong 7 million, nearly the size of Bangkok
7. Tianjin 7 million
8. Chongqing 7 million
9. Wuhan 5.5 million about the size of Dallas/Fort Worth
10. Shenyang 5.3 million, about the size of Philadelphia

Of course this list is a bit controversial, given the many ways of listing population. Chongqing has been considered the largest city the world, with over 30 million (if you count the whole province as Chongqing). Once you get to the last 5, many of these are interchangeable. All in all, China has about 20 cities with a population larger than five million! So, keep this in perspective when considering China. 1.3 billion is A LOT of people.

Shanghai

My last day in Asia was spent in the megacity of Shanghai, on the central coast of China. Essentially serving as the financial capital of the country, it has been growing bigger, and taller steadily for hundreds of years. Standing at the point where the Yangzhe meets the Pacific, it is an obvious strategic point, leading to it division by foreign powers in the mid-1800's and eventually, most of Europe and the US controlled a portion of the city. This foreign control led to it being the most modern, westernized city in China (outside of Hong Kong of course).

The first thing I noticed was the smog, reminding me the wonderful skies of Beijing. I had sadly gotten used to the sight of skies above 10 million+ cities. My first stop was a hostel where I stored my bag for the day. I'd planned to spend a night in Shanghai, but due to my inability to find a bus out of Xiamen the day earlier, I had only a quick 22 hours. The hostel was right near the bund, the old financial district of the city, along the river, facing the ultra-modern skyscrapers of Pudong. I headed here after a quick and delicious breakfast dish, not unlike the egg rolls of Kolkatta. Walking the bund is the main tourist draw of the city. It is actually quite neat to be sandwiched between the 19th century Victorian style pomp and some of the highest skyscrapers in the world, representing our current trend of projecting wealth. Since I had arrived before the sun, I chose to witness the area at sunrise, sadly, the smog and fog were too thick to see much. Thankfully though, I had one last chance to witness one of my favorite quirks of Asian culture. Throughout most of China and SE Asia, it is common for groups to congregate in open public squares for tai chi or aerobics to projected music during both sunrise and sunset. I couldn't help but feel a strong fondness for this sight, one I'd no longer see when I left. Other ushered the sun with kite flying. The white expats just jogged.

I crossed the river by ferry to see the three iconic skyscrapers of Shanghai up close. The most famous is the 460m Pearl Tower, a tripod with little balls that is the most common representation of the city. The other two, the 420m Jinmao bulding and the Shanghai World Financial center, a giant bottle opener, 492m tall (and the third tallest building in the world) were so tall, it was ridiculous, the only purpose for such height is showing off. The craziest part of this is the construction of another tower, The Shanghai Tower, which will be 630 meters, making it the second tallest building in the world. The city features more building over 400m than any other in the world. I thought Hong Kong was tall.

The bund side was less focused on size than intricacy, showcasing some of the best art deco buildings in the world. This seemed more like something I'd expect in the New York or Chicago, but little touches made it seem more Chinese than western. I can't say as I found Shanghai to be pretty (it just lacked the charm of Hong Kong), it was definitely impressive.

As the temperature was hitting 100, I decided to hunt down an internet cafe and waste a few hours; there was not that much I wanted to see in China's largest city. I had little luck as every net cafe in the book that was in the area had been shut down. I did find an assortment of dumplings and other munchables, that I found to be too sweet for my taste.

I figured that I'd take shelter in the air-conditioned Shanghai Museum, one of the most regarded collections of Chinese art in the country, and free. I was impressed with much of it. I learned oodles about porcelain and other local crafts. It was quite interesting, though, I only walked through the collections of calligraphy and rubber stamps.

Next, I stopped by Shanghai Number 1 food store on Nanjing Road for some random food court fun. I settled on a soup, but quickly realized I was not eating the right thing. Everyone was chowing on these fried dumplings, sprinkled with sesame seeds that looked fantastic. So I figured, since it is my last day, I can pig out on two lunches in one sitting. It was well worth the uncomfortable level of full. They were stuffed with semisweet port filling and fried in a thin layer of oil, they covered so the top and insides get steamed by the moisture and the bottoms get crispy. It was a medley of textures and flavors that tasted great in chili and vinegar. I knew I'd have to come back.

According to the book, there was an internet cafe in the French Concession, an area of the city I wished to see. I'm glad I made the trip. The neighborhood was green, relaxing, and beautiful with many cafes and beauty salons. I stopped at one of the latter for a great, professional level haircut for back alley barber prices. Eventually, I reached the location of the internet cafe, but the building had been leveled. Thankfully, there was a shopping center with a netcafe just down the road. I hid out there until sunset, then headed back to Nanjing Road for my farewell meal or more fried dumplings. Shanghai is one of the culinary centers of all of Asia, but I decided to bid goodbye to China with the simplest of food court dishes. It was a fine sendoff.

My last stop was to grab a few quick photos of Pudong at night. The bund was packed with masses of tourists and it took much too long to get my shots. I picked up my bag and jumped on the subway to the airport. I did not realize that the trains to the airport ended at 9pm, so I had to catch a taxi for 20 miles to get there. I then hunkered down for the long wait until my 2AM flight left. While sitting outside, being mobbed by mosquitoes, a young Chinese man and his Persian friend showed up with a stack of beers, offering me a couple. So we sat outside and drank beers while chatting for a few hours before I headed off to my flight. I'm glad my last moments were enjoying the special kindness of the Chinese.

Taiwan

I arrived, as was becoming the norm in China, early, and in the middle of the night in a random place in a strange city. I had no clue where I was since it wasn't even a bus station. It was merely an urban street, lined with taxi drivers ready to take me anywhere. I was already starting to question if visiting Ray was worth it. It was not a part of my grand plan, but before he left for home, Ray used the magic of the sad Asian face to coax a promise from me. In the end I could only spare five days in Taiwan, since my plane was leaving from Shanghai in seven.

Getting to Taiwan is a bit of a pain. For some reason, well, for a very obvious reason, flights from China to Taiwan are stupidly expensive, despite its close proximity and legal status as a part of China. The Peoples' Republic of China is a bit bitter about the civil war and their fights for independence, their open market which makes them quite rich, and other grievances, so they make transport between the mainland and the island expensive to keep people from going to Taiwan. A flight from Fuzhou, just 100 miles away is $300, one way. There is however a very cheap loophole; simply take a boat from Xiamen to Jinmen Island, owned by Taiwan. From here, one can catch a much cheaper domestic flight to Taipei.

So I found myself in Xiamen, which was much bigger than I had original though. It used to be a major port city known in the west as Amoy. Now, it is still an important port, but not quite up to its original prominence. Tourism has taken over as a major industry, as well as general industry. It was not a place I wanted to linger, but I didn't really know how to leave.

I spent the night ride learning the how to ask in Chinese, “Boat, Jinmen.” None of the taxi drivers could help. Some of course offered to take me there for an inflated, off-meter price. In the end, I just asked to be taken to the train station, a typical 24 hour, lighted public place where I could reorient myself. The train station was closed, but KFC was not. So I had a coffee and found an internet cafe a block away; they are always open all night. For many, hotels and apartments are not quite as comfortable as sleep in an office chair, playing the Chinese version of World of Warcraft.

Only a couple miles away was a passenger boat port, so I strapped on once the sun came up and began my walk. I was hoping to hail a taxi, but some reason, despite the hundreds of taxis on the road, not one was vacant. It was a a long hot walk. I entered the ferry terminal and looked around until I saw the symbols for Jinmen. I went to the office, but even though the sign said both boat and Jinmen, the boat was not going to Jinmen. Nobody spoke English; the man just pointed out the door, along the waterfront. So I walked for a kilometer before I realized there was no other passenger ferry terminal. I asked a police office where I could find the Passenger Ferry Terminal and he gave me directions back to the original building. I asked the desk again for a boat ticket to Jinmen (I was learning a lot of words that morning.). They could not communicate why they could not meet my needs. So they wrote something mysterious on a slip of paper, pointed out the door and said something about a car...I assumed a taxi. Apparently I was in the wrong place. I sat for a moment, trying to decode the symbols at that desk and found one that meant circle...so the boat just went around the island, but not to it. I wanted to just give up, decide that the money and effort was not worth five days in Taiwan, a place I knew nothing about save its history and the giant skyscraper in Taipei. But I pushed on.

I got in a taxi, handed him the slip of paper and hoped he would take me to a helpful place. If not, I was just going someplace else instead. After a ten minute drive, I was dropped off at a giant building on the waterfront with a large English sign “International Ferry Terminal”. There it was.

I bought a ferry ticket and plane ticket in one simple transaction and both were discounted since it was a package. The ladies at the airline were smart, they used google translate and a pictures to ask all the relevant questions instead of getting embarrassed and not trying. They must have been Taiwanese. A bilingual, Taiwanese businessman adopted me on the boat and got me all the way to Taipei with no problems.

Taiwan reminded me of Hong Kong in its near resemblance to China, but with a different culture. Again, people lived with order, followed rules, and kept their bodily functions to themselves. They also seemed happier and more wealthy. Mostly they did not seem as phobic in the presence of Westerners.

I was met by two of Ray's friends at the airport, which conveniently in the center of the city. Ray was unable to meet me that day, he was off in the South. My timing for my visit was very lucky; Ray and his friends were on a week-long circuit of the island by 100cc scooter and I was invited to join. They were half done by the time I'd arrived, but I would be joining them for what is the most beautiful chunk of the country, the jungled East coast. After a quick lunch, we went to the train station, where I caught a train to Yuli, about 2/3 down the East side of the country.

The train ride was lovely, skirting a small band of land between the central mountains and the Pacific coast. Ray met me and instantly tried to scare me with food; forgetting that I've already spent a year in the country. He succeeded though, serving me a black egg, the only item to have made me horribly sick on the whole trip. I passed on the egg, but ate the tofu served with it. I could tell instantly from seeing Ray's infectious smile that this visit would be well worth the trouble.

We departed the next morning early, one of our group members had an exam in Taipei so I got to man a scooter myself. I'd done plenty of this, but no long-distance travel. It was awesome driving through the open country at 40mph, zipping up and down mountain roads, flying by the sea. This is the way to travel; fast enough to be thrilling and fun, but not so fast as to be scary. We stopped by the beach for a swim in the rough, typhoon fed waves. Ray lost the key to one of the motorbikes in the ocean. Because of some AAA equivalent, this turned out to not be a disaster; it was towed to Hualien that night. Sadly though, this marked the end of my driving for the trip, reserving me to the back for the rest of the way.

We spent the night in Hualien, the largest city of the East coast. The whole group all knew each other from boarding school at this town, so they were able to show me some great views and sights. We visited their school, which was founded by Cheng Yen, founder of the Tzu Chi Foundation, one of the most prolific and successful charity foundations in the world. They were very fortunate to attend this prestigious Buddhist High School.

Hualien is one of the top tourist destinations in Taiwan, home of Ocean world, near beaches, but mostly for its proximity to Taiwan's main natural wonder, the Toroko Gorge. We abandoned the coast to go through the gorge to Taichung, a city in the North Center, where Bella was from. The gorge was incredible, but freezing. Ray had not informed me that we would be heading into the mountains, especially not 12,000ft high mountains. It was fine though, he didn't bother informing himself, so we both died in our t-shirt and shorts. I've seen similar landscape, but there was a special quality to the jungle mountains of Taiwan. It may have been the great company.

The rest of the group left in Taichung, but Ray and I continued on for four more hours to his family home. It was the longest ride ever. Something happens to a man's butt and knees when riding on the back of a scooter for ten hours, some of that time spent in a torrential down pour, some of that time spent going up and down the mountains with a speed demon. Ray and I took frequent breaks during the last two hours, ever time disembarking the bike like sufferers of Vitamin D deficiency.
Ray's family was lovely. We were greeted by his cute mother and father who surprised Ray with his English vocabulary. Our dinner of various home cooked Taiwanese dishes was great. The highlight was a sour, ginger flavored organ meat. They were all impressed by my rabid love for this unlikely dish. I fear not offal. Our dessert was coffee at a local cafe, overlooking the city.

Being near a fault, Taipei has some fantastic hot springs. Ray's father took us to one in North of the city. It had been turned into a spa, but was lovely. I spent 2 hours rotating around from the hot pools, the steam room, and sauna, stopping to cool off in the cooler pools. Backpacking and hot springs go together so well, since I spend so much time carrying a 50lb bag, my back loves this treatment.

On my last day, Ray went with me to Taipei, where I had the local style of beef noodles, which was great. Before catching my flight, we rode out to Taipei 101, which is stupidly tall at 509 meters. It was the tallest building in the world from 2004 until 2010, when the 828m tall Burj Khalifa opened (this is like adding an Eiffel Tower to the top of of Taipei 101). The rest of the city looked tiny compared to the monster. When flying out of the country, I could see the symbol of Taiwan sticking out for miles, standing as tall as mountains, until it disappeared with the horizon. This trip was very much worth it, mostly for the company.