Wilderness Adventures

This mood continued for the first 40 minutes or so, which were spent walking down a highway and then through an admittedly quaint village. As we passed into farmlands I grudgingly began to enjoy myself, and appreciate the fact that we seemed to have stepped into a past world. Without any motor vehicles in sight, and with farmers working their fields in the distance, one need not struggle to imagine themselves a century previous. We soon came to the foot of a small mountain crowned by white rock outcroppings. Climbing it took surprisingly little time; our guide new the area well and led us around the rock face and up its wooded back. The view from the top was breathtaking. Farmlands and tiny villages dotted a landscape split by streams and the occasional road. On the horizon the Danube glinted with morning light.

We rested there for a time before moving on to seemingly endless birch and oak forests. The solitude of such woods is an almost tangible presence. Silence was broken only by a light wind rushing through, and the occasional birdcall or rustling foliage. I must say, it had been a long time since I experienced anything half so peaceful. After two hours we reached another small mountain, and climbed it gradually through a series of wooded slopes and switchback trails. Once the summit was attained, our view was strikingly different (but no less impressive) than the first slope. On one side tree-covered mountains stretched into the misty distance. Between our mountain and the Danube, villages out of a history book dotted the floors of shallow valleys and riverbanks. The other side was apparently Slovakia, and was dominated by small wooded hills.

At this point our trip was nearly at its end. We hiked back down the mountain, and followed hiking trails until we reached the village of Dobrova (except with accent marks, and slightly different spelling). Since it was roughly 4PM and I hadn’t yet had breakfast, the restraint we stopped at seemed to have the best food in the world. I believe I had wine, bread, and French onion soup. Regardless, it was delicious. While we waited for a bus back to Budapest our guide showed us a popular scenic view: the aforesaid turn of the Danube. From here we could see another mountain, which we will be hiking in three weeks time. So stay tuned for more from the wilderness of Hungary, and eventually some description of what I’m working on here.

On Planning Ahead, and Why it Always Fails

Before I begin the substance of this next experience, let me recount to you the havoc that daylight savings time and poor translations can wreak on the best laid plans. Several days ago we were informed that an ‘excursion’ was planned for last Sunday, to a place called the ‘turn of the Danube,’ and that if we felt like going, to be at a bus depot (whose name I can’t remember) at 8:30AM. Initially I planned not to go, since I do not relish waking at the crack of dawn. Besides, by the phrasing I assumed we were taking a bus to some scenic lookout, snapping a few photos, and coming back; potentially nice, but not worth losing my one good night’s sleep per week. On the off chance that both Montana and Candice went I told them to wake me. After all, there’s no sense hanging around the apartment by myself. Well. Come 8:00AM (or so I believed), I woke up from the sound of Mike entering the flat. Assuming that my roommates were here, since nobody woke me, I lazily got out of bed and figured I say hello. I shortly discovered that both had departed, and Mike wanted to go on the trip. So suddenly we had 15 minutes to get halfway across the city. Breakfast and a shower were skipped, and we were off.

Upon arrival at the rendezvous point, we met Felix and Peter. They informed us that some time last night, daylight savings time came to Hungary. So it was, in fact, 9:30AM. Thankfully our hosts had realized what might happen, and waited for us. Unfortunately, about 9 other American students apparently woke up, decided they missed it, and went back to sleep. Furthermore, Candice and Montana had actually just woken up early and gone out to breakfast. And as a final caveat, the bus actually took us to the beginning of a 4-hour hike. So tired, hungry, and sorely ill-equipped for a day of climbing mountains and plodding through muddy trails, I disembarked from the bus in a rather foul and still somewhat addled mood.

Pictures

A good number of my pictures are now uploaded, and available at :
http://www.flickr.com/photos/7437879@N04/

A Venetian interlude, Part 4

Murano

Sorry for the delayed post, my Internet access has been somewhat fickle as of late. The final Venetian Interlude concerns our trip to the nearby island of Murano, which is world-famous for its high-quality and beautiful glassware. While awaiting the ferry to take us over the water Mike and I encountered a fellow American traveler. I don’t recall learning her name, although this should be taken with a grain of salt given that I also don’t remember if I had breakfast today. Regardless, she turned out to be an opera singer living in Florence for a time. This was her last day in Venice and she had decided to see the glass factories before leaving for an audition elsewhere in Italy. A life of traveling and performing seems like a wonderful way to see the world (although she said it wasn’t a particularly easy one). Eight years of voice school, and barely enough money to get by and slowly pay off loans. Still, if one is happy, that is enough.

After arriving in Murano we parted ways, with Mike and I going to a glass factory while she found breakfast. Calling the place a factory seems a bit of a misnomer, as in reality the building held nothing but a furnace and an elderly glassblower. (To me at least, ‘factory’ evokes images of assembly lines and towering smokestacks.) Somewhat surprised but curious, we sat down to watch him work. In only a couple minutes the artisan had produced a beautiful clear glass vase. Despite having scalloped edges, an ornate handle, and a tapered form this work of art paled before his next creation. To this day I have no idea how the artist did what he did, and watching it felt like being in the audience of a stage magician. From a reddish-orange lump of molten glass he pulled three projections with a crude pair of pliers. Next, he poked a little at the piece with a metal rod. All of a sudden, a horse happened. It didn’t form, or take shape. It happened. Without going through any intermediate stages I could see, the amorphous lump of molten silica became an exquisitely detailed glass hose. After this the show ended, and I walked baffled and impressed back into the streets of Murano.

The shops here are filled with glassware, from utilitarian cups, glasses and prisms to chandeliers, fine china, and multi-colored sculptures that belong in a museum. The price tags are similarly distributed, from affordable and cheap souvenirs to shops catering to collectors of beautiful glassware. Since I’m rather attracted to shiny, colorful objects, my wallet was a great deal thinner by the time we left than it was at the start of the day.

We concluded the day with a night trip to Lido, another of Venice’s notable islands and home apparently to a world-famous resort. I can now technically say that I’ve walked the beaches of Lido, although the night was overcast and I only knew we had reached the sea when my feet were suddenly underwater. The view is probably wonderful when everything isn’t inky black. One surprising feature of this island was the presence of cars. After spending two days in Venice I had forgotten about these loud, polluting beasts that race up and down city streets at top speed. Considering that this place catered to the wealthy bourgeoisie I had expected that cars would be even less welcome here than on the mainland. Lacking canals, however, I suppose that automobiles are an unfortunate necessity.

A Venetian Interlude, Part 3

Campo Santa Margherita

The square we lived in probably isn’t on any tourist maps, and certainly doesn’t have the fame associated with San Marco or Rialto. Santa Margherita does have a perfect model of Ventian life and quite a few interesting people, however. The buildings surrounding the square include a trattoria with excellent food, an open-air market, three pubs, and many residences. To be honest, I haven’t the foggiest idea what goes on here during the day. We tended to wake up in various states of sobriety, stagger to the shower, then head straight for the Grand Canal and whatever was on our itinerary for the day. Once the sun sets I observed children appearing from nowhere (I suspect magic, or possibly secret passages) to play in the square and sing, occasionally joined by adults or teenagers feeling particularly lighthearted. By 9:30 the pubs begin to fill up with an assortment of Venetians and American tourists. Since the Hostel was nearby there were far too many of the latter and very few of the former. Even our bartender was from the States, sadly.

I would like to devote the remainder of this section to an account of Friday night, which revolves around two of Santa Margherita’s more colourful residents. Our tale begins when Mike and I went to refill our drinks, and returned to find two Venetians sitting at our table. They apologized for stealing it, and introduced themselves as Paolo (who spoke a little English and conveyed the rest with gestures and facial expressions) and Salvadore (who spoke no English whatsoever). Since they made no move to actually relinquish our table, we soon fell to making attempts at conversation. This proved rather hilarious. Paolo first made it abundantly clear that neither he nor Salvadore were gay and confirmed that we weren’t either. He also expressed a fascination with American girls, who were of course plentiful at our tourist bar. After a good deal of obvious pointing and drunken encouragement, Mike wandered over to a table full of them and introduced ‘his Italian friend Paolo.’ The Venetian in question proved rather shy, and decided to point furiously at Salvadore. I assisted in this deception and before long the entire situation became quite hilarious. Events of this nature happened about five more times over the course of the night. Indeed, within short order most of the bar was either laughing at us or actively avoiding our table. Occasionally this pattern was broken by one of us turning to Salvadore and happily yelling ‘Bonjourno,’ it being the only word of Italian we spoke. For some reason this happened at least ten times, and never seemed to stop being funny.

After our group alienated the rest of the bar, our new friends brought us to a club somewhere far from Santa Margherita. Nothing partially interesting happened here, except that more beer was consumed by Mike and more whiskey by yours truly. Some time went by, and we decided to take our leave. Yet after bidding farewell to Paolo and Salvadore we realized several things: both of us were piss drunk, didn’t have a map, and that it was 3:00AM. Slightly daunted but lured on by the many advantages of beds over dark alleyways, we chose a direction and started walking. Personally, I had double vision and came within inches of an impromptu swim in the canals every few minutes.

After roughly one hour of staggering about the deserted streets, we somehow arrived back at Santa Margherita. I have no idea how this happened, as neither of us had the slightest idea where we were in relation to anything else. Until the moment we actually entered the square, I was convinced we would never see our Hostel again. This made the sudden proximity of my bed even more wonderful, and I soon passed out happy and inebriated.

A Venetian Interlude, Part 2

Piazza San Marco

The Piazza San Marco is one of Venice’s most impressive sights. The square has been in existence since the 9^th century, and is currently framed by St. Mark’s Basilica, the Doge’s Palace, St. Mark’s Clocktower, and a U-shaped collection of other buildings whose name escapes me but are currently full of museums. San Marco has existed almost unchanged since the 18^th century, and is unbelievable in terms of both beauty and longevity. The Basilica rivals Notre Dame for its ability to inspire reverence and awe in anyone who sees it. Its great blue domes and ornate stone arches tower above the square, conveying both power and majesty in its construction. The nearby palace of Venice’s ancient Doges is like a smaller and more urban Versailles. Gilt furniture, massive ceiling frescoes, and enough rooms to comfortably house a neighborhood form the home of the most powerful patricians. Perhaps the strangest and most defining aspect of San Marco was the sense of the past that is invoked, however. Only human voices ring out in the square; there are no motors, no television screens flashings ads, and almost no other signs that the 21^st century has dawned on the world. The psychological experience of this piazza eludes my ability to express it, but is almost worth the trip in and of itself. By my observation at least, the reification and fragmentation which characterize the contemporary world are suppressed here. The image loses its power, and one is confronted with the tangible and authentic accomplishments of artistic genius.

…I appear to have waxed somewhat philosophical, and lost myself and Mike in third-person descriptions. Despite appearances then, we did indeed visit San Marco and tour its landmarks. If you’re looking for an exact recount of what is where, this isn’t the place to find it. Go get a guide book. I think it is more important to convey impressions and experiences than to act as a literary camera; actual cameras do a much better job. I will provide travelers with one small warning, however. There are pigeons here. Thousands upon thousands of pigeons. If you have an aversion to these flying rats, you would do well to overcome quickly.

A Venetian Interlude, Part 1

If ever a 13-hour train ride and five border checks were worth it, this trip to Venice was. We spent four days in the most beautiful city I’ve yet seen. Imagine, if you would, a city free from the noise and pollution of cars. Imagine a city full of friendly people, wonderful food, and an atmosphere of leisure and relaxation. Finally, imagine that this city was full of 17^th century palaces, warm Mediterranean breezes, and winding canals. Even this doesn’t do Venice justice; one must to go there to get a real sense of the city’s character. The pictures shown here cannot approach the real thing, but may with luck hint at what I am trying to convey.

Since I cannot possibly recount everything we did in four days (or even remember some of the nights…), only a few highlights will be presented here: our initial impressions after stepping out of the train, the Piazza San Marco, Campo Santa Margherita and its inhabitants, and the glass factories of Murano. We in fact also spent a good deal of time in museums, but to recount what works of art we saw would be a rather dry read indeed. Suffice to say that anyone in Venice should go the Galleria dell’Accademia, the Gugenheim Collection, and the Doge’s Palace.

Initial Impressions

After stepping off the train, we were immediately greeted with a breath of warm air tasting of salt and the sea. We grabbed a pastry and espresso from a buffet in the depot, and were stopped in our tracks by the view we received after passing out of the building. A paved square full of street-side shops separated us from the wide, blue-green Grand Canal. To our left the Scalzi Bridge (one of three primary bridges spanning the Canal) formed a stepped arch of white stone over the waters below. Despite the early hour a number of boats plied the canal, and hundreds of pedestrians wandered along its banks. We soon joined them, and after dropping off our luggage in the hostel set out on foot to find the famous Piazza San Marco. At this point I think we would have appreciated a change of clothes and a shower, but our rooms would not be available until later that afternoon. Wrinkled clothing and greasy hair are nothing to seasoned travelers, however. (Sadly this opinion was not shared by those in close proximity to us.)

First Sights, Fist Sounds, First Tastes

Our second day in Budapest started out with the rather uninteresting objective of finding a pillow merchant. (Ours were couch pillows and rather uncomfortable.) After borrowing some of a neighbor’s bandwidth courtesy of their unsecured Linksys AP, I found a convenient list of department stores and malls online. We made a (largely random) choice and found our way there using the Budapest subway system.

While I was initially wary of Europe’s oldest subway, it turned out to be a remarkably well-planned system. The yellow line uses a series of short trains that arrive every two minutes, and stop very frequently. The red and blue lines cover a larger distance, and are similar to traditional subways in having five-minute waiting times and longer trains. There are no locked turnstiles or gates here; if a traveler wants to risk the financial wrath of a controller then they are free to hop on the train with neither ticket nor pass. Of course, being caught entails a hefty fine. I would instead advise a quick beeline dash for an exit, since most controllers have so far been heavyset and easily distracted. Barring that, I suppose you could actually purchase a travel pass or ticket. The dollar is a good deal more valuable than the forint as of this writing, and prices are about 60% of what they would be in the States.

Upon our arrival at the department store, we found windows covered in sheets and the sound of jack hammering emanating from the building’s inaccessible interior. Apparently, part of the Hungarian description informed those in the know that this store was still under construction, and would not in fact be open for some time yet. Our initial dismay was quickly dispelled by the sights and sounds of the bustling city, however. We ended up wandering on foot over one of the three bridges connecting Buda and Pest. I don’t recall which one, but the view was breathtaking. My earlier jet-lag induced sarcasm notwithstanding, Budapest truly is a beautiful city. Turkish, Baroque, and some Soviet architecture combine to make a panorama that seems like something out of a history book. The few modern steel-and-glass buildings (four, perhaps?) look so out of place as to be almost absurd.

Anyway, from the bridge we climbed a tall hill on the Buda side, whose name I of course can’t remember. At the top is the Hungarian Statue of Liberty next to a shell-blasted and bullet-pocked bunker. Apparently it was a German command post during WWII, but has since been converted into a disco. (A rather droll bit of irony, in my humble opinion.) The reverse side of the hill is a huge, artfully designed park in the grips of an early spring. Various other, less interesting discoveries occupied us until dinner.

This post is already excessively long, so I shall skip ahead a bit to that night. We rendezvoused with Felix and Petre, and the six of us decided to experience Budapest’s night life. The first place we tried turned out to be little more than a room in the back of an alley, and doesn’t bear mentioning. The second club, Baroko, was much more fun. We arrived around 11PM, but apparently the scene doesn’t pick up until around midnight here. Petre and I sampled four (five?) European liquors, from Hungarian Unicum to Greek Ouzo. I suspect several cocktails were also involved. At some point during the night Mike came back from the bar with a girl, who joined us until the club closed early at 2AM. Apparently a water pipe or some such burst, as there was roughly 1.5 inches of water on the floor of the club. Given the rather large quantity of audio and video electronics, I can only assume that the place’s owners were less than thrilled at this turn of events. Regardless, Mike’s new friend convinced us to go to another club she knew of, which if I recall (and at this point I make no guarantees) was a short tram ride away. At this point Montana and Candice left us, citing their lack of interest in alcohol or some other dull excuse.

The building we staggered into had three dance floors, and a huge number of people. The first floor seemed to be devoted to American rap music, the second was a rave, and the third was European techno. Petre disappeared into the crowd on the first floor, as did Mike and his girl. Felix and I spent some time wandering about and sampling their refreshments before deciding that we’d had enough smoke, noise, and alcohol for one night. The time was somewhere around 3AM. Against all odds we somehow found our way back to the apartment, where I’m told ramen was consumed before we crashed. I have no memory of this meal, but abundant evidence points to its existence. Mike apparently arrived two hours later, and thoughtfully left the key in the door for any down-on-their-luck rogues. None obliged his offer, however, so we awoke with all the possessions and lives we went to sleep with. I shall refrain from providing to the world any more information on Mike's new friend, he's already provided more unwitting amusement than any man should be expected to endure.

The following days will be reported upon in the near future, however at some point tomorrow Mike, Petre, and myself will be making an excursion to either Venice or Prague. I can’t guarantee there will be Internet access, or indeed that I’ll feel like taking time to write a post before I return. Once we get back on Monday I promise I’ll have something for you readers, assuming you exist and indeed that you want me to continue writing. If you do, I thank you for your custom. If you don’t, bugger off.

Departures and Arrivals

Most of our party (Candice, Montana, Mike, and yours truly) began our trip at Boston’s Logan International Airport. Approximately two hours of waiting heralded the start of this adventure, punctuated by fierce battles with the self-check in kiosks and an unexpected encounter with fellow traveler and friend Emily Pikul. Although bound for Peru, her plane had sprung something of a leak. After dribbling fuel on the runway its passengers were removed from the faulty aircraft and sent back to our terminal. There they languished with the rest of us, enduring Orwellian security announcements reminiscent and various encouragements to inform on our fellow passengers at every opportunity.

Finally the time had come to embark on the first leg of our 11-hour trip. After wishing Emily the best and bidding farewell to our friends and loved ones, the four of us passed through security without a single uncomfortable search or random privacy violation. The other side of the metal detector was characterized by over-priced restaurants and a disappointing lack of currency-changing booths. Given that the flight only went to New York, this probably shouldn’t have come as such a surprise. We were soon informed that our plane was overbooked and delayed. In response, we resolved to wait impatiently at the gate and discuss the relative merits of Java over C (among other droll subjects). In time our plane did indeed arrive, and boarding commenced in a more or less organized fashion. Mike was waylaid by a crippled old woman, however, and forced to assist her and her daughter. Regrettably the wheelchair’s brake was engaged, and its occupant spoke no recognizable English. What became of them I shall never know, for our patience ran out before any resolution to this dilemma was in sight. The three of us boarded, and were joined roughly twenty minutes later by a somewhat irate Mike.

After a brief and uneventful flight we touched down at JFK international airport, where we were joined by Petre, the fifth member of our little group (and, sadly, a resident of New Jersey). He came bearing roughly a pound of chocolate and was welcomed warmly by all. At this point we proceeded to the gate, where we encountered our fellow passengers for the 9-hour flight to Budapest. Of particular note were what I shall dub the Hell Baby and its family, and the Merry Band of Rabbis. The former was attended by a mother and father, who doted on it constantly and made loud cooing noises on a regular basis. Unfortunately this did little to mollify the young demon, which alternated between screaming loudly and shitting mightily. The latter were a band of roughly ten black-clad men, between the ages of twenty five and ninety. All wore thermal beanies (a rather counter-intuitive form of hat) or large Russian fur caps with ear flaps and at least two feet of height. The dominant language appeared to be Russian, as I suspected from the start given their choice of headgear. These blokes spent their time milling about the gate area, talking loudly to each other about what I must assume were the normal topics for wandering bands of rabbis.

The flight itself was little different. Montana, Candice, and I had the misfortune of sitting behind the Hell Baby, where our olfactory faculties were repeatedly and mercilessly assaulted by a stench so powerful that I may have to burn the clothes which were exposed to it. Meanwhile the Merry Band conducted a series of religious rituals in the aisles, much to the chagrin of various stewards and stewardesses.

After eight hours of this we touched down at Ferihegy International Airport, on the outskirts of Budapest. Customs was remarkably fast, and consisted in its entirety of an official hitting passports with a rubber stamper. In no time at all we had rendezvoused with Gabor Sarkozy and a hapless grad student he brought along to drive us. The trip from Ferihegy to our apartment on Andrássy Utca gave us our first glimpse of Budapest. In brief, it has a uniquely eastern-European beauty. Much of the city shows signs of age, but this gives it a certain character and sense of age that is lacking in many American cities. Gilded domes and rooftops turn otherwise shabby buildings into works of art, and heavy gothic stonework brings to mind the Austria-Hungary of old.

Yet on top of this historic character, Budapest shows clear signs of influence by both late-stage capitalism and American economic powers. McDonalds, Burger King, Subway, Fridays, and a number of other chain establishments have grown into buildings whose solemn facades clash strongly with their new role as cheap food vendors. The people themselves are markedly friendlier than the typical American city-dwellers. In addition, English is spoken by a surprising number of people. We had no trouble buying groceries or ordering food, for example. Note though that local custom apparently frowns on using large-denomination bills to pay for an inexpensive purpose much more than it tends to back in the States.

I would like to conclude with a brief description of our living quarters, and certain peculiar tastes exhibited by Hungarians. The apartment itself is quite spacious; the ceilings are about 12ft tall and each room is large and illuminated with both conventional lighting and large windows. There are three bedrooms, a kitchen, a hallway, and a living area. The bathroom and toilet are in separate rooms, and neither has a lock on its door. The former is largely what one would expect in a bathroom: a tub, a sink, a towel rack, etc. Yet this tub has no vertical shower mount, requiring one to either crouch while showering or take a full bath instead. The toilet is a two-leveled affair. A small pool of water sits in its lower and smaller bowl. Above this is what can best be described as a ceramic shelf, which catches most of what enters the bowl. When flushed, water jets clean the whole apparatus. Until that point, unfortunately, a rather foul mess tends to accrue on the shelf. Finally, the apartment is only accessible from the building’s courtyard. This actually creates a very pleasant insulating effect. One must leave the city behind to enter the building, and must pass down several flights of stairs and through the courtyard itself to leave the building.

On the Intent of this Publication

In the following pages, I will describe the adventures undertaken in Budapest by myself and several friends. Updates will hopefully be made on a daily basis, but insurmountable problems such as Internet outages, invading armies, and lack of sobriety might hinder publication from time to time. Topics may be whatsoever I feel like writing about. This includes but is not limited to: daily life, progress on our Grid Computing project, descriptions of particularly noteworthy landmarks, digressions on something I was reminded of, and travelogues of any trips we may happen to take. Pictures will be included for the benefit of interested and/or illiterate readers.