New Kids on the Soviet Bloc, Part One

Many things may go wrong in my life--like grand-piano-crashing-ten-stories-to-the-ground wrong--but so long as I don’t wind up working in a seedy sex hostel in Budapest with a philandering professional named Scotty (it seems his sole skill set only shines beneath scratchy sheets), I’ll consider my time on Earth a success. Renewed perspectives truly can come from the unlikeliest of places; in my case, they came from the bunk below me.

But before I delve into the late-nite fuck fest courtesy of Scotty and the genial Carpe Noctem crew, a few key questions must be answered. The first being "what the hell was I doing in a hostel called Carpe Noctem in Budapest to begin with?" While I can’t speak for the choice in hostel, I can say that my stay in Budapest (more specifically, peSHt) comprised part of a six-day stint in Eastern Europe--a final hurrah of sorts to be celebrated in a land known primarily for its liberal usage of consonants and Soviet propaganda. I can also say that Eastern Europe--or at least the parts that I saw--live up to the stereotypes to which most shitty American comedies hold them.

Anna and I first flew into Budapest on Tuesday afternoon and paid much more than we should have to taxi from the airport to our first hostel (which was my choice, by the way; it had been recently converted from a four-star hotel), though i refuse to know how much more we paid simply because i’d rather not weep before sleeping. Beyond the incredibly balmy weather, I was immediately struck by the obviously Soviet-era architecture surrounding the airport, so much so that I felt compelled to pray to Lord Adam Smith for some sort of capitalist salvation. It was everything you’d imagine: obtuse, bald and decrepit buildings so dirty they weren’t even black, all of which served as some sort of forbidding physical marker of Hungary’s struggles with communism (and for that matter, fascism) in the 20th century. Not exactly the picturesque location I’d originally imagined. 

Thankfully, though, the farther we drifted from the airport the more their presence waned. Even more thankfully, our taxi ride came to a close before our taxi driver, so tone deaf that he probably thought that pitch involved mitts and mounds of clay, was able to belt the chorus of the sixteen-months stale Ke$ha hit. That’s another thing I noticed about Eastern Europe; our shitty music is really, really popular there.

At any rate, checked into the hostel, dropped our things off and immediately left to purchase tickets for our train to Prague. Got lost amid the k’s and z’s and the exotic accent marks that clothed them and subsequently did the same within the streets. Finally found the ticket office, though, and tested out my Magyar (Hungarian) rather unsuccessfully (and by that I mean sounding like the mentally handicapped offspring of a Mars Attacks alien and some sort of slavic goat) on the unnecessarily kind attendant and arranged my affairs for the following evening. 

From there, Anna and I wandered around, taking in the sights and sounds and smells of Pest while consuming two 10 euro (well, 3000 forints, whatever) burgers. Again, whacked. Meandered to the Jewish quarter, where we encountered our first ruin bar, and I can safely say that it transcended any bar experience I’ve had and ever will have. They get their name following their adoption of the spaces of previously abandoned Soviet buildings and are stuffed to the brim with oddities not incomparable to what you might see in an episode of Hoarders--that is, if the hoarder in question grew up in the former Soviet bloc and had an affinity for alternative projection films and rusting disco balls. Had a couple of beers before approaching a group of Hungarians in hopes of, well, I’m not actually sure but we ended up with peeled carrots and an Italian restaurant recommendation. They were all engineers for Bosch and were shocked when we told them that we were American and on a whim decided to visit Eastern Europe for the week. I couldn’t determine if their surprise was due to the fact that a) we were American and curious about visiting a foreign country besides Utah; b) that anyone would want to travel to Eastern Europe; or c) that walking, talking cliches do in fact exist. 

In any case, I eagerly took note of all of their recommendations for dining (didn’t really want to repeat that night’s lackluster veggie burger experience). It was then that one of them asked me if I’d like to have a carrot. Initially I thought this might be a poorly translated joke or some sort of terrible euphemism or maybe some unfortunate combination of both, but in the midst of my bewildered state he returned with a freshly peeled carrot and placed it in my hands. “Here you go,” Bosch said, expectantly. “In America, you sell fried meats and starches at bars; in Hungary, we sell carrots.”

I stopped asking questions at this point. I ate the carrot.

Full of keratin post-carrot consumption, Anna and I sauntered back to our hostel where our hopes of an empty room were squelched by the presence of two bags chain-linked to the bunk bed posts and two raven-colored ellipsoids smacked in the middle of the beds’ respective pillows, both of which were emitting some awful, high pitched droning sound. Looked like I wouldn’t be getting much sleep that night.

And how right I was. After tossing about for several hours and occasionally jabbing my heel into my mattress as some pathetic act of not-so violent, not-so passive resistance against my industrial snoring roommates, 6:45 came and so did their packing and smacking. I won’t dwell too long here; let’s just say that after an hour and a half of being held prisoner to the sound of their zipping, moisturizer slapping (they actually hit themselves in the face while applying it--I wanted to offer my own services free of charge) and general fumbling and mumbling, I’d had enough and had essentially written off any potential I might have for that day’s much-needed energy.  

That was the case, however only so following our accidental adventure in Budapest’s City Park. After bitching about our dormmates for probably half an hour too long, Anna and I decided to wander around Pest (Pest is the flatter portion of Budapest that houses most of the city’s nightlife) since we only had the morning and afternoon before boarding our night train to Prague. Proved a fantastic decision as City Park is renown for its lush green spaces and tacky reproduction of a 15th century Transylvanian castle. More importantly, though, it's also the site of the annual Hungarian Folk Festival which, of course, takes place on May Day.

I’m ambivalent regarding most sorts of outdoor festivals (after all, when I attended Bonnaroo in 2007 I used more baby wipes in three days than a delivery room ((I also emerged cleaner than everyone else there so it was worth it))), but after three minutes within City Park's borders I was absolutely certain of my love for the place. You see, one of the only reasons I enjoy water parks is because they serve as prime people-watching destinations of the unsavory ilk, and frankly City Park blew said water parks, well, out of the water. Neon polyester hair extension booths, airbrush tattoo tents and meat markets draped the dilapidated cobbled sidewalks; topless and saggy-diapered children tottered after their overweight and under-clothed parents; toothless women in floral embroidered caps drunkenly do-si-doed about while offering patrons freshly baked bread and beer. All the while, I consumed a pretzel larger than my face. 

Inspired by our surroundings, Anna and I decided to carpe the tacky in what we deemed an attempt to blend in with our host culture. What this means is simply that we opted for airbrush tattoos (mine was a spider with an upside down crucifix named Magyar; hers was a scorpion she called Mary Magdalene) along with black graphic tees that had most likely stupid things written on them in Hungarian. Turns out that mine said “I’m not racist; I just hate people”. Serendipitous choice. Soon after, we dabbled in traditional Hungarian grub, which apparently meant pointing to a pot of simmering, steaming mystery meat in some sort of beige broth and asking for it with burgonya (potatoes) and beer. Cost about three euro split between us and I can say without any semblance of sarcasm that it was one of the most delicious meals I’ve had in some time. 

the ultimate hungarian cuisine

the ultimate airbrush tattoo

the ultimate mullet

Caught a mildly disturbing show (pictures to come) before realizing it was time for us to get lost while searching for the train station to Prague. That’s another adventure in and of itself; alas I am tired. Will continue the Soviet saga mañana; promise.

Foggy London Town

In my brief yet exhausting 72-hour stay in Marrakech in 2011, my fair coloring made such an impact in the souks that men would mutter “Fish and chips” to me as I wandered past them in a slightly irritated fashion, most likely in the futile pursuit of the nearest exit or air conditioned room. I never attained either, but the nickname has stuck with me to this day. Yes, I’m white. Yes, if office supplies were genetic sequences, I’d be a manila folder. And yes, as the Moroccans so astutely noted, nearly all of my ancestors hail from the United Kingdom. We turn lavender when cold, pink when warm, red when happy or drunk and there’s absolutely nothing that can be done about it, because believe me I've tried. Two years following my trip to the land of the eternally tan, I made a bit of a pilgrimage (slight double entendre since my father reminds me that in addition to having a family member named Orilla I also have ancestors who arrived to the so-called New World via the Mayflower) to the isle of the perennially pink. In other words, I went to London. And I didn’t want to leave.

whiteness, moroccan, head lice

We arrived (we being myself and Siddhi, who has recently shed her hair blonde extensions for a real personality) at around nine in the morning on Friday and it truly seemed like a pseudo-homecoming, which basically translates as “if you go to a cafe you can actually find fruit smoothies”. Slurped down some berry concoction, basking in my much pined for Anglo culture. I know I make it sound as if Madrid is a Mediterranean Pyongyang, but coffee and pork get a bit old after a while.

Made our way to the hostel and then to a walking tour of London. Was struck by how uninspired our tour guide was, though I think that’s simply due to the fact that my guide in Paris was a New York ex-pat getting his doctorate in philosophy and spent around half an hour discussing successful communal societies in Paris that no one ever discusses--kind of difficult to compete with, especially when it seemed as if this current tour guide, Mark, was getting his PhD in hair coiffing. At this point, my eyes had grown heavy from the early flight and my sense of humor had dwindled to that of a child or senile old man. For instance, when Mark asked if anyone knew anything about Henry VIII, I shot my hand up in the air and cried “Yes! He had gout and disliked climbing up staircases!” Mark and my peers remained silent. I, however, cracked up. 

...

The tour ended on a banal note (at least he was consistent), as Mark treated us to an insipid recitation of the Guy Fawkes rhyme and a reminder that giving these tours is how he makes a living, so all tips would be soundly appreciated. Mine was that watching V for Vendetta 20 times isn’t good for the mind or soul.

After stopping in for a pint at a nearby pub, Siddhi and I headed to dinner at some restaurant whose claim to fame was that its seared ahi tuna had appeared in an episode of Sex and the City as Carrie’s crop top. Kidding about the latter bit; but the restaurant was remarkable and about five years and figures in my future. Following a tab that nearly made my eyes pop into my guava cocktail, we made our way to Leicester Square for a night out with some of Siddhi’s friends. 

english friends; no longer the palest person in the room

It was there that I met Jaegerbomb for the first time, along with vodka and skittles and most likely other beverages which I cannot recall at the moment. Remained surprisingly coherent in speech and candor, and only had to pay for one round of drinks (thanks, Adam and Emma). Took the metro back home and after a 24-hour day passed the fuck out.

Next morning was even better, though mainly because I woke up sans hangover. Siddhi and I headed to South Kensington (this is where I would live if given the choice -- I described it recently as “life in the city but without the rats”) for some crepes and museum time before heading over to see the Book of Mormon at 2. As it happened, we had booked a box seat for the production and were brought to our seats, where a bottle of champagne and chocolate awaited us. Pleasant mistake. This followed a pre-play pint in the park, so I found the opening scenes particularly funny. In general, “Book of Mormon” was much heavier than I had anticipated (they delve into the tradition of female circumcision, homosexuality and sexual repression while tap dancing) but overall was pleased with how its writers managed to fillet the Mormon Church in a way that was neither lazy nor contrived. 

Following that, we happened upon an annual record party (basically a British botellon with house music: aka binge drinking on the streets to celebrate the release of a new album) on our way to a vegetarian restaurant called Mildred’s, where I had the most decadent veggie burger of my life. It was also here that Siddhi told me everything about her family -- let’s just say that for me to only have her occasional pretensions and patronizing remarks to complain about, she’s been a complete success. From here, we ventured to Shoreditch to meet up with Loren, my roommate from Granada. Unlike the two of us, she wasn’t in love with London in the slightest; rather, she thought it was expensive, overrated and couldn’t wait to get the hell out. A 72-hour stay doesn’t come close to one’s relationship with London post-honeymoon, I guess. Was lovely to see her, though to be quite honest the conversation grew a bit cold after around an hour had passed and we had reminisced all we could about The Old Times In Granada before gagging. I reached for everything I could and tossed it into the conversational ring, but I suppose there occasionally comes a point when two peoples’ lives simply don’t intersect anymore and it’s futile to try and hold them together. Funny how contingent one’s relationship with another person is on time and place.

Sunday, by far, was my favorite day in London. Woke up again without a hangover and headed toward Camden town, where it seemed that there was some sort of tax-based incentive for businesses and their clerks to present themselves as extras from a failed Ramones music video. Crowded streets were awash with studded leather jackets, combat boots and technicolor mohawks, and I stuck out like, well, a girl wearing a floral dress and black suede wedges. Decided after an emotionally exhausting haggle at a dress shop that I would never go to Thailand and rewarded my troubles with the most fantastic apple cider my tastebuds had the pleasure of experiencing.

That evening, I experienced Notting Hill. The neighborhood has always held a warm spot in my heart (well, it’s all warm given internal body temperatures but you know what I mean) thanks to my childhood affinity for Julia Roberts films and my lifelong passion for the intellectually and emotionally enriching works of Hugh Grant, and I am happy to say that not a single part of my trip there called my beliefs into question. Made our way to the Electric Cinema (to which you, too, can become a member for a mere two thousand a year) and it’s my pleasure to report that I lost 30 pounds just by watching a movie! Bad joke aside, it truly made me envious of the one percent. I presented my ticket and was subsequently ushered to my “seat”, which was actually a plush velvet-covered sofa that came with a cashmere blanket and bottle of red wine. Naturally, only garbanzo bean paste could make this situation any better, so  I enjoyed “Place Beyond the Pines” with pinot and hummus.

Movies for the one percent

On our way to the theater (or theatre, I should say), Siddhi and I happened upon a bar that featured an impressive pile of hay and men and women in cowboy hats. I couldn't help but feel the subtle, nostalgic twinges of life back home in the holler, of warm summer nights spent with my toothless, banjo-pluckin’ ma and pa and my jackrabbit, Colby Rae, or whatever the hell else Siddhi thinks life in Kentucky is like. Obviously decided to head there following the movie, even in spite of the fact neither of us know how to do-si-do. Best decision I made that weekend.

Upon entering, I had two people propose to me, one of which came after I simply said my name and where I was from.  The theme, as if it weren’t already abundantly clear, was a hoedown; the occasion was the bar owner's birthday. Given my Kentucky authenticity, various patrons treated me to mint juleps all night, along with questions about what Life is like in Kentucky. Initially offered genuine, “We’re not so different, you and I” responses, but that quickly grew boring and so I started to recite the plot of Coal Miner’s Daughter to everyone who asked in hopes that someone would call me on it. Only one person did, and it was the same person with whom I ended up discussing why Morocco fared so differently during the Arab Spring (he was from London and had Moroccan roots and was very well spoken in spite of his cowboy hat). Was subsequently brought to my attention that the Daisy Duke-shorted MALE bartender was standing atop the counter and pretending to lasso the nearby keg, asking where the girl from Kentucky was. Shit.

Marrakech pointed to me (love when things go full-circle), and said that we could finish our discussion on the National Healthcare System later, that I needed to meet the owner and try his bourbon. But before I could leave, I heard the spurs of a squat, portly and pink-in-the-face male approach. A most likely overpriced golden star adorned his right breast pocket. It read, fittingly enough, “Sheriff Burger”. “So I hear you’re a Yank from Kentucky,” he said. “Want some Maker’s Mark?”

Obviously.

Sheriff Burger sauntered back to the bar in such a way I’ve only seen done by my grandmother’s 20-pounds overweight corgi and returned with a bottle of Maker’s specifically blended for his bar. “Meh and the Samuels’ go weh back, ye know; in meh eighth time teh Lou-eh-ville made meh way to the distilleh-ree and got meh meh own blend of bahr-bun weh-skeh. Love that ci-teh. Tried to steal one of em red pehn-guins from that art hotel 21C once but couldn’t fet it in the elevator...oh my, ye drank that awfully fast. You and yehr friend want some more?”

Again, yes.

Spent the better part of an hour onward discussing various Louisville-centric things (re: Morning Jacket, My; University of Louisville’s basketball team ((was shocked how much I knew; thanks social media osmosis)); Forecastle and the illustrious Hot Brown), and inevitably the Second Amendment because it seems I am incapable of carrying a conversation that does not include some sort of history or political lesson. Anyway, by the time we both had begun to eviscerate Wayne LaPierre, a downy-cheeked Daisy Duke approached and told us that he was tired, the bar had closed about 15 minutes ago and it was time for the chit chat to cease. Sheriff Burger and I exchanged contact information (not in a creepy way, I assure you; I got the impression that he loved bourbon more than he loved women; I just realized that he was obviously a pretty successful business man ((was going to China the next Tuesday)) and figured he could prove a useful contact in the future). Siddhi and I then spilled out of the bar and made our cold journey home.

As usual, I run out of steam after I toss around 2,000 consecutive words onto the page. Will try to write about the David Bowie exhibit tomorrow.  

What would Hemingway do?

I have never been the biggest fan of Ernest Hemingway. In terms of his literary legacy, I understand the hype and can--at least abstractly--appreciate it. A minimalist, journalistic approach to literature. Check. A man whose vision and defined jaw merit his appearance on the Mt. Rushmore of the Lost Generation, should it so exist. Got it. But I’ve always preferred the fragile longing and desperation a la F. Scott Fitzgerald, whose sentences are as elegantly crafted as the beaded flapper dresses that appear so frequently throughout his works. In short, I guess I favor themes of life and death affixing themselves to a grand ballroom instead of the grisly hide of a bloody bull. I’ll never forget the day I finished The Sun Also Rises; at 15 years old, I wasn’t sure if I should try and get a refund from Barnes and Noble or look up the nearest Alcoholics Anonymous group. That’s it? I thought to myself. Really?

This all has a point, I promise. Not content to dominate the ex-pat scene in just one country, Hemingway’s alcoholism was well-documented throughout Spain--particularly the north. So when Anna, Amanda and I decided to go in that direction and visit San Sebastian for the weekend, I couldn’t help but recount the various slitty-eyed characters who had invariably discovered the true meaning of life while gazing out at the crashing waves of the Cantabrian Sea or something profound of the sort. I also couldn’t help but suggest that, in Ernest’s honor, we should dub the weekend “What Would Hemingway Do?” Clearly I didn’t read any of his shit with a critical eye.

That initially manifested itself fairly innocuously: to counter the seven-hour haul in public transport, we decided to make mimosas and drink them along the way. So at 7 am that Saturday, I popped two bottles of champagne in the outdoor bus station and poured them into two-liter water bottles, causing the elderly couple next to me to jump in fright (and then most likely sneer in disdain). Didn’t exactly practice the most discretion, but at least I made a point to adhere to the weekend’s theme, right? 

me being insufferable

Anyway, was feeling particularly bubbly throughout the journey (we chose to sequester ourselves in the back of the bus for ultimate privacy/brooding potential) and maintained that on our bus ride to a hostel called Olga’s Place. A rather broad-shouldered blonde with a glass eye and the worst Spanish accent I'd ever had the misfortune of hearing greeted us; I could only assume she was Olga and fresh out of the Kremlin. She ushered us inside and showed us the place, which was quite kitschy and cute. On an interesting note, three of the tenants were from Lexington, Kentucky. Though all intrigue immediately vanished when, after a 15-second introduction on my part, they asked if I was going to watch The Game later; to which I responded that no, I planned on downing a bottle of wine and eating fresh strawberries with my friends at the Bay of Biscay. Yes, I’m sure that their interest in me waned faster than a candle in hell, too.

After talking at length about how short Willem Dafoe is in person (Olga met the Green Goblin during the San Sebastian Film Festival the past year), Olga finally led us to our room, which I had hoped would be occupied solely by the three of us. Of course this wouldn’t be the case. “You share room with Australian boy," she said. "Very handsome. You will like much.”

Oh, fuck.

Not a typical reaction, I know; but you must understand: this trip followed a weekend spent on the phone with the American Embassy, Spanish police authorities and two traumatized parents who were convinced that their daughter (my roommate, Amanda) had been raped, murdered, mugged or some dreadful combination of the three when in reality she was simply shacked up with an Irishman for 27 hours and apparently couldn’t find the time to let anyone know. And I knew that Anna, having gone the entire duration of her stay in Spain without much physical contact with a guy, was probably feeling about as sexually repressed as a Catholic priest and thus would likely try to end that dry stint here. Pretty Hemingway, yes, but this ultimately meant that I inevitably would have to assume the role of tawdry spectator as the two of them vied for Kangaroo Jack’s affections, which as it turns out wasn’t even far from the truth.

And so we made our way from the hostel to the nearby grocery for picnic supplies, with me lamenting the fact that we hadn’t shelled out the extra two euro each for a private room. And of course, as I was examining the strawberries they found the Aussie. And even worse, he actually was attractive. The three-person picnic quickly became a party of four, and Amanda and Anna had begun trying to outwit one another for James‘ (that was his name) laughter. Meanwhile, I bought another bottle of wine for myself. 

The storm soon followed. I had just plopped myself onto the sands when I felt a raindrop make its equally dramatic descent onto my forehead. James, of course, suggested that we bear the storm and keep drinking on the beach; I responded with an equally stupid remark that I’d rather not be an accidental extra in The Perfect Storm Part 2, which I don’t think he understood. At this point, I didn't expect him to. At any rate, I began to hear thunder in the distance (which was barely audible over Anna and Amanda’s dueling repartees...), grabbed my bottle and the keys and said that if they wanted to sit next to the tall metal light pole during a thunderstorm they were more than welcome to, but I would be drinking with Olga in the hostel. They followed.   

We get inside and then, after much begging, Anna and Amanda get James to divulge his fascinating life story. He bloviated here and there about his time spent trimming hedges in London, but truthfully, the only two words you need to know in order to understand the nature of his being are the following: finance major.

Moving on. The evening came, as did my appetite. We decided to hit the streets of Old Town for pinchos and Basque wine (it’s renown for being slightly sparkling and served exceptionally cold). Having not eaten, well, anything the entire day, the wine hit me faster than I had anticipated and I quickly became much more genial than I had been some hours prior (as seen below):

But as Hemingway would know, those good times are indeed fleeting and alcohol’s depressive effects always kick in. One minute, James was climbing over the bridge rails and to the river bank (I didn't warn against this...); the next, Anna was crying to me about her bipolar mother while Amanda was sucking James‘ face off. And yes, we were watching the waves crash on the Cantabrian Sea as this all happened.

Still maintaining some semblance of good sense, I recommended that we relocate to the room (it was nearly 3 am and a bunch of drunks next to sharp objects is seldom a recipe for success). When Amanda came up for air she agreed, as did James. Was still consoling Anna, now upset with Amanda’s behavior, when we got back.

Things got quite hazy at this point. Anna decided she wanted to go back to the beach and “didn’t care if anyone came or not”, and given the past weekend’s nearly-filed missing person’s report plus her current frame of mind, I wasn’t going to allow that to happen. After a few minutes of excruciating silence, I stumbled out of my bunk bed and said that yes, I would join her if she wanted. My undesired shadow, James, suddenly piped up and said that he’d like to go, too. Amanda, meanwhile, was apparently comatose. I welcomed that.

The beach was everything you expect at 3 am: black and wet and not fun. I had the bright idea of running off and trying to make a sand angel to cheer up my friend, at which point I also made the assertion that my phone had been lost or stolen. Shrieking in the dark, my cries were received with the sound of Anna and James splashing around in the water, making out. At this point I don’t know if my tears were more the result of property loss or feeling like I was embedded within a real life cliché. Either way, I had some choice words for them--who still, despite my objectively impressive howling (when I was little my pediatrician actually told my mother that she’d never have to worry about me getting raped because of how loudly I can scream)--were unresponsive. 

Took the keys, again, and scurried back to the hostel crying, and this time it was Amanda who didn’t respond. The others eventually returned, and as I was told the following day, I ripped a Hawaiian lei off of James‘ neck and told him that he and his lei were “stupid” and that he had “ruined the entire weekend” (always quick with the sharp, venomous remarks; I know) while explaining to Amanda that she was only a libertarian because she didn't "give a shit about anyone else". I then apparently took the nearest thing I found, which happened to be a wedge of gouda cheese, and thrust it across the room in the throes of what I guess I considered fiery revelation. Fled the scene (largely in embarrassment for having thrown a wedge of cheese at a wall to express my feelings), punched out a few frantic emails to my mother and my boyfriend, then buried myself in the living space where Olga’s husband, Roberto, consoled me and then left me there to cry in peace. I’m not sure what Hemingway would have made of that, and quite frankly I'm not either. At the very least, my first night in San Sebastian was memorable.

Will write more on the proceeding days momentarily, but for now (and for my memory’s sake): all ended well.   

the shadowy depths that are now home to my phone and dignity

wine country

i write this in bed, wrapped tightly in my cheap throw blanket and newly-found sobriety. three “house of cards” episodes and one batch of scrambled eggs later, i am now prepared to make my initial comments on my recent excursion to la rioja and, coincidentally, the basque country.

first, a bit of context: anna and i were a bit tired of traversing the same plains of wintry madrid (though to be realistic i tend to tire of most anything when it appears cold and dead) and figured that one of the best ways to combat that was a good kidney and liver workout courtesy of spanish wine country. i booked the tickets, she booked the room (think spanish embassy suites minus the complimentary breakfast and you’re set) and we booked it to logroño, laguardia and elciego, spain (though pending your politics, the latter is part of the basque country) for around 48 hours of tasting wine and traipsing around vineyards pretending to be freelance sommeliers.

it was well worth it, and not just because of what i was about to see but also due to what i wasn’t. siddhi had two “friends” visiting (though when i greeted them they had to be reminded of her name; apparently their relationship transcends common identifiers used by us non-212 area code plebes) whose idea of a “chill” afternoon was listening to “trance step” while lauding themselves on how, thanks to some major clubs, immune they are to roofies. let’s just say i wanted to take a club of a different kind to their heads.

anyway, made it to avenida de america bus station around 4:00 (the place could have only been worse if they served just pepsi products) and we set out north. knowing it would be a four-hour trek, we brought snacks. anna in charge of the savory; and ironically me responsible for all things sweet. we also brought wine, which i suppose isn’t exactly apropos for a bus trip, but neither was their in-transit entertainment (re: "cars 2" en español) so i’m pleased i took to my own devices.

a bottle of wine, a baguette and a wedge of brie later, we stumbled from the bus station to our spanish best western, soaking in all the alcohol from the wine bars we passed along the way by proxy. unfortunately for us, the receptionist extracted whatever buzz of good tidings we might have caught along the way with either her dyspeptic personality or pepto bismol-colored lipstick. either way, not exactly welcoming. after dealing with that, we dropped our things off (though first we basked in the superficial luxury of having a TV by watching--or rather looking at since watching implies basic understanding of what you’re seeing--one of those stupid adult cartoons in german...still don't understand why only german shows were featured in a spanish-speaking country) and headed to laurel street, which is known for its great wine bars and even better pinchos (pintxos if you’re basque).

i was in love the second i heard the first vibrato-ed violin chord. string quartets draped every street corner, their sound only muffled by tiny old women in floor-length fur coats (unnecessary for the weather but extra fabulous for the soul) stopping to place change in their cases or--as was more often the case--to throw their hands in the air and mutter to their friends that the symphony does bach way better. obviously in exceptional company. made our way into the first bar and, while taking out a ten-euro note to pay for two glasses of wine and two pinchos (one was this fantastic goat cheese and ham stuffed artichoke; the other some kind of seafood and bell pepper fritter served with ali oli sauce and manchego cheese....enough to make even ina garten swoon), nearly swooned myself at the negligible damage: 3.50 euro.

??????

!!!!!!!!!

In Madrid, this would have cost me at least three times as much. which obviously meant that you could make the logical case for repeating this scenario at least twice more in one night. and i did. i think.

woke the next morning at around 9 so i could throw some clothes on (well, realistically swan and preen a bit longer than usual since we had made the pact that this was to be a weekend of glamour and decadence), walk to the bus station and make our way to laguardia, a medieval walled city, and elciego, a small town in the basque country, for wine tastings.

as a result of shitty bus schedules, we weren’t able to make our first vineyard tour in laguardia, so instead we tooled around for a couple hours in the village, marveling at their jesus menageries (really though -- think cabbage patch apostles in medium-sized aquariums hanging above plazas) and their absolutely over-the-top pinchos. we wandered around the town for a bit trying our hardest to enter at least ONE ancient cathedral, though it turns out even god sleeps in on saturdays and our good intentions were met with locked doors. no matter, though; the wine bars we passed en route to redemption were already open and always offered its patrons a sanctuary for a different kind of salvation. found one that alleged it was “irish”, though their options begged to differ: every spanish wine you could imagine, they had, and their pinchos consisted of bizarre seafood concoctions familiar only to spanish tastebuds. i had the tempura octopus mixed with garlic mashed potatoes and another rice and octopus dish--this time grilled and seasoned with its own ink--both of which were absolutely divine. was poured two glasses of some 1998 crianza and, my god, i have never felt more like paul giamatti in all my life in terms of girth and wine appreciation. 

anyway, the time quickly came for the next stop on our trip: elciego. walked down the hill to the bus stop (though at this point i would have been fine with putting my hands over my face and rolling) which was little more than a patch of gravel on the side of a two-lane road. were greeted by a bus driver who was either severely hungover or simply an extra from “creature from the black lagoon”. along with our enthusiasm, he begrudgingly took our tickets and ushered us to our seats. made the 20-minute jaunt and were soon transplanted into the basque country whose euskara (basque language) written signs weren’t of much service in terms of finding a bathroom. but c’est la vie. or in euskara, keptxsa bhr bexthrophkxa. or something like that.

the grounds of elciego serve as canvas to one of renown architect frank gehry’s most impressive works, and that was precisely the reason we were there...if not the only reason the town is still there at all. the village itself was quaint (around 1,000 people--half of whom i think we saw in the same wine bar) and quiet; so much so that anna and i were able to successfully trespass twice without anyone saying a word. the first was on someone’s rooftop (though in our defense we couldn’t tell if the building next to it was residential or even, for that matter, occupied) so that we could take in gehry’s design from afar, and the next was this dilapidated building on a hill whose roof had been blown off during what we determined to be the spanish civil war. that site was a bit dangerous since it was elevated, missing parts of its flooring and several stories tall and i was wearing heels, but hey, i’m writing this from madrid, aren’t i? the sights were absolutely lovely.

from there, we made our pilgrimage to the famed bodega by foot (yes, reading that phrase over i realize how it comes across and i don’t care), though i think we were probably the only people whose visit was made courtesy of feet and public transpo as opposed to BMWs. waited for the other guests on the tour to arrive while noshing on sheep cheese, chorizo and red wine (price tag: five euro), making sure to camouflage our wine cheeks properly. 

the tour commenced, and as was to be expected anna and i were the only people there who didn’t qualify for an AARP membership or at the very least serve as a walking crest whitestrips advertisement. in short, we were surrounded by wasps. our guide showed us around the facilities, allowing us to marvel at the gehry (he based the colors off the vineyard's wine bottles, the shape of the roof off vine undulations and the surrounding hills, and the concept of modern and over-the-top lines atop a traditional base as the physical wedding of the winery's innovative business strategies yet timeless wine preparation techniques), the vast pyramids made of oak barrels (she was sure to tell us several times they were oak and not any other subpar wood), some sort of distillery (?) and then the room where over 150,000 bottles of unusable yet “living” wines were stored. of course, one of the land’s end models on the tour was the first to display his fluency in winese, remarking on the varying colors of crianzas, their legs and questioning their chapitalization. from this point on, most conversations were over my head....except for when i jokingly responded “prunes” to our guide's question of what we thought was added to one kind of red wine. turns out i was right. another forty-something woman next to me heard what i said and iterated it louder, an action for which she received much praise and i the understanding of how nikola tesla felt post-edison fanfare.

anyway, after all of that was over, it was finally time for tasting. anna and i spared everyone our boxed wine and franzia jokes and opted instead to treat ourselves to two glasses each of their red and white. unfortunately, it turned out that the tour ran over and we ran out of cash, which meant that one) we would miss our bus home (and the only one of the day) and two) we had no means to pay for a taxi. fearful of walking home in the former stomping grounds of the ETA, we explained our situation to our guide. she, probably humored because this set of visitor problems was much more interesting than the otherwise typical “i’m torn between the gold and straw rueda; which goes better with veal piccata?” quandaries of the wannabe one-percenters abroad club, offered us a ride home in five minutes.

OK, i’ll take it.

were driven back (something for which we offered to pay her but she wouldn’t accept) and soon got ready for another night out. had some of my beloved salted cod (it’s way better than how i describe it), some kind of expertly prepared ham and manchego cheese sandwich, something in euskara (i just wanted to pronounce a basque dish fun-etically and see what happened; turned out to be more salted cod but that was completely ok) and several other glasses of wine. no hangover this time because every glass was complemented by some morsel of food.

i’d write more but my wrists hurt, i don’t want carpel tunnel before the age of 65 and i want to read a bit. anna and i, meanwhile, have decided that the next destinations must be part of our remaining time in europe: dublin, ireland; bratislava, slovakia; krakow, poland; valencia, spain; lisbon, portugal; san sebastian, basque country.

great, great trip. absolutely what i needed though not necessarily what i deserved. 

February has never been my favorite month. It’s the point in winter when your skin is no longer surprised by the bite of the cold, when you anticipate an indifferent, infinite greyness to manifest itself in everything from the sky to your turkey sandwich, when the four walls of your bedroom are the only things you care to see on a regular basis. In February, you are numb to the darkness, and that’s simultaneously relieving and terrifying. 

It’s also the month in which one is supposed to commemorate love, whatever that is to you. But quite frankly, when your closest surroundings include spindly black tree limbs, early evenings and peers seemingly crumbling to bits, the timing sucks.

As I believe I’ve mentioned before, I have the unique circumstance of literally living next door to one of my students. Her name is Sofia; she has sweet dark eyes, a slightly mischievous smile, and is the only student who knows that I speak Spanish--and yet she hasn’t told a soul (doing so would render me almost entirely useless in class as students would most likely speak to me in Spanish instead of English, the language they’re supposed to be learning). 

Toward the beginning of the year, Sofia’s hand was in the air more often than a bird, her participation so frequent and enthusiastic that the teacher scolded Sofia for occupying class discussions and preventing--or intimidating--others from contributing. Perhaps identifying with Sofia a bit, I humored her thoughts and explanations even when they were off-base or entirely wrong, and in some ways I guess you could say I favored her. 

I returned from my break in the States with heavy feet and shaky resolve, where I too was surrounded by a handful of people who would always humor my often off-base thoughts and ideas. I thought that both issues would resolve themselves upon seeing my students (particularly Sofia) and that by extension I could selfishly feel better again via the supposed emotional consistency of others.

That wasn’t exactly the case. In class, Sofia’s hands found a new home on her desk and her eyes fixed themselves to the empty space approximately four feet in front of her. She no longer participated; she sat in silence.

Home was different, though. Given the circular setup of my apartment complex, what I do in my room can be heard just as easily in the next room as it can in the flat across from my bedroom window. In the evenings, then, it wasn’t unusual for me to hear the sound of Sofia’s little sister crying, doors slamming, and exasperated arguing for large stints of time. I remember once when I was coming back from the grocery recently, Sofia and her father were exiting their apartment and had left the door open for a moment, presumably in anticipation of another’s exit. They obviously weren’t expecting my arrival, and when Sofia saw me turn the corner of the stairwell, she ran to close the door in what I can only guess was fear, embarrassment, or a sad combination of both. I couldn’t see much beyond a mass of cardboard boxes piled one on top of the other, though I did notice a bed sheet taking the place of what would have otherwise been a proper door to the sitting room. Sofia meekly greeted me only after I made a point to say hello, and then quickly disappeared down the stairs clutching tight to her father’s hand.

Friday was Sofia’s last day in class. It turns out that her father had been unemployed for several months and, after exhausting all other avenues of employment as the sole breadwinner of the family, was no longer able to afford rent. They’ll be moving to the south of Spain next week--where the economic situation is even direr yet the cost of living is cheaper--and that will be that. I’ll probably never see them again and am currently struggling how to articulate my feelings on the matter.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays I work with a single mother named Carmen, whose football field-sized heart has brought her Ismael, her son and one of the only reasons she even bothers to get up during the week, along with a wealth of disappointment that has now started to spill into the classroom. Carmen has had several breakdowns in the month and a half since school has been back in session, a couple of which occurred when I was the only “adult” around to receive and respond to them. As I don’t really consider myself much of an authority figure when it comes to relationships (let alone parenting), I felt that the biggest help I could give her was assuming the role of de facto teacher for the time being while she navigated whatever storm it was that was troubling her.  

Even that only lasted for so long, as she has now begun to divulge to me the goings-on in her home during class; how tired she is all the time; how blind-sighted she was when one of the men she dated and to whom she lent a substantial amount of money suddenly decided to stop coming by (she of course blamed herself instead of her shit choice in sleeping partner); how guilty she feels for not being with her mother following her father’s recent death. It’s certainly put me in a bit of an awkward situation: I can’t ignore the hand she’s extended to me but I can’t disregard her students, either.  They're why I'm here, after all.

The in-class distractions and collapses have gotten so bad that the headmaster has personally told Carmen that her behavior is no longer acceptable, and should anything of the sort happen again there will be serious repercussions. Turns out that Carmen has been trying to ween herself off anti-depressants for the past couple months. Understandably, Carmen thinks that the emotional dry well where Prozac drops her isn’t reality, and now that she’s been off her pills for so long she might as well try and stick it out for her own good--as well as her son’s. Truth be told I don’t know if her job will allow for that, and for that matter I’m not sure how much longer she’ll have a job at all, but I plan on bringing her flowers on Valentine’s Day regardless.

In summation: strange times over here. I personally plan on hightailing it out of Madrid on Friday and overindulging in fine wine as a Valentine’s Day gift to myself. Ready for Spring.

My Journey to Geneva

I apologize for the delay in this inevitably longwinded synopsis. So instead of prancing about in the fields of a flowery introduction, I’ll just delve right into it.

First of all, I am unsure why I ever chose to go to Geneva in the first place, let alone Switzerland. A country known for its watches and for never offending anyone (neither of which are things I sport or, lamentably, practice) wouldn’t normally strike me as a “must-visit”, though neither would the United States’ largest building made of corn (unfortunately, it seems that yes, there is actually more than one building made out of the heavily subsidized crop), but I’ve been there, too. And I liked it.

All cobs aside, I made this four-day excursion with Anna, which at this point should come as no surprise. It should also come as no surprise that, in order to adequately prepare ourselves for the one-percenter's nirvana, we needed to indulge in our plebeian joys (re: cheap wine, cheaper pizza, and commercial rap music that we would be too embarrassed to sing publicly) beforehand. What we believed would take around forty-five minutes ended up spilling into ninety, and before we knew it we had an hour to make it from my flat to the airport. 

Scurried from my place to the train station (I have to walk hurriedly with my travel bag, though mainly because it’s missing a wheel and will fall on its side like a drunkard if I’m not constantly moving it), where we ran into a rather enigmatic Galician banker who I invariably probed ad nauseum re: housing bubbles and lending practices. I’m sure he regretted sitting across from us. 

Once we finally arrived, we had around twenty minutes to clear security and hop on board. Had we waited in line like, you know, normal people do, we wouldn’t have made our flight and would have most likely had to spend the rest of our long weekend listening to Rachel squeal about her latest conquests as if she had just returned from the mount and had heard the good news. Obviously didn’t want that. So instead, we begrudgingly began to ask people if we could cut them in line. People were much more generous than I had anticipated--that is, until we came across Andrea the Giant, the human sequoia. Anna let me do the asking (or at least that is how I remember it; it might just be assumed that I will almost always do the asking), and so I approached the woman. Her eyes glared down at me from their 75-inch high nest. She didn’t buy our sob story. “Ehnd you-ehr plane leefs at seh-vaugn theer-tee, eet does not jhust beaux-ahrd zen?”

“Err, oui.”

Andrea didn’t move. Rather, she stared. And harder.

Naively, I thought a little more parlez-français-ing would win her over. “Je suis desolée, Madame, est que il n’y a pas de temps pour parler. J’ai un avion a prendre, merci.”

She moved. It was only after Anna and I had flung our coats off and raced through security that we realized how, well, direct I had been with the woman (essentially saying "Sorry, I don’t have time to chat. I’ve got a plane to catch"; French 101 taught me well). We brushed it off as getting into character for the weekend. The only kicker was when she appeared again, this time behind us, to board the plane. If looks could kill I would be in sausage casing by now.

Nevertheless, we arrived on time and without being torn to bits by our newfound foe. She was in first class anyway so it was hard to rouse any kind of guilty sentiment from within. Grabbed our bags and headed to the bus to meet our couch surfing hosts: three French bachelors with LSE degrees and questionable sexual orientations (mainly because they called themselves the Three Musketeers in their ad and weren’t 12 years old).

I knew I was in over my head when I saw a shoehorn. And not just one pair. But three. Their flat was immaculate, though I was admittedly confused when I saw Tom Cruise printouts taped to the walls along with instructions for making the perfect mojito. Perhaps my theory was correct. They greeted us as Christian, Antoine and Farouk. They were all dressed in suits. Farouk was excited about his iPad. Christian, as I later found, delighted in Fifty Shades of Grey. Antoine, respectively, waxed poetic about the nostalgia David Guetta's music evokes the following evening. Suffice it to say they all worked in finance. Extra suffice it to say I made it a quick night.

Thursday began with a ten dollar quiche and ended with, you guessed it, a finance party. In between, Anna and I tramped around the city, had our wrists swatted at for presumably breathing too loudly in front of a first edition Jules Verne novel in an antique bookstore, had our photos taken at least thirty times with approximately thirty different Asians, were denied entry to the UN (we accidentally took the employee entrance for the visitor one), also accidentally made our way to the top of Geneva’s cathedral without paying, and believed ourselves to be locked out of the flat for the foreseeable future (funky doors and the Musketeers wouldn’t be home for another five hours). In light of the latter, we high-tailed it to the nearest grocery and got a wheel of camembert cheese, a baguette and a screw-top bottle of red wine and sat on the stairs within the building for around 45 minutes, drowning our sorrows in carbs, cabernet and queso. It only struck us when we were a bit buzzed that, perhaps, we should try turning the key the other way in the other lock. It worked.

Drinking a bit more in hopes of forgetting about our sheer stupidity, we next decided to take a nap. Went out with the Musketeers to a finance bar (yes, they exist; yes, they are boring; but yes, they have vodka and orange juice so they are also OK) and then to a UN party. We left that in less than five minutes since the Musketeers said it was boring. And I mean, I figured they’d be the best judges of that. 

The next morning Anna and I awoke extra early to catch a bus to the Alps, only to find--after walking around thirty minutes in the snow--that buses didn’t run that day. Try again tomorrow. Unsure of what to do with ourselves but aware that it was too early to supplement our uncertainty with cheese and wine, we opted to check out the Christmas markets (admittedly lovely), some divine Swiss chocolate, and a terrible, terrible Swiss arms museum which, by the looks of its displays, had a curator suffering from glaucoma. We ended up spending quite a bit of time there, though mainly because our hands were cold, we could dry our hats on the radiators with ease and it was the one place (and with good reason) in Geneva that was free.

Snow began to fall harder, which was absolutely beautiful, but since the sole of Anna’s boot cracked while we were trudging through it it wasn’t the best idea to continue walking much longer. Eventually went back to the flat and tried to make a reservation for fondue that night, though the woman who answered was highly unhelpful and told us (lies) that we couldn’t make reservations and that even if we could, sorry, they were booked. Yes, the logic there fails me as well. 

Determined to dunk bits of bread into a vat of hot cheese, Anna and I braved the snow once more and headed to a fondue restaurant situated in the port of Lake Geneva. We split the pot, copped for some sausage (yes, I had sausage) and washed it all down with vin chaud, or warm wine. Delicious.

After a while, the cheese and meat made us quite thirsty, and there was no more wine to be found. Or at least any that we had paid for. We looked to our left, though, and saw that our dining partners (who we assumed had already gone) had left a half-full bottle of nice wine on the table. Really nice wine that Anna and I eyed lustily. Impulsively, I grabbed the neck and hid the bottle under the table (from whom I am not sure though probably God). I made Anna hand me her glass, and I filled us both up. We drank it leisurely, enjoying what we imagined it might be like to be able to afford 60 dollar bottles of wine on Lake Geneva as an after-work ritual. For me, it’s usually an episode of a TLC show and something caffeinated. So no, the wine wasn’t wasted on me.

But then, as we were each enjoying our final glass, a cold terror descended upon us, starting at our eyes and then dripping down as sweat. They had returned. Their bottle was empty. They made eye contact. They instinctively moved out of the way as we dashed out of the room. We were tipsy thieves running from the scene of a crime in a Swiss fondue restaurant.

[This covers the first two nights. The next day is spent in the Alps, but that deserves its own entry and this is already over 1,500 words.]