To remind you of what we were trying to show:
Hypothesis: Let R ∈ Wellesley 2011 ∩ Budapest Semesters in Mathematics. Suppose R is dance-, math-, computer-, and, often, just-plain-crazy.
Claim: Anything can happen
Proof: I pet baby pigs at a sausage festival, discovered my talent for pasta salad and rice pudding, went to my first bar, wandered the city at 2 a.m., learned the difference between good and bad memorials, went crazy for Kinder Pingui, heard the Megillah in Hungarian, nearly cut myself on someone’s giant cigarette box costume, learned how teleportation works, danced at a club surrounded by Jewish pirates, vampires, devils, etc., rode the night bus in full ghost costume/makeup, traveled 45 minutes both ways to take pictures of myself abusing Soviet statues, learned how to be a good Soviet spy, went to a teahouse in a treehouse, introduced my roommate to hamentashen, window-shopped in Vienna at 9 pm, attempted to see an entire city in twelve hours, had my first hostel experience, learned and forgot the Hungarian version of eeny-meeny-miney-mo, watched folk dancers in the Budapest metro, burned all ten fingers in an attempt to make lasagna (which turned out fabulous!), discovered a few drinks I like (and many more that I don’t), terrorized several thrift stores, had to relearn middle-school geometry, tried and failed to find a bookstore 3 TIMES before finally making it, walked the entire length of Lido, was stunned by the beauty of the Adriatic, spent hours in an old/rare bookstore in Venice, watched Chabad men dancing in the middle of the old Venetian ghetto, lived for a week on gelato and licorice, held a seder while reading prayers off my laptop, made matzah ball soup completely from scratch, played football and climbed a tree on Margit island, had to admit defeat in a math class, derived the Heisenberg uncertainty principle (sort of), was baffled by Hungarian tango, dodged baby Germans at the Szechenyi baths, learned basic lindy hop in exchange for teaching basic rumba, risked getting drunk off Hungarian chocolate, visited a museum devoted almost entirely to salami, had a fabulous dinner in Szeged, gaped at Hungarian folk dancers in the square, visited a museum with multiple personality disorder, covered my kitchen in flour while attempting to make challah, watched Mongols dismember cabbage at a cheese festival, watched amateur belly dancers at the same festival, decorated a cookie and made friends with an older Hungarian woman who spoke no English at the same festival as the previous 2, rocked Hungarian DDR, spent one of the most amazing weekends of my life dancing in Romania, argued abortion with a Hungarian computer nerd, danced in the middle of the Brasov main square, broke my record for staying out late by dancing for 7 hours straight, learned the rules of water polo, climbed a tree in my socks (how a tree got in my socks I'll never know), passed all my finals, dominated a karaoke bar and several dance floors across the city, was sexually harassed by a water slide, made so many new friends, both American and Hungarian, learned dozens of new dances, and fell so much love with a city and a group of people that I had to book a flight back for the end of summer.
Q.E.D. bitches, Q.E.D.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
A Night at the Opera
My grandmother was in town this past weekend, which meant two things:
1. I would gain at least 7 lbs. Possibly per meal.
2. People would be singing in foreign languages.
The first time I went to visit my grandmother on my own, people AND a statue sang in a foreign language, while a guy with funny hair got dragged to hell. The second trip, a blond with an ill-fitting costumes sang passionately (in a foreign language) to a severed head. This past semester, a brunette (formerly the blond) with a much better costume sang passionately to a dead guy with head still attached, but covered in blood. In Italian.
Last night's production of Il barbiere di Siviglia once again featured people singing in Italian, but with heads mercifully still attached and relatively bloodless. For the record, this makes the show much easier to distinguish from the other one about a singing barber, for which the manufacturer of fake blood usually gets top billing (Sweeney Todd: Starring Heinz Ketchup!).
Now usually when I go on these cross-linguistic adventures, there are subtitles to aid me. Barber of Seville was no exception, except (the exception to the non-exception?) for the minor detail that the subtitles were in Hungarian. At first, I was not too concerned, figuring that I would be able to get enough of the Italian to get a general idea of what was going on. Italian, at least, falls into the category of Romance Languages I Vaguely Recognize, along with French and Spanish. If I see a language that looks romantic (i.e. can be spoken with a sexy accent) but leaves me baffled, I assume it's Portuguese. For my own sanity, I have to pretend Romanian doesn't exist. However, after the first scene, I realized the folly of my ways. I did figure out that somebody was serenading someone else, and it was not working so hot. I assumed it was because of the French horn. Never serenade someone with a French horn, unless you know them to be sexually attracted to geese. I also figured out that somebody wanted someone else to speak quietly lest he be heard, but I guess the other person didn't hear because they were next to the blaring French horn. Really, the entire song was like an Italian version of Cat-Like Tread, which, for those of you who have not seen Pirates of Penzance, goes something like this:
With cat-like tread *STOMP*
Upon our prey we steal *CRASH*
In silence dread *THUMP*
A cautious way we feel *DRUMLINE SOLO*
After the opening scene was over and the serenader had ridden away on his noble...fountain (I'm all for creative set changes, but I really wanted someone to follow him with coconuts), though, I fell behind the plot. When a man in bright red pants came in and began playing with razors, I assumed him to be the titular Hispanic hairdresser. It should be noted, however, that it took me until the third or fourth scene to be sure. I wished again that I had bought a program so I could find out who played Figaro’s right and left eyebrows. If they did not have their own bio, they should have. I suspect they went to the Royal Shakespeare Academy before studying under Martha Graham. Even with such two fabulous characters, however, I still had no idea what was going on when the serenader-in-stripes (my first guess was clown…apparently he was dressed as a student...same thing) rejoined the scene. I knew enough Hungarian (!!) to figure out from the subtitles that someone wanted to speak to someone else, or at least that speaking was going on/expected to happen in some capacity. I knew enough Italian (only one ‘!’, it’s not nearly as impressive) to figure out that this would for some reason involve soldiers. Actually, because of this, I was able to figure out that the Hungarian word for ‘soldier’ is ‘katona,’ so I was able to figure out when OTHER scenes involved soldiers too! Granted, this became much easier when they came in with funny hats (more later) and guns. Other than soldiers and verbal communication however, I had no idea what the scene was about. For all I knew, they could have been talking about the weather I wasn’t sure where the soldiers would come in though, perhaps they were going to speak to the captain but couldn’t because of the weather? Whatever it was, it took them about 45 minutes to decide whether they would be speaking to the man who speaks like a soldier when he’s under the weather.
Even after all that, I still felt I had a moderate handle on the plot until then end of Act I, when suddenly THE ENTIRE WORLD came on stage, Almaviva/Lindoro the serenader/student/soldier/secretly rich dude pulled out his credit card, and the set exploded. Now, I could sort of get on board with the fountain-as-public-transport idea, but once the head of Seville’s finest, menacing in his orange-fur-trimmed hat, started playing with a guitar that was HANGING IN MIDAIR and the gate outside Rosina’s balcony had a seizure, I gave up. I actually thought that maybe a poltergeist was part of the plot. In my defense, it wouldn’t be the weirdest plot device in opera. See “Don Giovanni pisses off a statue, eternal damnation ensues.” I did feel major respect for the stage crew, though; their storm-signifying curtain-waving looked much better than what we did for Pericles in 9th grade, though I suspect their budget was not much higher. A side note to the stage crew of the opera house: even (especially?) if you have to sell an actor, BUY CLAMPS (and maybe some caulk). Those stairs gave me a heart attack every time someone stepped on them, or stepped near them, or exhaled within 7 meters of them. Also, the curtain lights were definitely better than ours (which looked like bizarrely like we were shining a map of the US), but look into diffusers.
After Act I, I caved and bought a program. It’s probably a good thing I did so, as the bulk of my interpretations had been 150% wrong (yes, I’m a math major…your point?). Also, there was, surprisingly, no actual poltergeist involved. The only line in the synopsis to explain the LSD trip onstage at the end of Act I was something like “Confusion ensues.” I think they need to reprint the program: “Confusion ensues (in the audience).” I had been right about someone wanting to speak to someone else though, so I gave me 5 bonus points. Once I had my trusty program, the opera became much clearer. I was able to understand when Rosina became tragically and irreparably broken-hearted for all of about five minutes before Almaviva/Lindoro reminded her that he was a tenor in a romantic comedy so they pretty much had to end up together. Convincing her did take some effort; she didn’t believe him until he took off his coat to reveal that he was at least rich enough to dress like Liberace in a Swarovski promotion. She just happened to be wearing a matching dress under her robe, which was such a coincidence that it must have been love. Not gonna lie, I’m a sucker for a sparkly ending.
1. I would gain at least 7 lbs. Possibly per meal.
2. People would be singing in foreign languages.
The first time I went to visit my grandmother on my own, people AND a statue sang in a foreign language, while a guy with funny hair got dragged to hell. The second trip, a blond with an ill-fitting costumes sang passionately (in a foreign language) to a severed head. This past semester, a brunette (formerly the blond) with a much better costume sang passionately to a dead guy with head still attached, but covered in blood. In Italian.
Last night's production of Il barbiere di Siviglia once again featured people singing in Italian, but with heads mercifully still attached and relatively bloodless. For the record, this makes the show much easier to distinguish from the other one about a singing barber, for which the manufacturer of fake blood usually gets top billing (Sweeney Todd: Starring Heinz Ketchup!).
Now usually when I go on these cross-linguistic adventures, there are subtitles to aid me. Barber of Seville was no exception, except (the exception to the non-exception?) for the minor detail that the subtitles were in Hungarian. At first, I was not too concerned, figuring that I would be able to get enough of the Italian to get a general idea of what was going on. Italian, at least, falls into the category of Romance Languages I Vaguely Recognize, along with French and Spanish. If I see a language that looks romantic (i.e. can be spoken with a sexy accent) but leaves me baffled, I assume it's Portuguese. For my own sanity, I have to pretend Romanian doesn't exist. However, after the first scene, I realized the folly of my ways. I did figure out that somebody was serenading someone else, and it was not working so hot. I assumed it was because of the French horn. Never serenade someone with a French horn, unless you know them to be sexually attracted to geese. I also figured out that somebody wanted someone else to speak quietly lest he be heard, but I guess the other person didn't hear because they were next to the blaring French horn. Really, the entire song was like an Italian version of Cat-Like Tread, which, for those of you who have not seen Pirates of Penzance, goes something like this:
With cat-like tread *STOMP*
Upon our prey we steal *CRASH*
In silence dread *THUMP*
A cautious way we feel *DRUMLINE SOLO*
After the opening scene was over and the serenader had ridden away on his noble...fountain (I'm all for creative set changes, but I really wanted someone to follow him with coconuts), though, I fell behind the plot. When a man in bright red pants came in and began playing with razors, I assumed him to be the titular Hispanic hairdresser. It should be noted, however, that it took me until the third or fourth scene to be sure. I wished again that I had bought a program so I could find out who played Figaro’s right and left eyebrows. If they did not have their own bio, they should have. I suspect they went to the Royal Shakespeare Academy before studying under Martha Graham. Even with such two fabulous characters, however, I still had no idea what was going on when the serenader-in-stripes (my first guess was clown…apparently he was dressed as a student...same thing) rejoined the scene. I knew enough Hungarian (!!) to figure out from the subtitles that someone wanted to speak to someone else, or at least that speaking was going on/expected to happen in some capacity. I knew enough Italian (only one ‘!’, it’s not nearly as impressive) to figure out that this would for some reason involve soldiers. Actually, because of this, I was able to figure out that the Hungarian word for ‘soldier’ is ‘katona,’ so I was able to figure out when OTHER scenes involved soldiers too! Granted, this became much easier when they came in with funny hats (more later) and guns. Other than soldiers and verbal communication however, I had no idea what the scene was about. For all I knew, they could have been talking about the weather I wasn’t sure where the soldiers would come in though, perhaps they were going to speak to the captain but couldn’t because of the weather? Whatever it was, it took them about 45 minutes to decide whether they would be speaking to the man who speaks like a soldier when he’s under the weather.
Even after all that, I still felt I had a moderate handle on the plot until then end of Act I, when suddenly THE ENTIRE WORLD came on stage, Almaviva/Lindoro the serenader/student/soldier/secretly rich dude pulled out his credit card, and the set exploded. Now, I could sort of get on board with the fountain-as-public-transport idea, but once the head of Seville’s finest, menacing in his orange-fur-trimmed hat, started playing with a guitar that was HANGING IN MIDAIR and the gate outside Rosina’s balcony had a seizure, I gave up. I actually thought that maybe a poltergeist was part of the plot. In my defense, it wouldn’t be the weirdest plot device in opera. See “Don Giovanni pisses off a statue, eternal damnation ensues.” I did feel major respect for the stage crew, though; their storm-signifying curtain-waving looked much better than what we did for Pericles in 9th grade, though I suspect their budget was not much higher. A side note to the stage crew of the opera house: even (especially?) if you have to sell an actor, BUY CLAMPS (and maybe some caulk). Those stairs gave me a heart attack every time someone stepped on them, or stepped near them, or exhaled within 7 meters of them. Also, the curtain lights were definitely better than ours (which looked like bizarrely like we were shining a map of the US), but look into diffusers.
After Act I, I caved and bought a program. It’s probably a good thing I did so, as the bulk of my interpretations had been 150% wrong (yes, I’m a math major…your point?). Also, there was, surprisingly, no actual poltergeist involved. The only line in the synopsis to explain the LSD trip onstage at the end of Act I was something like “Confusion ensues.” I think they need to reprint the program: “Confusion ensues (in the audience).” I had been right about someone wanting to speak to someone else though, so I gave me 5 bonus points. Once I had my trusty program, the opera became much clearer. I was able to understand when Rosina became tragically and irreparably broken-hearted for all of about five minutes before Almaviva/Lindoro reminded her that he was a tenor in a romantic comedy so they pretty much had to end up together. Convincing her did take some effort; she didn’t believe him until he took off his coat to reveal that he was at least rich enough to dress like Liberace in a Swarovski promotion. She just happened to be wearing a matching dress under her robe, which was such a coincidence that it must have been love. Not gonna lie, I’m a sucker for a sparkly ending.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Procrastination in Motion: MPS
I swear after this I'll hit the books again.
Damn test
Such stress!
The best?
Just guess.
Just guess?
Just guess.
Bad guess,
Big mess.
No rest
Just stress
Damn test
Damn test
Damn test
Such stress!
The best?
Just guess.
Just guess?
Just guess.
Bad guess,
Big mess.
No rest
Just stress
Damn test
Damn test
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Procrastination in Motion
With apologies to Shel Silverstein:
"I cannot take my final tests,"
Said youngest Graber, Becca S.
This harmonic homology
Is not in my biology
My φ looks like x, my x like y
And don't get me started on drawing π
My practice tests by Death were kissed
I've counted sixteen answers missed,
And there's one more--that's seventeen
Now don't you think my odds are lean?
The book on groups Noetharian
Might well be in Hungarian
I measure vectors (measure twice!)
The numbers never turn out nice
My brain hurts when I try to find
x2 + y2 + z mod 9
My back is hunched (which is the norm)
Like a Fourier transform
It's freezing out from all the rain
Did I mention cos is a projective pain?
The cold makes this girl's nose all runny
(Actually, it's woman, and that's not funny)
TOP has thrown me for a loop
Even when I commute (SEE WHAT I DID THERE?) to my study group
My lines are bent, my curves are straight
If the answer's 6, I get minus 8
My brain is empty, like the void
'twixt sheets of a hyperboloid
My functions don't, and my paths are--what?
What's that? I need to glance
at my notes to stand a chance?
Whatevs, I'm going out to dance."
"I cannot take my final tests,"
Said youngest Graber, Becca S.
This harmonic homology
Is not in my biology
My φ looks like x, my x like y
And don't get me started on drawing π
My practice tests by Death were kissed
I've counted sixteen answers missed,
And there's one more--that's seventeen
Now don't you think my odds are lean?
The book on groups Noetharian
Might well be in Hungarian
I measure vectors (measure twice!)
The numbers never turn out nice
My brain hurts when I try to find
x2 + y2 + z mod 9
My back is hunched (which is the norm)
Like a Fourier transform
It's freezing out from all the rain
Did I mention cos is a projective pain?
The cold makes this girl's nose all runny
(Actually, it's woman, and that's not funny)
TOP has thrown me for a loop
Even when I commute (SEE WHAT I DID THERE?) to my study group
My lines are bent, my curves are straight
If the answer's 6, I get minus 8
My brain is empty, like the void
'twixt sheets of a hyperboloid
My functions don't, and my paths are--what?
What's that? I need to glance
at my notes to stand a chance?
Whatevs, I'm going out to dance."
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Hajra Magyarok!
Here in Budapest, it has not stopped raining for approximately six megakilogillion years (give or take a few gillion-cents) (quick, what is this in Romanian lei?). Thus, a few of us thought the absolute best way to spend the Saturday before all finals break loose (which is like all hell breaking loose, but without the friendly staff) would be to stow away our books (if I can’t see topology, it can’t hurt me!) and hit the arena for to spectate a local water polo match. Outdoors. Setting aside the fact that apparently “spectate” is not a word (why the hell not? What do spectators do, refrigerate?), let us take stock of the merits of this decision:
1. It was wet
2. None of us had ever watched/played/expended a brain cell thinking about water polo
3. We did not know either of the teams
4. Did I mention it was really wet?
If you just looked at that list and thought, “Yes! Best idea ever!” then you are absolutely correct (and should probably seek medical attention). It’s been a while since I’ve had that much fun without butchering my calves. For the record, for some reason, the damn things still hurt from MR (she thought as she danced her third Viennese Waltz). We got to the match a little late since we had been caught up in pancake-making at Smokin(g) Sarah’s apartment. Lesson: Don’t make peanut butter, raisin, and cinnamon sugar pancakes unless you have time and belt-holes to spare, or unless you absolutely have to see Melanie-not-Mel enthusiastically demonstrate the difference between belligerent (OM NOM NOM) and passive (om nom nom) consumption, which is certainly a valid reason.
Now, the problem with arriving to a water polo match “a little late” is that a quarter in water polo lasts approximately one nano-eyeblink (convert to forint!). Fortunately, this match ran on Hungarian time, so the quarters were about 12 minutes each, and we arrived in the middle of the second one. Mel-not-Melanie had arrived earlier with her friend (I never got his name, so he is just Mel’s Engineer Friend) and had decided that in the white-on-blue game, we were rooting for the blue team. Melanie-not-Mel coldly informed her reverse counterpart that we were in fact rooting for the Hungarians, and was able to keep a straight face for a record .5 seconds before informing Mel that actually, both teams were in fact Hungarian. We think Melanie (insert epithets here, my fingers are getting tired) may soon be ready for her job as international spy.
It’s a good thing we decided to root for the Hungarians because a. it meant we would certainly be on the winning side and b. the only cheer we knew was ‘Hajra Magyarok!’ This cheer was not fully appropriate, however. For starters, I suspect that when pronounced properly, it sounds a little less like an angry Japanese grizzly bear yelling at squirrels (or maybe a little more; Hungarian is a strange language). Also, it translates roughly (nothing in Hungarian translates smoothly) to ‘Go Hungarians!’ This does not seem like a problem, until you consider that in BSM, there are no such things as just ‘Hungarians.’ The official BSM term is ‘Actual Hungarians,’ as in, “The nice thing about the bar is that there are Actual Hungarians there,” or, “It’s really cool that you made friends with Actual Hungarians,” or, “I think this semester I’m going to take Actual Hungarian 101.” I promise you this is not just me. Thus, a proper BSM cheer would be “Hajra Actual Magyarok!” but then one team may have thought we were suggesting they were not Actually Hungarians and then started and international incident and you know how I feel about international incidents before finals week. That, and ‘actual’ is not an Actual Hungarian word. It’s not even a fake Hungarian word, really.
In truth, our “Hajra Magyarok” was not really aimed at encouraging the teams to play better. Among other things, none of us knew anything about water polo, so we’d be hard-pressed to say what exactly “playing better” entails. So really, “Hajra Magyarok” was aimed at getting the players to continue doing what they were doing, which included:
1. Lounging around in ill-fitting Speedos (whitey-tighties, as Melanie accidentally called them. We suspect she puts her underwear on backwards)
2. Taking off said ill-fitting Speedos while still in the pool, throwing them to the side, and putting on another pair, all in barely-obscured view (thank GOD the rain clouded the pool water; there are things (@@) I really don’t need to see)
3. Attempting to swim straight through each other, puzzled by their lack of forward movement. Apparently they don’t teach the rule of solid objects in Physics for Jocks.
4. When the above failed, swimming OVER each other. Physics win!
5. Wearing funny caps. Ear cages are the new black!
We were able to kind of figure out what was going on since, before leaving Sarah’s apartment, we had looked up the rules of Hungarian water polo. The page had also included the referee’s signals so we knew that doing the Monkey (WHICH NEEDS TO COME BACK, BTW) meant a major foul, the One-Handed Monkey was a minor foul, Conga Arms/Rolling Stone meant time (maybe?), etc. I realized I could never be a water polo referee because I would just be too tempted to rock out the entire time (“Will someone please remind the ref the Running Man is not a valid signal?”).
After the game, Mel and Melanie asked the coach of the winning team (Hajra Magyarok!) if we could get a picture with them. They seemed pretty bemused, but it turns out it doesn’t take too much convincing to get a bunch of young guys to snap a photo with a bunch of smiling American college girls (and Lucas, who for some reason did not share our enthusiasm to be photographed with a bunch of be-Speedoed men, even after we assured him we could find a Speedo for him too). This despite the fact that it was STILL raining and bloody cold outside (did I mention that we had some really attractive girls on this outing? I wonder if that played a role). The photo turned out, well, see for yourself:
Not pictured is Lucas, but you can just pretend he’s one of the guys behind us. I’m sure he’d appreciate that.
Also, I climbed a tree in socks.* I thought you’d like to know.
*best ambiguous modifier ever
1. It was wet
2. None of us had ever watched/played/expended a brain cell thinking about water polo
3. We did not know either of the teams
4. Did I mention it was really wet?
If you just looked at that list and thought, “Yes! Best idea ever!” then you are absolutely correct (and should probably seek medical attention). It’s been a while since I’ve had that much fun without butchering my calves. For the record, for some reason, the damn things still hurt from MR (she thought as she danced her third Viennese Waltz). We got to the match a little late since we had been caught up in pancake-making at Smokin(g) Sarah’s apartment. Lesson: Don’t make peanut butter, raisin, and cinnamon sugar pancakes unless you have time and belt-holes to spare, or unless you absolutely have to see Melanie-not-Mel enthusiastically demonstrate the difference between belligerent (OM NOM NOM) and passive (om nom nom) consumption, which is certainly a valid reason.
Now, the problem with arriving to a water polo match “a little late” is that a quarter in water polo lasts approximately one nano-eyeblink (convert to forint!). Fortunately, this match ran on Hungarian time, so the quarters were about 12 minutes each, and we arrived in the middle of the second one. Mel-not-Melanie had arrived earlier with her friend (I never got his name, so he is just Mel’s Engineer Friend) and had decided that in the white-on-blue game, we were rooting for the blue team. Melanie-not-Mel coldly informed her reverse counterpart that we were in fact rooting for the Hungarians, and was able to keep a straight face for a record .5 seconds before informing Mel that actually, both teams were in fact Hungarian. We think Melanie (insert epithets here, my fingers are getting tired) may soon be ready for her job as international spy.
It’s a good thing we decided to root for the Hungarians because a. it meant we would certainly be on the winning side and b. the only cheer we knew was ‘Hajra Magyarok!’ This cheer was not fully appropriate, however. For starters, I suspect that when pronounced properly, it sounds a little less like an angry Japanese grizzly bear yelling at squirrels (or maybe a little more; Hungarian is a strange language). Also, it translates roughly (nothing in Hungarian translates smoothly) to ‘Go Hungarians!’ This does not seem like a problem, until you consider that in BSM, there are no such things as just ‘Hungarians.’ The official BSM term is ‘Actual Hungarians,’ as in, “The nice thing about the bar is that there are Actual Hungarians there,” or, “It’s really cool that you made friends with Actual Hungarians,” or, “I think this semester I’m going to take Actual Hungarian 101.” I promise you this is not just me. Thus, a proper BSM cheer would be “Hajra Actual Magyarok!” but then one team may have thought we were suggesting they were not Actually Hungarians and then started and international incident and you know how I feel about international incidents before finals week. That, and ‘actual’ is not an Actual Hungarian word. It’s not even a fake Hungarian word, really.
In truth, our “Hajra Magyarok” was not really aimed at encouraging the teams to play better. Among other things, none of us knew anything about water polo, so we’d be hard-pressed to say what exactly “playing better” entails. So really, “Hajra Magyarok” was aimed at getting the players to continue doing what they were doing, which included:
1. Lounging around in ill-fitting Speedos (whitey-tighties, as Melanie accidentally called them. We suspect she puts her underwear on backwards)
2. Taking off said ill-fitting Speedos while still in the pool, throwing them to the side, and putting on another pair, all in barely-obscured view (thank GOD the rain clouded the pool water; there are things (@@) I really don’t need to see)
3. Attempting to swim straight through each other, puzzled by their lack of forward movement. Apparently they don’t teach the rule of solid objects in Physics for Jocks.
4. When the above failed, swimming OVER each other. Physics win!
5. Wearing funny caps. Ear cages are the new black!
We were able to kind of figure out what was going on since, before leaving Sarah’s apartment, we had looked up the rules of Hungarian water polo. The page had also included the referee’s signals so we knew that doing the Monkey (WHICH NEEDS TO COME BACK, BTW) meant a major foul, the One-Handed Monkey was a minor foul, Conga Arms/Rolling Stone meant time (maybe?), etc. I realized I could never be a water polo referee because I would just be too tempted to rock out the entire time (“Will someone please remind the ref the Running Man is not a valid signal?”).
After the game, Mel and Melanie asked the coach of the winning team (Hajra Magyarok!) if we could get a picture with them. They seemed pretty bemused, but it turns out it doesn’t take too much convincing to get a bunch of young guys to snap a photo with a bunch of smiling American college girls (and Lucas, who for some reason did not share our enthusiasm to be photographed with a bunch of be-Speedoed men, even after we assured him we could find a Speedo for him too). This despite the fact that it was STILL raining and bloody cold outside (did I mention that we had some really attractive girls on this outing? I wonder if that played a role). The photo turned out, well, see for yourself:
Clockwise from lower right: Leah, Me, Melanie, Mel, Sarah, Bridgit, Lots of nearly-naked guys
Also, I climbed a tree in socks.* I thought you’d like to know.
*best ambiguous modifier ever
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Oops
I was informed tonight that, despite my best intentions, I insulted the fine folks of Bulgaria unjustly. I should have insulted the fine folks of Romania, as they were apparently the enthusiastic "song"-leaders whose mouths I longed to seal with duct tape. I would hand-deliver an apology note to the Bulgarians, but I actually have no idea where Bulgaria is and given my inability to find anything ever, I would probably end up in Romania and begin the whole mess again.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Machol Romania Day Fuck I Don't Even Know Anymore
The title pretty much sums it up. Sweet God I was tired. Fortunately, I had cookies. Lots of cookies. It made the train ride home much more bearable, even after the damn thing was delayed for 2 hours. That, and I discovered that I kind of like Vermouth. Yikes, my blog is becoming more alcoholic by the post...but it still hasn't reached Hungarian levels. They were the ones who finished off the Vermouth...at 10 am. I was really impressed.
Anyhow, I made it back to Pest safe, sound, and completely exhausted, just in time to go to MPS. Not an easy day for me, but it was all better because I had dance that evening. What?
Anyhow, I made it back to Pest safe, sound, and completely exhausted, just in time to go to MPS. Not an easy day for me, but it was all better because I had dance that evening. What?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)