Coming to Budapest, my goal was two-fold: learn advanced mathematics, and become a more culturally sensitive and aware human being. There may have also been something in there about consuming massive amounts of pastries and posting massive amounts of silly pictures on Facebook.
I would not be a Graber if I passed up an opportunity to take all that I've learned so far and play some serious hardcore Jeopardy with myself (already my family is gathering in my parents' room, ready to shout out answers and advice to seemingly deaf contestants)(seemingly deaf contestants being me)(I'm not deaf, I'm just on another continent). Special thanks to ethics Professor Niccolo Machiavelli for helping me choose fair, equalizing categories with which I have no chance of failing.
So Alex, I'll take "American Baby Names of the late 1980s" for 200.
Clue: The name given to at least half of all boys in an attempt to confuse future conversations, and the nicknames used to avoid said confusion.
(*buzzer*) What is Sam, and what are Texas Sam and Drunk Sam?
Go me! 200 Ft! I can almost buy half a can of Diet Coke!
For 400:
Clue: The name of the remaining half.
(*buzzbuzz*) What is David, as in "Tall David, Curly David, and Short David" or "Tall David, Slightly shorter David, and omigod are you kidding my why are there so many Davids here David (also called Chris Pine David)"?
OMG you guys! 600 Ft! 2 Diet Cokes! I'm rich (and soon to be caffeinated)!
For 600:
Clue: Just kidding! The name of the rest of them (you know, not in either of the two halves. Now you know what advanced math is like).
(*annoyedbuzz*) What is screw this we have to keep track of the Daniels too?
Ugh. Me and my 1200 Ft. (I can add! Well, sort of) are going to go buy a sidewalk.
For 800:
Clue: Come on, stick around for a little bit! We haven't got to the girls yet. When mommy and daddy weren't keeping track of little David, Sam, and Daniel, they were busy naming their baby girls these!
(*buzzwishingfordeath*) What is I quit, the Brittanys, Sarahs, and Melanies are just going to have to come up with their own damn nicknames; we're math majors, we're not that creative and, apparently, neither were our parents?
Can I go now? I've got a museum to purchase.
For 1000:
Clue: Alright, no more nicknames. This name is surprisingly absent among the math students here, since there's only one (and there is NEVER only one).
(*comingdownfromabuzz*) What is Rebecca, which can't be right so I'm sure that somebody is hiding a Rebecca in their suitcase, if not five of them?
You know what? I'm not going to stick around for the other categories (even though I would ace Things American Students Do When Drunk in Foreign Countries). I'm going to go pick up a chocolate turnover and a new memory card for my camera. And possibly a hotel on Park Street.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Or Not
So I know I promised a happy post to follow this last one, but sleepy Becca is sleepy (and behind on homework, and ... really behind on homework), so hold your breath until tomorrow. Actually, please don't, I pride myself in not having caused any of my friends or family to asphyxiate. It's the small things in life.
How Not to Memorialize
Caution: This is not intended to be a humorous, or even coherent piece. I fully intend to write a typical snark-filled post after this, if only to keep myself from getting nightmares, but this is not it. Feel free to skip it if you're looking for something cheerful, if not actually funny.
This past Sunday, and the Sunday before, I went to the House of Terror and Holocaust Memorial museums, respectively. The House of Terror is stronger in my mind, so I'll start with that one.
Hungary has a unique opportunity, and therefore responsibility, to tell the story of genocide and Stalinism. It's in the same way Washington DC has a unique responsibility in memorializing the slave trade, or Georgia has in the horrors of Andersonville. The markers are there; they don't have to be photocopied or videotaped or digitized. It is in the failure to recognize this that the House of Terror fails at its basic task: to foster education about and analysis of decades of repression and institutionalized murder.
This failure begins even before you go into the museum. I took this photo from right across the street, on the other side of Andrassy.
Classy, right? You can't see it from the picture, but the place looks like it was painted yesterday, grey, of course, for that authentic Soviet feel. And just in case you were wondering if this is a Serious Place where Bad Things happened, there's the 'TERROR' stencil on the roof, designed so that the word appears on the building and/or the sidewalk when the sun is overhead. In addition to all this, there are miniature pictures, presumably of victims, lining the outside of the building on the side. It's like the designers are trying to capitalize on the haunted house feel of the place, turning it into a sideshow at an amusement park instead of letting the place speak for itself. It doesn't need to 'feel' authentic and scary, it IS authentic and horrifying. Dressing it up makes you feel like you're walking past an advertisement for a new horror movie. Maybe it makes you shudder a bit, but you can always remind yourself it's just a movie and move on with your life.
The inside is just as bad. While checking your coat, the first item you encounter is a short video played on a loop. An old man is talking about casualties, and how few survived, and forgiveness. Don't get me wrong, it's an extremely moving video. Watching him try to come to grips with what unanswerable question, the expression on his face is beyond my power to describe. I suspect it will stay with me for a very long time. But there's no attempt to explain even which period of time he's talking about, the Holocaust or the Soviet occupation. To the museum designers, it seems that death is death and one tragedy is as depressing and bloody as another. The next thing you see after the lobby is a giant replica of a Soviet tank resting on a black marble platform. Around this tank, walls stretching to the roof are covered with photos of victims. Which victims, or rather, whose, is again unspecified. One victim is as poignant as another. It should also be noted that next to the fake Soviet tank sit the cafe and gift shop/bookstore, because what's a horror movie without popcorn?
Any victim of oppression will tell you that silence speaks louder than screams, but the museum refuses to allow its visitors this simple, powerful tool. Every room is covered in TV screens looping through contextless, cathartic and/or shocking videos. The first room contained no less than 8 TV screens, four for each tragedy, a projection on the wall, and background music that would not be out of place before a breaking newscast. The path through the museum is vaguely chronological, though it's difficult to tell exactly what's going on in each room and some rooms present themes common to both eras. Few of the rooms focuses on a theme or time related to the original purpose of the room. The stories of what happened in those rooms are stories only the building itself can tell. Instead, they're silenced in favor of garish projections, bizarre interpretive art, and thumping music. One of the rooms about the Soviet occupation was transformed into a maze with wax (or possibly plastic) brick walls, and I still have no idea why. Those rooms that are preserved as monuments to their original purposes, like the office of the head of the Soviet Police, are cordoned off like the bedrooms at Versailles. It almost felt like I was supposed to be admiring the furniture instead of trying to understand what monstrosities happened at that old wooden desk. The only thing I could get close to was the flat screen TV on the wall. Go figure.
In all fairness, parts of the museum keep their hold on reality and, thus, their power. One room contains eight original uniforms bearing swastikas and arrow-crosses (the symbol of the Hungarian fascists). Being able to see and touch those uniforms is a gut-wrenching experience. They just hang there, staring mercilessly at the visitor and refusing to be unreal. By contrast, the room containing a rotating column with a Soviet uniform on one side and a Nazi uniform on the other inspires next to nothing, except maybe dizziness. The best-done part of the museum is also the least-done: the reconstructed prison in the basement. After an annoyingly 'Tower of Terror'-like elevator ride (it's scary because it moves veeeerrryyy slooooowwwwllyy), you emerge in the bare, freezing, cement hell where so many prisoners spent their last days. It's like being at the end of the world. There is nothing in those cells but hopelessness, and maybe a dilapidated wooden box meant to serve as a bed. One of them could not have been more than 2 feet square and 6 feet tall. Another was several yards deep, maybe 3 feet tall, and black as hell. In each cell, I had to force myself to step past the bars; part of me was scared that someone would come and close the door and I'd be trapped. The closest I've ever come to that feeling was going to Gettysburg when I was six, and being convinced that the battle was about to start again and my parents and I would get shot. The sheer nothingness of that basement was what made it real, and made it hurt. No television, no 'symbolic' art, just cold cement and rotting wood. That basement told its story, and told it well.
Another worthwhile part of the museum is the ever-controversial Wall of Victimizers, which contains names and photos of known Arrow-Cross and Soviet bureaucrats and thugs. I think this wall is one of the most important, and unique parts of the museum. Usually, the story of the Holocaust is told as 'People were murdered' rather than 'People murdered.' The distinction is an important one. The Holocaust and the Soviet occupation did not 'happen;' rational, thinking people created and executed the Holocaust and the Soviet occupation. Focusing solely on the victims removes responsibility from their torturers and allows people to look away from their own potential for evil. The Wall of Victimizers is an important reminder that while the victims may have been Just Like Us, so were the perpetrators.
This post is way longer than I meant it to be, so I'll leave the Holocaust Museum for another one. I hate to continue my journey into English-majordom, but bear with me for one last thought:
The House of Terror is a truth in itself. Rather than channeling this truth to visitors, the House of Terror Museum smothers it in generic, almost kitchy representations of truth. Their aim is admirable and their goal important, but the execution fails in so many ways.
This past Sunday, and the Sunday before, I went to the House of Terror and Holocaust Memorial museums, respectively. The House of Terror is stronger in my mind, so I'll start with that one.
Hungary has a unique opportunity, and therefore responsibility, to tell the story of genocide and Stalinism. It's in the same way Washington DC has a unique responsibility in memorializing the slave trade, or Georgia has in the horrors of Andersonville. The markers are there; they don't have to be photocopied or videotaped or digitized. It is in the failure to recognize this that the House of Terror fails at its basic task: to foster education about and analysis of decades of repression and institutionalized murder.
This failure begins even before you go into the museum. I took this photo from right across the street, on the other side of Andrassy.
Classy, right? You can't see it from the picture, but the place looks like it was painted yesterday, grey, of course, for that authentic Soviet feel. And just in case you were wondering if this is a Serious Place where Bad Things happened, there's the 'TERROR' stencil on the roof, designed so that the word appears on the building and/or the sidewalk when the sun is overhead. In addition to all this, there are miniature pictures, presumably of victims, lining the outside of the building on the side. It's like the designers are trying to capitalize on the haunted house feel of the place, turning it into a sideshow at an amusement park instead of letting the place speak for itself. It doesn't need to 'feel' authentic and scary, it IS authentic and horrifying. Dressing it up makes you feel like you're walking past an advertisement for a new horror movie. Maybe it makes you shudder a bit, but you can always remind yourself it's just a movie and move on with your life.The inside is just as bad. While checking your coat, the first item you encounter is a short video played on a loop. An old man is talking about casualties, and how few survived, and forgiveness. Don't get me wrong, it's an extremely moving video. Watching him try to come to grips with what unanswerable question, the expression on his face is beyond my power to describe. I suspect it will stay with me for a very long time. But there's no attempt to explain even which period of time he's talking about, the Holocaust or the Soviet occupation. To the museum designers, it seems that death is death and one tragedy is as depressing and bloody as another. The next thing you see after the lobby is a giant replica of a Soviet tank resting on a black marble platform. Around this tank, walls stretching to the roof are covered with photos of victims. Which victims, or rather, whose, is again unspecified. One victim is as poignant as another. It should also be noted that next to the fake Soviet tank sit the cafe and gift shop/bookstore, because what's a horror movie without popcorn?
Any victim of oppression will tell you that silence speaks louder than screams, but the museum refuses to allow its visitors this simple, powerful tool. Every room is covered in TV screens looping through contextless, cathartic and/or shocking videos. The first room contained no less than 8 TV screens, four for each tragedy, a projection on the wall, and background music that would not be out of place before a breaking newscast. The path through the museum is vaguely chronological, though it's difficult to tell exactly what's going on in each room and some rooms present themes common to both eras. Few of the rooms focuses on a theme or time related to the original purpose of the room. The stories of what happened in those rooms are stories only the building itself can tell. Instead, they're silenced in favor of garish projections, bizarre interpretive art, and thumping music. One of the rooms about the Soviet occupation was transformed into a maze with wax (or possibly plastic) brick walls, and I still have no idea why. Those rooms that are preserved as monuments to their original purposes, like the office of the head of the Soviet Police, are cordoned off like the bedrooms at Versailles. It almost felt like I was supposed to be admiring the furniture instead of trying to understand what monstrosities happened at that old wooden desk. The only thing I could get close to was the flat screen TV on the wall. Go figure.
In all fairness, parts of the museum keep their hold on reality and, thus, their power. One room contains eight original uniforms bearing swastikas and arrow-crosses (the symbol of the Hungarian fascists). Being able to see and touch those uniforms is a gut-wrenching experience. They just hang there, staring mercilessly at the visitor and refusing to be unreal. By contrast, the room containing a rotating column with a Soviet uniform on one side and a Nazi uniform on the other inspires next to nothing, except maybe dizziness. The best-done part of the museum is also the least-done: the reconstructed prison in the basement. After an annoyingly 'Tower of Terror'-like elevator ride (it's scary because it moves veeeerrryyy slooooowwwwllyy), you emerge in the bare, freezing, cement hell where so many prisoners spent their last days. It's like being at the end of the world. There is nothing in those cells but hopelessness, and maybe a dilapidated wooden box meant to serve as a bed. One of them could not have been more than 2 feet square and 6 feet tall. Another was several yards deep, maybe 3 feet tall, and black as hell. In each cell, I had to force myself to step past the bars; part of me was scared that someone would come and close the door and I'd be trapped. The closest I've ever come to that feeling was going to Gettysburg when I was six, and being convinced that the battle was about to start again and my parents and I would get shot. The sheer nothingness of that basement was what made it real, and made it hurt. No television, no 'symbolic' art, just cold cement and rotting wood. That basement told its story, and told it well.
Another worthwhile part of the museum is the ever-controversial Wall of Victimizers, which contains names and photos of known Arrow-Cross and Soviet bureaucrats and thugs. I think this wall is one of the most important, and unique parts of the museum. Usually, the story of the Holocaust is told as 'People were murdered' rather than 'People murdered.' The distinction is an important one. The Holocaust and the Soviet occupation did not 'happen;' rational, thinking people created and executed the Holocaust and the Soviet occupation. Focusing solely on the victims removes responsibility from their torturers and allows people to look away from their own potential for evil. The Wall of Victimizers is an important reminder that while the victims may have been Just Like Us, so were the perpetrators.
This post is way longer than I meant it to be, so I'll leave the Holocaust Museum for another one. I hate to continue my journey into English-majordom, but bear with me for one last thought:
The House of Terror is a truth in itself. Rather than channeling this truth to visitors, the House of Terror Museum smothers it in generic, almost kitchy representations of truth. Their aim is admirable and their goal important, but the execution fails in so many ways.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Decisions Decisions
There are several psets I could be attempting at the moment. Instead, I will be publicly ruminating on a decision I do not have to make for another two weeks. "If you're going to ruminate, do it online," that's what I always say.
Now, faithful and unfaithful readers (I saw the way you were looking at that other blog!), I seek your input on a decision that could affect the course of my entire life! But no pressure. Even though it will most certainly affect whether or not I will return from Budapest with more than 2 hours of sleep behind me. Or ever see the outside of my apartment.
Now that I've written a sufficiently long and sarcastic introduction, to the real question of the post: which four classes should I take? We are in the throes of shopping period, and I have visited a few classes, the basics of which follow. Help me choose!
Differential Geometry, or Hey baby, nice curves!
Pros: Nobody ever died of a broken cardioid. Also, it could actually be useful in real life! Then again, I'm a pure mathematician, so maybe that's a con.
Cons: Besides usefulness? Integration. NOT LIKE THAT, give me some credit here. Though I would definitely stand in a schoolhouse door if it meant blocking unscrupulous calculus teachers from forcing integration on poor, innocent, decent algebraists.
Conjecture and Proof, or That's not my problem! Oh, I guess it is.
Pros: There are none.
Cons: I'm saving this part for a post where I get paid by the word.
Topology, or Wouldn't this be cool in 13 dimensions?
Pros: "I put my homework in a Klein bottle" is a valid excuse. Also, the (male) prof has a ponytail.
Cons: Wellesley actually teems with topologists (let me tell you, there's nothing like watching topologists teem). I could probably save myself (okay, my parents) considerable sums of money by standing in the math hallway and shouting a topology question, whereupon I'd be given a series of lectures and discussions by Chang, Volic, and Munson without ever paying for the class.
Commutative Algebra, or Waiting in a field for the ideal man with a ring
Pros: Cementing my position as the algebra half of the Tanen Clark-Rebecca Graber math machine, getting to play with groups again.
Cons: Remember all the crazy confusing stuff we learned in the last two weeks or so of abstract algebra and intro analysis? If you do, please lend me your brain, because that was basically the first day of commutative.
Topics in Geometry, or Don't be a square, man!
Pros: More groups!
Cons: I can't draw straight lines.
Quantum Cryptography and Information, or Poor Eve has no chance with Bob now
Pros: Sending top-secret ballroom gossip!
Cons: Ask the prof about the cons of the subject, since he seems to find it pretty boring.
Mathematical Problem Solving, or Brainteasers with attitude
Pros: The professor is a pretty mean ocarina player.
Cons: The entire grade is 2 tests and a final. If you've ever seen me 24 hours before a test or a final, you know why this is not good.
Your responses will be thoroughly considered and cataloged, and may or may not be ignored in favor of classes that allow serious afternoon napping.
Now, faithful and unfaithful readers (I saw the way you were looking at that other blog!), I seek your input on a decision that could affect the course of my entire life! But no pressure. Even though it will most certainly affect whether or not I will return from Budapest with more than 2 hours of sleep behind me. Or ever see the outside of my apartment.
Now that I've written a sufficiently long and sarcastic introduction, to the real question of the post: which four classes should I take? We are in the throes of shopping period, and I have visited a few classes, the basics of which follow. Help me choose!
Differential Geometry, or Hey baby, nice curves!
Pros: Nobody ever died of a broken cardioid. Also, it could actually be useful in real life! Then again, I'm a pure mathematician, so maybe that's a con.
Cons: Besides usefulness? Integration. NOT LIKE THAT, give me some credit here. Though I would definitely stand in a schoolhouse door if it meant blocking unscrupulous calculus teachers from forcing integration on poor, innocent, decent algebraists.
Conjecture and Proof, or That's not my problem! Oh, I guess it is.
Pros: There are none.
Cons: I'm saving this part for a post where I get paid by the word.
Topology, or Wouldn't this be cool in 13 dimensions?
Pros: "I put my homework in a Klein bottle" is a valid excuse. Also, the (male) prof has a ponytail.
Cons: Wellesley actually teems with topologists (let me tell you, there's nothing like watching topologists teem). I could probably save myself (okay, my parents) considerable sums of money by standing in the math hallway and shouting a topology question, whereupon I'd be given a series of lectures and discussions by Chang, Volic, and Munson without ever paying for the class.
Commutative Algebra, or Waiting in a field for the ideal man with a ring
Pros: Cementing my position as the algebra half of the Tanen Clark-Rebecca Graber math machine, getting to play with groups again.
Cons: Remember all the crazy confusing stuff we learned in the last two weeks or so of abstract algebra and intro analysis? If you do, please lend me your brain, because that was basically the first day of commutative.
Topics in Geometry, or Don't be a square, man!
Pros: More groups!
Cons: I can't draw straight lines.
Quantum Cryptography and Information, or Poor Eve has no chance with Bob now
Pros: Sending top-secret ballroom gossip!
Cons: Ask the prof about the cons of the subject, since he seems to find it pretty boring.
Mathematical Problem Solving, or Brainteasers with attitude
Pros: The professor is a pretty mean ocarina player.
Cons: The entire grade is 2 tests and a final. If you've ever seen me 24 hours before a test or a final, you know why this is not good.
Your responses will be thoroughly considered and cataloged, and may or may not be ignored in favor of classes that allow serious afternoon napping.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Of Math and Pasta
God people here are smart. Stephanie insists that they only talk smart; I cannot help but feel being able to talk smart about multiplicative vs. additive number theory belies some semblance of the real thing. Seriously, this was an actual debate in my apartment last night. Granted, it was assisted by massive quantities of wine and beer, but I'm not sure if that makes it more or less impressive. Stephanie and I had a few guests over, and they spent a good part of the evening debating whether one should study multiplicative or additive number theory first. They were debating with an intensity that would put health-care followers to shame. Except, they actually knew what they were talking about! WTF? Since when do debates involve any actual knowledge? What about the pictures of dead...um...addition signs? The cleverly worded statistics about the number of annual deaths from prime factorization? Where were the catchy slogans? Given my penchant for poetry (oooh, alliteration) and my complete cluelessness, I would have been awesome with the last:
"God Hates Factors!"
"Plus, minus, minus, plus! Additive's the thing for us!"
"Additive number theory? That's a lie! It won't tell you if p divides xy!"
For the record, I did not actually have anything to drink (except Diet Coke, naturalment). I'm not sure if I should be admitting that.
Speaking of clumsy transitions, the world needs to know (YES IT DOES OK THIS IS MY BLOG SO THERE) that I have successfully made pasta salad. In itself, this is not impressive, and rather like boasting that I successfully went to the grocery store. Actually, given my issues with doors and directions (and shopping, and food,...), the latter is actually a pretty big deal. Wow, now that I think about it, I should have taken the rest of the day off after that. But I digress. I'm good at that.
The reason my pasta salad deserves such a broadcast has to do with the resulting circumstances:
1. Our kitchen, and all accouterments, is still intact. For the record, I am probably not using 'accouterments' correctly, but I am far too good a poet to care about such trifles. I would never pass up the opportunity to use a word that used to mean "the act of accoutering." I don't know what accoutering is, but I can tell I'd be a BAMF at it.
2. Only one of my fingertips is burned. Now only 9 more salads and my inability to open doors stand between me and a successful life of crime.
3. Neither Stephanie nor I have (has? discuss.) succumbed to food poisoning in the last half hour.
4. No one has thought to use my salad as building material.
I'll just be cooling my heals until the applause dies down. No idea how I burned those.
"God Hates Factors!"
"Plus, minus, minus, plus! Additive's the thing for us!"
"Additive number theory? That's a lie! It won't tell you if p divides xy!"
For the record, I did not actually have anything to drink (except Diet Coke, naturalment). I'm not sure if I should be admitting that.
Speaking of clumsy transitions, the world needs to know (YES IT DOES OK THIS IS MY BLOG SO THERE) that I have successfully made pasta salad. In itself, this is not impressive, and rather like boasting that I successfully went to the grocery store. Actually, given my issues with doors and directions (and shopping, and food,...), the latter is actually a pretty big deal. Wow, now that I think about it, I should have taken the rest of the day off after that. But I digress. I'm good at that.
The reason my pasta salad deserves such a broadcast has to do with the resulting circumstances:
1. Our kitchen, and all accouterments, is still intact. For the record, I am probably not using 'accouterments' correctly, but I am far too good a poet to care about such trifles. I would never pass up the opportunity to use a word that used to mean "the act of accoutering." I don't know what accoutering is, but I can tell I'd be a BAMF at it.
2. Only one of my fingertips is burned. Now only 9 more salads and my inability to open doors stand between me and a successful life of crime.
3. Neither Stephanie nor I have (has? discuss.) succumbed to food poisoning in the last half hour.
4. No one has thought to use my salad as building material.
I'll just be cooling my heals until the applause dies down. No idea how I burned those.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Confused? Have a Sausage
A quick refresher of the key themes of Beccaology 101 follows.
Theme the First: Becca cannot open doors
Those of you who think I am exaggerating have clearly never joined me in a trip to the Lulu or the lockers at MIT. Doors baffle me. Indeed, some of my friends, lets call them Jazinda and Jefff, will actually wait for me to go through a door, certain of a good five minutes of entertainment as I try, and fail, to assert my dominance over an inanimate object. Fortunately, Jazinda and Jefff are dear friends of mine, so I only occasionally dream of removing their eyebrows as they sleep. On a casual note, I know where both of you live. Anyhow, my day began most auspiciously (CAP FTW!) as I stood outside my apartment for about 10 minutes in the snow attempting to lock my door. In my defense, my reasonably sane, dexterous roommate has trouble with this door; I stood no chance. After a show of womanly brute force and several choice words, I managed to lock up and was able to go about screwing up the rest of my day.
Theme the Second: Becca cannot navigate
When I first arrived in Budapest, Stephanie, the aforementioned roommate, told me it was impossible to get lost in the city. A big kiss to the first person to guess what happens next. Answer: I get lost (I win! *Hershey Kiss NOM*). Now that you know the ending, I don't really need to tell you the rest of my epic journey to Tesco (Hungarian for Walmart), except to say that, as of writing this, I still have not been. Also except to say that, for the most part, the city layout is pretty sane: grid layout, with good signage (Bostonians: I KNOW RIGHT! WTF?!). However, at some point L'Enfant came over and cried "Circles! I need more circles!" Next thing you know there are a bunch of inescapable loops, 2.34-way intersections, and nonsensical triangles smashed on top of this nice, orderly grid. And somewhere in there, there is a Tesco.
Theme the Third: Becca has not had healthy food since 2006
Enough about me, let's talk about me at the Mangalitsa Festival, also called the Pig Festival. Yes, Hungarians are awesome and have an entire weekend festival devoted, essentially, to sausages. Why do we not have this in the states? Actually, I guess we do have a pig festival, we just call it the Fox News Company Christmas Party (SNAP!). Anyhow (notice how I always use this when I'm trying to come back from a tangent?), Pigmania! was wonderful, especially when I procured something vaguely resembling white pizza with sausage (of course), a dish I was told (by a most trustworthy sign) was made by "our Hungarian grandmothers," in a time when "low-fat" was a serious medical condition requiring bleeding (this parenthetical aside serves no purpose). The name of the dish escapes me, so we'll call it Heavenly Heart Attack. Seriously, do you remember the old elementary school cafeteria pizza, the greasy Destroyer of Napkins? That stuff had nothing on HHA. My napkin leapt to its slushy, grimy death before I could get it close to my HHA. I had no choice but to carry on without this absorptive aid, subjecting my arteries to murder most FABULOUS. So good! This pig should get an entire month devoted to its slaughter and consumption! Only a will of iron (the stalls were incredibly crowded and my feet were tired) kept me from purchasing an entire marzipan or pastry stall to round out my HHA (round...see what I did there?). I made do with a single hazelnut chocolate and some roasted chestnuts.
It's okay, Mom, you can open your eyes now.
Other highlights of Mangalitsa include many nifty craft stalls, a woman reading what was clearly exciting Hungarian children's poetry (or possibly instructing them all to drink blood and go kill the tourists, not that I would know), and a statue of Anonymus. For the record, this was not any old unknown writer, this was the original Anonymus, unnamed chronicler of something important in Hungarian history that didn't involve Russians. People rub his quill for improved writing, or maybe a chance in the Witness Protection Program. Maybe now my proofs will be legible! Nah.
Lesson the Final: Becca never has appropriate footwear
I am reasonably certain I had feet when I left my apartment this morning...
I was going to give a test, but I left the copies on the other side of a locked door somewhere across town and I'm far too full to move.
Theme the First: Becca cannot open doors
Those of you who think I am exaggerating have clearly never joined me in a trip to the Lulu or the lockers at MIT. Doors baffle me. Indeed, some of my friends, lets call them Jazinda and Jefff, will actually wait for me to go through a door, certain of a good five minutes of entertainment as I try, and fail, to assert my dominance over an inanimate object. Fortunately, Jazinda and Jefff are dear friends of mine, so I only occasionally dream of removing their eyebrows as they sleep. On a casual note, I know where both of you live. Anyhow, my day began most auspiciously (CAP FTW!) as I stood outside my apartment for about 10 minutes in the snow attempting to lock my door. In my defense, my reasonably sane, dexterous roommate has trouble with this door; I stood no chance. After a show of womanly brute force and several choice words, I managed to lock up and was able to go about screwing up the rest of my day.
Theme the Second: Becca cannot navigate
When I first arrived in Budapest, Stephanie, the aforementioned roommate, told me it was impossible to get lost in the city. A big kiss to the first person to guess what happens next. Answer: I get lost (I win! *Hershey Kiss NOM*). Now that you know the ending, I don't really need to tell you the rest of my epic journey to Tesco (Hungarian for Walmart), except to say that, as of writing this, I still have not been. Also except to say that, for the most part, the city layout is pretty sane: grid layout, with good signage (Bostonians: I KNOW RIGHT! WTF?!). However, at some point L'Enfant came over and cried "Circles! I need more circles!" Next thing you know there are a bunch of inescapable loops, 2.34-way intersections, and nonsensical triangles smashed on top of this nice, orderly grid. And somewhere in there, there is a Tesco.
Theme the Third: Becca has not had healthy food since 2006
Enough about me, let's talk about me at the Mangalitsa Festival, also called the Pig Festival. Yes, Hungarians are awesome and have an entire weekend festival devoted, essentially, to sausages. Why do we not have this in the states? Actually, I guess we do have a pig festival, we just call it the Fox News Company Christmas Party (SNAP!). Anyhow (notice how I always use this when I'm trying to come back from a tangent?), Pigmania! was wonderful, especially when I procured something vaguely resembling white pizza with sausage (of course), a dish I was told (by a most trustworthy sign) was made by "our Hungarian grandmothers," in a time when "low-fat" was a serious medical condition requiring bleeding (this parenthetical aside serves no purpose). The name of the dish escapes me, so we'll call it Heavenly Heart Attack. Seriously, do you remember the old elementary school cafeteria pizza, the greasy Destroyer of Napkins? That stuff had nothing on HHA. My napkin leapt to its slushy, grimy death before I could get it close to my HHA. I had no choice but to carry on without this absorptive aid, subjecting my arteries to murder most FABULOUS. So good! This pig should get an entire month devoted to its slaughter and consumption! Only a will of iron (the stalls were incredibly crowded and my feet were tired) kept me from purchasing an entire marzipan or pastry stall to round out my HHA (round...see what I did there?). I made do with a single hazelnut chocolate and some roasted chestnuts.
It's okay, Mom, you can open your eyes now.
Other highlights of Mangalitsa include many nifty craft stalls, a woman reading what was clearly exciting Hungarian children's poetry (or possibly instructing them all to drink blood and go kill the tourists, not that I would know), and a statue of Anonymus. For the record, this was not any old unknown writer, this was the original Anonymus, unnamed chronicler of something important in Hungarian history that didn't involve Russians. People rub his quill for improved writing, or maybe a chance in the Witness Protection Program. Maybe now my proofs will be legible! Nah.
Lesson the Final: Becca never has appropriate footwear
I am reasonably certain I had feet when I left my apartment this morning...
I was going to give a test, but I left the copies on the other side of a locked door somewhere across town and I'm far too full to move.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
Change for a zillion?
I'm American, so let's talk money. Or rather, let's talk currency, which is like talking money, but with more expensive booze. Hungarians use the Forint (pronounced 'FOR rent', as in, "This flat is FOR rent for only 6.02 * 1023 Forint!"). Now, in the US, where money is normal, most people use bills in denominations like $1, $20, $50, $100, or maybe $1000 if you're wearing 5 gold chains and delivering a special package from "Birdie." Forint bills come in denominations of 1000, 5000, 10000, 1090 and 1000000weranoutofrooomformorezeroesbutyougettheidea. Moreover, 1 Forint is worth about $.004, LESS THAN HALF A DAMN PENNY. That's like, enough to buy a fingernail (off-brand). For a jetlagged American like me, this makes it incredibly easy to overpay (you may insert your math major joke....now).
Case in point:
My first lunch in Budapest came to 1350 Forint. Seasoned traveler that my sister is, I had plenty of Hungarian cash on me as I went to the counter. I handed over what I thought was 1500 Ft (Forint, not feet, though the latter would have made a much more interesting story). The cashier, who spoke English better than I do, took a look at the bills and then kindly informed me that I was the biggest idiot on earth. Refocusing my sleep-deprived gaze, I realized that I had given him 6000 Ft (the cost of an entire grocery store here). Feeling sheepish (baaa....), I returned with what I thought was 2000 Ft. The cashier took a look at the bills and then kindly told me that he was mistaken earlier, and that I was actually the biggest idiot in the entire galaxy. Once again, those pesky zeroes had gotten the better of me, and I had given the cashier 11000 Ft. I could have bought the entire city for that! Ok, that's an exaggeration, I'd probably have to pay an extra 1000 Ft. (the cost of an American amoeba) for some of the nicer sidewalks. Fortunately, the cashier was a decent guy and helped me navigate my way into the correct amount, even helping me, a junior 4.0 math student, count my change. I should have lied and said I was a visiting art major, damn it.
At the end of the day, prices here are pretty damn good, so what's a few million Ft. here or there? After an epic grocery shopping trip (do you know how to say 'pasta' in Hungarian? Neither do I), I still had over 20,000 Ft. in my wallet. That's enough to buy about five Hungarian hotels (the nice ones), or one American bottle of shampoo (travel size).
Case in point:
My first lunch in Budapest came to 1350 Forint. Seasoned traveler that my sister is, I had plenty of Hungarian cash on me as I went to the counter. I handed over what I thought was 1500 Ft (Forint, not feet, though the latter would have made a much more interesting story). The cashier, who spoke English better than I do, took a look at the bills and then kindly informed me that I was the biggest idiot on earth. Refocusing my sleep-deprived gaze, I realized that I had given him 6000 Ft (the cost of an entire grocery store here). Feeling sheepish (baaa....), I returned with what I thought was 2000 Ft. The cashier took a look at the bills and then kindly told me that he was mistaken earlier, and that I was actually the biggest idiot in the entire galaxy. Once again, those pesky zeroes had gotten the better of me, and I had given the cashier 11000 Ft. I could have bought the entire city for that! Ok, that's an exaggeration, I'd probably have to pay an extra 1000 Ft. (the cost of an American amoeba) for some of the nicer sidewalks. Fortunately, the cashier was a decent guy and helped me navigate my way into the correct amount, even helping me, a junior 4.0 math student, count my change. I should have lied and said I was a visiting art major, damn it.
At the end of the day, prices here are pretty damn good, so what's a few million Ft. here or there? After an epic grocery shopping trip (do you know how to say 'pasta' in Hungarian? Neither do I), I still had over 20,000 Ft. in my wallet. That's enough to buy about five Hungarian hotels (the nice ones), or one American bottle of shampoo (travel size).
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