Hungarian Fashion is not an Oxymoron

I see myself as a bit of a fashion prophet (ill-fitting jeans and guy's tshirts are TOTALLY GOING TO HAPPEN), so I consider myself fully justified in criticizing the fashion decisions of my local Hungarians.

Let's start at the top, shall we? Once upon a time (da dun..dun..dun), in a far off kingdom...

Oops. Wrong top. Friggin' homonyms. Anyhowdydo, I meant at starting at the physical top, as in, hair. For young Hungarian men, there is only one style, one religion, and that is the faux-hawk. Yes, the same frightening hairstyle so proudly sported by the preteen dreamboys in American middle schools (that, and the half-pipe. I'm not sure I will ever understand that). For those of you unacquainted with the glorious faux-hawk, it is similar to mohawk, except done with gel instead of scissors. Yes, people take absolutely normal, possibly attractive hair and FORCE it into an imitation of bored-middle-class-Hot-Topic-chic. When I saw this on an 8-year-old boy, I very nearly made a citizen's arrest of his mother for child abuse, my enthusiasm contained only by the fact that I was not, in fact, a citizen, and an exchange student's arrest has all the power of the 'Quiet Please' sign outside Szimpla. For the record, if you go to Szimpla on weeknights, that's your deal but please SHUT THE HELL UP YOU ARE RIGHT OUTSIDE MY WINDOW AND I NEED TO SLEEP, DAMN IT.

For the women, the coif of choice is that fashionable import from gay Paris: Freakin BRIGHT Red. Every lass (AIWATNF) from 9 to 90 has her hair dyed, in varying degrees, to match a tomato, a burning carrot, or that spot on my leg that I get when I try to go to the bathroom without turning on the light and oh my god who put that chair there?! Somewhere around 50 or 60, Hungarian women wise up to the fact that they are not getting any younger and that maybe their appearance should reflect a more mature outlook and go get their hair dyed an EVEN BRIGHTER red, because blinded passerbys can't see wrinkles.

Moving on down, I have nothing particularly enlightening (YES EVERYTHING ELSE WAS OKAY) to say about Hungarian shirts, except that I have to stifle a giggle every time I see this one guy at dance wearing a shirt with "American Joint Distribution Committee" on the back because, as we have covered before, I am actually 5 years old. That, and I whole-heartedly approve of the sparkles. Continue sparkling, Hungarian shirts!

Now we come to the pièce de résistance, or rather, pants de résistance, or rather, lack-of-pants de résistance. My fellow citizens of the Earth, be you American, Hungarian, or Inuit (love the fur, btw!), I stand before you a desperate woman, a single plea on my cracked lips: LEGGINGS ARE NOT PANTS. Until we as a people acknowledge this simple fact, there will never be peace on this planet. I beg you. In particular, I beg the girl I saw at Morrisson's on Friday night wearing LEOPARD PRINT LEGGINGS as the sole boundary between her thighs and the afflicted eyes of the world. What? You want me to snark on this? How can I go any further except to say that these were LEGGINGS with LEOPARD PRINT on them? How have we as a species let this happen? Is it ignorance? I pray so, because if it is, I may have the solution. If you feel at all uneasy with the differences between mere leg coverings and pants, you have come to the right place. A Broad, Abroad (AIWATNF) proudly, if somehwat desperately , presents How To Tell If You Are Wearing Pants:
I hope this clears things up. Some folks might say I have overlooked these mythical creatures called "skirts," to which I say, "Sorry, no fantasy."

Finally, in the interest of full disclosure, I should let you know that I wrote the first part of this entry while wearing a black men's t-shirt, tan capris, and bright striped knee-high socks, and the second part in black men's jeans and a t-shirt worn over a 7- or 8-year old bra that has been held together with duct tape for the past 4 or 5. Look for these in Milan next Fall.

And more!

More new quotables. Thank god for Matolcsi. Possibly more later today if I can find my MPS notes...

One of Those Annoying Lists

Wow...I seem to blog continuously when I have tests for which I really should be studying. Wait...'continuously!' This IS related to math! Continuity of functions! And this blog is clearly functional...except for the fact that my screen keeps blinking and the internet freezes about every 20 minutes and I still can't get the html code clean and...

Whatever. Now that I've established this as a useful studying procedure, I'll continue my good-student streak with one of those memes that goes around the internet every so often and is probably already part of a Facebook group somewhere.

BSMers...
...both love and hate the number 0
...can turn any adjective into a noun by adding "-ness" ("Hausdorffness" is my particular favorite)
...cannot add, subtract, divide, or multiply
...crack geometry sex jokes
...may go 24 hours without seeing a(nother) female
...have eaten their weight in somlói galuska at least once
...from any point in the city, know at least 5 gyros places and 6 bars within a 3-block radius
...pronounce 'Tesco' with the Hungarian 's,' even though it's an English corporation (looking at you, Andrew)
...know the difference between x, |x}, {x}, (x), etc.
...insert 'nem,' 'igen,' and 'tudom' into otherwise strictly-English conversations
...have stopped flinching at faux-hawks and mullets
...know that MAP makes you feel even more lost, NUT can crack you, and FUN isn't
...know the alcohol-sale laws of every zone in the city
...have attempted to pick someone up or have had someone try to pick them up without any language in common
...know at least 3 different ways to prove there are infinitely many primes.
...know something like ten completely different definitions of 'normal.'
...will walk/bus halfway across the city to hit a new club, but often don't have the energy for the 10/20 minute trip to school
...think 1000 ft (~$5) for a bottle of wine is exorbitant
...know that math is not funny
...can pronounce 'RFM'
...are fans of Túró Rudi, on Facebook and in life
...always know where Pam and Brittany are going on Friday/Saturday
...have forgotten the taste of American ketchup
...celebrate finishing a test by doing shots. Possibly in the Student Coordinator's office.

...need to stop blogging and go study for this damn MPS test and figure out how the hell we know when to take mod 6, or find the center of dilation, or if Sandor would cease to be without his mustache.

Feel free to add!

[SZ Pun Here]

First things first, you can save yourself a few hours and get the general idea of this entry here. Photos and snarkasm abound!:
http://picasaweb.google.com/rs.wtfvq/Szeged02?feat=directlink.

Spring has most definitely sprung; BSMers have come out of hi-bar-nation and can be spotted scampering about Hungary and the surrounding countries like so many somewhat intoxicated bunnies, except bunnies presumably don't take so many photos. This past weekend, several of my leporine compatriots and I took to Szeged (pronounced 'seh-,' as in "How about those Canadians,eh?" -ged, as in "Damb, dis is de worst tibe to ged a cold").

Ostensibly, we were in Szeged for a lecture, much the same way I am ostensibly in Budapest to learn math and not to go dancing two/three times a week and perform cooking experiments (did I mention that chicken is a bitch?). The lecture was on szphere-packing, for example, the optimal way to stack oranges in a crate. I cannot help but feel the lecture was incomplete, as it lacked a discussion of the mathematics of that one customer who INSISTS on searching through the entire crate to take a szpecial orange from the bottom, thus knocking over the entire arrangement plus a few apples on the side before deciding that s/he really doesn't want oranges this time and proceeding to terrorize the pasta. Further reszearch is required.

After the lecture, we hit the town for dinner at Chez OMIGODSOGOOD. Now, for all I know, Chez OMGSG may have been a fast food place, but the velocity of the game seemed to have little effect on that of the waiters. We waited (isn't that the waiter's job? discuss) for over an hour before food appeared, leading some of us to wonder if the food had indeed been fast and the chef had spent the first half hour or so trying to catch it (this is why I never order rabbit). Such a lengthy period of caloric barrenness would have been inexcusable were it not for the fact that, a. there were two huge groups of American tourists there that night and b. did I mention the food was REALLY GOOD? I never thought of paprikas as maritime creatures, but three roasted paprikas swimming in oil and vinegar were possibly the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. Granted, I didn't observe their swimming prowess for too long.

The meal to end all meals was also pretty much the end of my first day in Szeged. Others hit the bars afterward, but once again genetics intervened in my social life and I found myself reading in bed at 10, and asleep by 11. For the record, I just checked my driver's license, and it *says* I'm 20 and not 60, but I'm beginning to doubt it myself. Day Two began for me at 7:30 am, which apparently is considered early for some people? No one else was up, so I took a quick walk around our hostel to snap some photos. Well, "around." It was more of a line segment then a circle. In my defense, when you've spent the past 20 (60?) years incapable of finding your way out of a paper bag (no idea how I ended up in all those bags to begin with), you become wary of possible confusion-inducing actions, like left turns. Much as I like to travel, I didn't really want my morning stroll to end up in Serbia.

After my initial walk, mercifully lacking in accidental encounters with foreign nations, I went out again with Texas Sam, Fellow Tapper Brittany, and Lucas I Want His Hair (But Would Look Really Silly With It). Our first-ish stop was the flea market (we had wanted to go to services, but the synagogue was closed. For the record, that was, surprisingly, NOT my idea). Lucas very nearly succumbed to the siren call of a sword, just so he could walk around Pest with it. Admittedly, that would have been awesome, but we persuaded him that dealing with customs might be more trouble that it's worth. I myself nearly succumbed to the siren call of, well, nearly everything, but was saved by the knowledge that if I tried to buy something, I would have to ask what it cost and we all know my feelings about communication with actual Hungarians. I didn't want to end up paying 50,000 ft. for a gently-used water buffalo. When I need buffalo, I go retail. We next went to the Móra Museum. The Museum is named for Ferenc "Too Much Free Time" Móra, and would have been called "The Szeged Museum of Kind of Random But Still Pretty Interesting Stuff," but it didn't fit on the brochures. Seriously, the museum comprises* a painting exhibit, natural history exhibit (learned to appreciate endangered animals by looking at their stuffed bodies!), photography, pharmaceutical history, history of platypi (just kidding. I wish), etc. Putting aside the snark for a minute, I will say that if you ever have a chance to check out Robert Capa's photos, you should do so. He managed to capture some really powerful and emblematic moments of the 20th century.

Our next stop was supposed to be the Pick Salami and Paprika Museum (did I mention that Hungarians are awesome?). We met up with AndyAndMike (it's really more convenient to list them as one person and you lose no generality), consulted Sam's guidebook, and determined that the museum opened at one. Unfortunately, the museum itself had not consulted Sam's guidebook, and thought that it did not need to open until three. Since we could not convince the building of its error (bricks NEVER listen), we opted for an extended walk across the Tisza instead. We walked down Liszt Ferenc sétány... perhaps my sister can help me out with a clever remark here, as I know absolutely nothing about Liszt (because I ONLY crack jokes about things I understand. Definitely). The walk was not particularly remarkable, but I am remarking on it anyway because I don't want to do my MPS homework. It was very lovely outside, and, after 4 straight days of rain in Pest, it was a relief to be able to go out without fear of drowning and/or melting ("I haven't been the same since that house fell on my sister"). The grounds were covered in flowers, another stark contrast to Pest, which seems to only grow cigarette butts and dog residue.

At 3 pm sharp (why do we say 3 pm sharp, but 3 dollars flat?), we returned to the Pick Museum and, get this, were allowed in (what about natural? or minor? "Meet me at 3 pm harmonic" has a nice ring to it...). At this point, Brittany and Lucas split, apparently having more important things to do than look at salami (I know, right?! I can't imagine it either). Their loss, because the Pick Museum was about as close to heaven as one can get for 400 ft. For starters, with admission, we got a packet of paprika powder, half a salami sandwich, and a postcard with paid postage (no, the paprika was not for the postcard. I made the same mistake). Moreover, it was a museum. About salami and paprika**. Szeged, I love you.

At this point, Sam, AndyAndMike and I were suffering from tourist feet (walkingious ashittonium), so we started back for the hostel (most of the other BSMers had returned to Budapest). However, our lengthy journey (1.5ish miles? whatever, it felt long) was interrupted by a folk dance performance in the square. Me being me **, I somehow forgot the fact that my feet were borderline homicidal and sprinted across the street (I'm from DC! I haven't waited at a crosswalk since I was 10) to get a better view. I am most happy I did so, because catching the last 20 minutes of the performance pretty much made my weekend. It was like step-team crossed with tap crossed contra crossed with funny hats ... essentially, a tensor product (oy) of all of my favorite things. I'm pretty sure I was grinning like an idiot for the next hour. Which was fine, since I've appeared an idiot for far lesser things, though it meant my jaw joined my feet in their murderous conspiracy.

Back at the hostel, I was forced off my Cloud 9 and into the Fog of Confusion as I attempted to, against my better judgment, communicate with an actual Hungarian. Mike and I had originally only signed in for one night, so we had to somehow express our desire to stay for a second, ideally with Sam and Andy. If you recall, my Hungarian is pretty much limited to counting to 8, apologizing, and handwaving. "I would like to stay an extra night in room 106" was not really part of my linguistic arsenal, as I have never encountered a dance step of that name (someone needs to get on that, by the way). The four of us spent about 20 minutes creating essentially random combinations of words like szoba (room), éjszaka (night), száz hat (106), etc. in the hopes that one of those combinations would somehow communicate our desire. In the end, Sam pretty much came to the rescue, being the only one of us able to actually construct a complete sentence (verbs? what are these things?). On the plus side, I can now count up to 8 and say 106! Who could ask for anything more?

Okay, I swear I am sort of almost done (hey, at least it's a promise I can keep). I need one paragraph on drinking, one on an incident Sunday morning, and one reasonably clever conclusion and I can let you go. I wish I could say the following paragraph may not be appropriate for people who happen to be my parents or relatives, but the only reason I would say so would be a desire to prevent my family from knowing how lame I actually am. I cannot drink. I am not prudish, I am not Muslim, I am not (intentionally) a goody-goody, I just can't drink. Believe me, I've tried. After dinner (another wonderful restaurant, what is it about the Szegedian ones?), we defaulted to the common BSM/Shaun of the Dead strategy: "Let's go to the pub!" Actually, we went to a few. At the first, I was content to watch the others drink and see how long I could hold my breath (did I mention smoking indoors is legal? And that everyone and their mother does so?). At the second, however, I was determined to prove that, obnoxious circadian rhythm aside, I am in fact a college student and therefore able to abuse my liver like everyone else. Alas, it was not to be. I ordered the girliest drink ever (AIWATNF), a banana daquiri...and couldn't take more than 2 sips. Seriously. AndyAndMike had to finish it for me. They said it tasted like candy, and they could barely tell it was alcoholic. I was pretty sure I was drinking nail polish remover mixed with vodka. I think I will have to be content with making my stupid decisions sober.

Okay folks, just one more. The next day was for the most part uneventful. We did have one wonderful moment however, when a man came up to us at breakfast asking for 90 ft. He mentioned something about a hospital and Andy, being a decent human being, gave him the 90 ft. Which he then took into the gambling house right across the street. Right in front of us. Andy was displeased, the rest of us were glad of the morning's entertainment. Lesson: Never do nice things. Naturally, having sworn off all future good deeds, we were in the perfect mood to check out the city's main synagogue and church. We kept our mouths shut (okay, not really, but stay with me here), as it didn't seem right to inform the church- and synagogue-goers that the entirety of religion was based off false assumptions about this whole doing good thing. "Torah, work, and acts of random stuff" just doesn't have the same ring to it.

Congratulations to those of you who made it so far. As a reward, I will let you make up the last line of this entry. Go forth and sznark!



*I am trying to become grammatically less fascist, but I still insist that the parts compose the whole, the whole comprises the parts. Is that so hard?

**"The first rule of the Tautology Club is the first rule of the Tautology Club."

BHED: Becca's English-Hungarian Dictionary

The title of this could also refer to 'Ben's Energetic Halfling Daffodil,' but that would be weird.
Having been in Hungary for 2.5 months (!!), I feel completely qualified to give the folks at home a crash course in handy Hungarian words and phrases. That, and I like blog posts in list form because I don't have to bother with transitions. See if you can figure out what I've been doing:

Hello: Szia
Goodbye: Szia
Sorry: Bocsánat
"Whoa, sorry!!!": "Sorry!...er, I mean, bocsi! *panicked/remorseful handwaving*"
"May I have a Diet Coke?": "Coke Light? *point*"
"You're out of Diet Coke?!": "Nem Coke Light?! *angry handwaving*"
Dance: Tánc
Cha cha: Cha cha
Tango: Tango
"Would you like to dance?": "Cha-cha/Tango/etc.? *outstretched hand*"
One-two-three-four: Egy-kettö-három-négy
Five-six-seven-eight: Öt-hat-hét-nyolc
Nine: No idea
Ten: *jazz hands*
Yemenite: Yemeni
Hop: Hop
Right: Jobb
Left: Balra
"Your other right!": *crash*
Sway: Hinta
Step: Lép
Walk: Séta
Behind-side-forward: Hatul-mellett-elöre
Stop: Stop
"STOP!": "Stop!!! *frantic handwaving*"
Yes: Igen
No: Nem
"No, I don't want to hook up with you, please leave me alone": This apparently has no translation
Half: Fél
Cheese: Sajt
Please: Kérem
"I would like half a kilo of cheese, please": *point*
"I don't speak Hungarian" (first try): "Nem beszélek Magyarul"
"I don't speak Hungarian" (second try): "Um...English? *shrug*"

And the most useful of all:
*handwaving*: *hándwaving*

Who needs language class?

Catch 22

This is going to be another unfunny post, so please check back later for your regularly scheduled sarcasm.

Today is Yom Ha'Shoah, the day of Holocaust remembrance. However, this post is not about the Holocaust. At the moment, I have nothing new to say on the subject. This post is about clothing.

In a few hours, I'm going to the Holocaust Memorial Ceremony here in Pest. In the event description, the organizers asked attendees to wear white for remembrance. Currently, I am in borrowed pants and my one nice white blouse. While getting dressed, I debated with myself whether or not I wanted to wear my body shaper underneath my clothes. On the one hand, it's exactly comfortable. On the other hand, for some reason, I have been really hungry all day and have thus been eating a lot, and I didn't want to look/feel bloated. Let me repeat that: I was worried about looking fat at a Holocaust memorial service. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed almost obscene to don the shaper; how can I try to look slimmer when I am remembering millions who starved to death?

At the moment, I'm leaning towards not wearing it, but more because the ribbing sticks out a little funny and my blouse is a little tight rather than for any deep symbolic reasons. But my decisions are far from over. For example, I still don't know if I'm going to put on make up. I have no desire to draw any attention to myself, but I want to show respect. For women especially, showing respect means putting effort into one's appearance. Then again, today is the absolute wrong day to be thinking about how I look and which shade of lip gloss looks better with today's ensemble.

I feel like this is all part of the bigger dilemma, namely, how does a woman dress for a serious occasion? Any occasion, really: memorial, funeral, business meeting, etc. On the one hand, if we look too nice, we're being shallow or trying to flaunt our looks. But if we don't try to look nice, we're not respecting the occasion. When your attitude is judged almost entirely on your appearance, you can't win.


Yit-ga-dal v'yit-ka-dash sh'mei ra-ba,
b'al-ma di-v'ra chi-ru-tei, v'yam-lich mal-chu-tei
b'chai-yei-chon uv'yo-mei-chon
uv'chai-yei d'chol-beit Yis-ra-eil,
ba-a-ga-la u-viz-man ka-riv,
v'im'ru: A-mein.

Y'hei sh'mei ra-ba m'va-rach
l'a-lam ul'al-mei al-ma-ya.

Yit-ba-rach v'yish-ta-bach,
v'yit-pa-ar v'yit-ro-mam v'yit-na-sei,
v'yit-ha-dar v'yit-a-leh v'yit-ha-lal, sh'mei d'ku-d'sha, b'rich hu,
l'ei-la min kol bir-cha-ta v'shi-ra-ta,
tush-b'cha-ta v'ne-che-ma-ta, da-a-mi-ran b'al-ma,
v'im'ru: A-mein.

Y'hei sh'la-ma ra-ba min sh'ma-ya,
v'cha-yim, a-lei-nu v'al kol-Yis-ra-eil,
v'im'ru: A-mein.

O-seh sha-lom bim-ro-mav,
hu ya-a-seh sha-lom a-lei-nu v'al kol-Yis-ra-eil,
v'im'ru: A-mein.

Sigh

New Quotables are up, since I am going to fail my quantum mechanics test anyway. Do *you* know how to convert between mutually unbiased orthonormal bases?

Venice Days 4 and 5: Here There Be Jews

I found them! Granted, once you're in the right area, the Jews of Venice are sort of hard to miss. Tall men in black suits with fringes and big hats kind of stand out in a city of a thousand tourists in Universita di Venezia sweatshirts. The Jewish ghetto in Venice is old as dirt (turns out, dirt is only 800 years old! Makes you wonder what was under people's fingernails before then). I'd say old as Moses, but then we'd get into some unfortunate historical dilemmas that might make the universe unravel and no one wants that, especially because I haven't had dinner yet. Actually, the ghetto has three sections: Old Ghetto, Real Old Ghetto, and Dead Ghetto. Okay, not actually, but I felt the time had come for a Muppets reference. Parenthetically, (how fabulous would it be to have the Jewish quarter named according to old Muppet sketches? It'd be like a live version of that wonderfully ridiculous Passover Sesame Street episode we watched every year in Sunday School. Note to self: write Italian government. Further note to self: learn Italian).

Wow...where was I? Ah yes, where I usually am: Jews. The Jewish ghetto does indeed have three sections, but the names are much less interesting: Gheto Nuovo (New Ghetto), Gheto Vecchio (Old Ghetto), and a third section whose name escapes me, but was referred to as the 'Newest Ghetto' by a guy in my tour group, so we'll go with that. Gheto Nuovo is, naturally enough, older than Gheto Vecchio. On a completely, wholly unrelated note, why are there no great Italian mathematicians? Actually, the names sort of make sense since the foundry at which they established Gheto Vecchio was older than the one at Gheto Nuovo. Nevertheless, I can imagine that the names led to all sorts of hilarious mix-ups back in the day ("Wait, was tonight's sacrifice of Christian babies in the new old ghetto or the old new ghetto?").

Really, it's a good thing that it's impossible to get drunk on Manishewitz (the sugar coma comes first), because otherwise, no Jew would ever be able to find their way home in the ghetto. Backwards naming choices aside, there's also the fact that the synagogues look like run-down apartments from the outside, and Catholic shrines on the inside. 'Fraid I have no photos to share of the latter (not even the toilets, sorry Anthony) since we weren't allowed to take pictures inside the synagogues. But really, would I lie (cue Dick Van Patten in Spaceballs)? Since Jews weren't allowed to be architects back then (or now, but that's only because their parents make them go to law/med school), all of the buildings were designed by local goyim. The architects really did their best, adding in such traditional Jewish features as the Crushed Red Velvet Drapes of Aaron and the symbolic Garish Gold Accents of Abraham. Really, the only symbols they left out were the minor, unimportant like the Magen David (seriously, there was not a single one in any of the synagogues I visited). Even better, each place was decorated with actual Hebrew words! Since presumably the architects didn't speak Hebrew (and, if you recall, neither do I (unless you count the words to random dance songs)), I can't help but wonder if the words were actually just taken randomly from signs the artist saw on his way to work. Nothing like the sacred text "And God Said Cheap Circumcisions Sale on Bagels!" to get you in the mood for prayer.

The bizarre hybrid of Venetian and Jewish culture did yield some good results. Specifically, I am thinking of the gift shops (of course), where one could find such Jewish necessities as Murano glass chess sets, one done as Sephardi vs. Ashkenazi Jews and the other as Jews vs. Catholics. I was really tempted to get one for my father, but he is somewhat ridiculous when it comes to accepting gifts (as in, he won't do it unless all four female members of the nuclear family are glaring at him. No I don't get it either.). There is also a cute old/rare bookshop (between the ONE kosher restaurant and the ONE kosher grocery store in the entire damn city). It should come as a surprise to no one (unless you're new to this blog/me in which case, Hiya! sorry about all the puns) that, after four days of going into countless souvenir shops without getting so much as a postcard, on Friday I came out of the bookshop with 3 used paperbacks. It's a very good thing I did so, because I had checked out of the hostel that morning and was thus lugging my suitcase all over creation (Bereshit bara elohim...), so getting the books gave me an excuse to sit down in the ghetto courtyard and waste some time until my train at 9 pm. Hanging out in the courtyard turned out to be something like the best thing ever, since I got to observe the guys of the Chabad darting across the stone (Jews are very active at this time of year) and, once or twice, leading the tourists groups in spontaneous singing and dancing. Yes, it was fabulous.

My evening was unfortunately not so fabulous as, while on the train, I kept being woken up by masters students at the Academy of Surly Slavic-looking He-men. Really, border control was a model of post-Soviet efficiency; at every border, I was asked for my passport three different times by three different guards for a glance and a grunt, just in case I had sneaked on or changed identities in the five minutes since the previous guard grunted at me. Nevertheless, I once again made it back to Budapest safe, sound, sleepy, and completely unprepared to begin classes again. Sigh. Nothing so hard as saying "ciao" to Spring Break, except perhaps saying "szia" to 2 tests and 4 p-sets.

Venice Day 3: Well, That Didn't Work

The title of this post was originally supposed to be 'Non-native Vegetation,' and the post itself about how Blond Bombshell Meghan and I spent the day lying in the sand with nary a care in the world (excepting, perhaps, skin cancer). Unfortunately, it was not to be. First, there was the boat ride to Lido, which gave the Paris Metro a run (surf?) for its euros. I would call it "standing room only," but that would not do justice to the contorted, bent-legged stand/lean required to fit and remain standing during the ride. I'm all about bus surfing, but somehow doing so in the presence of actual waves and the absence of any handles makes the task a little too close to the "OMG I'm going to die" line. For the record, I would probably not die from drowning, but from physical contact with Venetian waters, which could probably eat through my skin and deposit soda bottles in my veins.

Murderous beverage containers aside, the journey did not end with our safe shoring at Lido. Now, our map/guide called the desired area Alberoni Beach and mentioned that it was near the Alberoni Golf Club, reachable by the number 11 bus. So, upon seeing the number 11 bus with 'Alberoni' across the front, we decided to take a wild risk and hop on. Call me crazy (actually, that would be awesome, because then my initials would be CG and I could go around making things explode really prettily using Python). And because we're just rebels like that, we got off at the stop marked 'Via Alberoni' (kapow! fwoosh! oooohh....). On the one hand, there was definitely water. However, water does not in fact a beach make, otherwise I'd get a tan every time I took a shower. Which would also be awesome, because then I wouldn't look like I did my makeup according to 'Dracula Today!' at competitions.

Anyhowardzinn, we ended up walking around the island for an unspecified but seemingly very long time before we finally encountered something vaguely resembling sand. Naturally, at our first glimpse of sand, there was no water in sight. You'd think a country known for its fashion would have a better idea of which pieces go together and which should be used as separates. Then again, Anthony the BHKOF (best acronym ever (BAE)) refuses to acknowledge Italian fashion, so maybe I shouldn't either. In any case, the ensemble did eventually pull together to feature sand AND a coastline. I was going to describe it as a lovely coastline, but then I remembered the abundance of cigarette butts lying around, and the picture was kind of ruined. In one section of the beach (mercifully cordoned off), the area actually appeared to be a dump with some sand sprinkled in for continuity of scenery. While Meghan and I were fully prepared to risk skin cancer (unless my mom is reading, in which case, we packed 3 gallons of sunscreen), lung cancer was not really on our list of desirable souvenirs. We decided that our actual plan all along had been to walk around a very quaint, cute island with a nice view and get to know its public transportation system (fun fact: just because a bus shelter lists the number 11 bus on the side does not, in fact, mean the number 11 bus actually stops there. Educated, I am). And then we got back to the main island and had gelato, so life was good. Really, can any day ending in gelato be all that bad?

Venice (Random Observation): That's What She Said

Venetians are obsessed with penises. Now, I am usually not one to accuse anyone of single-mindedness since, for some reason, I spend a lot of time defending myself against the claim that I have a one-track ballroom. I am also not particularly prudish, four years on high school stage crew having effectively eliminated that adjectival avenue (nice, eh?).
However, Venetians are obsessed with penises. Think Texts From Last Night meets Robin Williams’ apartment in The Birdcage. Consider, for example, the following ode to tasteful restraint at the bus stop outside our hotel:


Do I know what this ad is saying? No. Do I want to know? Okay…kind of, but only because I really want to know why Yoda is on this poster. I mean, does he even have…do I want to know…ok no. Nevermind, strange Italian poster, you carry on with your bad self while I scrub my brain with steel wool. These are not the droids you are looking for.
Where was I again? Ah yes: penises, Venetians’ obsession with. Consider now the tourist shops that dot the city (rather like herpes, since we’re on the subject). Looking for a little something (oy) for the art aficionado in your life? Surprise him with a pair of shorts, featuring the penis of Michelangelo’s David. Great for in depth studying of Michelangelo’s masterpiece without the pesky pedophilia rumors!
If David’s thing is not really yours, you can always pick up an adorable little glass figurine of a man playing golf with OH MY GOD WHAT IS HE USING FOR A TEE THAT DOESN’T EVEN MAKE SENSE (nor is it biologically possible). Er, or maybe this WHAT THE HELL THAT IS NOT A BASEBALL BAT. Yes, even the fine art of glass-blowing (don’t make me make that joke again) is not safe. In addition to a certificate of authenticity, I feel like these ornaments should come with medical records (guaranteed Chlamydia-free!).
I’m once again running low on snark, so let me just finish by saying that, in addition to everything else, some stores also sell penis-shaped pasta. In two different sizes.

Venice Days 1 and 2: Wander and be Wet

*Also a belated post. I haven't written today's snark yet*
So…I might be able to let y’all go home early today, since the title of the post pretty much says it all. But then I’d have no excuse for avoiding my MPS homework, so to the useless jabbering!

Apparently genetics don’t work in foreign countries because I woke up hella late on Monday (11:30 am! That may actually be a new record for me. Don’t judge). Blonde Bombshell Meghan and I didn’t make it to the city until one-ish, whereupon I consulted my Italian-English dictionary and discovered that the Italian word for “brunch” is “gelato.” Far be it from me to contradict a dictionary. Satisfactorily sugared, we spent the next few hours wandering the sidewalks of Murano, the glass-blowing center of Venice. Once again, I seem to have backed myself into a procrastination-blocking corner, since there’s really not much to say about Murano except that it is, in fact, the glass-blowing center of Venice. There is lots of glass. And lots of…Andrew, grow up and stop laughing. We managed to spend quite some time going in and out of shops and staring at pretty things, which, if you recall from my ramblings about Vienna, is one of my favorite hobbies. I must say, glass is lovely, but it’s not Swarovski. Ballroom has turned me into a shiny things snob.

The only other notable thing about Monday was that I finished my chametz-eating on a pistachio-almond-raisin cookie, which was as wonderful as it sounds. I then decided to confuse the hell (@@) out of my soul by having matzah and salami for dinner. Ah, reform Judaism.

Tuesday found us exploring (read: wandering around) the southern part of Venice. Southern Venice is prime shutterbugging area, having apparently been designed by postcards. Picturesque churches and museums line the waterfront, making one feel a bit like one has been hit over the head with an inspirational calendar. Murphey’s Laws were not satisfied with my spending Pesach in the pasta/pizza capital of the world, though, so our shutterbugging was cut short by rain (very picturesque rain, I might add). For the record, Venice in the rain is actually kind of unnerving. As beautiful as the water is, seeing it rise to within a few inches of the sidewalk is pretty disconcerting. Like small children, I prefer my seawater pretty and not underfoot.

I’m out of snark and it’s dinner time: matzah and shrimp salad. Pesach sameach to me!

Venice Day 0: Dr. Becca’s Sing-a-Long Blog

Internet is elusive, ergo entries have been delayed. With apologies to Miley Cyrus:

Hopped off the plane train at LAX VSF
With a dream and my cardigan bulky polar fleece
Welcome to the land of fame, boats excess more boats
Am I gonna fit in? [No]
Hopped in a cab bus
Here I am for the first time
Looked to my right and I see the Hollywood “Tourism Info” sign
This is all so crazy
Everybody seems so famous tan.

My tummy’s turning ‘cuz that train was really bumpy
Too much pressure and I’m nervous
But then the bus driver came on the radio
But I couldn’t tell what he said!
But I couldn’t tell what he said.
I couldn’t tell what he said…

So I throw my hands up,
Did we just miss our stop?
The street signs fly away
Shaking my head like: “Damn.”
Cursing the world like: “Damn.”
Throw my hands up
We got off too soon
The signs led us astray
Hey-ey-ey-ey
Will we ever find our place to stay?

Up to the city in another bus
Everybody’s looking at us now
Like, “Who are those chicks* that look so lost?
They must be from out of town.”**
Feels so different with Hungarians not around me,
It’s definitely not a Budapest party.
‘Cuz all I see is gelato
I like that kind of memo

My tummy’s turning ‘cuz I’m eating like a fiend here,
Scarfing chametz before pesach
Then the gondolier offered a ride around
But it’d cost more than my house,
It’d cost more than my house,
It’d cost more than my house!

So I throw my hands up
We’ll go it on foot
My energy dies away
Stomach hurting like: “Ow.”
Feet are aching like: “Ow.”
Throw my hands up
Pass another mask shop
That’s the 60th one today
Hey-ey-ey-ey
Guess that’s how they make the tourists pay
Hey-ey-ey-ey
Guess that’s how they make the tourists pay

Feel like hopping on a flight
Back to Budapest tonight
But something stops me every time
I couldn’t find the airport if I tried!

So I throw my hands up
Hit the sandwich shop
Foccacia and cheese? Okay!
Stuffing my face like: “Mmmm”
Feeling the sun like: “Mmmm”
Throw my hands up
Why am I bitching so much?
I’m on spring break, hooray!
Hey-ey-ey-ey
Rockin’ V-E-N-E-Z-I-A
Hey-ey-ey-ey
I’m in V-E-N-E-Z-I-A!

*Women, and that’s not funny
**Like everyone else. Venice has more tourists than residents.