Proof of Theorem

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.

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.

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

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."

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:

 Clockwise from lower right: Leah, Me, Melanie, Mel, Sarah, Bridgit, Lots of nearly-naked guys

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

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.

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?

Machol Romania Day 3: Orange You Vlad I Didn't Say Banana?

Since we were observing a traditional Shabbat (see yesterday's post on vodka, videotaping, and Visigoths*), there were no dance workshops on Saturday. Instead, we left the hotel (!!) and took to Brasov (population: pigeons). We were given about 45 minutes to walk around and explore the main square, so naturally we took straight to a café to sit down and get some coffee (or an epically sweet...something fruity, in my case).

I was a bit on edge at the café, and not just because of the pigeons (oh my god so many pigeons). The organizers had said they had a surprise for us and, last time they had made such a promise, we were treated to a full view of an octogenarian in a fake diaper. So I was mildly concerned. Luckily, no such spectacle awaited us. Instead, we got to make a spectacle of ourselves by holding an impromptu dance session in the middle of the town square, much to the amusement and confusion of the local Romanians (the foreign Romanians were not affected). Despite my hypersensitive awkward dial, I could not feel too embarrassed because a. there were a zillion of us and b. our dancing was interrupted by the changing of the guard (which always follows the naptime of the guard). The changing of the guard had the unique ability to make us seem almost normal, as the uniform of the guards comprised a floppy velvet hat, an itchy-looking vest, RED AND WHITE STRIPED BLOOMERS, and tights. Even Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada would have to smile and such a fashion-forward display. I couldn’t be embarrassed after that, even if I was giving complete strangers a complete demonstration of my inability to tell right from left and having my arm nearly dislocated by Eran, who was determined to keep the circle holding hands at all costs.

After making joyous fools of ourselves in the town square and visiting the local synagogue (of course!), we went…okay, I have no idea where we went, but we went there to have lunch, so it didn’t matter. We ate outside, which was lovely except for the part where I STILL failed to get a tan because apparently, if I am more than two shades beyond eggshell-white, the apocalypse happens. I suppose it’s good that I avoided the End of Days, because then I would not have gotten to try the most excellent climbing tree I’ve encountered in Europe. Now, notice that I called this an excellent climbing tree and not an excellent descending tree. Only after I ascended to my desired branch did I realize I had NO CLUE how I was going to get down. Were it not for some truly skilled shimmying and a willingness to be in all sorts of compromising positions with the trunk, I would probably still be up there being laughed at by the Turkish girls. While I survived the encounter mostly unscathed, my shoes were not so lucky and are now in critical condition, possibly awaiting a duct-tape-orectomy.

After my brush with dumb, we hopped back on the bus for a trip to the town of Bran, home of delicious and healthy breakfast cereals. Okay, not actually, but it is home to Vlad the Impaler’s castle, which is much cooler (though not as high in fiber). As expected, the place was pretty tourist-y but then again, I was a tourist, so I didn’t mind too much. I spent much of my time marveling at low ceilings (apparently designed for midgets), random sitting nooks (apparently designed for squirrels), and narrow winding staircases (apparently designed for people with no hips, 360-degree rotating ankles, and not much to live for). That time not spent marveling was spent laughing at the information posters on the wall. I realized I’m incredibly privileged to expect to receive information in my own language halfway across the world, I’m an entitled American, etc. but dear God those translations were bad. I’m pretty sure the translator had learned English grammar from elementary school book reports. Either that, or s/he didn’t speak Romanian and was making it up as s/he went along.

Once outside the castle, I went on a hunt for blood, er…Diet Coke, which turned out to be much more difficult than expected. All I had was my credit card, universally not accepted. I found success (sort of) at a nearby convenience store, though I had to use my debit card because the cashier kept asking for a pin and no amount of handwaving was enough to explain that I wanted to use my credit card. Apparently I can only handwave in Hungarian. For the record, I have absolutely no idea how much that Diet Coke cost in real money. I’ve gotten pretty good at converting dollars to forint, but to convert dollars to forint to euros to lei you have to multiply by the speed of light, subtract the price of cheese in China, and divide by who let that cow in here? Converting back, you just do the whole thing backwards on one foot. Happily caffeinated, I rejoined the group and discovered that everyone who had not matured past the age of 5 (read: all the guys plus one of the Bulgarian girls) had bought a joke lighter that shocked whoever used it and were merrily abusing the others. I myself got shocked after Eran handed his to me. It kind of hurt, but I felt much better once I kicked him.

We got back to the hotel just in time for Havdalah, which was held outside around a roaring bonfire (did I mention the hotel is almost entirely made of wood?). Then it was time for the Yom Hatzma’ut party, where we got to teach and learn dances from our respective countries (actually, Dana had been telling us we would be doing so for the previous 3 nights, so it was about time). If I recall correctly, which I probably don’t, the Hungarians went first and led a dance specifically designed to confuse the hell out of the rest of us. The Bulgarians also went, teaching a dance that consisted of doing the same pattern approximately 800 billion times. Apparently it was a New Year’s dance, so it’s probably much more exciting when one is drunk. The Turks led some belly dancing, which was beautiful to watch on the girls, and absolutely hilarious on the guy (I think there was only one Turkish guy there, and he was not a small man). Robin was from England, so he led the Hokey Pokey, which made me happier than I can possibly explain. Then it was my turn. I had desperately wanted to teach Soulja Boy (100ish Eastern European Jews dancing Crank That Soulja Boy…can you imagine?!), but didn’t know what I would do for the verses since the only interesting part is the chorus. I settled instead for a country western dance that I may or may not have found on YouTube the night before. When I took the microphone, it became apparent that among Jews, I was very much the fast-talking American, which is ironic because among Americans, I’m always the fast-talking Jew. I defended myself, as always, by pointing out that my father is from New York. People seemed to enjoy the dance, and I even got a ‘Brava’ from an older Romanian woman, so I deemed myself a success.

Once the international dancing had subsided (the Romanian one was kind of bizarre, but I got to Polka during it so I’m not complaining), we returned to Israeli dancing, that being ostensibly the reason we were all there. At this point, it was probably around 10 or 11 pm, but we still had plenty of time because the dancing continued until 6:30 am. Staying awake was not too hard; the screaming from every part of my body prevented me from falling asleep. See, I am pathologically incapable of sitting down when I hear a song I like, or hear a song I don’t really like but to which I know the dance, or hear someone tapping a beat that sort of reminds me of a song I used to know, etc.. At one point, we took another break from Israeli for them to play what they called ‘Paso Doble,’ even though it was more a collection of random songs and dances approximating…swing, maybe? One of the random songs was the Paso Doble song though, so that made me happy. Also, after that, they played a little bit of swing and salsa AND THEN AN ABBA MIX. Oh yes. Not only did they play an ABBA mix, they did the electric slide to said ABBA mix. It was like heaven with a strong hint of spandex. ABBA can only take you so far (so very far) though, so we returned to Israeli and continued for the rest of the night/morning. At one point I had a sip of Bulgarian…something, which was pretty good except it made me feel like I was on fire since I was already overheated. Fact: alcohol plus dancing sounds really fun, but bring a fan. And a glacier. Heatstroke aside, I thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the marathon and am happy to have broken my previous record for staying out (5 am, prom night). There is a picture of all of us at 6:30 in the morning somewhere out there in space, a picture I hope never sees the light of Facebook because I’m sure I looked like Death’s less robust little sister. WHICH MAY BE WHY I USE SO MANY CAPS.



*made you look!

Machol Romania Day 2: Shabbat Sha-*hic*

The first part of Friday passed in a manner remarkably similar to Thursday. I learned several new dances whose names I can’t pronounce (and whose steps I can’t remember), overheated at least five times, and confused my right and left legs at least three (they look the same, okay?!). On Friday, however, the latter nearly proved fatal. We were learning a dance that translates to something like ‘Balkan Bells,’ which might explain the subsequent ringing in my ears. That, or the 3 days without sleep. Anyhowl’smovingcastle, I’m pretty sure we were learning this dance illegally because there’s no way one can be allowed to dance it without training and a license. For starters, it involves jumping. And turning. AT THE SAME TIME. For those of you who are not yet dancers, let me elaborate: Dancers are nuts. Give us a floor or, hell, reasonably solid dirt and we will turn it into a dance hall. Size is no constraint. I have danced in spaces a sardine would describe as “rather cramped” (building 34 anyone?). Ergo, teaching a bunch of compulsive dancers something involving a jump turn with the full knowledge that they will try it regardless of the amount of available space is tantamount to inciting involuntary manslaughter. The first time we tried the dance with music, I jump-turned smack into a Turk, nearly setting off an international incident. Fortunately, we could not come up with a suitably impressive name for said incident (The Near-Defenestration of Graber? Operation Giggle-Like-Idiots?), so we let it all diffuse.

I was sort of expecting a quiet Friday night, as it was Shabbat. As it turns out, I was sort of an idiot. For one thing, Jews really like to sing. And if they can’t sing, they really like to shout in some semblance of rhythm, occasionally with a hint of tune. This is not just during Kabbalat. In fact, fewer people sang during Kabbalat than during dinner, possibly because those of us with limited Hebrew were relying on the transliterations in the siddur. Which were in Romanian. Did I mention that Romanian has words like “fiii?” We’re not talking about a language phonetically friendly to idiotas like myself. It reminded me of nothing so much as the time I was watching a Japanese cartoon with friends and, despite the subtitles, could not figure out what was going on. Many years later, I realized it was because the subtitles were in Chinese. Thus, those who felt they were denied full use of their vocal (in)capabilities during Kabbalat made up for it by being at least 6 times as loud during dinner. Actually, “those who felt they were denied…” is really just a PC term for “Bulgarians.” Oh my God, Bulgarians. I came to MR fully expecting to be the obnoxious American, but I did not have a prayer. Even at my most loud and annoying, I did not stand a chance against the forces of Bulgaria. While we were waiting for dinner (and we waited a loooong time, Oren suggested they hadn’t caught the chicken yet), they went through every song they had ever known, or sort of known, or once heard someone humming at an airport, or made up on the spot. Lovely Temporary Roommate Anna and I were praying dinner would shut them up, but Bulgarians are either anorexic or have another mouth hidden somewhere, because they kept going straight through, with nary a stop to swallow.

As a side note, most of the songs they sang were apparently from a camp called Szarvas in Hungary that it seems Jewish Eastern-Europeans are required by law to attend. Certainly everyone at MR had been. One or two tunes were eerily close to old Girl Scout songs, so for a moment I definitely thought I was back at Camp Potomac Woods except I looked around and there were a lot of guys there so I was creeped out until I remembered that I was not in fact at Girl Scout camp so it was okay and I didn’t need to run screaming to Piglet (GS camp counselors all have nicknames. I did not actually go to camp with the real Piglet, probably because he’s male).

I was lucky to be buffered from the Bulgarians, sitting as I was with the Hungarian delegation. Thus, when the singing got old (which it did. Fast.), I could turn instead to my local Hungarians for amusement. Calling forth the old convention of ‘It’s Not Racist If They Agree,’ I hereby state that Hungarians drink. A lot. Whatever they can find. At any time. These were the people who pregamed lunch the previous day. Mama-duck Mazsi said that if everyone was there to share their culture, Hungary could certainly share the alcoholism. And lord did they do an instructive cultural demonstration. We toasted in Hebrew, Hungarian, English, etc. until Nori was completely toasted, with Anna not far behind. I did my best to hide the fact that I toasted with pretty much the same glass of wine every time, but Nori is one sharp drunk and sternly made sure that I finished at least two. I did! I was impressed with me too. Especially because the red wine was pretty awful. I also tried a bit of brandy, which was not my brightest idea because even Anna agreed it tasted like aftershave (so she only drank 2.5 glasses). As a side note, I now know that the Hungarian word for “aftershave” is, in fact, “aftershave” (though I suppose it could be a false cognate). Though the bottle of brandy was ostensibly for everyone, Erwin cleverly left it at the Hungarian table, figuring (correctly) that we (I was an honorary Hungarian for the weekend :)) would save him the trouble of leftovers. A water bottle of chocolate liquor also mysteriously appeared, and less mysteriously shrank in volume quite quickly. After I went upstairs, I learned later, the party continued with the sacred Shabbat traditions of vodka and tequila. That explained why at 1 or 2 am, I overheard the Turkish girls outside my apartment arguing over whether one of them could actually walk. They eventually agreed on ‘no,’ but it took them a while.

As a final note to the holiness and traditional nature of this Shabbat, the annoying camera man WHO NEVER EVER WENT AWAY filmed the whole thing. How do you say ‘blackmail’ in Hebrew?

Machol Romania Day 1: The Language of Pain is Universal (But I'm Still Pretty Lost)

I’m fully aware this post is almost a week late. I’m also fully aware that during MR, at any given point I had a choice between dancing, sleeping, and blogging. I’ll let you guess which one won. Hint: By the end, my English was worse than that of my Hungarian friends.

Thursday morning I awoke to the sounds of my legs screaming, having cleverly forgotten to stretch after dancing the night before. I proceeded down to breakfast WHERE THERE WAS STILL NO WATER and saw almost no one. I felt rather proud of myself, congratulating my genetics and youthful blood for allowing me to greet the morning when my compatriots were undoubtedly incapable of leaving bed. Naturally, it turned out that I had gone to the wrong room, and almost everyone else had been in the real breakfast room long before. To rephrase: I had gotten lost WITHOUT LEAVING THE HOTEL. Let it never be said that I am without talent. Also, I found out later (true story) that while I had been smugly consuming my toast and nursing my legs, some of the Turks had actually been salsa dancing. Yep.

Having acted the idiot (*of course* I was acting. I’m just really good) that morning, I tried to maintain some level of dignity for the morning sessions. Unfortunately, this was a dance camp, so dignity was not really an option. In fact, while I’m here, let me issue a belated blanket apology to everyone I smacked/stepped on/crashed into/turned into a newt/etc, because I’m sure the various Turks, Serbs, Bulgarians, etc. at the camp are totally reading this blog right now. I blame the Diet Coke or, rather, the lack thereof.The first session was with Oren Ashkenazay (sp?), where he taught Dance I Can’t Pronounce Because I Don’t Really Speak Hebrew I, DICPBIDRSH II, and Atah Ahi (I looked up that last one). I actually already knew Atah Ahi, but didn’t realize I knew it until the music came on. Apparently my muscle memory does not activate until I hear music, which might explain my decided lack of prowess in soccer, swimming, basketball, etc. I would have been an Olympian if I learned to swim in time to Mamma Mia (more on ABBA in the next entry. Oh yes. There was ABBA). After Oren’s session we had one with Eran, who taught three more versions of DICPBIDRSH (wow, typing that is actually harder than typing the full name. I need to come up with more acronym-friendly sarcasm). Interestingly enough, while Oren taught all his own dances, Eran taught only one of his, while the other two were from two other choreographers. The meaner part of me (yes, there is a nicer one, she just doesn’t get out much) suspected that Eran was hoping people would confuse him with Gadi Bitton, which, in the Israeli dance world, is similar to being confused with Elvis. [Obligatory sideburns joke here]

To be honest, I have no recollection of which dances we learned in the third session (I bet I can guess their names, though) because at that point, most of my mental energy went towards remaining reasonably vertical. It may have been taught by Erwin and Dana but, then again, it may well have been taught by two flying fish named Steve and HappyDance. I do remember lunch, however, if only for the moment when I ended up sitting smack in the middle of three different conversations, in Bulgarian, Hungarian, and Turkish (Turkarian, if we’re going for continuity). It’s a good thing my mind was incapable of even trying to focus, otherwise it probably would have exploded and that would have been REALLY awkward. Also, at one point, I was talking to one of the Turkish guys about Miracle Whip. He thought it was good, which led me to suspect he had never actually tasted Turkish food. No one who has eaten gyros, or really anything else, could place Miracle Whip in the same sentence as ‘good.’

The last session was for debkas, which are a special form of Israeli dance that require even more stomping than usual. I would like to take a moment to point out that I have been doing all of my dancing in jazz flats, which provide about as much support as the bras I wore in 7th grade. I got to feel smug again during the session, because I already knew one of the debkas being taught and actually recognized it BEFORE the music came on. Naturally, the version she taught was different, so I ended up doing it wrong. I’m noticing a pattern here…

Day 1 ended with what the organizers called a ‘Baby Party,’ the idea being that since this was the first Machol Romania, we were all its godparents (can you imagine how complicated that would be? Though the kid would get an epifuck of presents). They asked everyone to dress up like babies, which led to some things that WERE NOT OKAY. Do not click this link if you are pregnant, may become pregnant, or are not legally blind. I politely declined the invitation to make a complete imbecile out of myself (some parts are still missing, thank you); I had my dignity. Or rather, I thought I had my dignity until Balázs helpfully pointed out that the lollipop I had been oh-so-maturely licking had turned not just my tongue, but my entire mouth blue. I had been dancing around looking like one of the Blue Meanies in Yellow Submarine. Despite multiple intense scrubbing sessions in the bathroom, my teeth remained so azurely-inclined for pretty much the rest of the night. I had already decided to be a little more responsible for my health, so instead of dancing until 1:30 am without stretching, I only danced until 3:00 am without stretching. Wait…

Machol Romania Day 0: Back That Train Up!

First of all, let me just say (write?) that I am highly amused: Here in Predeal, where the nearest big city is Brasov (Romanian for "Middle of Nowhere", population: sheep), I have a flawless internet connection whereas in Pest, I have to take MJ (my faithful laptop) out to the balcony, tilt her in the proper direction, chant praises to the Sun God, etc. to access the universe. Irony, you are a crafty bitch.

As soon as I finished that last sentence, the internet crashed. Irony, you are just a bitch.

The train to Predeal was an excellent warm-up for the camp, in that it appears that I will be getting no sleep the rest of the time as well. I attempted more positions than a nymphomaniac yoga master and still failed to grab more than 3 (non-consecutive) hours of shut-eye. Which makes me think the railway needs a new slogan: "You can't spell 'Train to Predeal'" without 'Pain'" (or without "ntopre," but that's neither here nor there (so yes, it's in Predeal)). As seems to be tradition, my non-sleeping hours were at least partially filled (don't make me calculate the volume) with math. Yes, despite running away from BSM like the rabbit I decided I was, I managed to land in the same train compartment as Andras, who is essentially fluent in English and who scored something like 6 zillion (quick: what is this in dollars?) on the Hungarian version of the SAT. Thus, I began my vacation by discussing the Euler's bridges of Königsberg while the third member of our compartment, Balázs Who Knows Every Dance Ever OMG, looked on, probably horrified that he'd be spending the next few hours with 2 of the 3 biggest nerds in history (Euler couldn't make the dance camp. Something about being dead.).

Fortunately for Balázs WKEDEO, we were soon shuffled out of our compartment by Burly Romanian Guard #3, as apparently we were running the risk of becoming comfortable, in defiance of company policy. So we joined other members of Hora Budapest in a much more appropriately squished (behold, a sardine/rabbit hybrid!) area of the train. It was from this new location that we were able to notice that, after we stopped in Small Romanian Town #4, the scenery began moving in the wrong direction. Yes, Romania had apparently taken a lesson in public transport from the DC metro system and cleverly put two trains on the same track, forcing us to moonwalk (moonride?) back from whence we came and make an impressive (read: long) U-turn, much to the amusement of the local sheep.

Our ovine-pleasing venture finally came to an end and we landed in Predeal at half past Bitch AM, just in time to meet up with the most hyperactive friendly redhead EVER, who happened to be the organizer. As a side note, he was the first person to do the cheek-kissing greeting with me, leaving me thankful that I could at least tell my right from my left and avoid having the awkwardest moment EVER with said most hyperactive friendly redhead EVER. One can only have so many superlatives in a moment. Practically as soon as we hit the hotel, Andras, Balázs and I went for a walk around Predeal, figuring that maybe sitting down for twelve hours was not the *real* best warm-up for 5 days of dancing, despite the lack of sleep (the others opted for a nap. Wusses.). OH I almost forgot that we had breakfast, which would be unremarkable were it not for the fact that THEY DID NOT HAVE WATER. Not having the fresh-squeezed juice from the Aiiouuiaiiieee fruit that only grows in Hawaii I can understand. Not having Diet Coke PISSES ME OFF, but is still understandable. But really Romanian hotel? No water? I'll be the first to say that coffee is like water to me, but I won't actually be speaking literally. Anyhowieday, the walk (do you remember the walk?) was pretty and pretty uneventful, save a memorable experience at the lunch restaurant, where Andras tried to order grape juice first by playing charades, then Pictionary, with our baffled waitress. I guess game night wasn't until Saturday. I meanwhile, feasted on that traditional Romanian dish of Tasty Stuff In Butter and, at long last, Diet Pepsi. Soulmates always find a way.

After an exquisite nap, the program for Machol Romania (do you remember Machol Romania?) actually began with a mini-dance session. There, I learned that the first Israeli dance ever was choreographed by a Romanian-born Jew (what an unbelievable coincidence!). I also got kissed on the cheek *again* by Eran Bitton (!) (can you tell the cheek-kissing thing still weirds me out a little?), which gave me a closer view than I really needed of his kind of scary hair. I feel no compunction in calling it scary, since it's the exact same look I sported in 8th grade, though I'll admit he pulls of a headband better than I ever could. Then it was dinner time (more Stuff In Butter! Am I cultured or what?), change time (did I mention that throughout the course of the day, I wore 4 different outfits, at least one of which twice and non-consecutively? It was weird), and then time to listen to the Hyperactive Friendly Redhead prattle for a while about how Hyperactively Happy he was that everyone was there and how he couldn't even express his Hyperactive Joy that his Hyperactive Dreams had come true. The prattling was not without rewards, for it was followed by a chance to see the Israeli ambassador looking horribly confused during Od Lo Ahavti Dai, as he had apparently never done Israeli dancing before. Go figure. That would have been sufficient evening entertainment, but instead it was followed by several hours of hora-ing (new verbs FTW), leaving me high as a kite but with substantially more pain in my feet (and, you know, substantially more feet to begin with). I'm actually writing this at the end of my high, since it's 3 am and the sessions begin at..er..10 am maybe? I should probably look that up.

In conclusion, I'm pretty sure I will never want to leave Machol Romania. Math program? What math program?