Fries as Destination

Dear Seth,

Meet me in Brussels? Happy to revisit the important work of updating this article with you.

j

Read article here: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/06/11/travel/in-brussels-frites-are-more-than-just-fries.html?_r=1

#bucketlist
#friesasdestination

What This Hutchinson Woman and Her Family Learned from the Syrian Migrants in Budapest

My essay as it appeared in the Hutchinson News:

http://www.hutchnews.com/news/what-this-hutchinson-women-and-her-family-learned-from-the/article_aa32ef44-feb6-5449-a6d9-9d0d1e936bd0.html

School started Sept. 1 in Budapest, but one of the most important lessons my kids will learn this year happened the night before.

My husband and I took my kids, ages 6 and 7, two metro stops down to see the migrants gathered at the Keleti Train Station. We had passed out oranges to the Syrians we found gathered there a few weeks ago as we boarded our train to visit Transylvania. We returned to the station this past Monday afternoon empty-handed to spend time walking among them.

The reality is that I am a migrant, too. I am an American living in Hungary. While I am here by choice and reside legally, the people we saw are trapped. They are not welcome here.

I didn't worry about taking the kids to see the squalid conditions at the majestic 19th-century station, nor did I wonder about our safety in a frantic crowd of refugees traveling with only what they carry and desperate to find a safe haven in Europe. When we passed through a few weeks prior, the refugees were a peaceful crowd. It was a sad campground set up in the modern corridor of the newly renovated metro station hallways.

That night, a few trains were allowed to leave for Germany, but shortly the entire station would be closed to all migrants and international train service suspended as Hungary struggled to create a safe environment for all passengers. Days later, they would start their march on foot toward Austria and Germany before Hungary shut down its border, forcing people to find another route to escape the violence of their homeland.

We were in a hurry then as we had flown in from the States the day before and wanted to make the overnight train to visit Grandma in Transylvania. I bought two shopping bags of oranges along with our snacks for the train, and we left in time to drop the oranges at the migration aid station.

Jet-lagged and cranky, we lugged our bags through the metro and toward Keleti station. When we arrived, however, we didn’t see the volunteers, who would soon be fully organized. Instead, I simply handed an orange to a family with small children. They smiled. I smiled. My kids, who had been reluctant about the idea, saw the exchange and reached for their own oranges to share.

It was my husband’s idea to leave the security of our neighborhood and return to the station the night before school started. It seemed impossible to go about my calm, ordered, privileged routine while hearing the stories of their suffering at the station.

My kids didn’t have much to say while we walked through the crowds, stepping over discarded blankets and filthy toys. Weaving a path around piles of belongings, we made our way to the central crowd. Volunteers passed out food. Another group had brought blankets and art supplies and sat, their laps filled with warm, eager little people happy to play and color even though they didn’t share a common language. A musician had set up and soon a crowd gathered to sing and move their bodies in the release of dance.

This is what I wanted my children to see: the refugee family, clutching only what they can carry, in a foreign land. This is deep down courage. This is what it means to be human. And our response to their plight defines us.

Later, we explained to the kids that these people were trapped at the station because the trains were not running to Germany. We said they had left their homes and all their belongings behind because of war and poverty. They wanted to find a safe home and a chance at a better life.

We were in awe of these people who had risked their lives to escape war. Their futures were uncertain and would be decided on the whim of which train might leave or which rumor they take as truth guiding them along their route.

The next day, my 6-year-old son, entering the first grade, came home from Keleti station and began work with some paper, scissors, tape and colored pencils. I was impressed with what he did. He had drawn a train, cut it out and taped it together using six sheets of paper. It was a long, beautiful train.

He told me he thought we should take it down to Keleti and give it to the kids there. He wanted to give them what they deserve, a chance to grow up in a safe place.



--Janet Kelley grew up in Hutchinson and lives with her family during the school year in Budapest, Hungary. She is a 1993 graduate of Trinity High School. Follow her on Twitter @hutchkelley5

#Hungary #Refugees #Keleti

Notes After Japan

I recently traveled to Japan with my 9-month-old daughter, stepson, and husband.

Of note:

Having arrived home less than 8 hours ago, I have already forgotten the sheer physical angst (yes, physical angst) of an infant in meltdown on a plane. Poor girl. Night and day suddenly become day and night and she is literally turned inside out upside down. Rubbing her blue eyes, rimmed with red and dark half moons beneath. She cries. She can't sleep. She can't nurse. She just cries. Yes, I have forgotten the tears (hers and mine). The amazing thing is how she rebounds. Desperation at noon, flirty smiles for passengers five minutes later.

Having eaten sushi at The Source, the Fish Market in Tokyo, I have to admit: I am more of a Kobe steak girl. I just can't quite bring myself to relish in the cold flesh that is sushi. I don't dislike it. But deep down it oogs me out just a bit. I am okay with a rare, bloody steak. But raw fish somehow just doesn't satiate me. I'll keep trying.

The Japanese are precise, polite, and polite. Yes, polite times two.

I love the bow. It is so much easier than the awkward, "should I kiss one cheek or two--or not kiss at all" question at stake with European friends. It is simple and deeply reverent still. It has room for humor. It can say it all. On the bullet train between Kyoto and Tokyo the conductor would turn to the entire car and bow before exiting. Each time she entered and exited. It injects a bit of Zen into each day. This must be healthy.

On every corner: vending machines with drinks.

I love the bento box. Cubicles of foods I can't name. A surprise in every lacquered square.

FYI: pregnant ladies in Japan eat sushi. (BTW pregnant ladies in France drink red wine and eat unpasteurized cheese.)

Tokyo is clean. Spotless. Shiny, especially at night. And yet you can not find a garbage can to save your life. There are recycling bins. But what to do with a dirty diaper?

Speaking of diaper changes, the Japanese have excellent baby changing facilities in the department stores. The best I have seen.

Places we visited:
Kyoto: Daisen-in Zen Garden at Daitoku-ji and Kinkaku-ji (the Golden Pavilion);
Nikko: Tosho-gu Shrine and Nikko Edo Village;
Tokyo: Tsukiji Fish Market, Roggongi area, the Imperial Palace, National Diet Building, Ginza area--high end shopping, The Sony building, Akihabara--the several blocks of high-tech wares and anime products galore, and Takeshita-dori (to see the funky teen scene).

We mastered the metro.

Number of times we were stopped because a local Japanese person wanted to take Izabella's picture: once.

The gifts: the giving of gifts, small symbolic items, is automatic. For the Japanese. For us it caused a bit of strife. What to give? To whom? When? Do we unwrap in front of them? But it is a tradition that reinforces gratitude. Words inevitably fail. A small gift can speak your kindest intentions even when your words fumble.

I turned 34 years of age while in Tokyo. I got a kiss and chocolates.

Truth: I did have a gathering moment in a Starbucks. I needed to nurse the baby and was too tired to nurse in the Ergo while walking. You should know: there is no decaf option available for espresso drinks (at the one Starbucks we visited).

Number of times we were interviewed by the local press: once. (We looked clueless and were holding a cute baby = perfect subjects for an evening news spot about tourists.)

We learned that you do not need to tip. We left a small tip after our breakfast the first morning. The patroness literally ran after us on the street to return it. Later we asked a Japanese friend and we were told that there is no habit of tipping in restaurants or even cabs.

We hauled the stroller all the way there. Times we used it: once.

The shopping in Tokyo: endless. Yet we managed only to buy a few souvenirs for family and nothing for ourselves. It was overwhelming. Besides we had *ahem* over packed for the week. (Our arrival required an entourage to assist with luggage.)

True story: I missed dinner two nights in a row because Iza decided that it was bedtime at 5 or 6 pm local time. (I was so tired that I went to sleep with her both nights.) After missing two dinners, I ate three sandwiches for lunch. Three.

If you leave a disposable plastic baby spoon or cup in a restaurant, you will be chased down and have it returned to you nicely cleaned.

Iza sat up for the first time all on her own. She did it my starting on her belly and pushing back into a seated position. She was quite delighted.

Iza also managed to do the work of breaking a new tooth. Hooray! Total teeth: two.

In the end, regarding Japan....

Conclusion: more, please. The question, when?

Attn: Condundrum Department

Central Luggage Service

C/O Northwest Airlines, Inc.

Dept. C 5260

7500 Airline Dr.

Minneapolis, MN 55450-1101

August 26, 2008

Dear Sir or Madam:

My infant car seat, wrapped in a nylon red bag, was lost between Amsterdam and Boston on Flight NW 037 arriving in Boston on August 24^th. My File Reference Number is BOS NW 25353. I was given a temporary car seat to take my baby home. The following day my lost car seat was delivered. As soon as I took it inside I noticed a stench. The nylon bag and the car seat itself were infused with cigarette smoke. Needless to say, we are not smokers. When I called 1-800-745-9798, the number on my Luggage Tracing/Claim form, I was cycled through an answering service.

I called Northwest customer service and their best advice was that I should take my car seat back to luggage services at Boston Logan. The problem is that I cannot place my infant daughter in a smoke and toxin infused car seat and therefore I cannot drive back to the airport to present the problem. My husband is away traveling for the week. I am at home alone with the baby and have no car seat that I can use or any way of acquiring one until my husband returns one week from now.

Frankly, the car seat is repulsive. Although the fumes may (or may not) dissipate over time, how am I to know that the toxins will dissipate from the foam interior and the lining?

My car seat is a Chicco KeyFit 30, which I purchased for $169.99 (for which I have the receipt). The nylon bag –also smoke-infused—was approximately $12.00.

I write to you on the advice of a customer service agent who provided me with your office mailing address. Strangely, there was no phone number she could provide to help me address my problem (as the Boston number did not have a human being taking calls).

I await your response.

Sincerely,

JK Kelley and Baby Izabella

Unpacking

We recently returned from our usual summer trip to see family in Hungary and Transylvania. Of course this year Miss Iza traveled with us. Traveling as a mom requires a packing strategy. Namely, minimalism. Extreme. I managed to pack for both of us in the space I previously used only for myself.

We carried one suitcase, blue, containing: clothes and toys and assorted for Biza and me for one month. I carried one pair brown capri pants, one pair black yoga pants, one skirt, and one (nursing) dress. I wore one pair black capri pants on the plane. I packed seven nursing shirts in a variety of colors and styles. One sweater. Enough undies, one bra, one pair socks. I wore one pair Gola flats and packed one pair sandals, semi-fancy. One small green bag of toiletries.

I did not pack any books. (Normally I take 6 - 8 novels and 4 -5 Hungarian language books, including Hungarian-English dictionary.) I did download three books to my iPhone, including Tess of the D'Ubervilles by Thomas Hardy and The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton (99 cents each), both finished, both female protagonists killed off in the end; and the biography of Harry S. Truman by David McCullough ($11.99 through ereader.com), still finishing--I'm up to his run for senate.

One nursing nightgown. One pair silver loop earrings. Vitamins, allergy medicine, baby Tylenol. Diaper cream, two tubes. Baby wipes, two packages. Six cloth diapers. One nursing cover, black and white print. Nursing pads, disposable. One package disposable changing pads, Sassy brand. Knot It, diaper bag dispenser, two, and refills.

Pampers, fifty-one. (More purchased in Romania.) Baby soap/shampoo. Baby wash clothes, 12, disposable. Bug repellent, organic and non-toxic, which we never used. Nasal aspirator and saline. Infant nail clippers and file. Baby sunscreen, two kinds, one for general coverage and one for sensitive areas (i.e. hands and face as she would likely consume a small quantity). Three baby hats. Three sleepers. Six onesies. Four baby pants. One baby sweat suit. One baby jacket. Six pairs baby socks. One cute summer baby outfit, pink.

Of note: We had access to laundry at Grandma's. Washer only. There was no dryer. So all items had to be line-dried and then ironed, a process that takes at least two and up to four days. On the up side: have you ever seen a pristine, white, ironed onesie? It is almost a shame to put it on the baby.

Slings: Five. Two Over-The-Shoulder-Baby-Holders, one small sized and one medium. I used the medium sized one on the overnight flight there for hands-free nursing and sleeping, and upon arrival to Transylvania on the overnight train from Budapest. One Zolowear ring sling in attractive black and white print for afternoon strolls when the heat abated. One Solerveil, SPF 70, turquoise, mesh ring-sling for walks in the afternoon sun, used almost daily. Baby Bjorn, one, brought in case Tata wanted to use it. Used once, by me. Tata wore Iza in the Solerveil, once.

Diaper bag, large, black, Skip Hop brand, designed for a double stroller. Perfect for international flight.

iPhone, one. Used as camera and for email (we had a wireless connection filched with permission from our neighbor) and reading.

Baptism grown, flouncy, worn by Miss Iza at her baptism. She was hot. She cried. She looked like a princess. She had two sets of godparents. We rejected Satan. And all his works. No one told me that my bra strap was showing. (Can we photoshop that?) We acquired a baptism certificate, which we left at the church. The priest brought it to us at the luncheon. There were sixteen guests. We left the certificate at the restaurant. With great understanding, the priest provided a third copy before we left. I didn't pack it in my suitcase, however.

Toys: Mr. Giraffe, The Whoozit, the Whatzit, 12 hooky ring things, a Whoozit teether, a butterfly teether, two blocks for the bathtub, Mr. Monkey.

We didn't pack our rocking chair. We survived. We didn't pack travel bed bumpers. I survived, barely. I slept with her at night and often during naps as well because I was afraid she would roll off the bed. She did not.

One infant car seat with sun cover. Four blankets of varying size and texture. One scarf used as toy.

I carried two packages of sanitizing wipes. These were used to swipe the armrests on the plane. (Except on the last leg from Amsterdam to Budapest, when she decided to quietly chew on the armrest as I napped.) They were used extensively in the couchettes for our two overnight train trips. The muck they "cleaned" was disconcerting.

Acquired: one gold Swarovski cross pendant, blessed by priest at baptism. Ms. pink elephant. Two chocolate salamis. One canister green tea from France, as a gift from guests from Hungary. Baby brush and comb. Two bibs. Two sets of godparents. A measure of confidence.

We have been to Budapest and to the heart of the summer Carpathians. Now getting myself out the door to spend an afternoon in the park seems much less daunting.

Spreading the "News": No Pants 2K8

Beware Of Passengers Without Pants On T

http://wbztv.com/local/Improv.Everywhere.No.2.627321.html

BOSTON (WBZ) ― If you're on the Red Line Saturday afternoon, you might see something unusual on the train - hundreds of passengers without pants.

The New York-based group Improv Everywhere is encouraging people to sign up for the stunt in Boston and nine other cities January 12. The Boston event kicks off at 3 p.m. at the Alewife station on the T.

The group says there are only two requirements for participation. You "must be willing to take your pants off on a subway" and be "able to keep a straight face" while doing it.

They request participants don't wear a thong or anything else that might offend passengers.

"Our aim is to make people laugh, not [make them mad]." Boston organizer Adam Sablich posted on Facebook. He also urges participants not to cause trouble. "MOST IMPORTANTLY: If you are asked by ANY person of authority (even rent-a-cops) to put your pants back on, DO SO. We aren't trying to get anyone arrested and we aren't protesting anything, so don't be stupid."

The site also contains very specific instructions for participation, including:

-Not talking to each other. "No one knows each other"

-"Sit in a car as you normally would" until your assigned time to de-pants. Then "stand up and take your pants off and put them in your backpack… If anyone asks you why you've removed your pants, tell them that they were "getting uncomfortable" (or something along those lines.)"

-At assigned stops participants are to exit and "stand on the platform, pantless."

-" If questioned, tell folks that you "forgot to wear pants" and yes you are "a little cold". Insist that it is a coincidence that others also forgot their pants. Be nice and friendly and normal."

More than 300 people have reportedly signed up for the event, which is being called "No Pants 2K8." On its Web site, the group claims it has pulled off more than "70 missions involving thousands of undercover agents."

WBZ-TV contacted the MBTA about the event. According to T spokesman Joe Pesaturo, "If they pay their fares and conduct themselves in a safe and orderly fashion without breaking any laws, then there should not be any problems."

Saturday Morning Cereal: McCain in New Hampshire

What to do on a Friday night in New England? We loaded up the car with granola bars, water bottles (reusable, filled with tap water, of course), my new crochet project (my first after a seven year hiatus) and road tripped to New Hampshire to be a part of the political fervor that is primary season.

L. googled and found a free and public event for young professionals hosted by a company called wedu (insert umlaut above the letter u). Senator McCain was the guest of honor. Today Bill Clinton is scheduled to speak in New Hampshire. We couldn't wait for today. McCain it was meant to be.

We followed Linda, our gps device, north to Manchester, New Hampshire, arriving about twenty minutes early. We knew it was the right venue due to the McCain bus and the McCain Hummer souped up for parade events. A Hummer? I remember that Hummer provided a vehicle to a certain Indiana Republican, Chocola, for politicking. I guess McCain was on their list too. (McCain was later to address environmental issues and the problem of dependence on foreign oil.) To be fair, perhaps the Hummer belonged to an ardent follower. Still.

We were handed blue McCain lapel stickers by a guy on the right and Sierra Club flyers and stickers from the left. We donned the stickers--might as well get in costume for the event. The room, which seated about 50 people, was warm. Our twelve-year-old companion promptly started to die of hunger (granola was in the car) and fade with sleepiness (what can you do?). Did I mention that half the room (it seemed) was packed out with media people furiously typing on laptops or adjusting their digital cameras? The white plastic chairs were very uncomfortable for a pregnant lady of thirty-two weeks. We settled in. The local TV people started to interview the audience members. Though I was seated on the inner aisle, I escaped the camera. Jazzy music glazed the room as we waited for the event to begin. And waited. There was a hand lettered sign tacked up behind the podium that read "THE MAC is BACK!"

Soon McCain was introduced and took the stage to applause. He is a compact man. Dressed in a navy suit, maroon sweater vest, and light blue collared shirt, he appeared comfortable. After explaining that they had been delayed in Iowa due to a broken snow plow, he quickly turned over the microphone to Jane Swift, former governor of Massachusetts. She supports McCain due to his views on education and national security.

McCain then spoke for approximately twenty minutes before taking questions from the audience. Though he touched on several topics, he said that the ONE thing that we should remember from the evening is: Al-Qaeda is on the RUN, they are NOT DEFEATED. Iraq may be receding as an issue for voters. It is receding because we are succeeding. YET. He said that we face a "transcendent challenge" these days from radical Islamic terrorism. Case in point, Bhutto's assassination was carried out by those in . . . and here I can't recall exactly how he phrased it, but essentially he linked her death to Al-Qaeda. His response? Military, diplomatic, and ideological. Pakistan is important because it has nuclear weapons and we should respond by 1. Securing those weapons and 2. Securing the election process. Then McCain said that Bhutto had been a "transcendent figure" and that it would be hard to replace her (or something to that effect). Transcendence? Transcendent challenge AND transcendent figure? What? What does he mean by transcendence? Al-Qaedo and Bhutto are transcendent? Que?

Then it was time for questions. What impresses me is that anyone off the street can stand up and ask any question. The Sierra Club asked him about global warming (he prefers "climate change"), a woman asked him about health insurance (he seemed unsure of his answers), another woman asked about America's policy toward promoting condom use in Africa to prevent HIV/AIDs (he blamed corruption in Africa as a reason why we shouldn't send aid), someone asked about how to fund the war in Iraq (no new taxes will be involved). I wanted to ask about education and his stance on reform and No Child Left Behind. I developed a case of bashfulness fueled by chair-weariness and early onset dinner pangs.

It was good to be part of the stump. It was surreal to hear someone stand in front a live audience and say "I should be president because....." I mean, who really says that? It seems like made-for-TV drama material.

This just in: We invited some friends to join us yesterday. They missed the first event, but made it to McCain’s headquarters for a brief meet-and-greet before joining us for dinner. They shook his hand. They just called to let us know they have caught the campaign spirit. They returned to New Hampshire today to shake Bill Clinton’s hand and are hot on trail of events all day long. . .

Health and Beyond

The strep test returned negative. The virus remains unidentified. It was July 21st when I finally measured my 38.5 degree C / 101 degree F temperature. About two nights ago I actually slept through the night in my own bed with only a few coughing fits. No one else caught my bug, which is a good thing, but this adds to the mystery of the pesky virus. I would rest easier if I could put a name on the infection. Today back in the US: I will dare to play to tennis. I had dreamed of tennis in the Carpathian valley, but didn't get to lace up my tennies even once.

At Martin's grocery store today I rode the wave of local celebrity. I thought people were glancing my way and growing charged by my electric presence. Until checkers, stock guys, and shoppers started a litany of "Hey, Coach," and "Hello, Digger." We got our carts. "I enjoyed your book, Coach." In the normal flow of commerce we headed toward the bakery and deli section. Near the hot soup buffet he gestured me ahead of him. I'll admit, I had to come home and google him to be sure of his fame: Digger Phelps, former Notre Dame basketball coach being a key aspect of his pedigree. He even has his own Wikipedia page. I love South Bend. I love that coaches move here to mold young athletes and then stay on in the community.

Last night we got another wave of local cool. Squirm Orchestra provided live music to accompany a series of short films from European stop-motion masters. The event was part of the Vickers Theatre Sound of Silents Film Festival. A friend of ours was in the band and let us know of the event. After the show and a few rounds of beer and reubens at Nelson's Pub, we joined the band and groupies for a swim in our skivvies at a pool in a primordial forest. Unplanned. Hot tubs, physics conversations between groupies, and talk of touring adventures in New York and Detroit. Why don't we swim in a stranger's pool at midnight more often?

Observations on the Road

I must be recovering from my as yet unidentified illness (strep? virus? something altogether more sinister?) because I can finally sit down and face a keyboard with an ounce, albeit exactly one ounce, of enthusiasm. The boys have been whisked away to a cabin in the mountains for an evening of cool mountain air. It is just me and the laptop with our newly acquired wireless connection, which a neighbor has generously allowed us to filch.

Things I have learned/observed on this foray:

1. Do not allow your Italian hotel to do your laundry, especially without even looking at the price list. 5 euros for a pair of skivvies. Not worth it. Another 6 euros for a "sweater" i.e. a t-shirt. Lesson learned.

2. Italian woman are advised to drink one glass of wine per day after the first trimester. One woman was told that she was putting her baby at risk if she didn't drink red wine because you can't get the same health benefits from any other source. American women are forbidden to drink any alcohol.

3. If you thought you were shocked when the six-year-old gypsy boy asked for your half-eaten package of crackers, wait three minutes. In that time he will have fended off his little sister and crammed all the crackers in his mouth. Then he will return and beg for the half-consumed bottle of bodza soda. I didn't give him my soda. I was horrified. Is it acceptable to allow a child to drink from a bottle that had my germs and spit? (Every year I have relearn how to live in a city with children for whom begging for my snacks is considered acceptable--to both the child and the society that tacitly allows it.)

4. Air conditioning is good. Even though not everyone here shares this opinion (see note in number 6 regarding cold water, tiles). And in fact I abhor the abuse of stale frigid air in the States. Yet this past week and a half has been unbearably hot AND I had a fever. I have spent entire days languishing in my undies trying to catch a breeze. Air conditioning is good. All things in moderation.

5. Romanian medical care is scary for me. Okay, medical care in a foreign land is always nerve-racking. I have a throat infection of some kind. We go the doctor (I won't mention the line or the envelope of cash) who can't take a throat culture because I ate crackers. (Is that the case in the US?) Besides they only take cultures before 10:00 am and not to mention that it would then have to be transported to the hospital in the oppressive heat. In the meantime, the doctor prescribes something to soothe my throat. When L. goes to the pharmacy, the ladies say "Oh, we only give this with a doctor's prescription....use this instead." And he bought what they recommended. Note: we had a doctor's prescription. (And the lozenges are manufactured in Bombay, a city whose fantastic lack of public hygiene is central to the book I am reading, Maximum City by Suketu Mehta.)

So, the next day we go to the hospital. Downstairs there are hordes, those exiting press cotton onto their open wounds where blood was drawn, and it costs 2 lei (less than one dollar) for the test. Upstairs there is no line and it costs 13 lei (roughly four dollars). We go upstairs. I had been instructed: no food, no brushing of the teeth. After a rough night of mouth-breathing and coughing, my breath had its own zip code. It was 8 am. The woman gagged me. It is Tuesday. If negative, they will know by Wednesday. If positive for strep, it will be Thursday or Friday. Did I mention the peeling paint, the windows propped open on chairs, the dust, the crowds?


6. In Transylvania common knowledge dictates that you must NOT drink cold water or you may catch a cold or make your cold worse. (You also can't walk barefoot on tile, even in a freakish heat wave, for fear of catching a cold.) In my mothering, I was given ICE CREAM when my throat was raw and swollen. I have to bypass Grandma and the kindly neighbor lady to sneak a glass of chilled water from the fridge. Where are my saltines? Where is the 7 UP? Where is my vanilla ice cream?

7. Transylvania lacks a restaurant culture. Home cooking is supreme. (I miss salad. I miss tall, cold glasses of 2% milk.)

8. They iron underwear. It is not a fetish. It is because all the clothes are dried on the line. They dry into hard lines that must be ironed. Even the undies. (I haven't worn several items of clothing that I brought because I don't have the heart to request their ironing, which leads me to number 9....

9. Hired domestic help is not an option. We couldn't make it on our own here. The massive amounts of time it takes to shop, cook, clean, iron, and make order in the house overwhelm us. Yet I am still shy about it. Hence, the unused clothing I carted all the way here.

10. Language is personality. Or, rather, lack of language is lack of personality. I glow in English. I flounder and sulk in Hungarian. I understand most of what I hear, when I try. Now I need to produce in a second tongue.

If I had the energy to go back and reread some of my former entries while traveling in Romania, I would surely find that I repeat myself. Yet, this is part of the lessons learned. We have to relearn them.

Csikszereda

We arrived by overnight train to Csikszereda. The train seems to be leaving earlier and earlier from Budapest each year. This time we left Budapest at 3:30 pm and arrived here at roughly 4:30 am. It is pity that we arrive before the sunrise. I used to covet the last 45 minutes on the train when the view from the train was spectacular despite my sleep/caffeine deprived brain: all hills, fog, green pastures, shephard's huts, gypsy settlements, and forest.

If you have read of my travels here in Transylvania, then you may be aquainted with my tendency to succumb to the somnolent powers of the mountain air and fresh mineral waters. This Kansas girl fills her lungs with crisp, cold air (yes, even in July) and it plum tuckers me out. The naps here are first rate.

Ate stuffed peppers, drank mineral water, drank bodza, saw Bodza the dog (named after the drink), ate the local cheese, took a nap, strolled the city. I am in the husband's hometown thick of it.

I am reading Catcher in the Rye, I believe for the first time. Very caustic. And very scary when traveling with an 11 year-old boy soon to be a full fledged teen fed up with all us phonies. I finished Peace Like A River by Leif Enger while in transit and also Specimen Days by Michael Cunningham, the latter being a real jewel. That Cunningham rocks my world.

Not much else to write here. But I am writing, which feels good. Although the air is rank and smoky in this internet cafe filled with gamers. Alas. No more cushy wireless internet connections for a while. If I want to go online, I must actually leave the apartment and head into the city center and hang with the local boys.

For a look into a local expat's blog perspective on this town:
http://szekely.blogspot.com/

(There are some good recent photos about town.)

Sardinia, Rome then Budapest

We are eleven days into our summer travels. I should have written much sooner. We had internet connections sporadically, but I have been lazy. It is so easy to relinquish all writerly urges to the hot summer sun. And the sun has been relentless. Yes, even I--she of the 75 spf--have a tan line now thanks to the hours spent on the beach and strolling the sunny streets of Sardinia and Rome.

We flew into Rome and immediately caught a connection to Sardinia. All three of us had separate cities of origin. Nonetheless, they managed to lose all of our luggage. Thus began some frantic shopping trips for overpriced undies and bathing suits in the town of Pula. Luckily, all of our luggage had arrived the day before we were set to return to Rome. Sardinia was beautiful and even I swam in the warm waters. (I hate being cold.) L. had a conference and was busy in the days. D. and I swam, read, ate pasta, swam, read, ate pasta, and of course developed the habit our afternoon siesta and dinner at ten pm. By the time we left Italy, we had had the art of the siesta mastered. There was one day in Rome that I required two siestas.

On last Friday we headed to Rome. I hadn't been to Rome in ten years and it had been twelve years since I lived there as a student. I was eager and nervous to see how my imagination would compare to the city of today. It was a thrill to be back on the cobblestones.

The historic center, where we stayed in the Hotel Tiziano, has exploded with stores and restaurants. As a student in Rome, I tended to stay out of shops and restaurants and so maybe I hadn't noticed their abundance before. Yet I think there are more stores than ever before--the streets were absolutely packed with people, many of whom were tourists of course. We hit all of my former haunts--Pascucci's, L'insalata Rica, Cafe San Eustachio, Cartoleria Pantheon, as well as visited the Pantheon, Spanish Steps, Vatican Museum, Saint Peter's, the Forum and the Colloseum. We ate pizza or pasta or both for just about every meal. We drank smooth frulatti for energy. And the the gelato. . . Della Palma and Giolitti, to mention the best. . . is dreamy and so much yummier in the shade on a hot summer day. Our favorite flavors: green apple, orange, creme, banana. The chocolates were good, but the fruit flavors exploded in our mouths.

Let's see, my fellow Rome program students might appreciate the following: we rode bus 64 to the Vatican (new buses, less oogy), we sank to Delfino's on Sunday in a fit of hunger and tiredness, we ate pizza at that little place near the Campo D'Fiori, many of the same faces are working at Pascucci and the Tiziano (which did give us a special rate as a former SMCer on the program), and the room we stayed in at the Tiziano was gorgeous and did not resemble our former student rooms.

These days I am caffeine and alchohol free. Hard to imagine, right? Even more of a challenge in the land of espresso and vino. I was in Italy. I indulged in one caffeinated espresso in Rome at San Eustachio. It was a chemical orgasm. The froth. The color. The texture. I inhaled deeply from L.'s red wine at dinner one night. It was a posh, cheap, and traditional place near the Spanish Steps. And yes, all three of those adjectives as suggested by a Roman friend were accurate. The wine smelled rich and vibrant. I ate pesto three times. I never did find a linguine al limone though, which is a pity.

Dani tried his first cappuccino. We picked Pascucci's for the event. He hated it of course. Never got past the foam. But he has his first cappuccino in Rome and that is pretty cool.

These are random thoughts and recollections. It is the best I can do as I squeeze in this entry from my hotel room in Budapest. Thankfully it has been rainy here an cool. We leave this afternoon on the overnight train to Transylvania, where we will spend the remainder of our summer trip at home with family. Tennis courts here I come. Home cooking and long naps and Hungarian lessons and afternoons writing and spending time with friends, here I come. Summer is good, very good. Never mind that when we return to the real world, we still need to find an apartment in a new city halfway across the country and start an entirely new era in our lives. There will be time to worry about all that after vacation.

Back in the Back Bay

I arrived in Boston late last night and hit the road this morning on a hunt for the perfect apartment--which is determined by a combination of gut emotional response (see the elegant Japanese screen! The granite counter tops are so shiny!) and geographical calculations--proximity to T stops and grocery stores. Thus far I am a little bit in love with a place near Coolidge Corner. But I have been know to be fickle. I do like my real estate agents--can we be friends later? Or is that just awkward?

I suppose we should rent a place now that our perfect house in South Bend has sold or at least the sale is pending. Real Estate makes abstract decisions real, really real. Let's Move to Boston! becomes OH! There goes our bungalow to strangers! (who, at least, are desperately in love and she is an architect).

The school year is mostly finished--my senior English students finished two days earlier than the underclassman. We said our goodbyes. I got a few handwritten thank you notes, one or two "See ya later and oh yeah, Thanks" and one heartfelt sought-me-out to say goodbye. Mostly they checked out months ago--somewhere after prom or their senior project presentations. We have two more professional days next week with meetings and time to clean out our desks and tear down classroom posters. How do I feel about the end of my career at my first high school teaching job? Mixed. Summer is always good; knowing that I won't return is not so good. Not knowing what is next....more teaching, scholarly work, fiction writing, tiny tots.....requires deep breathing and self-permission to indulge in a berry berry muffin with my afternoon tea.

(The guy next to me in the cafe is named Suzanne and he is expounding about why zebras were never domesticated. Apparently they are quite vicious. There you go.)

Tomorrow is another day hitting the streets for an apartment. Then I fly home in time for our Saturday trip to the Farmers Market (where does the apostrophe go? they don't use one, I swear). Sunday is high school graduation. Monday back to work. Tuesday will be a half day at work. Then official summer. Time to write!

Friday Night in Budapest

Fish Soup at our favorite little place. Tram to the MU Theater. T.E.S.T--a modern dance performed by seven women. The Tram in the wrong direction. A spontaneous choice to get off and go to the New York Cafe, which was recently remodeled. It is stunning--all gilded walls and smart waiters. Our two cakes were priced to match the decor, probably the most expensive cakes in Budapest. But they were very, very good. And the delicous news is that this cafe is open until midnight, filling a crucial time slot for those late night cake cravings. (See the below description from http://www.talkingcities.co.uk.)

Today: Lunch with friends. Dinner with friends. Tomorrow we fly out before the crack of dawn. Back to the States. Back to work. Alas.

New York Café (New York Kávéház)

VII. Erzsébet körút 9-11
Previously shrouded under scaffolding and a dirty black exterior, visitors 'not in the know' would simply pass by the New York Kávéház without discovering the wonderfully lavish neo-Baroque interior of this late 19th-century building. Unfortunately, the café, which was once the haunt of Budapest's most famous poets and playwrights, was rammed unceremoniously by a Russian tank during the 1956 uprising (it also suffered significant bomb damage during WWII). Until recently the resultant structural damage was deemed too costly to repair.

All that changed, however, following the acquisition of the New York Palace (in which the café is housed) by Italian hotel group Boscolo. Having spent in excess of 8 Billion HUF on restoration work alone, the building has now been transformed into a luxury 235 room, five star hotel.

Budapest Art and Dance

Strange that I ruminated about "home" and postmodernism the day before yesterday because yesterday was spent in the Ludwig Muzeum and at the Trafo where identity and belonging got the once over by some of the youngest, brightest new artists. Duchamp, oh Duchamp. Would you be proud of your progeny?

K. and I made our way to the Ludwig Muzeum to see the current exhibition called Hataratlepesek or "Crossing Frontiers." As I have written before, I am unconvinced, worse, unmoved by video installations. The most effective artist was Oleg Kulik, who will haunt my dreams. He uses photos and video "to show a symbiosis between man and dog." They eat watermelon together. They play in the fields. They read books. They make love. Yes, oh yes. In full photographic realism. Seriously, I can't get it out of my head. And I am not talking about a cute little puppy.

A cake to steal my nerves at 5:30 and then we were off to the Trafo for a modern dance event. They were showcasing four new choreographers. We stayed for the first two and then went in search of becsiszelet (wiener schnitzel). I would have stayed, but our two guests had had enough. Ouch. If you are in town, catch an event at the Trafo--one of my enduring favorite scenes for modern dance and people watching.

Then it was off on a hunt for a cake shop that was still open past 11:00. We stepped in two or three but nothing felt right. We we headed back to Szent Jupat for turogomboc--huge bready balls of sweet puffy cream-of-wheat, covered in sweetened bread crumbs, drenched in a sour cream sauce, and sprinkled with powdered sugar. Seriously. Usually this dessert is a huge flop. But at Szent Jupat, it is a divine thing. Trust me.

Another Day in Budapest

It was an overcast day yesterday. After a slow food lunch--arugula salad with Parmesanand walnutsfor me and rabbit with paprikas for my two lunch companions, we strolled the city streets. A shop here. The new Apple store. A shoe store. A store devoted to selling those machines that make coffee from those new pods. An art gallery or three. We made our way to my favorite tea shop, 1,000 Teas.

Since my last visit here (maybe more than a year ago) they have entirely renovated. It is still divine. We sat on low cushions. L. had a brief nap. I threw caution to the wind and had a strong Turkish tea with heavy doses of raw sugar crystals. We smoked my first waterpipe, which felt definitely exotic and even slightly illegal. Of course, ala Clinton, I don't inhale. In fact, I am abashed to say that I am constitutionally incapable, thank goodness. Not to mention that my body (thankfully) has no reaction to nicotine. A waterpipe sucks the smoke down into steam before you suck it into your mouth. Very steamy. Loads of hilarious pictures.

After the tea and smoke, we headed to the theater to see Lefele a hegyrol by Arthur Miller. We sat in the front row. L. and I had to move our legs each time an actor crossed the stage. It was a wonderful play skillfully acted. I have no idea what the English title of the play is. But the story involved a Lyman Felt who has two wives. A tricky situation. I loved that on occasion I would catch myself NOT translating and just enjoying the action.

Theater for the brain needs food for the gullet. We headed out thinking that we would haunt one of our favorite bars, the Castro, a Szerb place, on Raday utca about a thirty minute walk. Not a half block from the theater, there it was: the Castro. Since our last trip here the Castro had lost its lease and moved next to the theater! No tourists here. Just important cheap haircuts, scarves, and cigarettes all a dangle during intense conversations about who knows what.

Budding Budapest

There are a few early bloomers, but most trees are still staunchly bare despite the greening lawns at their feet. Despite the lack of buds, the spring air is fresh and the city streets lined with half open jackets and scarves pulled loose. We are in Budapest for spring break this week.

The flight here was more brutal than usual, perhaps due to the sleep deficiency we carried with us from a long night of partying to celebrate a 40th birthday. After my nap this afternoon, however, I am ready to hit the streets below fanning down to the Danube and across into Pest. My mission: go and find a ticket office and buy seats for two for the theater tonight. Already my head hurts from my broken Hungarian. And now a two-hour stint sitting sans translator in a theater. It is good for my brain, I hope.

Already we have nibbled on cakes and biscuits at the Ruszwurm Cafe (I think L. was the only Hungarian not behind the cake cabinet). I have had my token cappuccino at my favorite coffee place near the Mammut shopping center. I had creamed celery soup for dinner. We attended a family birthday party where we held babies, ate meat stuffed with salami, and I retired for a ten minute nap that lasted an hour and a half. The beggar on the street was too drunk to hold out his hand as I passed by on my way to read. I reread a few chapters from "The Things They Carried" by O'Brien in the afternoon sun in Millenaris Park, where the young people also dress aggresively in black and talk loudly. I ate salami and loved it.

And it is only Monday.

Kristoff Offers Trip Opportunity for College Students and Schoolteachers

March 11, 2007 Op-Ed Columnist
New York Times
Win a Trip, and See a Different World
By NICHOLAS D. KRISTOF

Cast your eyes above and meet Hidaya Abatemam, whom I met last month in a remote area of southern Ethiopia. She is 6 years old and weighs 17 pounds.

Hidaya was starved nearly to death and may well have suffered permanent mental impairment, helping to trap her — and her own children, if she lives that long — in another generation of poverty.

Yet maybe the more interesting question is not why Hidaya is starving but why the world continues to allow 30,000 children like her to die each day of poverty.

Ultimately what is killing girls like her isn’t precisely malnutrition or malaria, but indifference. And that, in turn, arises from our insularity, our inexperience in traveling and living in poor countries, so that we have difficulty empathizing with people like Hidaya.

I often hear comments from readers like: “It’s tragic over there, but we’ve got our own problems that we have to solve first.” Nobody who has held the hand of a starving African child could be that dismissive.

That lack of firsthand experience abroad also helps explain why we are so awful at foreign policy: we just don’t “get” how our actions will be perceived abroad, so time and again — in Vietnam, China, Iran, Iraq, Lebanon, Afghanistan and Latin America — we end up clumsily empowering our enemies.

Part of the problem is that American universities do an execrable job preparing students for global citizenship. A majority of the world’s population lives on less than $2 a day, but the vast majority of American students graduate without ever gaining any insight into how that global majority lives.

According to a Roper/National Geographic poll, 38 percent of Americans aged 18 to 24 consider speaking another language to be “not too important.” Sixty-three percent of those young Americans can’t find Iraq on a map of the Middle East. And 89 percent don’t correspond regularly with anyone outside the U.S.

A survey cited by the Modern Language Association found that only 9 percent of American college students enroll in a foreign language class.

Let’s face it: We’re provincial.

That’s one reason that I always exhort college students to take a “gap year” and roam the world, or at least to take a summer or semester abroad — and spend it not in Paris or London, but traveling through Chinese or African villages. Universities should give course credit for such experiences — and offer extra credit for students who catch intestinal worms.

So I’m now putting my company’s money where my mouth is. On Tuesday, in partnership with MySpace.com, The New York Times and I will announce a second annual “win a trip” contest to choose a university student to travel with me on a reporting trip to Africa. And this year, in addition to a student, I’ll choose a schoolteacher — from a middle school or high school — to accompany me as well. We'll probably travel together to Rwanda, Burundi and Congo.

Last year I chose a young woman from Mississippi, Casey Parks, and we traveled together through central Africa. Casey and I saw malnourished children just like Hidaya, and visited burned-out villages in areas of the Central African Republic that had been caught up in the furies of the spreading Darfur genocide. Pygmy trackers led us through the jungle to see gorillas and elephants, and we managed to be held up at gunpoint by bandits.

In Cameroon, we interviewed a doctor about maternal mortality — and then found a woman named Prudence, a mother of three, dying in the next room. A dead fetus was decomposing inside her, setting off a raging infection, but the doctor didn’t care about her. And so she died. You can know intellectually that half a million women die in pregnancy each year, but it’s still shattering to see a woman die so unnecessarily in front of you.

If you win the trip, you won’t be practicing tourism, but journalism. You’ll blog and prepare videos for the New York Times and MySpace Web sites. I’m betting that you’ll be able to connect with young readers and viewers — and galvanize them to care about these issues — in a way that I can’t.

So please spread the word about the contest. Rules and applications will be posted Tuesday [March 13] at www.nytimes.com/winatrip and at www.myspace.com/kristofontheground.

And for those who apply but don’t win, go anyway on your own. You’ll learn more than you ever would from an equivalent period in the classroom. And you’ll gain not only the occasional intestinal parasite but also an understanding of why we should fight to save children like Hidaya.

To read the original article online at the New York Times, visit
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/03/11/opinion/11kristof.html

Post Argentina From Kansas

This post is penned from my home state, Kansas. I returned to Indiana on Tuesday from Buenos Aires, went to work on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, and then flew out from Chicago home to Kansas on Friday evening. I know O'Hare too well these days.

Buenos Aires deserves several extensive posts. Right there on the back of the travel guide it says it all: "Paris of the South, cafe on every corner, thick steaks, and fashionable boutiques." And yet until you walk its vibrant streets and dine on great slabs of grilled meat that bring back your faith in the virtues of beef, you can hardly believe the jewel that it is.

We stayed in a wonderful little hotel called 1555 Malabia (which is also its address) in an area of town called Palermo SoHo. The streets are crowded with cafes, restaurants, and designer boutiques. In another part of town they have the high-end international brands (Armani, etc.). Our neighborhood had local Argentine designers and the style and price ratio are literally overwhelming. Avoid the gorgeous malls, head straight for Palermo.

Of all the wonders we engorged ourselves on during our brief few days there, one of the highlights was definitely our night of tango at La Viruta, which is located minutes from our hotel in the basement of a cultural house. This is where the Argentines go to dance, and where the ex-pats go to learn. We managed to reserve a table and ordered a bottle of champagne (a break to heighten our enjoyments of the Argentine Malbec, a hearty red wine). Soon six couples emerged and strutted across the dance floor to the boisterous introductions of the "leader." We don't speak Spanish. They danced a few numbers and then the whole room assembled into three learning levels for our lessons. We were absolute beginners. It was tense at times--trying to smile our way into a clearer example via body language. But we managed to get the steps with a bit of grace to spare.

After the lesson the regular dancing began. Happily the tango numbers were interspersed with American fifties-era style songs which we managed to fake our way through. It was a wonderful night that had only begun as we left the tango place at nearly 1 am.

The rain was a wall of water.

We slipped into a restaurant next door that promised a dry table and middle-eastern food.

We ordered a Malbec and a plate of cheese, soon to be followed by the best halva I have ever eaten (and we eat a lot of it!).

The best part of this new place: A private party of about 20 Greek-Argentines celebrating the end of the school year and the start of summer. We got there as the dancing commenced. This is a restaurant--not the kind of place a group of diners would take over in Indiana, let's say. And these Greeks could really, really dance. We stayed until almost 3 am sipping our wine, watching the Greek goddesses (and one god) circle, weave, dip and "oopah" the night away right before our eyes.

The Greeks could dance, no doubt. Still they didn't come close to the smoldering tango. If only I were Argentine.

24 Hours in Argentina

This will be short. I don´t want to waste my sunshine time clacking away inside the hotel.

This is our second day in Mar del Plata, a beach town about 4 hours drive south of Buenos Aires. Yesterday a young man was making small talk with me (in English). After the first few usual topics, he asked me if I was vegetarian. Odd question unless you know that this is the land of meat. So, we ate meats--blood sausage, chorizo sausage, and a massive steak sliced and grilled before our eyes. Served slighty pink even though they didn't ask how we like it done. They just know. Divine.

We saw tango. Ate manjar (as they call it in Chile, we learned a few years ago). Walked a mile in the wrong direction (not to mention the wrong shoes). Used our umbrella on the beach (because of rain!). I took a nap. Talked to a local, who mentioned that new government restrictions have discouraged cattle production. Took a walk along the port and saw (and smelled) the local population of sea lions (very, very). Toured an aristocrat´s home, now a museum with a fantastic display of jewelry. Saw lots of stone and/or brick houses. Ate more manjar (dulce de leche).

Did I mention the cows ranging across the endless verdant plains? More grass, taller trees than in Kansas. Same oceanic skies as far as the eye can see in all directions.

24 hours in Argentina. More to come.

Wien

A weekend in Vienna:

espresso with orange liquor and cream,
boiled rump with apple horseradish, knee-high boots,
brunch everyday,streets crowded with shoppers,
Klimt, apple strudel, the symphony at 11 am, schnitzel,
Freud's House, organ concerts,
blood sausage strudel,
Beneton, Mozart, Genomics,
Mozart torte, dobos torte, The Couch, melange,
important scarves, Secession, Mango,
too much wine at dinner,
whipped cream,
Oberlaa, MQ, Demel, einhahn street,
Budapest but more, wiener,
soft-boiled eggs in egg cups and tiny spoons,
Bauhaus, bicycles, Hermann Nitsch,
bread and butter.