Alice's Restaurant

 

Kudos to the impressario

Harvesttime is best for remarking on what we have.  Perhaps our earth-dependent ancestors instilled in us the feeling of gratitude during this season of sustenance.  That or it’s a genetic guilt trip about life  “back in the day”.  Whatever the rationale, this year it was especially vital for me to recognize Thanksgiving; I have been not only living, but also thriving off the myriad opportunities available to me of late.  What’s more, being away from home, the creation of Thanksgiving was one way to bring America closer to one group of temporary expatriates.  With these mantles firmly festooned, my fellow American students and I commenced the arrangements for a shindig usually spearheaded by our elders.  (I came away with renewed respect for my parents – there are many variables to consider!)  Everyone was to bring something, and something was to bring everyone.  Space was reserved, cooking accoutrement procured, guests invited (“Thanksgiving with the Americans” was never so fitting) and apprehension built.  Certain groceries remained elusive; full turkeys are not sold in the average Hungarian supermarket.  Neither are cranberries, it seems, and sweet potatoes are few and far between.  We received Black Friday as a day off classes, but took our exam Thanksgiving morning instead of parade watching.  Afterwards, everyone began the real day’s work. 

My team was responsible for making stuffing, so we tackled the dish early to free up kitchen space for others.  There were four kitchens at our disposal, but none of them was large enough on its own and – as we would soon learn – none of them was in tiptop shape.  With five pounds of stuffing set to cool (think of the number of breadcrumbs), I went to check that the room was ready.  As I arranged tables and chairs, it occurred to me just how many people we would be serving that evening.  In addition to the 20-some people in the program, we expected our headmaster, coordinator, other teachers and Hungarian friends.  I certainly hoped we would have enough food.  With this worry creeping steadily into view, I went to kibitz with the other chefs.  Luckily, everyone was working away on his or her respective tasks.  What about the turkey?  We had found cutlets of the Thanksgiving bird and one group was working on their preparation.  Somehow, though, the ovens were not quite hot enough to cook them thoroughly.  Intensify panic. 

photo credit: the lovely Katrina Carlsen

Ignoring our pleas otherwise, the clock continued to march forward and with it came the arrival of our guests.  Since last I had assembled the room, it had been transformed with tablecloths, candles, table settings, centerpieces and the like.  With flickering flames against dimmed lighting reflected in happy eyes, the atmosphere was the right degree of sentimental and comforting.  Though the main course was still underway, all the appetizers, side dishes, and desserts made their way to the buffet.  We took our seats and the worry ebbed.  Everyone, hosts and guests alike, had the opportunity to speak specifying how this night differed from traditions at home or about emerging first impressions of this festival.  We ate, we celebrated, we talked, we laughed, and there was enough of everything.  The turkey did make a belated appearance in the end; perhaps she was just offering not to overshadow the other table stars.  Spiced pumpkin soup was a hit, green bean hot dish made a true Midwestern appearance, our stuffing hit the spot, and the salad, the lovingly stuffed cabbage, the dependable macaroni, and all the carefully crafted deserts were devoured with abandon. 

Being away from home and having to explain the significance of the holiday to our guests forced us to consider the purpose of giving thanks. I think we silently agreed: the world exposure opportunities at hand are exceptional, but even more uncommon: the collective identity we had created along the way.  In the absence of the familiar, a new entity was borne of the shared experiences in the classroom, on the road, and in the heart.  Comfortably fed with nourishment for the soul and stomach, we began the laundering and the leave-taking.  While the entire affair was far from traditional, it will remain forever memorable.

Before these crowded streets

And so, after celebratory pancakes, I consulted with Ondrej and Ondrej for some last minute advice about their hometown to which I would so soon be voyaging.  To be honest, their words were disheartening – they thought badly of the area where I would be staying and seemed convinced of my impending mugging/kidnapping/general downfall in the face of debauchery.  Despite their confidence, I met my bus and rolled into the night.  Then, I got off the bus and did not get lost finding the hostel.  The hostel was clean, safe and friendly.  Then next morning, they even gave me breakfast.  So far, Prague was proving a most hospitable city.

Playing the tourist can be fun and challenging.  Of course, given the nature of my recreational visit, I was indeed a tourist, but no one wants to admit this.  I did my best not to share the appearance of the wide-eyed elderly couples with whom I shared the sidewalk en route to the Old Town Square.  The amazement aspect of their expressions was difficult not to adopt; the proud buildings strutted on all sides with impressive confidence.  Around the gothic–looking fountain, many free tours were advertised in a variety of languages.  I sidled up to the English speakers and let them lead me through the Jewish Quarter.  All the synagogues and the cemetery here make up the parts of one of the largest collective museums.  It was here that the Jewish residents of Prague were relegated in the centuries of yore.  Here, the mythical Golem was born of the Earth to protect against crusaders outside the ghetto walls.  Here, the Synagogue perhaps bearing my name resides.  The Old New Synagogue, Alt-Neu Shul is still an operational place of worship – in fact Shabbos services kept me from peeking inside.  Luckily, there are many beautiful Jewish buildings to sample.  I thought the Spanish Synagogue was a gem of architecture.  The existential statue of Franz Kafka right outside the Spanish Synagogue was also neat, though somewhat unrelated to the rose windowed palace behind it.  Despite the segregation of the Jews in Prague for several centuries, they prospered and so did the area.  Today, the finest boutiques are found along Parizska Street, so named for its resemblance to a French boulevard. 

It was only after an hour of educational tourage and our return to the Square that the guide sidled up to me to inform me that this, unlike the others, was not actually a free tour.  Therefore, independently, slightly embarrassed, but also content in that I had seen all of that area I had hoped to see, I set off.  I was evicted just in time to see the famous clock tower show in which the hour is celebrated at the historic church with live action music and performance from the top of the tower.  Now engulfed by the mass of the tourist crowd I had so expressly disavowed, I was ferried toward the river.  Prague, you see, is much akin to Budapest in its construction.  A river separates two halves of a city once divided.  A flat commercialized half is now accessible to a hilly castle-bearing half by a series of bridges.  In Prague, one such of these connective structures is the historic Charles Bridge traversable only by foot traffic.  Originally the only method of crossing the mighty Vltava River, the bridge is now it a popular destination and purveyor of vendors.  Among the Baroque statues,you can find caricaturists, street musicians, and amateur jewelers.  Merchants peddle their wares there where bicyclists pedal.  On the far shore, I walked along what is actually an island, delineated by a thin offshoot of the River.  Kampa, as is it known, hosts some small shops and a sculpture garden.  After a needed stop-off in a quaint (and centrally heated) independent bookstore, I was on foot again. 

The subtitle of my journey abroad should have been something about ascent or heighth.  In addition to moral improvement, I have repeatedly pursued the highest point from which to view the places I have been and perhaps the destinations I will be reaching.  This adventure would be no exception, for while not planned, I had come to the park containing Petřín Tower, observatory and highest point in all Prague.  The tower itself is not enormously tall, but it stands on an impressive hill, giving it the leg-up it needs to survey the city skyline.  Up this hill I climbed, sweating in the cold, glad I had left my roller-skates at home.  Petřín resembles the Eifel tower, but is quite different in its conception.  Octagonal rather than square in base, for instance, Petřín winds upwards.  There are two alternating staircases and an elevator running through the core.  For reduced cost and added punishment, I elected to take the stairs, and my climb continued.  The clear afternoon offered an engaging vantage point and the opportunity to plot the remainder of my course. 

I descended through the gardens, and then scaled still higher to the castle beyond.  Looking out over the vista spilling out before me, the sun setting with the coy blush of a first date departure, I realized how lucky I was to be alive and exploring the sights of this world.  After I wandered through the grounds and made faces at the stony expressioned guards, I followed the path back down to the river.  The colors of the sky slowly drained as if sipped by a thirsty giant just over the horizon.  Just when I thought it could not get darker, all the lights of the city ignited simultaneously.  The streetlamps were of the older design that gives off an insufficient golden yellow light in isolation, which somehow shines bright collectively.  This illumination was reflected in the eyes of the passerby as I ambled back among the crowded streets.  Just as I thought to look for provisions, I came upon a little Czech restaurant with a promoter out front.  I could tell his spiel had gone unspled, so I accepted his invitation inside.  So validated, he told the hostess to give me a discount.  This only gave me license to enjoy all the more.  The food was delicious and I went back to the hostel happy to seek some shuteye before the ride back.

PS: Just as I was getting up to catch the bus (circa 5:30am), my hostel roommates were just getting back from their nighttime revelry.  Pesky meddling kids. 

Cave of Wonders

 “What is caving?” you may ask.  According to the email description invitation, it would be an underground hike.  Sure, we would have to wear headlamps and might get a little dirty, but nothing strenuous.  False.  Headmaster Gabor is of the hard-core variety of fella and the spelunking expedition he led was no exception. Spelunking has long been a life goal of mine and the evening's adventure fulfilled my every wish.

After making our way out into the Buda Hills, we suited up and trekked to the cavern mouth.  The professionals come to guide us actually had suits appropriate for the conditions, while we amateurs simply assumed our dingiest garb.  Though it was a frigid autumn evening, with temperatures outside in the single Celsius range, the cave maintains a constant climate of comfortable earthy scope.  Our “moderate intensity” experience began by splitting into smaller groups, assigning guides to each and descending the long ladder into the depths.  While I consider myself a seasoned purveyor of the wilderness, what followed was anything but moderate.  We climbed up and down, winding deeper and deeper into the abyss.  At times on hands and knees, else flat on stomach or back, we wound through crags that did not seem large enough to permit passage.  The ground was not always level, but could be bypassed by exerting pressure on both walls and working one’s way forward by hook and crook.  Some ledges needed surmounting others begged to be alighted.  Progress was attained single file at an inching pace, which was fast enough for us.  Our guides were very encouraging and optimistic, though I bet they were laughing internally all the while; we stumbled like the blind, or rather worse, for it is common for blind spelunkers to excel in the caves.  I took the benefit of battery-powered flashlights for granted until I knocked mine from my helmet and plunged myself briefly into the all-encompassing darkness (relax, I found it again).  Along the way, our guides challenged us to feats – climb onto that shelf and clap your hands and feet, wiggle through this hole, etc. – making the experience a struggle for both body and mind.  The hardest part, I think we agree, was a v-shaped gully wide on top but too thin to climb along the bottom.  The key was to attack it sideways, one arm supporting the body, and worm through.  We felt quite related to our nematode neighbors afterwards – and likely resembled them too, given the coating of earth and clay we took with us.

Against anyone’s better judgment, my camera followed me into the darkness.The need for longer f-stops also leads to some blurriness. Apertures are finicky that way.Forgive and enjoy.

There is a Hike

There is a ridge.  Nothing special, maybe: a rise in the earth, over which one may traverse.  Over this ridge, there is a bridge of weathered concrete and corrugated metal.  The bridge stands sturdy, but the surface is vaguely concave from the worn pattern of travelers that have crossed this way in time.  The bridge permits travel over the sort of creek that is neither forbidding nor treacherous, but requires bypassing all the same.  There is a fork of the Robert Frost variety offering three tines: to the left along the tree line, to the right along the adolescent creek, or forward and up into the hills.  Loyal reader, I know I need not tell you which direction I took, but nevertheless, I took Yogi Berra’s advice and the fork before journeying onward. 

There is a time.  Not an exact hour or an occasion worthy of calendar marking, but a series of fleeting moments that must be encountered and not captured.  There is a time late in the day when the light is reading over your shoulder surreptitiously.  There is a time in the greater half of autumn when the pigments of the natural world gain enough confidence to flirt coyly from across a crowded forest.  There is a time when life seems to neither sprint away nor drag burdensome on your untied shoelaces.  There is a time when the synchrony of all other factors blend together more pleasingly then diligently tuned bass fiddlers wearing matching tweed vests.  The amalgamation of moments of comfort and beauty as I ambled along the woodsy paths delighted me, but also grounded me.

There is a haze.  It isn’t a fog exactly, but a thickness of the air that magnifies distance and transmutes every scene into a Luminist work from the later mid 19^th century.  A haze hangs over Hungary in a way unlike any other principality or air vapor system.  This haze is practically tangible and it is especially apparent when you surmount a final bluff and make a turn overlooking a clearing.  This haze catches the low sunlight in striations, lazy crosshatches on the horizon.  The air is just thick enough to become a screen onto which you may project your imagined focus, a scrim concealing what actually dances casually on the stage of possibility. 

There is a chill.  Not necessarily a very cold, shiver-causing sort, but a deep-rooted shake inducing kick.  There is a chill that sneaks up on you like a forgotten realization, an irksome deadline, or a mischievous younger brother.  This chill originates just above the small in your back, tickling outward in small rivulets of vigilance.  At first, the onset of this convulsion may seem without cause, but time will reveal this is the harbinger of change.  Just as every pot has its lid, so too every moment has a potential corresponding connection if only it can be found.  Maybe, when this cosmic connection comes to fruition, the body is overcome with fulfillment; the overflow is expressed through a brief inexplicable augural motion, departed before it is welcomed.  I stared into the haze, a brief tremor passing through me, at the figures in the clearing below me.  I could not make out exactly what they were doing, why they were gathered, or the purpose of it all, but I was resolved to learn.

There is a force.  It isn’t brazen or lauded like some, but it is unrelenting it its constancy.  Modesty is its anthem, for this force keeps all things grounded.  Merit should be awarded to the defiant, but the lofty have furthest to fall.  Imagine my surprise, then, when upon closer inspection I discovered the small band of ruffians I had spied from on high were in fact organized for just such a revolt.  With gaudy costume and ornate equipment, the first took his position, jettisoned forwards, and took to the skies.  A brief chill ran down my spine as I looked up just in time to see the man steer his hang glider into the haze and disappear over the ridge.

There is a story.  Not one reserved for bedtime, though those can be most enjoyable.  There is a story of background behind every shared experience.  Such stories need not be spoken upon, written of, illustrated, or recorded.  They thrive in a shared glance, a subtle touch, and a knowing smile.  But pictures never hurt.  Peruse a few after the break, dear reader.

Revelry on the Ramparts

I do not mean to pick a fight, but throughout history, Hungary has struggled to find themselves on the winning side of a battle.  My experience with stubborn vendors in the market may suggest otherwise, but consider if you will with whom this nation found themselves in the last two world wars.  Slim pickings.  There is, however, one notable exception: in the mid 16^th century, a small band of haughty Hungarians held off the mighty Ottoman Empire forces while the city of Eger was under siege.  Despite superior numbers and firepower, The Turks were repelled, and though they waited, even putting the castle under siege, never breached the walls.  Obviously, they did not think to take the train – when my fellows and I travelled to Eger last week, it was a relatively simple jaunt by rail.

While the city may be small, its rich history is reflected in the small details – the narrow alleys, the cobbled streets, and the higgledy-piggledy layout.  Eger represents a collision of times and cultures.  Modern Hungary here rests on the foundation of the many peoples that occupied the space before.  Several churches of various denominations and constructions dot the landscape – far more than the humble population requires.  There are some architectural relics of the Ottoman occupation still.  Just off the main square, you can find an ancient looking minaret.  The hewn stone edifice rises proudly above the surrounding tiled roofs, as would have been beneficial to usher fellow townspeople to mosque.  Given that the subtitle of my journey has been to surmount every apex I encounter, it was only natural that I made the perilous climb up the steep stone steps scarcely wide enough to permit my humble frame.  Combining a pristine view of the historic castle with the emanating vineyards beyond, the vista was reward enough.  A delight indeed, but I stand by my conviction that the Egerians should install a slide for the downward journey. 

Lunch was delicious, as always, this iteration coming from a small restaurant on the square.  I think the proprietors would have preferred to serve us dishes that were more expensive, but cold afternoons call for hearty soups, not epicurean caviar.  Afterwards, we climbed uphill to our accommodations, a house and a room with a view.  I do not invoke E.M. Forster in vain – I could actually see much of Eger proper from my bedroom window.  Maybe I did not have to go climbing minarets after all.  Following a brief m’nucha, we made like the mighty Turks and headed for the castle.  Maybe it was our lack of heavy artillery, or maybe it was my intimidating disposition, but we just walked through the gates.  Security must not be what it used to be.  Highly fortified walls these days protect some historically accurate activities (archery) and some that most likely were not available during the siege (3-D movie theatre) but all of which contributed to our rip-roaring medieval themed good time. 

Later that evening, we had a taste of a wine tasting, including many of Eger’s most famous libations.  Bull’s Blood wine, or Bikavér, is among the eminent exports of Eger, so named for its profound burgundy ruddiness and purported brawn accentuating characteristics.  As the legend goes, during the siege, the rebels broke open the fruit of their root cellars for strength and fortitude.  The superstitious Turks assumed the beverage was actually the blood of bulls imparting animal strength unto the drinker.  I say it looked pretty wine like and left me feeling no stronger than before but maybe I am doing it wrong.  The wineries are housed in catacombs beneath the vineyard, yielding an authentic wine drinking experience with earthen walls, musky odors, and controlled temperatures for storage. 

Luca woke us the next morning with pastries and tea.  We were headed for another relic of the past, the Turkish baths.  Fed by a natural spring, the baths has served practical, recuperative, and social purposes for residents of Eger for ages.  The baths are comprised of six or so geologically warmed pools of water of varying temperatures capable of washing away qualms with the contaminants.  Although the baths were not historically coed, the facilities were open to members of both genders to consort and socialize among themselves.  Luckily for our multitudinously attributed group, this is no longer the policy.  I found vast placation in the mirror pool, a calm 30° Celsius, but the outdoor children’s pool was an attraction not to miss.  Bouts in the sauna, steam room, radioactive distillation, and Jacuzzi combined to melt the last trace of apprehension from my mind and body.  While they struggled with the whole concept of militant belligerence, they sure knew how to handle leisureliness.

As easily as we entered the city, we departed again with a certain added calming glow, though who is to say if the baths or the wine is to blame?

Just another day

It is unjust that these pages should be reserved for the exceptional experiences, a statement which itself implies the uncatalogued events are anything but.  Take for instance the class our Headmaster Gabor taught on the History of Philosophy.  In this series of text-based discussions, we had the chance to answer for ourselves age-old quandaries on the nature of being, knowledge, and higher powers.  These questions are not inherently based in cognitive pursuits, but they are relevant to any intellectual discussion.  Still, when you put two dozen cognitive scientists in a room after sharing common evocative readings, the discussion inevitably turns to the topics on everyone’s mind.  Gabor is well regarded, cherished even, as our headmaster.  He is the one who acts as our advocate, assuring that we are enjoying the program fully.  I worried, then, if expectations for his class would be overly lofty, if Gabor would struggle to retain his positive regard.  Luckily, having heard our critiques of prior professors, Gabor had everything in his favor from the getgo.  The openness of the topic combined with our professor’s comfort with us and the field led to a learning experience for everyone involved.  Talking about philosophy always makes me reconsider what is real.

the next day, the branches were bare

There is an opportunity to return to reality at the weekly collegium soccer game.  There are few better ways to clear a question-clouded head than with fresh air, I find.  Luckily, I have ingratiated myself with the group of Hungarians in the dorm who host the ritual game.  Running around, even if I make a fool of myself, I know I will feel that much better, livelier, invigorated.  On nonsoccer days, then, I pursue the fresh air through solo efforts, by running to Margaret Island, a few kilometers away.  The brisk autumn air inspires some to bundle up, but in truth, there is no better climate in which to exercise.  Running along the river’s edge, I am greeted by many pedestrians, the wind off the water’s crest, and innumerable vistas of both shorelines.  Running along the same path every couple of days throughout the last month allows me to monitor seasonal progress.  Something like the ratio of leaves overhead to those underfoot might be a good way to systematize my experience, but I prefer to attempt to catch the leaves as our paths cross.  When enough specimens are present on the walkway, my passage creates a chromatic wake.  Thus far, I have not gotten myself lost or had any run-ins with dogs.

Although coffeehouses were against the law here about half a century ago, they have returned to Budapest with caffeinated alacrity.  It is true, where once it was forbidden to meet for a hot beverage or heated discussion, the custom has readily returned.  It is to one of these places of stimulation that I retreat for refreshment and advancement after a midafternoon jaunt.  Such sophisticated surroundings are ideal for academic readings, especially in the vein of philosophy.  What’s more, such outings give me the opportunity to create narratives about the other patrons from behind the veil of the steam from my green tea.  They don’t seem to mind, nor are they any help, given that they insist on conversing in languages beyond my ready comprehension.  But so it goes, and so do I, all in the course of a day’s work.

Traveling with Mozart

Budapest is notable for its cultural assets and centrality within Europe.  From here is it not difficult to travel down the Danube to other capital cities.  I took the bus to Vienna (Wien, colloquially) on a brisk Saturday morning and enjoyed the sunrise over the plains en route.  The bus let out at a station on the perimeter of the city, giving me two choices: I could buy a pass and ride the subway into the downtown, or I could just start walking toward the city center.  With camera in hand and the early light at my back, my decision was easily palpable.  Never knowing exactly where I was, everything took on a flavor of mystery, but I plodded on and duly encountered some idiosyncratic characters followed by some flummoxing spectacles.  Shops offering 8-tracks and phonographs beckoned to me.  Perhaps it was the early hour or the nonbusinessness of the day, but unfortunately, these franchises were not engaging in commerce, so I was relegated to negotiating with the frosty-glassed portals.  My stint of time travel would have to be postponed.  Each storefront and building offered to whisper secrets, but I was deaf to much because my budding understanding of Hungarian Awning labels was no help in the deciphering of this German.  Austrian tweenage hooligans returned me to the present reality, darting in slalom fashion betwixt the few pedestrian passengers like myself making their way onwards.  I suspected I was headed in the right direction because foot traffic intensified evermore as the wrist-bound clock hands climbed.  One avenue led to a boulevard, then to a causeway that opened onto a thoroughfare, which in turn clearly led to a gorgeous (and heavily populated) square.  My shutter release button could not keep up with the vistas and artistic sights beheld, so I took my time exploring the locality.  Fountains, sculptures, accordion players, gargantuan tour groups, Johannes Brahms, a lone yogi, and ostentatiously chlorophyll deprived leaves all captured the entirety of my imagination and reality in turn.

From this central circus, it was also possible to orient myself onwards.  Following a languishingly tempting stroll through an open market, a much-needed Austrian hot chocolate, a stop in an ingenuous playground and a perusal of the mercantile borough, I made my way to the hostel where I met my fellow travelers.  Including Professor Erdi, who came along to point out the best sights, we numbered three quarters of a baker’s dozen.  We oriented ourselves towards the museum quarter; Vienna has an impressive collection of storehouses for their wide array of culture.  Ambling over cobblestones shared by horse drawn carriages, I felt that my own symphony composing abilities were augmented by osmosis.  The Art Nouveau edifices were in sharp contrast with the modern street performances occurring in their lee.  When walking turned to trudgery, though, it was time to replenish in true Viennese style, with Sachertorte, the famous chocolate decadence.  Next, we went to the opera house and put in for balcony real estate: the deal is that an hour before each performance, standing room is sold off to the first half gaggle in line for 2€ apiece.  The marquee proclaimed Verdi’s La Traviata, and this is precisely what was performed.  You may choose against taking my word, though, because we know you get what you pay for, and it was only possible to see 5/12 of the stage.  The music was quite enjoyable and from what I could tell, the company had taken a minimalist conception of scenery and costumes.  Urbane discernment takes a lot out of a person, so by the curtain call, it was clearly time for a meal.  We found a traditional type Austrian restaurant near the hostel and ate heartily and to great content.  Someone needs to define “egg barley” for me.  Subsequently, we ventured back to the welcoming arms of just-too-stiff bunk beds.

Shonbrunn: fit for a queen

The following morning after another exorbitant meal (who thought it was a good idea to serve repast in all-you-can-eat style to weary travelers?), our company made our way to Schönbrunn Palace, imperial residence of the Habsburgs.  This is the largest building I have ever seen to house a single family, but it was spectacular to tour inside.  Every surface reflects the monumental wealth with which these rulers were burdened.  Each room has a purpose – for playing cards, for receiving foreign visitors, for combing the queen’s hair – and the tour did not even cover the entirety of the manse.  The accompanying gardens make the extravagance within seem trivial in comparison.  Behind this house there are acres of hills, impeccably manicured to the last pine needle, including a labyrinth, a zoo, a public pool, a private flower garden, greenhouses, monuments, secret alcoves, ad infinitum.  Before we arrived, I doubted we could possibly need a full day to see the attractions at some palace, but I was more than mistaken.  To start, we climbed up to the top of the hill, then to the top of the templum, and from there took in the glory of the palace grounds, Vienna, and the world beyond.  I must admit, when we faced the labyrinth next, I was skeptical of the challenge and confident about my abilities to conquer whate’er I found therein.  Again, I was put in my place when I discovered the lofty hedges, grown to impenetrable profusion.  

maybe it looks easier from above...

At each turn, I expected to encounter a sphinx (or at least a blast-ended skrewt) but was equally befuzzled when it was another dead end.  I escaped in time, for I am writing this, but mum is the word on the duration required.  Baby animals improved everyone’s mood afterwards when we perused the zoo.  My friend Ashley heard that this particular zoo proffered giant pandas including a new baby pandaling!  The panda enclosure, then, was a high priority destination.  Of course, the fuzzy inhabitants were all in a deep slumber, but so it goes.  We unlike our black and white clad friends had work in the morning, so begged adieu, enjoyed the other exhibits, and then headed for the train station.  There was time to stop in a nice little restaurant before we hit the road.  Over his plate of fried foods, Paul summarized it nicely: “Wien is the schnitz.”

Hello Darkness, my old friend

See?

My last post may have implied that there is only good to be found in entities rich in color.  While I do love the chromatic joys of this world, it is only fair to consider what life would be like without this spectral benefit.  My investigation took me to an aptly named show in Pest entitled “The Invisible Exhibition” which seeks to simulate the life of the blind for a sighted population.  After depositing watches, phones, and any other light producing device in the designated drawers, my friends and I followed our tour guide, a blind woman, into the museum.  A heavy curtain swathed out any possible light sources from the lobby – inside was an overwhelming darkness.  To navigate, we needed to rely completely on the tactile information supplied by hands and feet.  Each room evoked a new scenario – a city street, a home kitchen, and a forest wilderness – complete with obstacles to make the experience even more real.  A real working café inside the exhibit forced us to try to negotiate a transaction sans sight, but it was made all the more difficult by the foreign currency.  I especially liked the statue park where the only way to enjoy the aesthetics was by getting in contact with the art – surely something forbidden in any other display.  The tour lets out in a room (lit!) containing tools to aid those with vision struggles.  In addition to Braille literature, we noticed the speaking computer, a grooved chess set, several tactile puzzles, and some specialized cooking utensils.  While our time in the exhibit was really only about an hour, the effects were lasting.  What is intended as a social experiment to initiate tolerance and consideration is also a case study for cognitive science.  Even in the space of that hour, my ability to locate my friends in the dark improved.  Such examples call into question how we allocate the resources of our brains and utilize our sensory input.  Without making any puns about opening my eyes or enlightenment, I would like to remark on how this outing was quite informative.  Several times, I found myself getting anxious, grasping at empty air or turned around.  All too often, my eyes played tricks on me and I saw shadows or flashes of light.  I learned something, sure, but I came to appreciate something I usually do not even think about. 



Color My World

It is possible not only to take pictures of the brain, but also to identify what parts are active at a given time, what stimuli cause activity, and how different regions are interconnected.  This and more was conveyed to me through some of the best lectures to date in Brain Imaging.  While I am not quite ready to perform a lobotomy independently yet, the course provided me with the means to really understand how fMRI is used in modern studies.  At the root of the topic, though, are some colorful pictures of the brain.  In Imaging, colors can communicate critical information about health, neural processing, and cognitive hierarchy.  However, the week past has shown me that colors are integral to every aspect of how we live. 

Stepping out of my dorm, this truth is epitomized by the myriad responses to the new atmospheric briskness, the turning of deciduous trees, the glowing cheeks of the passerby, the mountainous spectrum of garb concealing the school age children hastening both hither and thither.  In the rush of pedestrians crossing the square, there is a fair share of colorful language.  The farm stand on the sidewalk corner boasts a harvest cornucopia of color.

Votes are in: a beauty

Obviously, though, the week would not be complete without some added color.  Budapest has some valuable collections of color, one of which is housed in the Museum of Fine Art, where Eva happens to be a docent.  Not one to pass up a free ticket or tour, I jumped on the metro after class and perused the works of the masters.  Organized by regions, the museum’s collection includes most of the major movements, with contributions by some of the Old Masters, several notable Spanish painters, and even a few 19^th and 20^th century impressionist submitters.  The exhibit was nice, but I didn’t find it remarkable compared with some of the world class collections I have toured until Eva pointed out that the entire museum was nearly destroyed during the second world war.  A few photographs remain of the galleries practically demolished and filled with the snow of January 1945.  It is actually quite astonishing that I have the opportunity to wander among such colorful examples of so many styles of art at all. 

Everyone in the program had the chance to experience another colorful field trip when we toured the Parliament.  The most heavily guarded building in Budapest is also the most ornately decorated.  I could almost feel the wealth and beurocracy rubbing off as I admired the hand-sewn carpets and gold leaf gilded pillars.  The coronation jewels of the St Istvan, First king and pope-recognized bringer of Christianity to Hungary, are also proudly exhibited in the adorned halls.  I learned that the council reverted to a unicameral system in the middle of the 20^th century, but continue to use human stenographers to document parliamentary procedure.  Despite the largess and largeness of hall, the tour did not last very long.  Every year, exactly half of the building is under renovation because of the intense upkeep required of the fanciness.  I will have to come back next year to see the other half!  Still, I saw enough to sate my appetite for color.

Animal House

Cognitive Ethology is the study of animal behavior; a department that seeks to answer what aspects of evolution, development, biological mechanism, and action determine what animals do. This specific yet applicable subset of Cognitive Science was the centerpiece of the last week of classes. When you consider that “animal behavior” does not exclude humans, it becomes especially clear how this course of study is relevant. However, many topics are certainly not exclusive to humans: learning, memory, communication, and attention. The lectures for this week were fun because they included videos and sound clips of exotic creatures demonstrating unique behaviors. Recordings are helpful teaching tools, and the collection of examples was useful when it came time to take our test, but afterwards my friends and I decided we needed the real thing. This weekend we voyaged to the zoo! Budapest Zoo is a lovely oasis of wildlife with an impressive cross section of biomes represented. You can find an aquarium here along with land and air animals from Africa, Asia, and the Americas. It was nice to hang out with the sloth and chill for a while with the polar bear, but I noticed some interesting differences with my zoological experiences from home. For one, patrons are encouraged to feed the animals. “Zoo Titbits” (a brusque version of tidbits) are sold at all the concession stands to toss into enclosures. It is also possible to encounter many of the zoo inhabitants personally: pet the giraffes, feed the gibbons from your own hand, carry a macaw on your shoulder and pirate some DVDs, etc. What I don’t know is if the Budapest Zoo is simply lax, or if all the others zoos I have seen are overprotective of their clientele. Still, we enjoyed the freedoms afforded to us, exercised our new knowledge of animalisms, and all for minimal cost thanks to a double discount (being both students and a party of 10).

Cognitive Ethology provides the opportunity to evaluate the animal behavior you have seen in others, but also in yourself. The timing of this class and its inherent offer of reflection were well timed to coincide with the New Year. Were my triumphs and trials in the year past the result of evolution? Are my decisions the product of animal instinct? These questions mingled with consecration and reflection as I went to observe and celebrate the Holy Day. While far from home, I carried my family with me (I carried them in my heart) when I went to synagogue with my new friend, Eva. The small sanctuary was ornate, each pew marked with the name of the evening’s occupant, necessitating division by gender. My neighbors welcomed me and I found that the traditional Hebrew well wishes provided a universal language we could share. Admittedly, it was strange to follow the service conducted as it was in Hungarian. Melodies and liturgy, though, were all familiar to me – worldly constants and elements onto which I latched to derive meaning and tradition. Luckily, I had a home cooked Rosh Hashana dinner to enjoy that night, even though it would not be from my own home. Eva guided me to the apartment of her in-laws where I found another worldly constant of the holiday: the urging of Jewish mothers to eat beyond one’s appetite! I took my fill (and more) of matzo ball soup, salads, and chicken paprika. Everything was delicious, it’s true, but I do not know how well I relayed my appreciation to the hostess. “Köszönöm, minden finom volt!” Clearing your plate turns out to be another univeral. Celebration continued the next day with a wandering tour of the Jewish district, which was an appropriate choice for the season, but also a foolish one because most businesses were closed. After an afternoon studying in a coffeeshop there, I ended the day with sweet things – challah, fresh autumn apples (Jonathons!), organic honey from the street fair, and Nutella of course. Walking back, I cast my crumbs into the Danube, my taschlich and symbolic cleansing of sins from the year past. Watching the ducks converge, I thought about the coming year. One mallard hung back patiently and allowed a fortuitous braided chunk to float into his waiting beak. Shana Tova Umetukah!

Taught in the crosshairs



Lenin; awfully smug



Were I at Carleton this term, doubtless I would find myself swimming in readings and assignments for my various classes.  It is a burden to be separated from my dear colleagues in Northfield, but I do not envy them the typical workload that greets them each evening.  This is not to say I lack any independent assignments, but the format of learning differs so from the Carleton convention.  Our lectures in biological neuroscience this week, for instance, stood alone without any supplementary readings.  Some might see this as a relief; lo, time off, ah glee!  It goes without blogging, then, that I begged to differ and took this as a challenge!  If no homework were to be assigned, then it would be my task to seek some.  Alas, public libraries are difficult to come by, and their collections are comprised of works beyond my comprehension.  Thus, I was charged to locate a proprietor offering books in the English language.  My quest took me to Vaci utca, a touristy shopping district on the Pest side.  No surprise; I was inundated with souvenir shops, gelato offerings, and overpriced restaurants.  Press on, I did.  Vaci utca turns to Oktober 6 ut, which is where I found BestSellers, the only English language bookstore in Budapest.  I assigned myself readings in Steven Pinker and Dan Ariely leaving room for a perusal of the fiction section, too.  Great success. 

My next assignment would be one of history; Stephanie, Patrick and I trammed out the Kerepesi Cemetery to pay our respects to some of Hungary’s past elite.  This is the final resting place of a majority of artists, writers, and leaders from the last few centuries.  As befits such public figures, the grave markers here reflect drama, grandeur, and sorrow.  Sculptures adorn many plots – the most benevolent are awarded decorative personal mausoleums.  Part of the challenge of this visit was discovering each martyrs claim to fame.  Though it had been a cheery Indian summer type of afternoon, as we strolled among the embodied epitaphs (many doubling as epigrams…) the environment responded in kind, becoming ever more chilled and gray.  I learned a lot by admiring this collection of history, but the lesson was to continue.  After the exam a few days later, I boarded the 150 Bus and headed out of the city southwest to Memento Park.  This is the place where the governing powers relocated Communist statuary after the Wall fell.  The pieces were not destroyed but rather preserved as a testament to the past and provocation toward the future.  As previously discussed, the Hungarians identify themselves through the lens of history.  Like in the graveyard, the stones that patrol the park fill the observer with particular emotions.  I was impressed with the narratives the collection expressed – one of toil and triumph.  As my education continues, I hope to earn a passing grade.



(Red Cross Country Team)



Slake your thirst

Pedal Boats, a daytime rainbow,
a nighttime perch

 After a rigorous week at study, it is always a good idea to kick back, put one’s hypothetical feet in the air, and breathe deeply.  Luckily, I had the opportunity to do just that when I went with eight other people on a cross-country jaunt to Lake Balaton.  The largest body of water in Central Europe is often known as the Hungarian Sea because it resides completely inside the borders of Hungary.  Balaton is among the most popular retreat destination around during all seasons for its natural beauty and outdoor activities offerings.  This bounty of plenty glimmers in the late sunlight about two hours from Budapest by train.  We knew we would have to make a transfer somewhere along the way, but without the ability to translate the timetable we relied on the kindness of strange conductors.  Scoff, you may, but we arrived in one of the larger resort towns along the northern shore without any difficulty and noticed the difference immediately.  The air smelled fresher and the ambiance warmer, though we had not travelled all that far.  Balatonfüred is a quiet community supported by the summertime travelers who frequent the luxury hotels and restaurants.  September, it seems, is at the tail end of this season and so very few other travelers sidled alongside us as we ambled down the main streets toward our lodgings.   Every day when you are walking down the street, everybody that you meet has an original point of view. Hey? 

We reserved two bungalows in a resort area overlooking the lake.  We had the camp almost to ourselves and promptly capitalized on this by joining the ducklings in a predusk dip.  The water was marginally chilly, but in a crisp exhilarating sort of way.  Though closed for the year, the shoreline was riddled with slides and attractions.  Still open, the marina boasted a few dozen yachts and sailboats, many moored like dancers off stage, while others spun and jumped on the waves in the distance.  We let the mariners capture our attention as we dried lazily on the beach and sampled in moderation the famous wine of Balaton vineyards.  The area is particularly fertile thanks to volcanic soil and a temperate Mediterranean climate.  Speaking of which, as the air lost its daytime warmth we retreated to the bungalows to piece together a meal and grab extra layers before returning to the shoreline to gaze up at the now clearly revealed night expanses.  A row of pedal boats moored for the season provided an ideal vantage point from which to take in the cloudless universal vista.  I regretted having to arise early the next morning, until in passing this same spot I witnessed the contrapositive as the sun rose over the lake.  

Soak it in

One of his stories

In the same way that America holds democracy, Hungary holds history.  Awareness of where one has been illuminates the possible places one can go.  This central truth is expressed in Hungary’s cultural identity.  I want to truly integrate myself into the places I find myself, so I will expose myself to real cultural experiences.  The first opportunity to take on this challenge came when we enjoyed a night at the opera.  The Hungarian State Opera House was built to honor Hungary’s millennial anniversary as a nation and so justly reflects certain decadence.  I think this is one of the finest buildings in Budapest, and it’s undoubtedly one of the most fun to tour because of the many recognizable statues and art pieces found decorating the space.  The main entry is guarded by statues of Franz Liszt, Hungary’s most famous composer, and Ferenc Erkel, the composer of Hungary’s national anthem and the opera we came to see: Bánk bán.  The auditorium is not the biggest, but it is said to possess the third best acoustics in Europe (after La Scala in Milan and the Palais Garnier in Paris – I will have to pay these places a visit and decide for myself…).  I can attest to the quality of sound conduction here because our seats were in the balcony, but we could hear perfectly.  We chose this particular show because it is unofficially the national opera of Hungary.  The rationale behind this designation escapes me, for the story itself is awfully depressing and rife with angst.  In short, the viceroy of a 13^th century Hungarian king tries to defend his wife’s honor while combating poverty, but ends up committing regicide and facing the unrelated homicide/suicide of his son and wife.  Still, the music is emotional and the libretto quite moving, even if I couldn’t really understand a word.  The native audience was certainly appreciative of the performance; they called for several repeat curtain calls.  I was quite fascinated with the way the crowd applauded – the collective clapping quickly evolved into a synchronized slow clap which seemed out of place compared with the class of patrons and the elegant environment.  This behavior aside, I felt honored to sit in this historic building among true Hungarians to witness a piece of their identity enacted.

My cultural education continued the following day when, after class, I went to Heroes’ Square with a few of my fellows.  This public space was created around the same time as the Opera House and it has a lot of historical significance.  There are statues here in honor of the seven tribes that came together to form the Hungarian state and more to lionize the individuals most formative in the nation’s history.  There is also a general memorial here dedicated “To the memory of the heroes who gave their lives for the freedom of our people and our national independence”.  History is a big deal.  Heroes’ Square is not only a testament to history – it is also a stage for meaningful events.  It was here that most of the statues were toppled by Soviet leaders and replaced by Marxist iconography early in the 20^th century.  It was here that one of the leaders of the 1956 rebellion sought sanctuary.  The square leads into a beautiful city park, Városliget, which plays host to a number of museums, restaurants, and sights including a thermal bath, a zoo, an amusement park, a flea market, a botanical garden, and even a circus.  All of the content was far too overwhelming for our afternoon visit, but we took in these vistas and resolved to return in time.  The park is quite large and far enough away from the hustle of the business sector, that it was restfully quiet and restorative to sit beneath the willow trees at length.  Lounging in the shade as we were, I started to feel in tune with the history unfolding around me.

Let the games begin

Amid all the fun and games, let’s not forget that I came to this faraway land of carburetors and vitamin c to learn.  The first class of the term, rather fittingly, was entitled Introduction to Cognitive Science.  Through lecture and discussion, we established the interdisciplinary parameters of the field and sought to recognize the essential questions posed by theory and discovery.  These initial lessons were chock full of information along a wide continuum of topics.  Having diverse opinions of what constitutes cognitive science and noting the number of different relatable fields reinvigorates my intrigue in this field of study.  My program is made up of students of mathematics, philosophy, psychology, and design in addition to the cognitive science majors like myself.  Thus, not only is the field heterogeneous, but our little class stands as a reasonable cross-section of the greater composition.  Everyone had something unique to contribute to our consideration of informatics, logic, and neural networks.

We had our first class in Hungarian culture this week, also.  Our instructor, Maria, is dedicated to using “didactic, but effective” anecdotes and experiences to expose us to her native culture.  She is going to teach us about food, history, music, and politics.  The homework for her class is often simply to go somewhere or see something.  Truth: I’ve never been instructed to eat pastries as a mandatory assignment before.  Truth: I am willing to oblige such orders.  It has become clear that while our weekly appointments are established for our edification, Maria is terribly curious about our perspectives as Americans, as tourists, and as “young people”, which means that we, like all good students, do our fair share of teaching too.  Maria is terribly self-deprecating and painfully honest in her responses to our questions, which is refreshing and off-putting.  Additionally, she is prone to biting quips which, when combined with the Hungarian lack of sarcastic inflection change, lends itself to unpredictable class time. 



One of the many colorful characters I saw from the tram



Training continues outside of the classroom as I am becoming evermore acquainted with this city of inventions and conventions.  Like every good labyrinthine metropolis, the Magyars have their Thesean ball of string: the BKV public transit system. My monthly pass gets me onto crowded trains, buses, subways, and trams, but alas it does not whisper which of the many routes will carry me to my destination.  For this, I have made friends with a map and begun the process of trial and error.  Such a technique is without fault, for even the wrong answers provide scenic experiences and open new doors.  This also supplies ample interaction with Budapest’s best, with which to listen to the language and see as the locals do.  Once and again, a fellow rider will mistake me, and ask me some likely casual question that far exceeds my Magyar knowledge.  A simple “Nem beszélek magyarul.  Beszélsz angolul??” is sometimes sufficient, but more often, I am reduced to mime artistry to express that while we do not speak the same language, I do know the time.  In these ways, my life of late is somewhat of a large-scale game of hide and seek, mixed with charades, Trivial Pursuit, and Mousetrap…

Climbs and Climes

A bounty of exploration is available to a patron of Budapest, but as per the title of this here blog, my chronicle would not be complete without description of life beyond the city limits.  The River Duna snakes away to the north and south, a serpentine latitudinous divider of destiny.  Along this wet, wet, watery road we departed; the program rented out a small private bus to courier us along on our first organized excursion.  I was admittedly tired after the Hungarian Language crash course the day before, but I tried my best to remain awake and watch the real life moving picture out my window.  The Hungarian countryside is not unlike the Midwest, with textured cornfields and desiduous greenery.  Our first destination was Skanzen, an open-air museum that has collected and reconstructed villages as they would have appeared 500 years ago.  In the style of Ms Frizzle, our little bus served as a time machine.  We walked among relics: straw homes, barns, a mill, a farm, and churches half a millennia old, all in working order.  After we perused artisanal products for sale from the canadle maker, blacksmith and carpenter (actually, some really exquisite stuff) we continued on to our next stop, a riverside town called Szentendre.  This settlement also has the appearance of several centuries yore, but not for the sake of historical preservation.  While quaint, the town has been discovered by tourists and the local merchants have responded in kind; the streets are lined with stalls vending wares from Rubik’s Cubes to paprika, authentic clothing to laser inscribed glass paperweights.  There were some pretty nifty looking chess sets and hand carved boxes with secret compartments.  In the spirit of authenticity, about ½ a dozen cognitive scientists went in pursuit of the most Hungarian restaurant we could find for the midday meal.  In the town square, just across from a medieval statue, we encountered a little outdoor café that seemed just old-world enough to fit the bill.  We were not let down! The goulash was served in a pot and the chicken paprika was richer than rich.  Nothing was terribly expensive, yet everyone was quite satisfied.  From our position on the square, we spied on the other tourists, trying to guess the countries of origin. 

View from the top of the basillica

As comfortable as it was to lounge about on the cobbled streets, the time to voyage on soon arrived and we returned to our cheery little tour bus.  The tertiary stop for the day was another tiny little town known as Esztergom further upriver.  While insubstantial in some proportions, this location hosts the largest Catholic Church in Hungary.  Making the most of the behemoth place of worship, we climbed several thousand steps, winding up turrets and crossing belfries, to the very top of the dome.  (Dear Mom, stop reading briefly) A thin wooden ledge on the outer part of the pinnacle overlooks everything; we could see all the surrounding towns and all the way to the Slovakia border.  The countryside and river terrain looked surreal, an artform or model on which you could race matchbox cars and toy sailboats.  Despite the devastating heights, everyone safely returned to the ground.  There were plenty of other secrets to unfold in the style of The Da Vinci Code (or National Treasure?).  We descended into the crypts and walked among the tombs and then we made our way to the treasury to admire the garments of popes past among relics of gold and God.  The building was bursting with history, but I think our group was nearing our capacity for knowledge of the past.  We adjourned to the main sanctuary and discovered a wedding in progress.  We gleefully joined the congregation and bade the happy couple our congratulations.  Everyone loves a good wedding and this one appeared not to spare any expense.  Not only was the ceremony held in this elegant location, but also we witnessed organ fanfare, the release of 10 doves, and an old-fashioned limousine (with driver to match).  I wonder if they do Bar Mitzvahs? 

 

As the sun began to go home for supper, we retreated to our bus one last time and travelled into the woods to the campsite where we would be spending the night.  The group had two lovely two-story bungalows reserved for our use.  Akin to Goldilocks, we found that the places were quite furnished and neither too big nor too small.  The best part of the evening, though, came later when we gathered around a bonfire (Headmaster Gabor is quite a woodsman) and relaxed together.  Call us cliché, but we told stories and sang songs, and took the opportunity to become truly acquainted.  As the embers glowed a toothy grin, we jokingly asked our leader Luca to pass the marshmallows.  Completely straight-faced, she reached into her bag and pulled out a package.  Not marshmallows, she said, but the Hungarian equivalent.  What could this be, you may wonder.  Slabs of bacon fat, of course.  It is traditional to roast thick slices of fat over the fire when in the hungarian wild, and this is exactly what she proposed we do.  This was as unappetizing as it sounds, but it proved a truly culturally enlightening experience.  

The following morning, we hiked up to a nearby castle.  The hike itself was rugged, and we climbed a significant height for the second time in two days.  Though in ruins, the fortress is majestic and rife with history.  At one time, this was the seat of Hungary, with a brilliant view to boot.  Béla IV built the citadel in the 13^th century to keep out the Mongols.  The curators had installed an exhibit to portray the history, which consisted of hauntingly realistic wax sculptures of past sovereigns.  Slightly firghtened and saturated with views from on high, we began the trek down.  Both precarious and scenic, I was torn between admiration and fear.  The mountain pass lets out in the town of Viségrad, also situated along the river.  There we lounged at a lower altitude, enjoying refreshment and cool breezes on the shoreline.  Lacking our cute little bus to transport us back to the city, we boarded a river ferry and slowly sailed homeward.  The ferry was slow paced, allowing us to take in all the sights and sounds.  The currents whispered sweet innuendo beneath the guise of timelessness.  When we returned to the fine city of Palaces and Pálinkas, night had arrived, and all the buildings along the riverfront were lit up. We crossed under the first bridge and found ourselves surrounded by elegant postcard vistas.  As we parked in the glowing shadow of a gilded constellation, we agreed it had been another successful adventure.



The Parliament dressed up for the night