Finally, a new post; this sometimes can be work for me, but it’s such a catharsis for me to do it. Being that many of my thoughts, at least the witty/funny thoughts, about the things I experience don’t translate well (if I were to translate them, they’d probably just sound like a dude saying everything that comes to his head, and no one likes that guy, right?), this is really my best forum to get all the John out of me (so I can fill up again in the next few days). I guess everyone can suffer from multiple personality syndrome; each language a person speaks is a different personality, I would think. At any rate, I’ll get to gettin’ and go, eh?
In the time since I’ve last written, I’ve, as earlier stated, been on a bit of an adventure through Vienna, Bratislava, and Budapest, which was, as you can imagine, quite an experience. Just to get the official stuff out of the way, I’m going to describe each place in three words, and then I can get to the best parts of the trip: the shallow and often callous observations. Vienna: Mozart, high-brow (that is ONE word), and Hapsberg-emperors-who-have-awesome-mutton-chops-that-often-connect-to-even-cooler-mustaches-whom-I-am-considering-emulating (that, too). Bratislava (the capital of Slovakia; big surprise what’s about to follow, I’m sure): Soviet-destroyed, rusting, and cheap. Budapest: (I’ll just use one phrase) best kept secret in Europe. I found Budapest to be like Europe’s Boston; beautiful weather in spring, very diverse community, not as “hustle-and-bustle” as New York, yet still retaining its big city atmosphere. Very cool location. To get more details, just look at the pictures on my facebook; they’re pretty heavily labeled with all the good deets.
Anyway, on to my two favorite stories from the trip:
Budapest is the location of the first McDonalds east of the Berlin Wall (its doors opened sometime in the 50s, I think), and it is located on Budapest’s Vaci Utca, a street which was formerly the main shopping location of the locals and an important sightseeing locale for tourist, but is now almost totally geared toward tourists, and, therefore, fairly lame. Anyway, the McDonalds is fairly significant, not so much in that it’s a McDonalds, but more for the fact that it was symbolic of the capitalist West and that capitalism was winning the Cold War. When the Soviets were still in power, people used to line up around the corner to get a taste of Western forbidden fruit. Anyway, so my first day in Budapest, I’m stumbling around the city, trying to get my bearings and check things out, and I REALLY have to go to the bathroom. Now, dear reader, what you also must understand is that in Europe, free public toilets are incredibly difficult to find, and it’s not always just so simple as to walk into any place of business and use the toilet. There are public restrooms around, but you have to pay for them, and I will NOT pay to use the bathroom, and bathrooms in restaurants are generally reserved for customers (which makes me wonder what we’re really paying for in these restaurants, you know?). And I needed one that is decently clean, because…you know…I was going to need to, y’know…sit down. So I’m walking around, desperately seeking out a bathroom, and I stumble upon this McDonalds. The place looks fairly well maintained and it’s pretty clean in the restaurant area, so I feel pretty confident about the facilities as well. Plus, it’s pretty crowded and busy, so the staff really has bigger problems than to watch who is coming and going from the bathroom, so I’m safe on that end as well. But, also because of the crowd that was in the place, there’s a line for the bathroom. So I wait, and while I’m waiting the line grows bigger behind me. By the time I went in, there was about 5 or 6 people waiting behind me. When I go in, I figure out why there’s a line for the bathroom at a McDonalds: there’s only one toilet in the bathroom. Now, it’s important to note the layout of the bathroom at this McDonalds (and the weird layout of a lot of European bathrooms); it’s arranged as such that the sink and toilet are in separate rooms, with the door to the restaurant leading into the sink room and another door leading to the toilet. I’m not just saying that the toilet is inside a stall; there’s a wall with a door in it between the sink and the toilet. Anyway, so it’s about to be my turn to use the toilet and I’m standing in the sink room waiting. I go inside and do my thing, but when I’m finished, the toilet begins to flush down, but it quickly stops and the bowl just fills with water. Yes, I travel approximately 5500 miles and what do I do? I clog the toilet at a location of important anti-Communist symbolism. Anyway, as I turn to walk out of the bathroom, I come to the horrifying realization that there’s at least 5 or 6 people waiting behind me to use the toilet…and that I have to look these people in the face as I go. But, of course, the embarrassment I felt really couldn’t compare to the monstrosity that awaited him inside that small room and the empathy I was simultaneously feeling for him and his grave situation. And suffice it to say, I didn’t stick around to see the results of my actions; I was gone like a horse out of the gate. At any rate, I now feel like I’ve now done my part to fight Communism, and that’s what’s really important here.
Next story is considerably shorter. When I first arrived in Budapest, I was trying to take the subway to get to my hostel. Being that I don’t speak Hungarian (and that English is more closely related to Hindi than it is Hungarian, which is no joke at all), getting to where I wanted to go was a bit tricky. I stood there studying the map and quickly realized that I didn’t know where I was, so I had no idea which direction in which to travel or what line to take. For some reason, the bus company whose bus I had taken to Hungary didn’t drop us off at the bus station; we just stopped at this park next to a subway stop. As I walked into the subway station, I had not looked at the sign outside to see where I was and, rather inexplicably, there were no signs inside the station that I could see that told me where I was, unlike every other subway station in the world. To solve this problem, I figured someone must speak English in the station, so I begin asking passers-by. The first two to walk by me did not speak any, but then a younger guy walked by, who was wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase, so he seemed like he would be fairly well educated (I love the standards by which I judge such a thing), so I caught his eye and said slowly and carefully, “Do you speak English?” He turned and gave me a strange look, replying, “What country do you think this is?” I gave it my best effort to stifle laughter and didn’t bother to inform him that I was pretty sure I was in Hungary; I was more taken aback by the senselessness of the comment than anything, but he was pretty helpful after that with giving me directions and such. Stiff-ass Europeans, right? As funny as I find this, it’s also overly typical, if indeed I understand what he meant by the question. It’s kinda cryptic, but whatever, I’m going to judge if I want to.
Naturally, other events of note happened in Vienna and Bratislava, but I’m getting fairly tired of typing. I’ll end with this: To all those who may be traveling through Europe in the near future, don’t forget about eastern Europe, particularly Budapest. Bratislava I could have done without, but Budapest was awesome and Vienna, of course, has a lot to offer, particularly with cheap transportation to most eastern Europe locations (it’s known as the “Gateway to the East”). And don’t be afraid to buy a travel book; my mom sent me one, and I thought it was going to be an incredibly lame thing to use, but it was REALLY helpful and gave me good info on what’s actually worth seeing, local traditions, what to watch out for, etc. I highly recommend anything by Rick Steves. Until later, dear readers; John, signing off.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
John Gets All Artistic On You
I wrote these two on the bus between Vienna and Bratislava in an attempt to share with everyone everything that is involved in total immersion language training. Keep in mind that, although they concern the same topic, the narratives are completely unrelated, if there's much of a narrative at all. Aside from the strenuous and frustrating practical training with the language, there's also quite a bit of emotional baggage tied up in this process, and I'm just the sensitive kid to respond to it, I guess. In any event, I hope these say all I want them to:
Soon the quirky soldiers begin to come, charging, to attack your fortress. They are more in total than your available army, and they’re commanded by five-star generals, but they seem manageable from the security of the fort. They come first in few numbers, one here, two there, a small platoon over the trenches. Waddling awkwardly, they’re quickly put down, their questions swiftly answered. However, the battle picks up; they siege the ears, but, again, they are duly met with those prepared slings and arrows. The battle degrades from easy victory to stalemate as the sides trade blows. But, look, your munitions run scant! Listen, your men are muntinous! Feel, your pulse has quickened! Taste, your mouth is dry with speechlessness! When the head is at odds with itself, the body has no hope.
The attackers have breached the doors! How is this? They’re no better than your soldiers, eh? Do they employ the same methods? Do they think differently? How do they visualize the way? Are not their commands the same? How…do they?
To win this battle, your General rethinks. The semantics are the key, but he must begin with them rather than reaching them. That translation is everything, yet a person, the essence, the reality of him, is all in what is his original thought. A message is a person, and he is, of course, nothing without it.
The tactics change, and new defensive maneuvers are deployed. Your men are issued new rations, and the battlefield twinkles as the swords reflect the sun. The intruders are beat back; the homeland is defended. A personality changes, and all flows; a risk taken, and a goal achieved. But what thought is given to the accountants, who sit before abacuses far flung from the battlefield? The general, although happy with his latest outcome, withholds angst at the thought of watching the scales tip.
Slowly, cautiously are the steps taken across this bridge. A most precariously hung suspension bridge, the steps must be so here. What is a deed but its method? Can action and command be separate? Can command and language similarly proceed independently? What is existence if not preceded by thought? Obvious hardship is undergone in the fierce arena; sometimes steps forward are taken without gaining ground. Forward? Nay, ‘new’ would better suit.
The footfalls all make different sounds; sometimes like spoken words, sometimes like the scratching of a pen, sometimes they even seem to be silent but for a barely audible stretching and relaxing of muscles as eyes move across a page. Boots are weighed down by a wary fear; alertness is a false comfort. Sure, you’ve learned to walk, but can you hike? Run? Frolic? Prance? Trot? Shuffle? The realization that the river flows swiftly beneath quickly and vividly manifests. No matter, the feet are kept.
Dark clouds ominously arrive; the wind begins to blow. The bridge sways; questions are asked of of the fortitude are asked, which normally go unanswered. Can it endure? In what state will it emerge? Will this trip turn sour? Control turns to hope, in the shadow of which waits the dread beast, Frustration. The bridge rocks like a bucking bronco, and the hands grip to familiar cables. Movement forward is slow, sometimes unnoticeable, even to the traveler. Yet it painfully continues, and the only ways out are the other bank or over the side, back into the familiar stream to be dumped back in those familiar places.
Should the traveler sometime find the opposite bank, will he still be the same traveler? A change is required, sure, to find this strange and wonderful place, but will the eyes interpret its details the same? The reaction be as it would have been? “Strange” and “wonderful” on the other side might have entirely different meanings. At home was this traveler comfortable with himself; security was self-supplied. Master of his domain, he certainly was- still is as he clings to himself. There, in short, he liked himself. Will a similar fondness be found in his destination? Should he continue at the risk of exchange himself for someone else? It is already a difficult bridge to cross; could he do it again if necessary? The questions fly as he continues onward. The rapid flow resounds in his ears, the wind howls as his weight is whipped back and forth, yet he continues onward, hoping for the best. He’s already learned to walk, and he’s yet to forget how to crawl; the footprints are still evident. Forward he walks, hoping the pattern will not change.
Soon the quirky soldiers begin to come, charging, to attack your fortress. They are more in total than your available army, and they’re commanded by five-star generals, but they seem manageable from the security of the fort. They come first in few numbers, one here, two there, a small platoon over the trenches. Waddling awkwardly, they’re quickly put down, their questions swiftly answered. However, the battle picks up; they siege the ears, but, again, they are duly met with those prepared slings and arrows. The battle degrades from easy victory to stalemate as the sides trade blows. But, look, your munitions run scant! Listen, your men are muntinous! Feel, your pulse has quickened! Taste, your mouth is dry with speechlessness! When the head is at odds with itself, the body has no hope.
The attackers have breached the doors! How is this? They’re no better than your soldiers, eh? Do they employ the same methods? Do they think differently? How do they visualize the way? Are not their commands the same? How…do they?
To win this battle, your General rethinks. The semantics are the key, but he must begin with them rather than reaching them. That translation is everything, yet a person, the essence, the reality of him, is all in what is his original thought. A message is a person, and he is, of course, nothing without it.
The tactics change, and new defensive maneuvers are deployed. Your men are issued new rations, and the battlefield twinkles as the swords reflect the sun. The intruders are beat back; the homeland is defended. A personality changes, and all flows; a risk taken, and a goal achieved. But what thought is given to the accountants, who sit before abacuses far flung from the battlefield? The general, although happy with his latest outcome, withholds angst at the thought of watching the scales tip.
Slowly, cautiously are the steps taken across this bridge. A most precariously hung suspension bridge, the steps must be so here. What is a deed but its method? Can action and command be separate? Can command and language similarly proceed independently? What is existence if not preceded by thought? Obvious hardship is undergone in the fierce arena; sometimes steps forward are taken without gaining ground. Forward? Nay, ‘new’ would better suit.
The footfalls all make different sounds; sometimes like spoken words, sometimes like the scratching of a pen, sometimes they even seem to be silent but for a barely audible stretching and relaxing of muscles as eyes move across a page. Boots are weighed down by a wary fear; alertness is a false comfort. Sure, you’ve learned to walk, but can you hike? Run? Frolic? Prance? Trot? Shuffle? The realization that the river flows swiftly beneath quickly and vividly manifests. No matter, the feet are kept.
Dark clouds ominously arrive; the wind begins to blow. The bridge sways; questions are asked of of the fortitude are asked, which normally go unanswered. Can it endure? In what state will it emerge? Will this trip turn sour? Control turns to hope, in the shadow of which waits the dread beast, Frustration. The bridge rocks like a bucking bronco, and the hands grip to familiar cables. Movement forward is slow, sometimes unnoticeable, even to the traveler. Yet it painfully continues, and the only ways out are the other bank or over the side, back into the familiar stream to be dumped back in those familiar places.
Should the traveler sometime find the opposite bank, will he still be the same traveler? A change is required, sure, to find this strange and wonderful place, but will the eyes interpret its details the same? The reaction be as it would have been? “Strange” and “wonderful” on the other side might have entirely different meanings. At home was this traveler comfortable with himself; security was self-supplied. Master of his domain, he certainly was- still is as he clings to himself. There, in short, he liked himself. Will a similar fondness be found in his destination? Should he continue at the risk of exchange himself for someone else? It is already a difficult bridge to cross; could he do it again if necessary? The questions fly as he continues onward. The rapid flow resounds in his ears, the wind howls as his weight is whipped back and forth, yet he continues onward, hoping for the best. He’s already learned to walk, and he’s yet to forget how to crawl; the footprints are still evident. Forward he walks, hoping the pattern will not change.
Friday, April 3, 2009
The Turkish Sales Pitch and John's Other Weaknesses
It’s Friday night here, and I’m sitting on the train to Vienna with nothing to do at the moment. I finished my German course today, thank God, and I’ve got about two weeks before the summer semester begins. As such, I’m taking a trip (which started out as a weekend, turned into a week, and is now a 10 day adventure; my pants are getting wet as my parents’ credit card melts) with three friends to Vienna, Bratislava, and Budapest. More on that after the trip’s over; here’s the skinny on the last few days:
Yesterday, I was in my room about to take a shower as I had just gotten back from jogging (or yogging, the “j” might be soft, I’m not certain), when there’s a knock on the door. I open the door to see a short Turkish man standing there; he quickly tells me that he wants to sign me to a different power company.
Let me press the pause button on this story and clarify something before continuing: In Europe, or at least Germany (readers of my blog will know without a doubt that there’s nothing I hate worse than making low and petty generalizations about large groups of people, of course), everything is made as inconvenient as it can possibly be made. Therefore, although I live in a dorm, I have to seek out my power and internet service or else I will have none. This is going on a bit of a tangent, but it gets worse; although there’s only one university that I attend, there are as many different offices to pay as there are different fees that I owe, meaning that I have to go to all of these places to pay. No website, credit cards never accepted, pay the bill, or go home; this is the attitude of these people. Furthermore, not only is the payment expected on time and in person, each payment has its own set of paperwork that must be shown at the time of payment, or the payment cannot be accepted. And, no, the required set of papers is not the same for every different fee; to be prepared, I now carry my passport, insurance card (which is provided by an American company), proof of refusal of German insurance (a paper I was forced to sign the first day; I don’t understand why I can’t just tell each office that I didn’t/ don’t want German insurance), proof of German bank account (being both my bank card and the paper I signed to open the account), proof of student registration (which is more than just a card), and a host of other bureaucratic nonsense everywhere I go. Ugh- Europe’s a great place to visit, but I completely understand why those dudes got on the Mayflower.
Anyway, back to the previously interrupted story: Being less than fully adept at German, I hesitate with the correct way to politely refuse the eager salesman as he is standing at my door, and he’s in my room before I know it. He explains to me that his power company will sell me power at 9 cents less per hour than my current service, and they provide environmentally friendly power exclusively. Somehow, he already has the numbers on how much power I’ve used this month (I’m 90% sure he was making these up on the spot, but I gotta hand it to the guy, this is a pretty slick move), and he shows me just how much money I would have saved with his company. Whether or not my power usage numbers were accurate, the fact remains that I’ll save money with this guy. I was still skeptical, until he pulled out a powerpoint presentation (IN A DORM ROOM) and used a laser pointer (when it was on a computer screen; seriously, a finger would have sufficed) to go through it with me. I had to indulge him; when somebody’s a true, legitimate schtick, you’ve really got no choice. True schtick is a rarity, ladies and gentlemen. At the end of this, I agree; he’ll save me some money, and I couldn’t turn down a pitch like that. Just after signing though, (not that I regret my decision, this is just funny) he reassures me that I’ve made the right choice by saying, “Trust me, I’m a Turk; I’m not like all these other Germans, just out to screw you.” Yeah, broseph, the Turks are known from Tokyo to Trinidad as being a trustworthy people; being a nation known for terrorizing Eastern Europe with seemingly random fits of invasion, not to mention being the origin of phrases like “thievin’ A-Rab,” I do trust a Turkish stranger to fix me up with a good deal on power. On his way out, he asks me if I’m his friend (not a joke), to which I have to politely respond, “Sure, why not?” He makes sure to give me his cell phone number (his reason being completely non-business related; “call me if you ever want to go to a REAL party”) and asks me for my American cell number in return, in case he “ever makes the trip.” Ok, I have to confess something here: I didn’t give him my real cell phone number. If I’d known Ben Hatch’s off the top of my head, Hatch would be getting a call from the Turkish power salesman (I think his name’s Sazuel), but, alas, I did not. Sorry, Hatch. The number I did give him? Call me homely, but the first number that came to my head was my mother’s; in any event, she’s the sort of person that would hang up on a stranger asking for her son with an exotic accent. God bless that woman. Anyway, after about another 10 minute conversation about Obama (which I’m trying to wrap up the entire time; some people can’t take a hint…across a language barrier), Sazuel (if that’s his name- I have it on a business card, but I hope to never have to call this person, despite my respect for his obvious sales prowess) finally leaves, but not before again assuring my of his trustworthy Turkish roots. Some people are just blind to racism and stereotypes, I guess.
Anyway, I guess that wasn’t really the skinny on my entire week, but I’ll get back to it later. I’m almost to Vienna, and my trip awaits. Important note, please read: I have several Turkish friends here, and all’s good with them. They’re great people. I’m merely noting the entire world’s vast generalization of the country and its inhabitants. I’m sure it’s a beautiful, rich culture with many upstanding and honest individuals; it’s just a few really dirty, smelly A’Rabs pulling the whole country down. And let’s be honest, Constantinople was a waaaay better name before they came along.
…kidding…
Yesterday, I was in my room about to take a shower as I had just gotten back from jogging (or yogging, the “j” might be soft, I’m not certain), when there’s a knock on the door. I open the door to see a short Turkish man standing there; he quickly tells me that he wants to sign me to a different power company.
Let me press the pause button on this story and clarify something before continuing: In Europe, or at least Germany (readers of my blog will know without a doubt that there’s nothing I hate worse than making low and petty generalizations about large groups of people, of course), everything is made as inconvenient as it can possibly be made. Therefore, although I live in a dorm, I have to seek out my power and internet service or else I will have none. This is going on a bit of a tangent, but it gets worse; although there’s only one university that I attend, there are as many different offices to pay as there are different fees that I owe, meaning that I have to go to all of these places to pay. No website, credit cards never accepted, pay the bill, or go home; this is the attitude of these people. Furthermore, not only is the payment expected on time and in person, each payment has its own set of paperwork that must be shown at the time of payment, or the payment cannot be accepted. And, no, the required set of papers is not the same for every different fee; to be prepared, I now carry my passport, insurance card (which is provided by an American company), proof of refusal of German insurance (a paper I was forced to sign the first day; I don’t understand why I can’t just tell each office that I didn’t/ don’t want German insurance), proof of German bank account (being both my bank card and the paper I signed to open the account), proof of student registration (which is more than just a card), and a host of other bureaucratic nonsense everywhere I go. Ugh- Europe’s a great place to visit, but I completely understand why those dudes got on the Mayflower.
Anyway, back to the previously interrupted story: Being less than fully adept at German, I hesitate with the correct way to politely refuse the eager salesman as he is standing at my door, and he’s in my room before I know it. He explains to me that his power company will sell me power at 9 cents less per hour than my current service, and they provide environmentally friendly power exclusively. Somehow, he already has the numbers on how much power I’ve used this month (I’m 90% sure he was making these up on the spot, but I gotta hand it to the guy, this is a pretty slick move), and he shows me just how much money I would have saved with his company. Whether or not my power usage numbers were accurate, the fact remains that I’ll save money with this guy. I was still skeptical, until he pulled out a powerpoint presentation (IN A DORM ROOM) and used a laser pointer (when it was on a computer screen; seriously, a finger would have sufficed) to go through it with me. I had to indulge him; when somebody’s a true, legitimate schtick, you’ve really got no choice. True schtick is a rarity, ladies and gentlemen. At the end of this, I agree; he’ll save me some money, and I couldn’t turn down a pitch like that. Just after signing though, (not that I regret my decision, this is just funny) he reassures me that I’ve made the right choice by saying, “Trust me, I’m a Turk; I’m not like all these other Germans, just out to screw you.” Yeah, broseph, the Turks are known from Tokyo to Trinidad as being a trustworthy people; being a nation known for terrorizing Eastern Europe with seemingly random fits of invasion, not to mention being the origin of phrases like “thievin’ A-Rab,” I do trust a Turkish stranger to fix me up with a good deal on power. On his way out, he asks me if I’m his friend (not a joke), to which I have to politely respond, “Sure, why not?” He makes sure to give me his cell phone number (his reason being completely non-business related; “call me if you ever want to go to a REAL party”) and asks me for my American cell number in return, in case he “ever makes the trip.” Ok, I have to confess something here: I didn’t give him my real cell phone number. If I’d known Ben Hatch’s off the top of my head, Hatch would be getting a call from the Turkish power salesman (I think his name’s Sazuel), but, alas, I did not. Sorry, Hatch. The number I did give him? Call me homely, but the first number that came to my head was my mother’s; in any event, she’s the sort of person that would hang up on a stranger asking for her son with an exotic accent. God bless that woman. Anyway, after about another 10 minute conversation about Obama (which I’m trying to wrap up the entire time; some people can’t take a hint…across a language barrier), Sazuel (if that’s his name- I have it on a business card, but I hope to never have to call this person, despite my respect for his obvious sales prowess) finally leaves, but not before again assuring my of his trustworthy Turkish roots. Some people are just blind to racism and stereotypes, I guess.
Anyway, I guess that wasn’t really the skinny on my entire week, but I’ll get back to it later. I’m almost to Vienna, and my trip awaits. Important note, please read: I have several Turkish friends here, and all’s good with them. They’re great people. I’m merely noting the entire world’s vast generalization of the country and its inhabitants. I’m sure it’s a beautiful, rich culture with many upstanding and honest individuals; it’s just a few really dirty, smelly A’Rabs pulling the whole country down. And let’s be honest, Constantinople was a waaaay better name before they came along.
…kidding…
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