First Impressions of Hungary: Getting Sauced with Sausage

So. I have finally arrived. Well, actually I’ve been in Hungary for two weeks now, but between sightseeing in Budapest and moving into the refugee camp, neither equipped with reliable Internet, I haven’t had much time. More about the camp later, but here’s a bit about Debrecen, the city I live just on the outskirts of. Last weekend I checked out the Pálinka Festival held at the main campus of the city university.
Pálinka is the national drink of Hungary that is usually fruit-flavored. Think of it as vodka is to the Russians, pisco to the Peruvians, JD to Mötley Crüe. Now, I tried some of this stuff at this awesome bar in Budapest with a group of New Yorkers, Latinas, and one local Hungarian. Let me tell you, after taking the shot, only the Hungarian didn’t have a face resembling that one.

Conclusion: This shit is worse than tequila (even the Mexican attested to this very fact). It burns allllll the way down.

So anyway, after wandering around for a while at the festival, I tried some barack (peach) and decided it wasn’t too horrible. This vendor in particular also had carrot, paprika, beetroot, and garlic varieties, supposedly for cooking purposes. The garlic really smelled like the real thing and I won’t lie, I was kind of tempted to try it (especially since it’s getting towards Halloween and I’m near Transylvania and all).

Then, since apparently pálinka and pároskolbász (sausage) go together hand in hand, I decided to grab this tasty looking number:

Mmmm, greas-aay.

This is why I don't pretend to be a foodie and take pictures of the food I consume.

And washed it down with some delicious mulled wine.

Afterwards, I walked around to take some pictures and started talking to Clara, the daughter of the Savanya Pálinkaház owner. Her mom, who didn’t speak a word of English, had been really sweet and as helpful as possible when I had taken my first walk around, and they undoubtedly had the most attractive pálinkas:

She explained to me how the liquor is made, and, as I understood it, it’s made from fermenting and distilling fruits. She encouraged me to try the meggy (sour cherry) flavor—not bad—and this fruit I had never heard of, som (cornel)—quite good, actually!

Sour cherry poison.

Then I caught the tail end of a performance by Budapest Bár. If you are at all interested in Hungarian music or what this completely bizarre language sounds like or the kooky kind of shit they’re into, take a look:

The song after this one made everyone in the place go ape shit, jumping around and throwing their hands in the air. It was a lot of fun, but I had to leave a bit early to catch a bus. Which of course I missed, so I had to sprint to the tram, run across town through the mall, where they thought I was a thief because I was sprinting with a giant backpack, to the last bus leaving the city center for my bumble fuck accommodation in the camp, which, of course, pulled up just as I was stumbling across the street. Close call!

Requisite RIFF Post

Ok, last post about Iceland, I swear.

Oddly, one of my favorite things in Iceland was going to RIFF at the cinema down the street from my hostel to see Man on Wire with a subsequent Q&A session with the director, James Marsh. Now, I know I'm late on the train for this one, but it is a spectacular film; incredibly moving and uplifting. If you haven't seen it yet, do it NOW. I'm pretty sure you can find it streaming on Netflix.

Anyway, here is a clip from the Q&A. Apologies for the off WB and shitty timing, I am way too lazy to color correct (why bother?) and I didn't think to start recording his responses til halfway through the session. Here he first answers a question about why he only used stills to portray the moments when Phillipe was on the wire and then discusses why he deliberately chose not to address the 9/11 attacks.

A very interesting talk and I wish I had more to share!

The Cheapy-Cheapy Life, pt 2

When trying to save money, sometimes you end up spending more. – Confucius (I’m pretty sure)


A Toyota Tragicomedy. 
Iceland is fucking expensive. Iceland is also fucking awesome (see photos). These two facts are exceptionally problematic for travelers like myself. The first excursion I went on (see photos… again) cost 10,000 kr. That’s $85 for one day of dope shit.
So, to see the “most beautiful” part of Iceland, Snaefellsnes, me and four other volunteers decided to rent a car for an estimated €30 each. The funny thing about estimations is that they can be wildly off base.
So the morning of our planned trip starts off normal enough. We have some breakfast and wait for the driver of the group to return with the car. First, let me explain the cultural background of our rag-tag team: the driver is Hadi, an insane Israeli (is that redundant?) with very, very little common sense, shotgun is Alvaro, a good natured (often to a fault) Spaniard, and the girls along for the ride: Martina, a wide-eyed German (the youngest of the group), Birgan, Turk and resident cynic, and myself, whatever I am.

We all pile into the tiny red Toyota with a questionably functional gearshift and a window that doesn’t quite fit in the doorframe, and set out in entirely the wrong direction. In the back we all get slightly squeamish at the driving techniques Hadi employs as he complains that things are not like this in Israel. We drive around for a while until we find the highway we want to get on (it is really quite difficult to get lost in Iceland, as there is really only one highway that goes around the whole island). The scenery is stunning and the weather is gorgeous. We make a brief stop to find some food, during which I attempt for the first time in my life to drive a manual car to leave Hadi behind and just end up stalling the engine. We stop to take some pictures before heading onward to meet up with the planned expensive excursion, led by an Italian man named Davide with a crazy laugh and the reddest beard I have ever seen on a non-Irishman.
We had planned to meet him and the other volunteers at the small seaside village of Arnarstapi. We find them around lunchtime and continue to follow them up the mountain path to reach the glacier. However, Hadi really had to take a picture of something stupid and completely insignificant through the filthy windshield, so we lose the large van Davide is driving. Now, this didn’t seem like much of a problem at the time, as there seemed to be only one path through the mountain. This assumption turns out to be entirely wrong, and as we drive further up into the clouds, the atmosphere becomes increasingly foreboding. The fog is so thick that you can’t see anything beyond ten feet from the car and the road seems to twist and turn to absolutely nowhere.
Finally we all think it’s taking way too long to get through the pass, so we ask Hadi to just turn around and go somewhere else. Hadi, however, decides that the best course of action is to turn down a completely random road with a sign pointing to a completely random town that isn’t even on the map. We all begin to tell Hadi to turn around, and Martina starts crying and shouting about how she doesn’t want to die up on the mountain. Hadi offers a simple solution: we can eat each other! Donner party much?
Finally, Hadi reluctantly gives up as Martina is about to have a total meltdown and I start to giggle uncontrollably as things are reaching the point of hysteria. We head back down the mountain and call Davide to find out where we can meet the group. We attempt to follow his directions to the black beach—attempt being the operative word, as Hadi cannot seem to understand the name of the town we are looking for, so I resolve to call it Dirtvik so that he will stop trying to turn down roads to towns that start with K or J. Finally we end up running into Davide and the other crew, and he points out a nice spot to go to the beach. At this point the weather has deteriorated the typical Icelandic clouds, mist, and rain, but the waves are really spectacular so we stop for a quick frolic in the waves. I think this was the highlight of the trip for me.
Then we get back in the car for more exploring and Hadi stopped by a sign that was pointing to some random and indicating that whatever it is, it’s located two kilometers away. He tries to convince us to go for a walk, which he swears will only take 5 minutes (2 km?) but at this point we’re freezing and tired and think he’s a pathological liar, but of course Alvaro offers to go with him and the two trot off together. After a while, we start to get bored and play cards. After what must have been at least forty minutes, we finally see the two of them running in our direction. In anticipation, Martina goes to start the car. Hah. Nice try.
Now, we had been listening to the radio for a bit, but that is not enough to cause a car to die. Then it hits me: the fucking LIGHTS. This guy left the car without turning off the goddamned lights. So now we’re pushing the car up and down the shitty dirt path, trying to get it to start. No luck. We desperately call Davide to help us. After a few minutes of waiting and debating whether or not Davide would actually remember how to find us (you see, he is an avid fan of certain herbal substances), we eventually have three men pushing the car with us. After a while it seems pretty hopeless and it’s getting dark, so I suggest we drive to the nearest town to get some jumper cables. Finally we find a place to buy some for a mere $40 (ugh) and head back to the car. Some manly arguing (read: bitching, pathetic, useless bitching) ensues about how to start the car. After a few minutes, the engine miraculously catches. Aaaand we’re good to go.
 FAIL!

The Cheapy-Cheapy Life, pt 1

Did you know that traveling can be expensive? Well, it is. There are hundreds of thousands of guidebooks, newspaper columns, podcasts, etc dedicated to cheap(er) travel tips. Ultimately, there’s no way around it: as a (former?) student, it will make you poor(er). Here are three things I recently did to cut costs:

1. Hitchhiking
2. Renting a car (instead of paying for a guided excursion)
3. Couchsurfing

Hitchhiking seems to have lost it’s romantic charm in America, and is mostly regarded as an act of insanity (or a death wish). Cohabitating with young volunteers (read: cheap ass hippies) for a couple of weeks made me reconsider this notion. I mean, hasn’t everyone been curious about what might happen if they stand on the side of the highway and point their thumb toward the heavens?
Well, according to the people I was living with at the hostel/workcamp (read: shitty excuse for shelter) hitchhiking in Iceland is like the easiest, safest thing in the world. Dope! With a destination in mind, the famed Blue Lagoon where the only attraction is—you guessed it—the color of the water, two other volunteers in my workcamp and I hit the streets one rainy, miserable Monday afternoon in Iceland.

Now, from the details I divulged in that last sentence, any person with some semblance of common sense would note that a day as such is probably the most retarded set of circumstances to attempt to catch a free ride. To start off with, Icelanders are notoriously creeped out by the prospect of sharing their personal space with other people, let alone sharing the confines of their tiny Euro cars with crazy looking girls who haven’t had a proper shower in a couple of days.  Secondly, it was a Monday afternoon. I guess even people in Iceland have things to do or work to take care of during the week. Finally, it was raining, and that just sucked.

In any case, we planted ourselves near the exit ramp for a gas station off a busy road leading to the highway—an ideal location, we thought. After about five to ten minutes of getting confused and downright disgusted stares, we decided to go up to the gas station to ask for some help. A man driving a van suggested we make a sign, so people would know just what the hell we wanted from them. So we entered the small store to ask for a pen and paper. Just as I had finished a magnificent B-L-U-E in black marker, the guys behind the counter told us we should write our destination in Icelandic: Blaá Loniđ.

After numerous uncomfortable and incredulous stares from everyone in the store, we headed back to our post. Within minutes I noted a black Audi making a U-turn down the hill and head in our direction.
Ok. I never thought I would ever, ever in my life make the acquaintance of a depressed Muslim professional handball player from Kosovo. Mainly because I never thought handball was a real sport. But that day, well, I did. He seemed like a nice enough guy, just a little lonely because he didn’t really like Iceland or drinking (the only thing to do in Iceland) and he offered us a ride twenty minutes from the lagoon. But my very inquisitive young German friend sat next to him and he started rattling off about the inferior status of women and something about stealing and killing. I started looking for lava crags to dodge behind when he pulled over and took out his gun/knife/chainsaw. But the ride got longer and longer, the landscape more and more desolate, and finally we pulled off the highway. My leg muscles tensed and I clutched the door handle, mentally practicing the long, quick strides I was about to have to take.

But then, something strange appeared in the distance: a modern, fancy looking building and a parking lot. He dropped us off in front of the Blue Lagoon spa entrance and pulled away as if he’d just completed a routine task of little consequence. We stood there dumbfounded for a minute, pondered one of life’s greatest questions (what the fu…?), shook our heads, smiled, and headed inside.

SUCCESS!