BobeBlog

What do you talk about when you meet a Hungarian for the first time? Work? Nah. Politics? Frequently. The most private thing? Always. I am meeting people connected to my work. I am amazed how quickly they open up with their innermost secrets, like yesterday, on how they are struggling with a potentially deadly disease. I was touched by death several times yesterday, and felt shaking and so disturbed that I needed to call PB. It no longer helps. Another sign of mortality. BP (not PB) orders me to call her instead. I found solace elsewhere. I met a famous freelance photographer, his photos are at . Worth checking it out. Amazing shots. I also had a very long interview topped by friendly dinner with interviewee and wife who I would be happy to have as friends. Bright, valuable, witty people. I left with the load of mortality lifted off from my shoulders.

# posted by Erzsebet @ 2:40 AM 1 comments

I think I've been around the block way too many times. I should be safely locked away from this city surrounded by cutiepie kids and stellar husband. (ok, I am just saying this because it is one good extreme. You can also lock me away into a nunnery.) Budapest is so small that I keep running into men of my past, at a bar, on the subway, at the pharmacist, on the street, and so on. Now you think I've been really around the block, but I am just joking. All I mean is that this city is small and livable and human. But not always in the best way. Maybe all I am saying is that I am not 18 anymore and feel envious of girls in skirts as tiny as my palm. Or maybe all I mean is that I miss those times. This week I am filled with ambivalence and doubt. I suspect the reason. I've been reading Henry & June by Anaïs Nin. I am mesmerized and moved from toe to head, and my heart is turned upside down, inside out, duelling with my brain. I question every move I made in my emotional life. I discover bits of my self in the weirdest half sentences of Anaïs Nin. This is no media to explain it. But I never before felt like this while reading a book. Henry is hot.

The city is in emergency mode. Bridges are closed off. Ok, one bridge. And wrapped in graffiti light. If you do not believe it, ask Gina&Phil, metamorphosed into cupids. 'cause there is a kissing championship, the young and sexually active of Buda&Pest are trying to break the Guinness record of kissing. Makes me think of madness and Madness. BTW, I am learning new techniques of enticing practiced by all women regardless of age, statute or location. Mostly practiced on the escalator so that the passengers behind could rest their eyes on how skillfully the perpetrator slips her hand into pants and then undergarments and then butt cheeks of male partner while they are talking of kids, stupid politicians or the shopping list. Ok, I have not yet seen this, only heard from my date, but I keep looking. Love this city.

I never thought I'd miss you
Half as much as I do
And I never thought I'd feel this way
The way I feel
About you
As soon as I wake up
Every night, every day
I know that it's you I need
To take the blues away

It must be love, love, love
It must be love, love, love
Nothing more, nothing less
Love is the best

First perk of the job. I spent 3 hours in the same room with Uncle George and heard how big men decide the destiny of loads of money and the home of so many intellectuals. Cool I say.

Also met WiktorO finally amidst the craziness of board meeting and graduation ceremony. He used to be one of my coolest professors, beside DavidO. I love him. I think the last time I saw him was when he took me to Carnegie. He looked so happy and healthy, he enjoys the freedom of being an academic the same way as we enjoy sipping good wine in Florence. So once again I got inspired. This life ain't that bad.

So what do you do when you are interviewing someone so crucial for your research in a friendly hip neighborhood spot and in walks your love of yesteryears, sits down to the table next to you without even seeing you? And you do not even see him either at first, but it gets you when you hear the voice of the only man you thought you would have kids with. And that voice you never forget. Weird. And out he walks and you never even get to see how old he got, whether he is happy or tired, whether he has any signs on his face of the man you used to love. Sometimes I like New York because there is only a 1/1000 chance that this can happen to you there.

You people keep telling me privately that you like my blog. So get your pants out of your ass and add a commentary. Especially you in japan, you in australia and all of you in New York, St. Louis. Hungarians I talk to now, so they are off the hook. (Though they complain to me in person if I call them blind or lewd but raise no issue for being described as sassy and sensitive). It is boring to keep rambling on my own. Thanks, Evan, for being pioneer-commenter.

I went running on Margaret Island this morning, alone, for the first time. (More fun to run with Agi and Sabine.) Why is running so absolutely tiring? And why does my face feel like it is on fire? Need to get ass smaller to have less fire on face. Is there a logical connection? I doubt. Rather, the only valid logic is that running is not for me. I think Isil is my absolute hero for running the Marathon (and being so kind, smart, loving, pretty, etc.). Can you picture me doing the 2006 Marathon? I can't. I need a booster.

I think I saw one of my exes running towards me. But he was way too hot so I may be mistaken. Need to look him up. Too many exes, too small a city.

I used to hate all those lewd Turkish parties in New York where girls dance like nymphs in the woods surrounded with their Turkish satyrs. Mind you, Turkish girls are such graceful and sexy dancers, and they are so amazingly natural in this element. Every time I stood on the side with PB (who I only saw dancing once in a Miami retro bar and that was not the type of experience after which you want to take your boy right there around the corner behind the bar or in the tiny bathroom of the night club, rather you wait for a few days to have the memory erased from your adoring brain), sheepishly peeking at the girls and thinking ‘if only I had a little Gypsy blood in me, I could master my courage and have trust in my dancing feet’. Well, I am no dancer, never was a good one, but being so intellectual and computer-bound made me believe that dancing is the most exquisite skill all women possess. Except me. Yet, being PB-less at my last New York Turkish bash broke the ice finally and I was rescued from my nun-status by our own philosopher-sociologist Emrah (how can anyone be this bright AND play in a band AND be an activist??).

This all came to me when nice pal Erika took me to belly dancing a few weeks ago and it was fun fun fun. I kept thinking: a little practice and a little (or a lot of?) baby fat and I’ll be able to stand my ground with those NYC Turkish nymphs. My awe for Middle Eastern dancing just deepened when I was charmed by a dance-music-poetry show where our Gypsy singer friend sang, Lorca poems were recited and Nieto Mercedes and her friends were dancing so amazingly, as if in a dream, like reeds in the wind, sometimes spurred by a storm and sometimes crushed by eternal sadness. Check her out at www.nietomerecedes.com Oriental dancing is so passionate, deep, sensual, a totally different world from being a goddam PhD student. I learn from friends that dancing may be a way back to femininity, something you lose amongst all the nerve-racking mind work at school.

Who knows, one day I may become a Turkish nymph myself.

In this short story Peter Esterhazy (a contemporary Hungarian literary
giant) writes about Geza Csath’s exploits. Csath is an early-20th c. writer
(one of my long-time favorites) & heroin-addict doctor & womanizer.

"In heaven, at a cool little party, naked on a pink, curvy cloud, in blood,
wounded, iodinated, 'in jewels of the night,' with make-up and IV, with
appendages, ‘face burned,’ ‘no title,’ in helmet, with metal needles in his
chest, in milk and talcum powder, in magnesium, in his Eastern European
mass-made suit that suggests equality, playing with apt and productive
awkwardness with his tie-on-a-rubber-string: Tibor Hajas bowed to Geza
Csath: Well, I am Tibor Hajas, born from an intellectual family in 1946,
1968 and 1990 in Budapest, Eastern Europe and the United States of America.
[They start watching a soccer game and Csath cracks a joke about Judgment
Day.]
They start laughing, God gets mad. Csath! Hajas! Upon resurrection you come
to see me with your grade book. But those two, instead of meekly coming to
their senses (as I or you would), they sneakily take advantage of the
information gap provided by the Sacred Trinity, Csath seeks and finds
patronage from the Son, and Hajas from the Holy Spirit, while they goof
around with God, reminiscing about the good old times back there on Earth.”

Peter Esterhazy: The Fantastic Life of Csath Geza
mutilated by my late-night translation

I refuted Putnam's theories last night, though not entirely single-handedly. I do not bowl alone. I bowl with family and I bowl well! I ranked second in the Fazekas-Jokai championship and the only reason I did not beat the crap out of old fart older brother is because it was his birthday and he needed to feel strong and super-powered.

I also rummaged through old treasures at mum's and found delicate earrings my ex (Balazs, but not the art critic) used to make for me. They are very pretty. I need to ask him to teach me the tricks of this art as these are the same type of wire-and-pearl jewelry I am trying to master in NYC.

It's official. I sold my soul yesterday to the Entity, but losing soul has advantages. I am back in the Game. And loving the bearable lightness of being laced with coy smiles, playful glances and accidental touches. My armor is on, my past is gone.

And our Zsuzsi is still way too young to be married, doing her PhD, being so smart and sweet. It was her birthday yesterday and we celebrated in Castro with the sweet tiny chocolate cake her sister brought, and Sanyi, the formerly homeless dog under our feet. Sanyi is a sucker for love and when he had noone to love him he was literally a sucker for love. Embarassing bit of info.

It is cool to have Balazs, the cute blind art critic as a friend because he is smart, sassy and sensitive and has cute art critic friends who are smart, sassy and sensitive. I missed him.

A few weeks ago I met him in Cha-cha-cha, a party spot on Margaret Island next to the running track (weird, ha?). He was with Zsolt, music art critic, who magically transformed into a hilarious, "porgos" (spinner?) cutie from the boy who 8 years ago loaded the insides of his insides into our tiny bathroom sink during one of our crazy parties. Klari was also with us. She is a very horizontal, always hungry but lazy dog-girl. Though I knew barely anyone at the party, Klari was greeted by name by several strangers before she gathered all her strength and climbed the stairs to the gyros place, leaving us in dispair. Good that Klari is such a party girl because she was soon recognized and reported back to us.

Best news ever. Julián Nahuel was born from Denise and Ernesto on June 7th, 2005, 11:37pm, seven pounds four ounces (3.3.kg), 19.5 inches (49.5cm). Denise was the cutest pregnant girl I've seen. ALL THE HAPPINESS TO THEM! And strength for her to finish her dissertation. Hip-hip-hurray!

I rose at dawn to meet the High Priest of Politics, Mr. Minister and while I was preparing for the Big Meeting I kept thinking about IT devils (some of you heard the SMS story), Keanu Reeves (the Matrix rules us all!) and the Hungarian comedy The Minister Cheats. This one is hopefully not a cheater and luckily I am not in a position to judge, but all Hungarian men surely deserve a good pounding on their heads and nuts (more on this later). Minister was kind and enthusiastic and I enviously explored the map of his travels in Hungary. When I was criss-crossing Hungary 3 years ago to do interviews, I fell in love with my country again. Such beautiful towns and sweet people! I wish I could drive (but PB and brothers refused to let me practice after my encounter of gently landing prospective actor-lover's car in a ditch at a drunken post-festival run), and explore Hungary more while I am here. Ministering ended with me in minister's audi as he had to run off to Parliament. Hmm, there is something wrong with me. I am so unimpressed with political power. Politics always left me cold, I love studying it but doing it is a different cabbage-soup altogether.

Envy me! I am a lucky thing. This week I also briefly met a former Minister of Finance, author of the Bokros-package, the Hungarian shock-therapy/economic stabilization program of 1995. These reforms were "evil curse on the majority of Magyars" or our savior from the abyss. Its impacts are still debated, but his hand shake was firm!

Of course, the only recent hand shakes that turned me into an excited schoolgirl came from VPs of large US foundations who were gathering in Budapest last week. For that, I am a lucky lucky thing.

I have friends. Who knew? It seems that doing your PhD sentences you for eternal isolation, you feel cut off from the world, soul from body, body from soul, you lose sleep, friends, hair, youth and all you get is a fat ass. (That is, if you are as advanced in gym-phobia as I am.) So back to friends. I discovered I have friends again (in NYC) when we split with PB. Friends came to the rescue: they caressed me, took me up for nights, dragged me to yoga (ah it was so good), cooked me dinner, invented depaulification, put up with too-young-smelly-feet-Colombians only for my joy (yep, it was a misunderstanding), they flew in from St. Louis for my birthday as a surprise and cooked goulash for the Goulash Communism party where friends took the pioneers' oath. They listened to my soul-searching and soul-wrenching, and even tried to set me up for blind-dates.

This was no good for me, friends. It was so hard to leave you behind in New York and come to Budapest where I thought I had no friends left after being away for so many years. I was so wrong. They are here, in every corner, cafe and bar of this city. Friends just pop up from the past, from unexpected places and I am filled with glee. I hang out a lot with high-school friends. They are so cute, warm-hearted and giving that sometimes I need to cry when they surprise me (like lending me a digital camera for the summer, or calling me up to check that I am doing my work. That's Cucu!). But then there are others like the Linguist who can cure souls with such a touch and place you into the right networks with such generosity. Then there is PB in BP (coincidental initial, this time a girl, but it is still love!!) whose romantic house is my nest to recuperate and feel that in nature energy is recycled so there is always room for growth and revival and new life. Especially in her daughter's amazing smile. It is hard to do work in this city because every day I could go out to meet with friends, have several dates a day and still not feel it was enough. I love it. How could I have lived without this so long?

Tonight I went to a friendly gathering of Columbia alumni and any souls who are somehow related to Columbia. Mind you, they were mostly lawyers. Regina, foundress and PR-temptress was also there. I really enjoy her company and look forward to seeing her at Project Retour meet-ups. I finally met R&B with whom I have so many common friends but we never crossed paths. R is doing a documentary on her father's involvement in 1956 (revolution, anti-revolution, blood-shedding uprising...) the 50th anniversary of which is just around the corner. She has some energy! B deserted sociology for business but *still* nice and intelligent. Cute couple. Met Ed Rekosh from PILI whose name I recalled from his article I cite in my work. Very intelligent and kind. We talked of his work in Romania, how slow it is to change culture and his colleague who attends our nonprofit workshop at Columbia. Such a small world. One thing is sure. Erika, the Linguist is the central node in all networks that surround me! She knows R&B, Regina, and Ed and me, all separately.

Ed even brought us gifts from Columbia's 250th anniversary. Little blocks of photos you can arrange into all sorts of pictures. Very cool. I miss Columbia. How did I get here so fast? Need to go and get this idea out of my mind.

On Friday I am going to a CEU alumni party. This week is under the aegis of my alma mater (almae mater?, it is good that Pokos who taught me Latin for years cannot read English so well. What's the plural conjugation here?)

I knew from the idiotic monkey peeking through the slit of the mailbox that it is HER! Her package arrived, and I started to grin like I grin when I talk to her or IM her. I needed to laugh out loud next to the teenage boy with dreadlocks (hmm, in Budapest) who must have thought I am crazy for behaving like a teenage lover when he could greet me with 'kezit csokolom' (I kiss your hands. - a formal greeting for old ladies, arghjgrr!!!). But she is so much fun and I knew that opening her envelope will be a real adventure. And it was, because I received:
* Joy, lovely Tazo tea we last shared together
* Chicks rule! very sexy underwear
* pretty little pink sash from Korea
* the sexy architecture of rings-in-rings-looped-around earring I lost when I returned to New York from her home
* and so on and on and on

The CIKI (slang for embarrasing) was that the addressee on the envelope was "The Young Pioneer" - (hey, they understand that here!) but I was informed in the letter that all the pretty gifts are to decieve the enemy, but I should be reminded that I am on a secret mission here. She is hilarious.