Old and cold.

Commie junk.


I hate flea markets. I like the idea of going through old things and finding hidden treasures among piles of junk, but I can't get past the junk. Just the piles of the old, smelly, moldy things makes me want to take out the Windex and start cleaning. What gets me is that all these markets sell the same junk: the oil paintings, the black and white photographs of people you don't know, appliances that are older than your grandma, and things that if you owned before, you never want to own again. The flea market in Budapest is no different. Don't go. There were like ten vinyl records there, so I am not entirely sure why we went either.

Dan tested me today by wanting to arrive at the Budapest train station ten minutes before our train departed. I wouldn't allow such craziness and good thing because we waited over ten minutes just to get our tickets. We also learned that traveling with a backpack is better than going with the wheeled luggage. While I moved through the crowd with ease, Dan lagged behind with his suitcases. Then again, I might have been rushing a bit. We got there just in time, and I wasn't used to having no waiting time.

Vienna is one really cold place. I am thankful for the puffy blue Northface jacket Dan brought me, even though it makes me look like a marshmallow. The winds were so strong, I nearly lost my balance with the backpack (one of its disadvantages). Our hotel is this funny little place right near the train station where we each get our own twin bed. To watch the German television shows, we have to uncomfortably crane our heads.

"Can we move around all the furniture?" Dan asked. I said no, but I think he is still thinking about it.

Dan and some bad vinyl.

"I Love Lucy" beds.

Bye Bye, Budapest... Guten Tag, Wien

Yvonne's lovin' it.

Quick post, since we're at a café, and whoever isn't on the computer has nothing to entertain themselves.

(The café is pretty fresh. Lots of hip furniture, by local designers, all of which is for sale. The place happens to be in the guidebook, but we just stumbled on it after dinner at a fantastic pub where we were the only English speakers. I'm busting out some phrasebook German just because our initial experiences with the Austrians were--like the weather--a tad chilly, and I don't want to start off on the wrong foot.)

Our last half day in Budapest was spent on a trek to the flea market. Nothing terribly interesting, though if I had the space at home, I would have to have some old typewriters and old phonographs.

Also had lunch at McDonald's, near the hotel, the first Mickey D's in the Eastern Bloc. I totally have no qualms with eating at the Arches abroad. How better to understand exported America than to encounter it firsthand? For the record, I had a McRoyal, made to order (sans cheese) -- sorta wish I had the McFarm, a pork sandwich, but it didn't look that great in the picture. The McDonald's there was everything McDonald's tries to be in the commercial: fun, clean as all get out, beautiful inside (upholstered booths, a flat screens playing American music videos), with middle-class diners and groups of teenagers having a grand old time. Impossible to gage how the sentiment runs in Budapest, but certainly nobody at McDonald's seem to have any thoughts of imperialism on their minds, least of all the construction worker lunching on a Big Mac and a McFarm.

First thoughts on Vienna: the maps are virtually indecipherable. We'll see if that improves as the days go on.

A whole world of records that I sadly cannot explore.

This was Burger King, not McDonald's. This, my friends, is a travesty.

Budapest takes the cake.

Cakes at Lukacs.

How can I not like Budapest, a place where the cake is king. Everywhere we go, there are cafes and "cukraszkas" with shelves and shelves filled with delectable wonders in all different varieties all calling my name.

Today, Dan came up with the brilliant idea to eat cake not once, but TWICE. Can you see why we're together?

After a walk by the Parliament Building and taking in the House of Terror Museum (a museum devoted to the terror that reigned in Hungary during the Nazi and Communist eras), we decided to get out of the rain by stopping into Lukacs. This café had the most beautiful display of cakes. There were cakes made of vanilla, cakes made out of chocolate. There were pastries and custards. There were others with fruits, some with nuts, one with poppy seeds. Cakes in the shape of triangles, circles, squares, even tear-shaped. Brown cakes. White cakes. Pink cakes. Multi-color cakes. All these cakes, like little pieces of artwork, lined up in perfect rows, all ready to be eaten.

The girl behind the counter was helpful. I asked her about five different cakes and stopped asking because Dan was making faces. We opted to share a round pastry sandwich filled with vanilla crème and topped with sugar. It was a good choice. The pasty was soft, but not greasy, the crème just the right richness. I especially liked that there just a tinge of crunch in the sugar, which just melted in your mouth.

After dinner, later on in the day, we rushed to Gerbeaud, Budapest's most famous café. The girls who worked there seemed worn-out and tired, but we weren't going to let that get us down. Dan had a chocolate covered log filled with chocolate crème. I had a Napoleon torte, with five layers of crème between walnut cake. This time, it was Dan who was in heaven.

"This cake is ridic," he said, which in case you don't know Dan-speak, is short for "This cake is ridiculous." Ridiculously good, that is.

Not only did the cakes taste good, but I really enjoyed the ambiance of the places we went. Both places had huge rooms better fit for a wedding than a cake shop. Especially Gerbeaud, with its high ceilings, glittery chandeliers, rich textured wallpaper and heavy curtains, it seemed like we should be eating with royalty.

Well, if cake is king, I am happy to be queen. I don't know what that makes Dan. The jack? Nahhh...he's the joker.

Dan at Lukacs.

Me at Gerbeaud.

Dan and I, walking off the cake.

Commie Bastards, Pt. 2

Stalin's boots, as seen through the museum entrance (the rest of him was torn down in 1956).


"I am the Walrus!"


This guy is 25 feet tall, and used to be visible from all parts of Budapest.


The "interactive" part of the museum. I made Yvonne take my picture in this old Trabant, a cheaply made East German car of the people. We still see a lot of these on the streets here. They're not bad looking from the outside. Could use a little more headroom though.

A monumental difference.

Statue of Lenin.

I don't know if it was The Ham entry that did it or that we just needed a day to get used to each other, but day two of Dan in Europe went much better than the first. It could be the fact that we were in agreement of what we wanted to see. We headed outside of town to visit Statue Park, a graveyard of old communist monuments that used to decorate the city. Dan purchased a guide book of the place so he knew what he was looking at. And I could listen to his narration and frolic around these massive pieces of "art." We were both happy.

Later, we popped into this grocery store, Match, which was pretty much like going your shopping in the middle of a subway car. It was so tight and crowded.

"Guess shopping in Budapest is no better than in New York," Dan remarked.

I have been craving fruit and all I wanted was a banana. We waited out the mile-long line and watched the cashier being irritated with the old lady who had trouble with the credit card machine, yell at the girl in front of us--for reasons that Dan and I couldn't figure out--and then she shoved the bananas in my face because I didn't weigh them beforehand. Rather than wait in that line again, I said that I won't buy them, my fruit-craving stomach going Noooooo! The cashier was pissed. Dan got a two-liter bottle of Fanta which he plans to drink in the next two days. He also had Fanta for breakfast.

We went out for dinner at a really nice place called Firkasz--seriously one of the nicest meals that I have had on this trip--mostly because of the good company. It is fun to travel with someone like Dan who is here for the week, not months, who is happy to splurge and make the most of it, and I can reap the benefits of that. We shared a bottle of Hungarian wine from Villany (quite close to Pecs, where I had visited already), ate well, talked a lot and listened to the lovely, mellow piano playing. The pianist rocked out on everything from Simon & Garfunkel to The Phantom of the Opera.

Every time we walked down the streets or the subway, Dan wanted me close to him, to protect me and make sure nothing happened to me. It is funny because usually I am all alone but now that we're together, when I should be more safe, he is concerned.

We ended the night at Fat Mo's, a bar with live music. All I wanted was dessert (of course!), but it was late so Dan promised we'd go tomorrow. So when we went back to the hotel, I swigged some of the Fanta and that was good enough to hold me over.

Run, Yvonne, run!

I made Dan do that pose.


Dan and the giant bottle of Fanta.

Allow Me to Explain...

Now that you've heard from Miss Characterization, let me explain what's really going on in two quick points (I swear I won't belabor this and make it any more awkward than it has to be):

1) On the issue of work, it was literally 20 minutes of me typing up the notes that I'd written on the plane and train, and emailing them to NY. It had to be done. What Yvonne sometimes forgets is that she has the luxury of not having a job to return to. I'm not usually a big work-on-vacation guy, but when you're only away for a week as opposed to indefinitely, your level of responsibility is different.

2) Lonely Planet is weak. I don't need to know everything ahead of time, but if I'm going to see the sights, then I want to know what I'm looking at. I don't think that's so much to ask. But once we got back into Pest, we went into a different travel mode and everybody was happy.

In Pest, we visited St. Steven's Basilica. First King. Patron Saint of Hungary. Paid 110 Florints (about 75 cents) to see his venerated, 1,000-year-old, shrunken mummified hand. Totally worth it.

Also saw the great Opera House. Weren't able to tour the inside, which is supposed to be amazing. Bummer. From there, we did the walking that led us to the bad restaurant with the smooth jazz, and we just sort of ambled down main streets, looking around, taking it in. I didn't need to ask any questions about what we were looking at or where we were going -- because we weren't going anywhere in particular. And that was fine!

(By the way, I'm less of a "guest editor" than "guest author" on this blog, because I can't edit Yvonne's posts. But in that "view of the city from Buda" that's the Parliament house next to her.)


It's all about the Itsvans. I could buy you and sell you a hundred times over! (Actually, no. All this bread, even with the 1,000-Florint bills, comes to like 65 bucks.)


Sweet roof on a church in Buda.

Dan-Shock

Dan on the Fishermen's Bastion.

On this trip, I have experienced culture shock. But is it possible to experience people-shock?

I have been counting the weeks, days, hours, minutes for Dan to arrive. I have had a lot of time to think about him, and most of my thoughts center around soppy, sentimental moments akin to running together in fields of flowers while music wells up in the background. Okay, maybe not that dorky, but I have had a lot of time to think about Dan and how much he means to me. Mostly I have been fantasizing about how great it would be one day in the future, to travel around the world and take him along with me.

So Dan arrives, and he looks so cute and skinny, and I'm over the moon. I just want to kiss him and hug him and stare at him. We head out for something to eat and he's talking about his work and friends from home and our apartment and all those things that we used to talk about, and it all felt so strange. I had gotten so used to thinking about him and my life and the big picture that I completely forgot about the everyday things.

"You're like a travel hermit," Dan commented. "I think you have forgotten how be with people."

Maybe it is true.

I was bewildered that on our first night, he had to email his work about something. Work? On a Saturday? In Budapest? Then I remembered, this is Dan.

With Dan here, in just one day, my travel dynamic had completely changed. First of all, we were staying in an actual hotel--not a hostel, not a villa or pension--but a bona fide, super nice hotel that Dan had chosen for us. It took me an hour how to figure out how to keep the lights turned on (you have to use your room key). In the middle of the night, I woke up in a haze, Where am I? Who is this person with me? It took me a few seconds to figure it out.

Usually, I wake up early. Dan, feeling groggy from his travels, wanted to sleep in. Usually, I am able to find a cheap place for breakfast. Since we were in this hotel/shopping district, the meal we got was priced for tourists. Dan, obsessed with the currency conversion, wanted to compute everything that we bought. Usually, I just wing it and guesstimate how much I am spending.

We decided to spend the day at Buda, which is the historical part of town. On the bus ride there, Dan pointed out every building and asked me what they were.

"I don't know."

"Well, I thought you were going to research."

"Yeah, I skimmed the book but I don't know what that building is."

Dan didn't like the Lonely Planet book. "There are no pictures in it!" He said in disgust, not giving it a chance at all, and then finally giving in because he wanted to know what we were looking at.

I was getting annoyed. My style is just to walk around and figure out the buildings and sights when I get there. Dan wanted to know everything in advance but hadn't done any research.

"If wanting to be educated is wrong," he said, with a smirk on his face, "then I don't want to be right."

At that moment I realized the number one reason for traveling alone. You can do everything YOUR WAY.

I got over it. He got over it. We walked all around Castle Hill, taking in views of the city, and across the bridge back to Pest. There we walked around forever looking for a cool cafe to have a snack and when we finally found a place that looked decent, it had bad food, really bad music, was more expensive than we thought and we hated it.

All I wanted was Dan to have a good time, but while I was able to shrug off the bad restaurants, the cold weather, the lack of language skills, the money, I could tell he was getting a little frustrated. Afterwards we went out for cake and talked about the value of travel. Dan said that he hates not knowing the language, that he feels like he is not getting a good sense of the place, that if we're just seeing the sights, then we might as well be looking at pictures on the internet. At that moment, all my visions of our future trip together came crashing and burning to the ground. I could not disagree more.

We walked back to the hotel, my hand fitting snuggly in his. He had looked on the map and figured how to get back and I enjoyed not having to take the lead.

As I write this, he is sleeping next to me in bed, his glasses still on, mouth open, arms crossed on his stomach. I look at him, and it is all coming back to me, all the little things--not just the big picture stuff--that I truly and dearly love. I am so happy he is here, and all I want is for him to catch the travel bug like me. I hope he has a better time tomorrow.

View of the city from Buda.

Royal Palace.

Dan reluctantly gives into Lonely Planet.

Cake shop.

A New Sheriff in Town

This blog has been taken over by a guest editor for the week. It's Dan time. But don't worry, Yvonne fans...you'll still get your fix.

I'm keeping this one short because we need to eat some breakfast, and the camera battery is recharging (which means no new photos right now to balance out the text). But let me say this: Love Euros (the people, not the money). Love the disposition of British airline stewards. Not such a huge fan of British food.

We know their food has a notorious reputation. They know it, too. But that didn't stop the good people of British Airways from serving for lunch a cold-bacon-and-ketchup sandwich. Yeah.

I'm guessing the Hungarians have more to offer.

"We're wasting away our sunshine...."

That's what I just heard from my traveling companion. Guess it's time to go.

So long, Croatia.

View from the bus (Dubrovnik to Split).

Friday, I woke up at 5 am. My bus was scheduled to leave at 8 am. I am mental, I know I am. Even with all this traveling, catching buses and trains nearly every other day, I am still obsessed with getting there on time and not rushing, and so I always leave myself plenty of time, most of which I end up spending sitting in the station, twiddling my thumbs, which just adds to my travel time. But I am calm and happy sitting in the station, twiddling my thumbs, knowing that I am there on time. I can't help it. I always wake up twenty times during the night making sure I don't oversleep. Sometimes I am glad that I am traveling solo because then other people aren't aware how crazy I really am. But now you know.

I woke up extra early because I wanted to shower, and then I had to pack because I had washed a bunch of clothes and half of them still weren't dry after two days. My room was a drafty 60 degrees, to the point where even the clothes I didn't wash were starting to feel cold and damp. And then I wanted to catch the 6:30 am bus to the station that came by my villa hourly. I couldn't handle taking the 7:30 which would allow me virtually no waiting time, and you know how I feel about that.

So there I was, with all my bags, some of my clothes still damp inside (yes, I had to wash them again later), sitting in the bus shelter, watching the sun come up, and my bus goes right ahead and passes me. The driver looked right at me. Maybe it was a mirage, so I waited for another ten minutes and nothing happened. So with my luggage, I decided to climb down the zillions of stairs to get into the main town, where there were other buses running more frequent. I was pretty calm about the whole thing, and feeling pretty proud of myself for not freaking out. Then again, I had given myself three hours.

So I hopped on another bus. "This goes to the bus station?" I asked the driver. He nodded. And so we rode along and we came to a stop where there were many buses, which I took to be the bus station. The driver watched me in his rearview mirror as I scrambled off. He drove off without saying a word. It was not the bus station. Bastard! He knew where I was going! What is with these bus drivers?

Sick of the bus, I started to walk, asking everyone if I was going the right way. Everyone I stopped along the route told me to go straight for 10 minutes, even if I had already walked for 10 minutes. When I finally got there, I was dismayed to find that nothing was open and my breakfast would be potato chips and Twix, which felt like a real low point. Because I am insane, despite all that mishap and folly, I still waited at the station for about 25 minutes.

I boarded the bus to go back to Split when suddenly I had that feeling, that twinge in my throat, that I was getting sick. It could go either way. That did not make me happy. With Dan meeting me in Budapest, this is not the time to be ill. As the bus drove along the edges of mountaintops, overlooking the shiny blue sea, I became sad because I could see that it was a beautiful day--it had been raining the last two--and I was going to spend all of it sitting in a bus or train.

I arrived at Split and I had about two and a half hours to kill before my train. The sun was scorching and I was overdressed in my corduroys and black sweater. I started to sweat. I started to feel nauseous. I was so hot but there were goose bumps on my arms. My bags might as well been filled with bricks. I walked to this restaurant I liked close by to the station and it was closed. None of the cooks had shown up, the guy at the door told me. No, there was nothing around that was any good.

So I trudged my way back to the main part of town, where I was harassed by people asking me if I needed to rent a room. They wouldn't leave me alone and I suddenly felt so ill, I just swatted them away like flies. "No, I don't need accommodations!" I huffed. One guy even came up to me twice, not believing me. "Are you sure?" "YES!"

I managed my way back to old Fife's. The waiter recognized me--I have been there three times in the last week and I tipped him very nicely last time--and he was talkative and happy to serve me. Funny how each time I go there they go from downright rude to sincerely nice. I ordered vegetable soup and some fish. No wine today since my stomach was flip-flopping from the bus ride. Instead I downed a mini-jug of water, and I felt a little better with a full stomach.

Then I sat outside on the bench, facing the water, letting the sun shine on me, knowing that this is the last time I will feel this sun and warmth for a long time. My hair is starting to grow out and my bangs are starting to get in my eyes all the time. Today, they formed one large curl. At that moment, I couldn't stop thinking about it, and so as I sat in the sun, I just smoothed out my hair out in annoyance and wondered what happened to the calm Yvonne of this morning.

Me and my curl in Split. Look at that thing!

I boarded the train to Zagreb which was actually a bus for the first few stops (don't ask, it happens to me all the time), and watched my last Croatian sunset through the window. Soon the outside became so dark I couldn't see a thing, but could feel the train tilting and winding through the curvy mountains. At one point, I peered intently outside and could make out white snow on the ground. It was official: I was going back to the tundra.

I arrived in Zagreb, weary, my legs and butt hurting for sitting so long. I had finished my book, my ipod died, I had spent the last two hours of the trip just sitting. I found my hostel where I am spending the night, which was sort of like deciding to find rest in the middle of a frat party. When I got there, there were a bunch of people sitting out front, drinking and screaming and laughing, which could be heard inside. The guy working there seemed ready to head out and join them. I crawled into bed at 11, listening to the party below, then woke up to drunken snores from all the guys sleeping in my room. I left at 6:30 am, while everything was still asleep, managing to bump into some random guy sleeping in the hallway and avoid the bloody tissue sitting on the counter in the bathroom. It felt like a surreal dream.

I managed to take the longest train from Zagreb to Budapest. I know you can get there in about 5 hours, my train took 7, stopping at every single town in the country of Hungary. I had nothing to do except sleep and write down Polish vocabulary. It was about 100 degrees in my train cabin but that only seemed to bother me. I wasn't feeling that sick anymore, but I didn't feel my best. When I arrived, my body ached, I smelled, I was hungry for real food. I was happy to be in Budapest.

I traveled a total of 932 kilometers, equivalent to 17 ½ hours total on a train or bus (plus waiting in the station), in about a day in a half. But it is all worth it. A glimpse at the city looked promising, and I am waiting patiently for Dan the man to arrive, which makes it all worth it in the end.

Zagreb at 6:30 this morning.



Lots of travel ain't pretty. At least the curl is gone.

The virtue of a small town.

The platform with the ancient train.

I am definitely a city person, but there is something I really like about a small town.

I am not talking about the suburbs--which can be pretty homogeneous in the United States. I remember once being in the suburbs of Virginia and thinking I could be in New Jersey. That's because every suburban town is starting to look the same, with the same stores, the same restaurants, the same malls. Community is no longer important because everyone would rather stay inside their big houses and big cars than actually talk to someone.

A small town is not like that. It's a place that is completely original, unaffected with corporate retailers and restaurants. It's place where everyone knows each other, where the main street is littered with mom-and-pop shops and restaurants. It's somewhere that seems almost trapped in its own bubble, where outside distractions from advertising and the media are not apparent. I am not sure if these small towns really exist anymore, but I like the idea of them.

I wasn't really thinking about Pecs being a small town, but when I arrived at the train station to head out, I reconsidered. I couldn't find the board where the trains and track numbers were listed. And that is when I saw it: The schedule was posted outside on a small black sign. The train destinations and track numbers were manually tacked on, and the time was noted by a little clock that someone needed to change by moving the hands with their finger. This sign to me was so quaint to me, I felt like I was swept into the small town bubble of Pecs.

The small town train schedule.

I stood on the platform, and in the dark, foggy morning, the air trembled with excitement and mystery. I felt like I was Anna Karenina, only I wasn't in Russia and it wasn't snowing and I wasn't going to throw myself on the tracks. Okay, it was nothing like Anna Karenina, but there was something about that platform that evoked anticipation for the journey that lay ahead.

I stepped on the train which was like walking in a time warp. The train was old and rickety. The seats were benches reminiscent of a 1950's diner, which are stiff and uncomfortable and there was no place to rest your head. There were old pictures of Budapest on the wall, and when the train moved, the lights flickered, the walls rattled. While I was on the train for entire 2-hour duration, the people on the train seemed to be going about their business, hopping on the train for just a few stops and then getting off. While this was a journey for me, this was ordinary life for them.

I got off the train at the border of Hungary and Croatia in a town called Gyekenyes. I had three hours to kill here before catching the international train into Zagreb. That's when I came to my senses. Pecs was not a small town. This was a small town.

The train station--the one little building--confused me. There were all these doors and windows with white lacy curtains on them, I couldn't tell which one was the main entrance. I walked up and down peering into windows and trying to open doors. I finally found what looked like the waiting room, a drafty place with a few benches and a sink in the corner.

I waited for a while and finally a ticket woman came to the counter. I usually pay for my tickets by credit card. Thank goodness I had some cash on me. The woman didn't even have a computer. She took about five minutes to hand-write my ticket and handed it to me. I think maybe three people, including myself, bought tickets the whole time I sat there.

I was starving and hoping to find something to eat. I went to the place that said "buffet" but inside I only found a shop with potato chips and candy. I bought some of both and ate them for lunch. I was still hungry, so I walked outside and found a small convenience store, which seemed to be a hub in town. People convened there, leaning their bicycles against the store, carrying their wooden baskets inside. Some ladies stood in a circle and chatted outside. I bought a banana and an orange. I walked up and down the road and looked at some houses, but I didn't go far because my bags were heavy and it looked like there was no place to go. The woman stared at me. So instead I sat in the station, just me and the ticket counter woman. I watched her shuffle papers. I asked her where the rest room was. It was in one of the random, unmarked doors. There was no toilet paper.

What is it about a small town that appeals to me? It is not that I want to live here, but I like the thought about people living their lives in a genuine way.

When I was in the Czech Republic, I read a magazine article about a guy who gets paid a lot of money to select what kind of music hotels should play in their lobbies. He spends a few days in the hotel and then decides what kind of mood the hotel should have and selects a play list based on this.

It just goes to show that in cities like where I live--nothing is genuine anymore. Not the play list in the hotel, not in the restaurants we eat or the clothes we wear. Everything has been thought-out in advance, everything now having an advertising, media or public relations strategy on the best way to market people and get them to spend money on their products. Sometimes, when I am thinking about buying something that is really hip at the moment, I pause and think, "Do I really like this or am I buying this because everyone else thinks it's cool?" If this thought crosses my mind, I usually don't get it.

It goes beyond just material things. All my life I have heard that "you can be anyone you want to be" and "success equals happiness" and "your career will give you great satisfaction." Are these things really true or just part of the marketing scam known as "the American Dream?"

I picture people in small towns not focused on those kinds of things. It's not about the success, the money, owning the latest thing. If you peel back the layers, It is about family, the company of great friends, enjoying life's simple pleasures.

Maybe my idea of the small town is merely a fantasy, and perhaps the people there are not as unaffected as I imagine them to be. Maybe they spend their lives wishing that they could have more things, money, success.

But what appeals to me is this notion of peeling back the layers and deciding what is really important in your life. Ignore the messages from everyone else, consider what is really important to you and live your life focused on these things. And this goes whether you’re a country bumpkin in a small town or a big city girl like me.

The waiting room with a sink.

My handwritten ticket.

Bikes (big and little) lean against the convenience store.

Food for thought.

Pec's Szechenyi Ter


My biggest mistake today was not bringing my camera to breakfast.

I was thrilled to find out that there were eggs on the menu and so I ordered scrambled eggs with sausage. What came out looked like an egg pizza pie with thinly sliced hot dogs on top. Strange and unappetizing as it looked, it was pretty tasty. Then I reached inside the bread basket and found cinnamon bread in a Neapolitan swirl of colors: brown, white and pink! Pink bread! It was good, too! If breakfast was this exciting, who knew what the day would hold?

Pecs is a busy, albeit small city. There are tons of people milling around: students with backpacks riding bikes, school children walking in lines, mothers pushing strollers, men and women going to work, couples lounging in coffee shops. The sidewalks are narrow at times and sometimes I felt like I was back in New York City, weaving through the people traffic. My culture shock to Hungary was not as dramatic as it had been between Poland and the Czech Republic, but I can't help but notice that everyone is much friendlier here. People smile at me, offer help, genuinely try to communicate. I feel welcomed.

I mostly ambled about the city, taking in the sights. My favorite spot was the Csontvary Museum, which exhibits the major works of Slovakian-Hungarian artist Tivadar Kosztka Csontvary. I like a small museum like this, focused on one artist, so you can learn his history and visually see the progression of work through the years. While museums like the Met are brilliant, I often walk out over-stimulated. Here, I felt like I learned something and it will stick.

Csontvary, who happened to suffer from schizophrenia, became an artist late in life. He only has about 120 works total. When he didn't get the fame he expected, he delved into a depression and never painted again. Now they have a museum dedicated to him.

His paintings are large and bold landscapes and people painted with the most vivid of colors. I stopped and stared for a long time at "At the Entrance of the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem." It was a picture of a crowd, there were so many people I couldn't count them, and yet all of them had such different expressions and colors to their faces. It was amazing.

I ventured across the street to the Dom Ter which is this beautifully ornate cathedral where parts of it date back to the 11^th century. What impressed me most was not the church, but inside the crypt, there were all these art projects created by children of the nativity scene. They were so creative--some were dioramas made of wood and tree cones, others were made out of clay, some were painted. I tried to take pictures of them, but they all looked stupid in pictures. In real life, they were awesome. I used to love doing that kind of stuff when I was a kid.

Dom Ter.

This nativity scene is awesome, I swear!

I must have been in a childish mood because I went into a hip-hop clothing store and bought some round pins that I would have adored when I was 14. I especially like the one with the monkey face and Darth Vader helmet that says "Dark Side." They're even made in Hungary. I have this feeling I might have to give one of them to my sister. But not the "Dark Side" one.

I love these!

My Lonely Plant guide book says that the town can't decide between two bakeries which one sells the better cake. I like solving these types of problems, so I thought I would try both. The first place, Mecsek, smelled absolutely heavenly when I walked though the door. There were so many different cakes to choose from, plus some luscious-looking ice cream, but I finally settled down on a block of crème sandwiched in pastry. It was good, but much too much. I could barely finish the whole thing.

I went to the other place Virag--which was more of a coffee shop than a bakery--at the end of the day. I wasn't really in the mood for a sweet, so I went for the smallest item, a linzer cookie covered in chocolate. I took a bite and it was cold. Cold cookies are bad things. And the rest of the desserts didn't even look that good. The first place wins hands down.

Aren't you glad that I go to these places and test these things out so you all don't have to?

The winner!

Turning lemons into lemonade.

Day-tripper.

Do you ever have one of those days where you get one curve ball after another, and you just spend all your time trying to deflect them? That used to happen to me a lot at work. I would come in, expecting a normal quiet day, and then all of a sudden the phone would start ringing, the emails coming in, everyone by my desk. I didn't have time to stress out, I just reacted and then wondered at the end of the day how it all worked out. Same sort of thing happened today. Today's curve balls included:

Waking up at 4am and not being able to fall back asleep.

Heading to the train station at 5:45am only to find that my train to Budapest was 90 minutes delayed. How do trains get delayed at 5:45 am?

Buying a ticket for the 7:09 am train only to realize that this one is going to Budapest but to the Nyugati train station. My connecting train is at the Keleti station.

Sitting in a hot train car with a woman who will not stop speaking I can't understand what you are saying! And it is 7 in the morning, for Pete's sake!

Arriving in Budapest and trying to figure out how to take the Metro to the other train station. Buy the wrong ticket and have to buy another.

Getting off-balanced with my heavy bag by the crazy, fast-moving escalators.

Dealing with shoulder aches due to my heavy bag. Why is it so much heavier today? Adjusted straps. Felt better.

Trying to explain the Eurail pass to the ticket counter woman. I purchased a pass back in the States to travel by train through Hungary, Austria and Germany. I have to validate it before I use it. They had no idea what I am talking about. Had to find someone who did.

Finding something to eat at the train station that doesn't scare me. Go into a shop with sketchy characters who are going shots of alcohol at 11:30 am. No, thanks. My other choices are gyros or massive football sized sandwiches packed with meat. I go with the gyro.

Getting into Pecs, a small artists town in southern Hungary and rather than walking around, spending my first hour doing all my laundry in the sink because I have no clean clothes.

Going out to dinner where these two men won't stop staring at me. Have you never seen a woman eating alone at a restaurant before? After I paid the waiter, I looked in my book about what to do about tip, and they said that I should give the tip as I am paying, and that Hungarians think leaving tips at the table are stupid and rude. There are no waiters around, the men won't stop staring at me, I am getting nervous, so I left the money on the table and ran out of there. Whatever.

Walking around town around 7 to find everything closed. I came back to my narrow hotel room that smells of cigarettes (not mine) and laundry detergent (all me) and watched bad Euro videos on VH1 because I don't understand anything else.

Say what? And I thought Polish was hard.



Budapest's Keleti train station: filled with a strange assortment of characters and food choices.


My insanely narrow hotel room/laundry room.

Pretty! First impressions of Pecs.