American Fez

Et In Vacationa Ego

Encumbered by poorly packed suitcases and an alarming mini-bar bill, miserably checking out from my hotel as new guests arrive, I always feel like Nicolas Poussin's spiteful, revenant skull startling the Arcadian shepherds with his gloomy warning: "Remember me as you pass by, as you are now so once was I, and as I am now so you must be, so prepare for death and follow me."
You, too, my handing back of room keys reminds these new vacationers, will also soon be returning home before you are really ready to; ferried over the package-holiday Styx and back to the daily grind by an airport taxi with two souvenir coasters covering your eyes to pay the travel agent. Memento mori: a bottle of Unicum, two tins of paprika and an Austro-Hungarian hat.

Some Snapshots of Budapest

Hungary For More

I am recently returned from the beautiful city of Budapest where the only variety of crunch under discussion was whether to have the almond cluster or the cherry strudel with one's coffee; and where thumbnail plastic models of medieval Magyar kings seem sane alternatives to Obama and McCain. It is a city of old-world European boulevards converging into expansive, cafe-lined squares whose elegantly crumbling neo-classical and art deco buildings are enlivened with legions of heroic and romantic figurines and statues; with stern caryatids balancing ornate balustrades on their heads; with industrious nudes in stone and plaster relief; and with the pigeon shit crowned marble busts of important men frowning at the music students and German tourists below. I often thought that there were more people on these buildings than in them, and whenever Rhonda and I stopped at a street corner to consult our map I felt the heavily chiseled eyes of the stone figures were always reading over our shoulders. But fortunately the human Hungarians on the street and in the restaurants were friendly and unaffected and even the waiters and vendors were scrupulously honest.
We strolled along the marzipan towers of the Fisherman's Bastion and the nougat clad Royal Palace; gasped at the darkly marvelous Hungarian paintings in the National Gallery; pondered the layered mysteries of Esterhazy cake; sailed the Danube river in search of Szentendre and then trundled back on the efficient HEV train. We wandered around Saint Stephen's Basilica and decided not to go to the opera; we were not too, too impressed by the Matthias Church but enjoyed the church carved out of rock on Gellert Hill. We thought cute Cafe Alibi trumped giant, multi-chandelier-ed Gerbeaud as a place to sit and do nothing; we sipped glasses of Palinka and Tokaji after deciding against Unicum; we agreed that Hungarian wine was spectacular and that Angelika was a nice place to eat dinner. No sign of Starbucks anywhere. We were engrossed by the Hungarian History Museum and pleasantly surprised that a short sightseeing cruise in a bubble boat from the Elizabeth Bridge up and around Margaret Island was well worth the money. Alas, every city has its souvenir stuffed Vaci Utcaand it was sad to see the famous Chain Bridge splattered with grafitti. But one night we walked through the busy Clark Adam traffic tunnel under Castle Hill to get to untouristy Cafe Deryne on the other side, and that was fabulous. We missed the Tomb of Baba Gul and the Museum of Terror because we simply ran out of time, but that is always the way with vacations.

Internet Cafe

I was in two minds about flying with my laptop. In fact, you might even say that my mind was Balkanized by this question of airborne laptop transportation. After all, mobile computing and internet access on-the-go are exactly what laptops are designed for: a wonderful wireless way of passing the time in airport departure lounges and hotel rooms late at night. But then again, a laptop is another heavy shoulder bag burden to drag hither and thither; another wince-inducing inconvenience when struggling through security; yet another possession you might forget to take with you when stumbling bleary-eyed out of the plane.
And so, since I always try to eradicate as many causes of travel anxiety and pain as possible, I have left my laptop in its case at home. Consequently I am hoping that Budapest's internet cafes can cater to my online requirements, although I am well aware I shall have to search elsewhere for my coffee fix. Why are internet cafes called cafes if they don't sell drinks and cakes?
Beats me. But I do know that the workstation I am currently typing at makes more noise than an espresso machine. Perhaps if I tip the monitor on its side and shake a frothy cappuchino will come pouring out of that unused USB port?

Budapestination

How I yearn for those halcyon days of yore when tourists traveled to and fro via luxurious ocean liners rather than by airborne omnibuses with insufficent leg room. It would take eight weeks to get anywhere; eight leisurely weeks of playing slightly refined, on-deck versions of popular pub games such as skittles and backgammon while being introduced to ostrich-feathered Lady Witherington-Sniff who subsequently snubs you at dinner. And why were you never invited to the Captain's table? No doubt your valet packed the wrong color tie in your massive oaken travel-trunk when it was winched aboard. He'll have to walk the plank for that faux pas.
Whatever, I am Budapest bound on the wings of Malev Airlines. I shall being sightseeing for a week or so: Castle; Parliament; Opera; Citadel; Hungarian National Gallery and Museum; on the Danube to Szentendre; and then relaxing in the mineral baths. Maybe I'll post something here during my visit, maybe I won't. It really depends on whether I'm inspired or not.

The Money Chore

Our protean economy, or so it seems to me, is rather like an endless laundry cycle: hot wash; cold wash; rinse; hot wash; cold wash, etc; and then sometimes, finally, as with Lehman Brothers, dry and fold.
But the one unfortunate difference, however, is that we will never, ever walk away from the financial machines with fresh, clean-smelling sheets.
Ah yes, and then there is always the mystery of the one odd s(t)ock.

Posters Worthy of a President

The dynamic duo of John McPain and former Monty Python star Sarah 'I'm a Lumberjack and I'm Okay' Palin are so inspiring that I've spent a good deal of my day mocking up campaign posters for the newlyweds.

Naturally, I dispatched both of my wonderful creations to campaign HQ as soon as I was finished, but I haven't heard anything yet.

Stop Press, Literally

Since all current news is either gut-wrenchingly depressing or mind-numbingly banal, surely the brutalized psyches of the citizenry deserve some respite from the syndicated Jeremiahs and televized Cassandras. And so perhaps a day might be set aside when all news outlets and agencies suspended operations for a period of twenty-four hours? Such a short moratorium on gloom could be called National No News Is Good News Day, and possibly held on Betty Boop's birthday.

Always Something There To Remind Me

I'm mostly ignorant of his biography, but I've always considered Vilhelm Hammershøi to be a Victorian version and Northern European equivalent of Edward Hopper. They both painted many studies of sullen buildings in bold landscapes devoid of people; both were keen on capturing the private, mundane moments of silent figures; both produced sensitive portraits of their wives without any clothes on; and all of these works are very evocative images. Here is Hammershøi's unorthodox view of the British Library from his rooming house window.

Ultimately, I suppose, both painted pictures that remind me of something. This reminds of the gloomy day when my mother abandoned me at the school gates for the first time; and you can't get more evocative than that.

Political Particle Acceleration

News that CERN's Hadron Collider experiment in Switzerland has been a success so far pleases me greatly. I am a big fan of the Big Bang theory of the universe, if only because proof of an expanding universe means that one day I will be able to put even more distance between me and the sort of egregiously platitudinous humanoids who runs for public office. What an immense relief it would be to witness the repulsive faces of O'Bummer and McPain hurtling away from me at incalculable velocities.
If they could be observed being sucked into a black hole that would be even better, although I'm sure creationist Sarah Palin would be spat right back out again. Even anti-matter must have some standards, right?

Ghoul-ash

I shall be exploring the storied city of Budapest mid-month, and so I'm currently perusing a pocket-sized English-Magyar phrase book, which is rather an alarming experience to say the least. For instance, the Hungarian word for "thank you" is köszönöm, and most of the others seem excessively multisyllabic and overly ornate also. Speaking even the most banal of sentences sounds like you are chanting some medieval magic spell. In fact, I'm very concerned that I might accidently summon up the Devil when attempting to ask for directions to my hotel, and that he will take my soul in exchange for a free airport transfer and a slice of apple strudel.

Bubonic Travel

"Abandon hope all ye who enter here" seems less than adequate to describe the mood of gloom and dread as you descend into the echoing depths to the Green Line. Indeed, returning to Boston's subterranean railroad after long absence feels much like relapsing into some debilitating disease without a cure. Each dark journey becomes a feverish nightmare from which you are unsure if you will awake. Your skin crawls faster than the locomotive moves. It is the River Styx recast as a set of train tracks with two old subway tokens covering your eyes to pay the driver; an omnibus hearse trundling through the tunnels already late for its passenger's obsequies.

See also: Pickman's Model

See also: The Devil's Subway Pass

See also: Truth Disrobed By Time Again

All the World's A Stage (With a Malfunctioning Trapdoor)

Life is not a rehearsal. True, but that doesn't mean we should make ours lives all-singing, all-dancing, hellzapoppin' stage extravaganzas for the whole family either. I've been in Carousel before, and I didn't like it very much.
A lot of people do though, unfortunately. You can see them constantly changing the blocking to favor their best profile; hogging the spotlight; chewing the scenery; stealing the props; and these are the worst actors, of course, and many of them become politicians, about as believable as Donald Trump wearing a fake Abraham Lincoln beard performing in an amateur pantomime. Oh how I wish the trapdoor in the floor would open up and swallow them. But no doubt they have bribed the backstage crew to jam it shut.

Postcard From Alaska

The Republican ticket: the man who wants to fight everybody teamed with the woman who has apparently given birth to everybody.
Frankly it's a ticket to an unconvincing and obviously contrived melodrama that I have absolutely no desire to sit through, especially Mrs Palin Comparison's spine-chilling soliloquy about teaching creationism in schools and turning the Arctic Wildlife Refuge into a massive oil derrick pin cushion.

So welcome to the future if John McPain and his Alaskan brood mare are elected in November. Meanwhile, I like what Guy Rundle has to say in Spiked.